Like you've seen a ghost, you take a step back as he faces the light, tilting his head up to give you a sideways smile against his snake-bite piercings. You catch your breath, whispering into the rain-soaked night, "Are you insane?"

Suguru blinks, shaking his head as your voice touches him for the first time in nearly half a year. It's been about that long since he gave you up this time. "It's been a long six months…"

You stand silent, waiting for him to catch his fallen sentence and carry on. However, something always stops him when he peeks into your solemn, wide gaze. "Suguru, I—

"Before you tell me to leave." He cuts you off because he's terrified of rejection. No — he can only dole it out, and he does so insanely well. "I know… I know I should've called, but I was terrified about what you thought of me… I was so fucking afraid."

You step farther into the entrance, pulling the rickety door shut against your figure so you can hear his meekness a little more clearly amid the onslaught of precipitation. "You left me this time."

It's not a lie — you and Suguru are no strangers to this juvenile back-and-forth, on and off. Since your first grade, you two have been inseparable in a way that only codependency could explain. He was terrified to be without you, but hated holding you in the way you needed. Suguru needed to be with his friends three times a week without you, but you couldn't breathe when he pulled away. Nothing made sense.

Still, he tries, falling forward into a lean, his hand prepped on your dripping doorframe. "I-I know…" He tries to chuckle, but laughter is lost on him right now. He can barely see straight, needing to blink the water out of his eyes every time he blinks up at you. "But I can't stay away."

Back in your bedroom, Suguru's pulling off his shirt, his toned abdominals flexing as he sheds the clinging, wet fabric. He knows you have clothes here for him — you always did. Six months isn't a lifetime, and he knew you knew that he'd be back.

You hate how predictable you are, reaching into your closet for the neatly folded stash of cigarettes and vanilla musk-scented clothes. He's always had a home here, in your space and in your closet, demanding attention even when he slinks back into his being and pulls away. Still, you don't want to talk about it — not when the rain is hitting your bedroom window, rolling off the reflection of the soft, yellow lights.

"You can change, and we can talk about this later… when I don't have a paper due in eight hours." Your voice is just as steady as his is, your arm outstretched and shivering as you hold a new pair of clothes out for him. It's nothing special, just an oversized college tee he bought in his freshman year, but it's his, save for the occasions you wear it to sleep.

"What kind of evil-minded professor schedules an essay the first week of school?" Suguru notices how it smells like the ghost of you as he unravels the neat fold in his grip, smiling softly as you watch him pull it over his loose, shoulder-length hair. Even though he wants to stay, he reaches for an easy "Thank you."

"Did…" You hate this — hate how you're parading in circles around him, caught in the same mess you've been in for years. Still, something in your chest pushes and barrels to the front of your psyche. You stand, hands on your hips. staring up at the ornate ceiling with an anxious, tapping bare foot. The tension in the air is thick, but you two know each other so well that Suguru can see right through it. "Did Choso kick you out this time?"

"Why else would I come running back, hm?" He laughs again, caught against the cottony hum of his fabric, swallowing it down. When those dark, familiar rain-soaked lashes flutter against his eyelids as he looks back up at you, you can't help but melt. You two have always been the same. "No, I just let Naoya use my bed; they were partying all night."

"Partying on the Sunday before classes?" You step away from him, pushing the closet door shut, tracing your footsteps against the damp wood. Suguru watches, shoulders slumped, diminished in your presence.

"Mm," He shrugs, beady dark eyes staring into your soul as he reaches out for you. "I don't want to bother you, but I wanna talk." You absentmindedly step forward into his touch, rolling your eyes as he grabs you by the hips, walking you to the edge of the bed. His touches are unsure, yet strong and solid — not letting you move a muscle.

You don't pull away; you let him hold you by the waist, his biceps pressed against your hips, and his pitiful face buried in the base of your tummy. He burrows down there, marking your sleep clothes in the wetness from his damp hair like he's begging for forgiveness. In a way, he is, so you reach down and comb your fingers through his stringing locks, swaying with every uneasy exhale.

"S…Suguru…" You whisper after a few moments, running your fingers down his sticky, thin hairline. "Talk about what?"

"I…" He starts, burying his face into your pelvis, pushing your back into an uncomfortable bend because he's embarrassed. "I don't know why… I keep going back to him, baby. It's always been you."

You want to puke. No, you really want to walk away and leave him to eat the rejection he's so masterful at harnessing. Still, something stops you when his words, so pitiful, leave his smoked-out throat. "So, it's true."

"What? N-no, it's not!" It's like a realization — Suguru snapping back into action like his pitiful whines were just a beard. It's something you're used to — something you love, and something you don't want to lose, no matter how many times you go through this with him.

"You're so full of shit." You bite, pushing him off as best as you can, yet somehow always tangled in his grasp. "You're gonna cheat on me with your best friend, then lie about it?"

"I didn't cheat; we drunkenly kissed at a party." He drones, sitting up, but leaving his fingers in your waistband as if he owns you. Suguru looks like a kicked puppy, all splayed out and long-limbed on your bed as he begs you for a silent chance. "Baby, please. I only want you."

"You make that hard to believe." You bite back, pushing him away by the shoulders, shivering when the thunder punches outside your thin bedroom windows. "Suguru, not tonight."

"You're gonna send me back out into the rain?" He begs, jutting out his bottom lip as he stares up at you through the moonlight. "Into the storm? Please don't."

"I don't want to go through this with you again." You plead your case for once, swearing that the last time you two dealt with this on and off was the last. You're letting him get so close, but just when you go to peel it all back and welcome him in, all five breakups come flooding back to you.

All of them, tied back to him — Gojo Satoru.

The class clown, comedic relief, chess champion, and black belt. He's everywhere on campus — written in the halls of every niche extracurricular you didn't have time to nail out as he did. In every other team photo, his bright, smiling face would be front and center. Gojo is quite literally everything you're not.

He's beautiful, funny, and carefree. You're focused, dreary, and manic. Suguru changes you into a different person every year, but you've never come close to what they have. You've always been on the wayside. They went from roommates in their first year to sworn enemies. Then, Suguru met you, forgot about the pesky ghost from his childhood, and promised never to think about him again.

Something shifted last Spring in the rickety wooden bar seats at the campus dive. Gojo leaned in and kissed your boyfriend in front of every single one of your friends — the one night you refused to go out. Now you're here, hearing him out about all his sins and shortcomings. You keep telling yourself that, through it all, Suguru is a man. He's pulled in far too many directions, hearing his mother drone on and on in his ear every weekend when he calls, or dealing with your nagging when you swear he's not giving you enough of his time. You won't pity him, but you can at least pretend to understand him as he clings to your hips, begging you for a touch.

"You can sleep here, just let me finish this paper." You tap him twice on the shoulders, giving him a hint for when you gently push him away. "We can talk about this later."

Suguru can finally breathe, feeling like all his wallowing wasn't for naught. His shoulders relax, a little smile crossing his features as he peers up at you. "You know you'll always be my girl, right? The one I want to marry?"

"You've got a real fucked-up way of showing it." It feels like acid falling out of your mouth in profanities, but he's surely earned it at this point. You can never turn him away, and if you're not careful, it could be the death of you. Still, he settles back in your bed like he never left, kicking his damp feet out, cozying under the quilt throw that was your grandmother's.

You give him a passing glance as you slip back into your desk, exhausted eyes tightening under the close, dull glow of the reading light. Behind you, Suguru settles on your side of the bed, wet hair nuzzling into your silk pillowcases as he blinks, watching you gently. He studies the way you pick up your pen, resting your cheek in a closed fist as you ponder, then pick up your easy scribbling again. Suguru is endeared by how simple this moment is — thinking you feel softer than a boy his age could ever be.

The issue is, he could live in this silent comfort for the rest of his life and never want for anything else. He just always gets so close, but right as the claws are about to sink in, something always stops him. "Turn off the light."

 You crawl into bed on your knees right when the hour hits deep-morning. Suguru is asleep — has been for a few hours. His snores and mumbles filled the space of your pencil scratches, and it was a good distraction, save for the ten minutes he stole when he refused to let you go.

Suguru wakes up as soon as he feels you, his dark eyes cracking open as the mattress sinks and shifts. "D'you finish your e-s—ssay?" He mumbles, half alive.

"Yeah." You reply, slipping under the thin covers next to him. Suguru turns over, reaching up to push hair from his face. Face-to-face in bed, he stares, reaching for you with that same hand to cradle your cheek.

"I love you." He states. Like, he knows you know it.

"I love you, too." You reply just as simply, heart hammering so hard it feels like you truly don't believe it. He's so close, but you don't want to pull away. You want to feel his warm skin on yours — how his knee slots between your thighs under the blanket, forcing space for himself. "That's what's so scary," you continue as he leans in, nudging your neck with his nose, kissing your jawline like he wants something from you.

"Are you afraid of me?" It comes out chopped and between kisses. His hands are everywhere, trailing up your sides in a gentle sort of want that you can't ignore.

"Never." You reply, whispering into his lips, tucking hair behind his ear as he breathes into you. Suguru burrows himself into the space between your heart and shoulder, focusing on the sound of your heart beating as his hands slide under your shirt. "Mm, that tickles."

"I can tell you're still mad at me."

You sigh, rolling over on top of him. In a straddle, you reach over and turn on the bedside lamp, studying the pitiful look on his face as he glares up at you. Pressing open palms to his clothed chest, you speak some passion into him, "Suguru—

"I can't… tell what you are, but you're something." He's frustrated, brow furrowing as he grabs and digs at your thighs and ass, just marking his territory like you're his, as if he's reminding himself. "Do you hate me? Loathe me?"

"What? No." You reply, a hidden bite behind your tone. He grows about two sizes smaller under you, chest rising and falling slowly and shallowly as he focuses on not popping a boner if that's not what you want right now. It's harder than he thinks — he's obviously so in love with you, but confused above all. "I think you're a stupid, drunk idiot. I think you're actually really, really stupid."

"That sounds like you hate me," Suguru whispers, avoiding eye contact as you reach down and run your thumb over his warm cheek. "I wouldn't blame you if you did. I hate me, too. I told you: I don't know why I keep going back to him."

"Shut up." You decide for him, trailing that hand from his cheek to his mouth, where you press an open palm, effectively shutting him up. Under your touch, he blushes — hips bucking up as you grind down into his crotch, accidentally. "We're talking in circles, when I really don't want to talk at all."

"Are you still mine?" You know what kind of vague question that is — he's treading on thin ice, nudging the idea of dissolving the 'breakup' now that he's back under you, with flushed cheeks spreading under his stretched shirt collar.

"I don't really have a choice." You offer a sly smile that stretches over your lips as you lean down, cradle his cheek, and finally kiss him. "Do I?"

Against your lips, Suguru smiles back, shaking his head as you kiss over his teeth and lips, combing smooth hair behind his stretched ears. "No… Because you're the one I want to marry."

"Well, right now I just want to finish my paper."

"Don't worry, you're going to." He rushes out, hands sliding under your shirt, over your back before dragging it from your body. "We can get married young, as my parents did."

"Your parents hate each other." You reply, hands busy behind your back to unclasp your uncomfortable, digging bra. You let your fingers linger before they fall, gathering seductively around your hips. "They fake it; She's always complaining about him."

Suguru can't swallow down the obvious, so he bares his teeth in a cocky little smirk, hands sliding back over your back and thighs. You undress slowly for him like nothing ever happened — like you know what you have to do, and how he likes you to perform.

You peer at him, pinching his pointed chin between your fingers. Topless, you lean down to meet him in another kiss, grinding your hips down to remind him how serious you are about it — how you know how to please him as nobody else can.

"Still, they made a promise: for worse or for better." He all but moans in your mouth, erection popping up just for you — at the feeling of your eagerness reciprocated. "And I want you, forever and ever."

You want to laugh, to remind him that you know. You know he wants to marry you, and he makes it so loud and overwhelming when he's holding you as such. Your Suguru has a nasty habit of saying one thing and doing the complete opposite. Still, you won't say… his name. Not right now.

"Before you say anything—

He rushes as soon as you open your mouth, seemingly more interested in talking than being physical. You sigh, throwing your hands up as he continues, "I know it's me. Don't you think I hate myself enough as it is? I know I'm a mess, but… that doesn't have to make us weak."

"What are you even talking about? Really? Let's just… and we'll talk later."

"I'm saying…" Suguru shimmies his hips under you, clamping down on his bottom lip so hard that it starts reddening on impact. You know you make him nervous, and vice versa, but these conversations aren't exactly simple to shy away from, even when he's hard and aching under you. "If we can make this work, we can do anything. Seriously."

"Yeah, so you're right." You lean down to kiss him again, stealing his plump bottom lip between your own teeth. You pull it as you sit back, smiling and kissing over them again once you let it go. Suguru's hands have long since found their way under your sleep clothes — fondling the skin around your hips before he ventures lower. "The issue is you and your fucking friends."

"Yeah, well, I don't fuck my friends. Sometimes we kiss, but it's not personal."

"Oh, so you've kissed them multiple times, now?"

"Not like I kiss you." He cements his point against your lips for the final time, neck straining as he meets you in another passionate kiss — teeth hitting and spit melting together as he pries your mouth open on his slick tongue. You moan into his mouth, grinding down on his length as both your hands get lost in the side of his head, tangling in his pure black locks.

He continues, sitting up at a perfect right angle, knees cocked behind you as he takes the lead, gently guiding you to his side on the mattress. You sit back, breathless and starry-eyed from being kissed half to death, limp and ready for him to take the lead. "I don't touch my friends like I touch you."

Suguru repeats, slotting his leg between yours, closing his palm over your exposed chest so he can touch and massage your breasts like he's seeking comfort in a mother. His hand falls between your thighs, slipping in the front of your shorts where his fingertips linger, raking through the soft hair you keep for him.

"Want me to prove it?"

For the first time in a long time, Suguru feels like avoiding everyone. Including his best friend, who was helpfully posted up at the door of his dorm room, shining like sin as he rounded the corner.

It's mid-morning. Suguru smells like you — your taste on his lips, and your perfume lingering in the ghost of him. He's not trying to hide much, but when he sees Satoru waiting, he lifts his hoodie collar, conscious of hiding the dark red kiss you gave him this morning. The dorm floors are dark and slippery with the whisper of the rain that passed through last night, but Suguru's shoes aren't muddy. They're surprisingly clean as they slip to a stop in front of Satoru.

"I've been calling you all morning." Satoru offers him first, resting his thin shoulder over the jut of the door, shirt smudging the chalkmarks he and Choso spent the entire first hour on campus completing. He's nursing a tube of yogurt in his fingers, lips stained with the sweetness as he brings the plastic back to his lips, sucking more out while he waits for Suguru to reply.

Suguru blinks at him — low, like he suspects something. He eyes the patchy blue nail polish on his thick fingers, the way the lint from his wool beanie sticks to his sugar-coated fingers. It's endearing. Suguru rolls his eyes. "I just overslept."

Satoru watches him intently as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single key. The way he shifts to reach into his pocket gives him the perfect little peek into that dark red mark he tried to cover, but neither of them says anything. The most pressing task was to get into the room and hopefully get some downtime to talk it through before their afternoon lectures.

"Did you even knock? Choso's probably in there." Suguru mentions in passing, shaking fingers slipping the metal key into the rickety lock, giving it two solid pulls before it opens. The weight of Satoru's silence is far heavier than his carefree words — it means he's struck silent, and that only really happens around Suguru.

"Figured you'd just be back. On time, like you promised."

Suguru creaks the door open, peering over his shoulder to push Satoru's worry down. He doesn't notice the two bodies on the bed, one hovering over the other — long and boyish, limbs everywhere, shadows menacing in the corner that pull away the second they see the light.

"It's about time you guys came back," Choso whispers, voice light and gentle against the tense atmosphere as Naoya stands up straight, hair ruffled and makeup freshly smudged. To him, he wasn't doing anything — he was helping the elusive art major fix his makeup. Now Choso owed him, but not at the cost of Satoru and Suguru's memory.

"H-he was just here because he forgot—

"I don't care, just leave." Suguru shoves into the messy room, picking up a discarded jacket from the entryway and tossing it into the overflowing dirty laundry. Satoru follows close by, cradling his bag on his shoulder, sucking the last bits of yogurt from its confines before licking his lips and crumpling it in his fist to throw away.

"We still have to get ready."

"Screw off, nerd."

"You can paint your faces in the fucking bathroom." Suguru regards them at the same time, shunning the pair, making them feel the way they feel about themselves — projecting. It's all they know; they just can't ever admit it.

Choso looks at his friend, long, full hair tousled and deliberately messy. Held up by clips and the mercy of gravity, he rubs the dark circles under his eyes, trying to slow down the running pace of his heart. Naoya looks right back, a sly sort of smile on his face that'll just… stay there. He'll choose to pick a fight with anyone, Choso being a favorite, but never with those two. It's not about power or money; it's about circumstance.

So, he stands up straight, raising his thin brows as he stares his dark-haired upperclassman down for just long enough to teeter on the edge of respect. "See you next time, Geto." Then, Naoya storms out with his bag and a head full of nonsense. Past the door, Naoya doesn't hold back; he shoulder-checks Suguru on the way, blaming it on close quarters, but making it feel like blatant disregard.

"He is so disrespectful," Suguru mutters, shoulder singing with the soft shove from the faux blonde. Then it comes —the lecturing: "Don't bring him around when we're here. I don't want him near my things." Then, it's the snarky, "Take that shit in the bathroom,"

"You two paint your nails in here all the time."

"Don't argue, just leave."

"O-okay." Choso scrambles, lips parted as he pants, nervous as fuck and feeling like the eyes of God are staring down at him. He and Suguru are close… enough — they're cordial enough to share a room and talk about stupid bullies or failing grades, but the leash Suguru keeps on him is short and nearly nonexistent. Whenever Suguru is in his room, Choso has to find somewhere else to be, and he never fights back; it's disrespectful.

Satoru steps out of the way as the elusive little goth kid shrugs his way out of the room, his shoulders held low. Just the presence of his beloved Suguru is enough to make a grown man cower — even one older and more established than him. It makes him smile.

"Sorry, you can do whatever, but I'm exhausted." Suguru mumbles once the door closes with a faint, steady click. Satoru steps forward, pursing his lips, reaching up to pull his shaggy beanie from his light hair. He watches his best friend climb into his shitty, creaking twin XL bed, knee first, hair clipped up and messy, as he collapses into the comfort.

He waits a minute, watching Suguru settle with his back to him, before he steps forward, words unsaid, sitting so heavily on his chest that it makes him nauseous. He wants to talk about the kiss they shared — wants to point out the hickey he didn't give him that's sitting like a trophy against his neck, but he doesn't. Satoru kicks off his beat-up slip-ons, unpopping the single button on his jeans as Suguru hums and writhes against the sheets, searching for comfort that's so hard to come by when he's not pressed up against someone.

Suguru is surprised Satoru waited until he rolled over, eyes heavy and pleading as he whispers, "Wanna cuddle?"

"That's gay," Satoru responds, moving at twice the speed to give his Suguru what he wants. He crawls into bed just like you did last night — knees first, before plopping down nearly on top of his closest friend. They shift and bustle about for a moment, trying to make the most of the space they don't have too much of.

"You're telling me that you're not?"

"I'm not," Satoru admits, nose-to-nose with Suguru, catching the whiff of your perfume on his bare neck when he gets close enough. "And I think you're in denial."

"I'm not."

"Nice hickey you got there." Satoru finally bites to dig his point into the ground, reaching to push some of Suguru's hair out of the way so he can get a better view of his invisible betrayal. It hurts, but Satoru knows the truth — he's only an outsider here. He stands on the sidelines and watches as Suguru bends his sense of self just to stay closer to you — to parade you around his family and friends so he can give the illusion that he has it all figured out. For as long as Satoru can remember, his best friend has been marriage-minded. His parents are strict… overwhelmingly so, calling him every week with the same script, asking about you, asking about grades, and not even sparing a breath for the eccentric friend who has stuck by his side on and off for well over ten years.

Satoru doesn't really exist in the grand scheme of things, but he's not sure he truly minds it. All he wants are private moments between him and his — cuddled up so close he can't tell where he ends, and where Suguru begins. If that can only exist in the shadows of a pretty girl, he'll take it. He knows what you give that he can't, but it doesn't make it any easier to swallow.

"You know how things have to be," Suguru replies simply, bare feet kissing and grinding against Satoru's under the covers. He doesn't make eye contact, letting his shadowed gaze instead focus on Satoru's pretty pink lips. He wants to kiss them — to whisper every single grievance and worry he has between them, just to get them off his chest. "You know, I love you more than I love her."

"Don't say that—

Suguru sighs, head heavy and guilty, as he tries to justify the feelings that weigh him down like cinder blocks. "It's true, but… It's different."

'It doesn't have to be anything… solid.' Suguru's voice is smooth over the line, getting crackled on the receiving end. You nod, leaning against your kitchen wall with your legs kicked out. Your roommates — friends by choice — are in the living room, throwing cards over the soft hum of the television. They're getting ready for a party you weren't invited to — that is, until Suguru called, whispering into the line that he was looking for you, in particular.

"What does that even mean?" You squint, peering down at your feet with furrowed brows as you try to zone out the background noise and thoughts of how you're missing this show, and the current hand of cards. "When everyone knows we're together?"

'Well, are we? It's been two days and I… I don't feel any better.' He pauses for a moment, clearing his throat around his smoker's rasp. 'I don't feel like we're… us.'

"You've been seeing him, though, haven't you? Because you haven't been seeing me, and we both know—

'That doesn't mean anything.' Suguru rushes, as if he's afraid of being scolded again. It's not why he called, and the one thing he hates more than anything is counterproductivity. 'I-We had s-sex, but it didn't make me feel better about… anything.' He whispers the word like it's profanity, letting it get lost in the telephone static.

You sit silently for a few passing seconds, tucking the phone against your shoulder, twirling the spiraled cord around your finger. Suguru has a way of making you feel small without really trying, too, you've come to notice. It makes it impossible to say no to him.

"Are you still seeing him?"

'S-Satoru? No.'

"Do you promise?"

'I promise. It's all you. I'm all yours.'

"Then… can I ask…" You stiffen up, shifting to your side so your voice points towards the kitchen, rather than to your friends in the other room. "Do you… Like men, too?"

Suguru reaches for your name, speaking it with such conviction into the line that you feel bad for even bringing it up. '…The kiss was a dare. I've known him my entire life.'

"O-oh."

'I like you. I want to marry you.' He repeats like he's begging for it — voice all pitchy and pathetic. All at once, he self-regulates. 'In every circumstance, I will wait for you. I'll choose you.'

You roll your eyes, glancing at the leather tips of your loafers as you rub your feet together anxiously. Of course, you want to say more, but you don't. You know what he is to you— something your own family saw as a gift.

'And I know it was me this time; it's why I'm begging you like this… again.'

You shut your eyes, nodding along to the vision of him from the other night, eyes so determined and sensual that they have haunted your dreams ever since. Instead of giving him an answer, you whisper, "Can we talk in person?"

'Are you going to Zen'in's party tonight? They invited you, yeah?'

"Actually, I wasn't planning on it. Shoko is going, of course."

'Go with her, baby.' He picks out the tone he knows you love, reaching for endearments rather than the grit of namesakes. 'It'll be all of us going, but we don't have to stay.'

"By all of us…"

'Satoru, yeah. It's fine — I'll tell him to fuck off.'

"N-no, I mean, I don't want him to think I hate him. We need to talk, so… yeah, I'll go for a bit."

'You wanna talk… all of us?'

"If that's what it takes to get through to you, yeah." It sounds softer than you intend, but it feels real. It feels like you're bearing it all to him — your heart an open, writhing orifice on your shoulder that only reacts to his sensibility. "He's your friend… I don't want to take you away from each other."

'Are you being serious? I'd expect you'd want to chew his head off the next time you see him.'

"I wanna do that, too." You smile, biting down on it so you don't force a serious situation sideways. Still, you and Suguru fall so easily into it that you can't even catch yourself when you fall. Not till you hear, over the telephone, your name being called by your friends in the front room. You straighten up, keeping the phone over your ear as your roommate comes shuffling into the kitchen — long, brunette hair tied up effortlessly with sticks.

She seems flushed, her cheeks tinted — hands on her hips. "Who the fuck… It's been over half an hour."

Breathless, silently, you mouth his name, holding the phone from your lips. "He just invited me to Toji's party."

"…are you going? I thought you said—

"I know what I said." You shut up and stand up straight when Suguru starts again on the other line.

 "Hey, sorry— Choso just got back in. Nosey fuck." Back in his dorm room, Suguru is watching Satoru peel his sweat-drenched compression shirt off his back, all breathless and red from his session, then his journey here. "Dear, let me call you back later… on your cell."

'O-okay, sure. I'll let you know about the party.'

Suguru sits on the edge of his bed, long-limbed and hunched over, peeling the cell phone from his ear and leaning over to place it back on the bedside receiver.

Satoru smiles when he turns back around, tongue crossing over his teeth as he stares his best friend down. "Who's on the phone?"

"Who do you think?" Suguru responds, grunting as he stands up, giving Satoru a low, exhausted look. He's asking for pity — to feel small at the moment, because he knows he can't reach for this part of himself when he's with you.

"Aw, do you want a hug?" Satoru's heart is beating out of his chest, but he's not nervous, just excited. "Big baby had to be a man for a second, huh?" He approaches his friend with arms held wide, ushering him forward so they can both marinate in his sweat.

So, Suguru withdraws, ducking his head and turning back to his bed. "Actually, forget it. You can shower at your place." He hates talking about it, or even coming to terms with the fact that he turns into a different person when he's around his friend like this. He can't help it.

"Come on, I said I'm joking." Satoru throws his hands up, letting them fall on his narrow hips as Suguru leans by the window, fist in his mouth, absolutely reeling with insecurity. He closes the space, knowing it's up to him. Always.

"Sugu…" Satoru drawls, slipping behind him and nudging his chin over Suguru's shoulder. "We don't have to tell anyone if you don't want to. This doesn't even have to be real, just promise you won't leave."

Suguru shivers when he feels the naked, damp skin press against his own. He peeks over his shoulder, eyebrows cocked as Satoru's arms wind around his thin waist. "I can't promise a single thing."

"I still don't care. Funny how that works." Satoru whispers, kissing Suguru's covered shoulder, then turning to breathe in his sweet, masculine scent, as if trying to mark him as inevitably his. "We had a deal, though, right? I come over, you suck me off?"

"You see, I'm struggling, and that's the first thing you ask me?"

"Actually, like the second or third thing I asked you. Not fair." Satoru reasons, standing up straight and letting his fingers fall to the waistband of his shorts. "Yes or no… quick, we have a party to get ready for."

Suguru stands up straight, rolls his eyes, and dodges eye contact as he nods shyly. "Y-yeah, just in the bathroom in case Choso comes back."

Satoru whines, grabbing Suguru by the shoulders and leading him deeper into the room. He's walking backward, sticking his soft bottom lip out in a pout as he tries to reel his friend in. "Lock the door. Tell that nerd to fuck off."

"Absolutely, not."

"I care about your knees. They get all red and sore when we do it in the shower."

"Then, get off." Suguru bites back, strong enough to keep himself above these tactics just long enough to stay sane. "Has to be in the shower."

Satoru stops, thin brows furrowed. He can tell something isn't so light in the air — not like it usually is. "Fine, I mean… We'll do it in the shower."

"Just don't wanna risk it, you know?" Suguru turns around as if he's okay, plastering on a phony grin as he shuffles out of Satoru's grip. He catches the other's hand in passing, but they don't hold. Suguru just walks to the closet, grabs his shower basket, and nods Satoru over. "I'll let you wear some of my clothes tonight. We don't have to rush."

"Ooh, darks and denim. Think I can pull it off?" Satoru swallows down the rejection like it's nothing — water off a duck's back. He drops his pants before entering the shower room, combing two hands through his hair as he steps out.

Suguru keeps his eyes up, turning on the light and waiting in the entryway. He laughs, "You could pull off a bean sack… pretty boy."

"Wait! Don't get naked without me."

Suguru rolls his eyes, biting his bottom lip hard so his smile doesn't peek through. "Hurry, before I lock the door on you."

Choso gives him time — it's not like he's so clueless.

He and Suguru had talked about the party this morning, throwing around ideas about who would attend. Both of them agreed to go, just not together. Choso would be with the hosts—the Zen'in's —and Suguru would be with… you. The only thing is: Choso didn't have a time block. He had no idea where Suguru was this Saturday evening.

He thinks about it, silently grateful that he told Naoya to wait outside. All he planned to do was grab his change of clothes and go back to their place. The family owns an entire property on campus, making them major power players in their kin's education. Money goes undetected — a few parties are allowed to go overlooked — perhaps a few tests glanced over, so everyone knows to keep them close, just not close enough to let them into your space.

He jogs up the stairs, breathless and jittery as he scales four floors in record time. Choso holds up his sweatpants by the waistband, cursing him and his friends for their stupid habit of borrowing clothes. He had no idea whose pants he was wearing, but he knew they didn't fit.

As he approaches the door, something invisible tells him to stay behind, but he knows better than to listen. He knows that his social reputation is leaning on this night, what he wears, and what he does. A full semester tucked behind Naoya's arm could mean he could graduate early and start working. He needs this.

So he rushes over the signs — the unlocked door, the kicked-off shoes that aren't Suguru's in the front — and shuffles in deeper. He can hear the water rush softly in the background, a nice ambiance as he moves to his side of the room.

At first, he doesn't catch the sounds. A few shuffles and whispers went over his head, lost against the shower spray. It's only when he hears a pure, blatant moan that he stops dead in his tracks, hands frozen in his wardrobe.

"Sugu… I'm close—

It's boyish and undeniable. Nobody around campus really calls him Suguru, except for one or two people. Choso is stuck — he doesn't know what to do. Helpless, he peeks behind his shoulder, eyes wide and bloodshot, pearling tears around the rim in humiliation when he hears: "The cum on your face looks like icing. Here, let me lick it off."

Choso winces like the lewd words are a knife in the heart, having to keep himself steady on the bed frame as they continue on, laughing.

"Stop, let me do it."

"Hurry. The water's getting cold, and we still haven't washed yet."

"Why would you even turn the water on?" Suguru argues, voice hoarse enough that he has to clear it.

The thought makes Choso shiver. Still, he walks forward — slowly, gauging the air around him. He's embarrassed — cheeks burning, but he has to see. He has to be sure to rest his own mind. So, he walks to the bathroom door and leans down, peeking in through the crack.

Choso sees exactly what he's expecting to see — Suguru rising from a kneel, reaching down to rub at his sore, red knees as Satoru reaches out for him, taking his friend by the chin and pulling him into a kiss. The pair is naked — wet skin stuck together as they make out for a moment, lips mushing against the rush of the water they're wasting. Choso thinks back to every time he's seen you with Suguru, and hates himself when he realizes that he's never seen him kiss you with such intensity. He's hardly seen you two hold hands in public, but Suguru talks about you as if you're the mother of his children.

"Mm… you taste like me," Satoru whispers between kisses, gently rubbing water-soaked hair from Suguru's face with a hand. "…doesn't taste sweet like icing."

Suguru doesn't respond; he just chuckles into his now, seemingly lover's, mouth.

"Let me get you back — help you wash up." Satoru's voice is choppy, drowned out by the shower spray as Choso ducks back against the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, heart in his ass as he bears the worst possible news he'd ever have to hold. Choso can't believe he has to face you tonight with what he knows now. He can't believe he has to face him again, or Satoru.

All he really does know is that he had to get the fuck out of here. Suguru and Satoru don't even have to know he was here.

Turning around and heading for the front door, Choso runs out empty-handed, rushing to pull up his waistband as he hurries back down the stairs. There's nobody around — typical for this time of day, and Choso wonders if he misread one of Suguru's invisible rules. Luckily, he now knows never, ever to come back so early. He may as well just take a pillow with him every time he leaves and sleep at Naoya's bedside.

As he pushes the heavy metal door back onto the lawn, he shoves past Naoya. He's standing at the entrance, a cigarette between his lips as he waits. Choso can tell it's his second or third one — Naoya's lazy with how he reacts.

"The fuck is wrong with you?"

"I—uh,"

"Dude, where the hell are the clothes? You just wasted my time?" Naoya reaches up to steal his smoke from his slack jaw, arms held out towards Choso as if he's accusing him of something. "Did we not come here for clothes? A change of clothes? Huh, idiot?"

"Naoya— Geto was… in there…"

"It's his room, nerd."

"No… he was in there… with…" Choso looks over his shoulder like he's terrified of being sussed out. He takes Naoya by the shoulders, pulling him away from the door and onto the steps. In a hushed whisper, he trembles out, "W-with Gojo."

"Likely place for him to be…" Naoya gives him a look, eyes flicking from his beat-up skate shoes to his smudged, dark eyes. "Are you fucking crying? What were they doing, killing each other?"

Choso doesn't wanna say it. "Don't make me say it."

It takes him less than a second. Naoya has never been clueless, but he's always been receptive to these things. In that second, a slick, knowing smirk crosses over his face. He reaches up to hold his cigarette again, "They were fucking? No way…"

"No! Not like that! And… keep it down—

"What, they were touching each other?"

"No… like…" Choso's eyes flicked to Naoya's lips, and the fake blonde laughs, pulling away from his friend.

"Gross… who was on top?"

"G-Gojo..? I think?"

That makes Naoya laugh harder, a little skip behind his step as he runs down the walkway. The cigarette falls at his side — the wind combing through his hair as he tosses a gaze over his shoulder. "Come the fuck on. I'll let you wear my clothes again." Naoya calls, then turns back around, shaking his head as he whispers to himself:

"I know what you are, Geto Suguru."

It took you all evening to work yourself up for tonight. It wasn't the party — you frequented each one you were invited to; it was Gojo. It was the threat of facing your deepest humiliation behind the glow of shitty department-store mood lighting. It's one thing to deal with a cheating boyfriend and the insecurity that stems from it, but it's different when it's with the same gender.

You questioned everything as you got ready that night — maybe you were too submissive to his ways, and he needed something manlier… You could never be that. You'd never be able to be what he needs at that point.

Still, you do yourself up in dark makeup, hiding the red-rimmed exhaustion in your eyes that only comes with crying over and over again. It's not like you to act this emotionally, but it feels like something has shifted. Even your friends notice your cloudiness after you hang up the phone, slouching back against the wall like the nearly hour-long conversation with him didn't just drain your soul.

Facing him will surely be easier with a few drinks in your system, so you shimmy on your dark calf-length skirt and your bomber jacket in the middle of summer, ready to give your life away to the night.

The murky summer air hits like a whip as you scurry down the creaky wood steps. Your two roommates stand by the door, passing off a cigarette as they wait for you. Shoko looks like she always does — exhausted to the core, wearing her dark circles like a fashion statement, and decked out in leather.

Utahime's shoes are untied — scissor-cut jeans kissing the cuff of her striped socks. She kicks her feet out, deepening the lean on the door as you descend, already a flushed mess. She smiles over to her friend, then says, "Finally, we can go now."

"Do you wanna take the train?" You put on a passing smile just so they know you're all there.

"We'll walk, it's only twenty minutes." Shoko continues, blinking a single eye shut as the smoke in her lungs burns a bit too hot.

"In these shoes?"

It's second nature, slipping from your lips as you slowly approach them at the door. "Suguru can pick us up."

"We're taking the train." Shoko always seemed to have the final word, standing up straight as your cue to gather and go. "Cause we gotta stop for beer." She starts, already slipping another smoke between her lips after stomping out the old one.

Then, you rush to catch up to them, flick the lights off, and check your purse for the keys. The girls are down the front steps before you even pull the door shut, heels clicking on the damp pavement — echoing the sound of their voices against the slow bustle of the city.

Fresh after another summer rainstorm, the sidewalk reflects the neon glow of the night — the lights from the windows and the nearby skyscrapers peeking over the horizon of your humble, thatched rooftops. Dew drips trickle down windows, collecting in the soft hair on your neck as you jog to catch up to your friends.

"You're gonna trip on your laces," Shoko grunts as she passes, glancing over her shoulder while running through an unprotected crosswalk. You and Utahime, still side-by-side, wait as a car passes, then run to catch up to her, breathless.

"Could you please stop running through cars like that?" Utahime whispers, brows furrowed as the three of you round a corner to the next block.

"Let's just get vodka, it's faster."

"And grosser."

"Nothing is grosser than beer."

"Cry about it." Shoko deadpans, leading the two of you through the loosely packed sidewalk. Bodies brush like watercolor paint over your bomber, and you're already sweating. "Or, I mean… buy your own."

"Do you think both Gojo and Geto will be there?" Utahime, two steps to your left, leans over just out of Shoko's earshot.

"Unfortunately." You offer back, catching up to Shoko as a group of salarymen passes, their liquor-tinged breath ghosting over your skin—getting caught in the humidity. "I thought I was the one buying it in the first place."

"Are you offering?" She cuts her eyes at you — purple-lined, light eyes showing you more of yourself than you've ever been so comfortable seeing. "Yeah? Good girl — We can get vodka, then."

"Only if you agree to finish it before we get to the party."

"Which is the better chug? Beer or vodka?"

"Is that even a question?"

So, you three get a fifth of vodka, smiling like a couple of menaces as the old, sweet grandma behind the counter rang up and took your money with a sorry look on her face. You three must look like you're up to no good, because as you duck into a dripping alley surrounded by run-down apartment buildings, you draw stares. Especially as that top cracks and turns, falling to the ground as Shoko manhandles the drink.

"Ugh, I think I'm gonna be sick—

"Can you aim at the wall and not my shoes?" You whisper, psyching yourself up by jumping on the balls of your heels. Shoko takes that first slow swig like the poison is water, only grimacing once she withdraws, holding the bottle towards you.

"Hurry, it's already an hour past."

"Whatever." You reply, taking the bottle by the neck and shaking your head toward Utahime. "I'm not staying, Suguru just invited me so we could talk."

"You have to get shitfaced to talk to your own boyfriend?"

"Not my boyfriend." You reply, squeezing your eyes shut as you tilt your head and take one good swallow to the head — throat immediately screaming and guts twisting as it hits. "Ah, fuc—

"Not your boyfriend?" Shoko takes it back from you, leaning against the wet concrete with her feet kicked out. "After you spent nearly an hour on the phone with him? What were you talking about — what you're having for dinner?"

"No, actually. Who he's been fucking."

"What?!"

"Guys… Jin is asking where we are." Utahime mumbles, her scuffed rings clinking against the chunky metallic cell in her hands. She looks over her dark glasses, texting the tiny device feverishly. She looks up as Shoko hands over the bottle, a dull look on her face. "We're really so late… aren't we?"

"Who gives a fuck?"

"Then hurry up and drink." You reply, the sudden buzz of the liquor on your empty stomach willing you to dig in your plaid crossbody, heart racing for a cigarette.

"I can't face Zen'in without being sufficiently drunk."

"Okay, seriously. We have to catch this next train." Shoko has to baby her friend into taking her chug, then weakly hand it back to you as she gags and turns around. Her baby face is scrunched up — fist pressed to her lips as her body numbs with liquor.

"Fuck it, just bring it with you." Shoko decides once the bottle falls into your hands. You smile with the mischief of it all, leaning down to pull up your long skirt so you can run to the next train.

"Wanna race?"

"Again… Not in these shoes."

"Okay." Shoko takes the lead as you three head back out into the street, a kick behind your step as you rush southbound. You're trying to catch up to her, calling a timeout on the edge of the subway steps so you can take your shot.

"What happened to that smoke? You let it die?"

"I dropped it."

"Oh… No, he's calling me."

"Who?" You swing back around, bottle to your lips as Utahime flips her phone open and presses it to her ear.

"Wait, why?" She mumbles into the receiver, a hand pressed to her forehead like a stressed single mother who's just received bad news. "That's like twenty minutes outside of the city…"

"No way." You turn to Shoko, mouthing as she stops halfway down the steps. "They're changing it again."

"We'd have to take the Oedo line all the way to Nerima… ugh…"

"Or we could just have Suguru pick us up. He's heading that way, isn't he?"

Shoko looks at you like you're full of shit — painted lips pursed. "You're gonna screw us both with third-wheeling on a fifteen-minute drive with your boyfriend?"

"I told you, we're not together right now. He just… likes to see when I call on him for help."

Utahime holds the phone away from her face, staring at you like you just cursed her lineage. "And you two aren't together…"

"That doesn't mean he's not still my best friend."

"That's your guys' problem, you know? You break up and then stay in each other's face, so you end up fucking and getting back together." Shoko takes the last few steps back outside, then snatches the bottle from your hands. "Fine, call your not-boyfriend."

"But you owe us."

"Like it's the worst thing ever, come on…" You roll your eyes, digging in your crossbody for your cell. Crossing your arm over your chest as if you're shielding it from wrongdoing, you lean against the railing and dial his number.

The girls stay where they were, passing the liquor between each other as desperate bottle-shots turn into slowly nursing it down. They can't lie and say this wouldn't be more efficient on time and effort — letting the long drive lull the vodka through their system so they're loose and ready to be body-packed, surrounded by hot, hard music, bad circumstances, and cigarette smoke.

You click through your contacts, purposefully taking your time to find his nestled towards the bottom, far enough away for temptation to strike. Only this time, you roll over the contact and smash it, like you have any clue where you two stand.

What you told your friends wasn't a lie — in fact, it was one of those unspoken things Suguru had pushed on you since first grade. Your ego was bigger than your heart for him back then, but he just had to have you. Now, you find yourself reaching for his voice even when you know you can figure things out yourself, just eager to hear his praise. And of course, when you call, he answers immediately.

'Hey. Headed to the party?' His voice comes out wind-whipped and crackled, like he's already in the front seat of his beloved grey-washed Honda NSX, cruising down the street with all his windows open. Suguru's the type to lose himself in the road — at his easiest when he's in control of such a delicate piece of equipment, so there's a softness there. You smile.

You pace as a nervous habit, warding off their side-stares for a moment as you walk the length of the steps. "It's all the way at his uncle's place now? The big-shot animators?"

'I guess… Jin just told me, too. I was headed to Zen'in's.'

"Can… you come pick me up? I'm with the girls, and we were gonna take the train but I—

Suguru sits silently for a fleeting second before he speaks. You can hear the smile in his voice as he regards you, 'What station? I'm turning around right now.'

Biting down on a smile of your own, you look up to your friends and nod. "See you soon…"

'Bye-bye, baby.'

Before he hangs up, you start back towards your friends, laughing about something you weren't involved in. Instead of poking your head into their conversation, you rip it apart with an easy, "Sugu's on the way."

"Nice." Shoko hands you the bottle, eyes glazed in that telltale sign that can only mean mindlessness. "He's my favorite trusted adult… I concluded just now."

You giggle, hiding your smile behind the lipstick-stained rim as you tilt your head back to take another shot. Down to the last quarter of liquid courage, and the world already looks water-colored. "Sure. Till he's yelling in your face that 'this is the way things have to be'." You dip your tone lower to imitate your elusive partner, rolling your eyes at the mere thought of his stupid scolding.

Shoko laughs, "You poor, sheltered soul."

"The fuck does that mean?"

Suguru looks over at you from the driver's seat, dark hair whipping against the highway air. He hasn't really said anything since he picked you three up, patting Shoko on the shoulder and giving Utahime his sweetest smile as they slid into the four-door named after you. You haven't said a thing either, opting to keep the mystery and your wits about you as your friends pass the vodka over the seat.

You know he's judging you, but you two aren't 'together,' so he doesn't have a leg to stand on. Especially when you're the one who called on him, and he's the one who came running. He's been shamelessly peeking over at you for the five minutes since you've been in his air, waiting for you to make the first move, only to sigh and squint towards the road as your friends sweep you up in drunken laughter. He feels like an item on the side of you, not a human, and lets the soft creaking leather feel it as he tightens his grip.

"Dear—

"True, but the last time I saw him it ended with me almost punching him in the face." You're turned around over the passenger seat headrest, gawking and snickering with your friends as you think back on your past trainwrecks. Naoya was the subject of the conversation, now — someone you all know way too well for it to be healthy. Just like Choso, you four know to just… keep him around.

"You should've done it, maybe I'd sneak a lick in."

"He would beat you two the fuck up."

"Letta girl imagine,"

"Hey." Suguru tries again, peeking up at the rearview mirror at Shoko, who's looking right back at him. He turns to you, sitting up in his seat. "Can you actually sit in your seat?"

"Whatever." You roll your eyes, soft laughter dying down as you settle back down in your seat, only for him to hammer back into you:

"If an officer rode past and saw you like that, he'd arrest all of us."

"Get a grip."

"Boo, Geto, seriously."

"Sure." He responds, peeking over his shoulder as he makes a turn, pierced face turned up in angst—not quite anger. "I'll take it if it means keeping my license."

"Pussy—

"Sho— seriously?" You peek back at your friend, catching Suguru's eyes before they can focus back on the glow of his headlights on the road. Under your breath, you whisper. "Sorry,"

"Drunk idiots… I swear." He grumbles, leaning over to dial the radio up as the summer's-past chart-topping song begins to play. The familiar melody draws the girls together in the back, leaving you and him together in the front seats, stealing side glances every few seconds. You're drunk and want to kiss him — Suguru's sober, and far too sober to be dealing with you three. "No fuckin' respect…"

"Shh, it's okay." You whisper against the music, noticing the click of his jaw as he slowly works the wheel into a residential street, flicking his lights down. Head swimming already, you sit up and peer out of the window, eyes wide as you take in the urban hellscape of concrete and glass. It feels more residential here — not cheap or gimmicky like campus is, but tangible in a way only a slow life could hold. It's clearly not the right neighborhood for a college party, but you all can tell as Suguru approaches.

Bodies spill out onto the green lawn, bustling about, and out of the door that hasn't shut since everyone started arriving. It's a lone house on a corner, obviously built and owned by someone on a healthy salary. The traditional architecture screams Zen'in, and the party's volume screams popularity. In the back, Utahime sits up, reaching to roll down her window as Suguru slows to a stop.

"There are so many people."

"I'll drop you off here so I can park." Suguru decides, shifting the engine and taking his foot off the pedal. The interior lights jump on as Shoko and Utahime file out, giggling something under their breath that you don't pick up on through your daze. As you reach for the door handle to let yourself out, something stone-cold stops you.

"We're supposed to be talking, right?"

"N-now?" You stutter, furrowing your brows as you turn back towards him. Suguru reaches out to take your arm, making sure you know he doesn't want you to leave the leather sanctuary. "I wanna be with my friends."

"You said on the phone that we could talk."

"Sure, that was before I started drinking." You pull away from his grip, reaching to unbuckle your seatbelt and get out of the car. Just as that click hits his ears, Suguru shifts the car back into drive, reaching to hold your thigh so he can drive away with his hand on the wheel. You've been successfully trapped. "Ugh— here we go… Let me out."

"You don't get to make promises you can't keep."

"And you don't get to make out with your best fucking friend in front of everyone we know! Do you know how embarrassing that was for me?!"

"I told you, it was a kiss! One stupid fucking kiss that I regret every goddamn day." Suguru's eyes are wide—blown with emotion and red around the edges — as his fists tighten once more. He's sitting up in his seat, high-strung and ready to snap all over you with one wrong move. "I thought we talked about this. I thought you were over it!"

"I can never be over it." You break, right there for him to see, like a shattered, drunk mirror. It comes in waves — first, it's ugly and loud, with tears flowing from your eyes like rivers. You turn to your side to bury your tears into your shoulder, trying to regain some control as you cry, "Do you know how fucking humiliated and insecure I feel now?"

"I know. And I told you, my love, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."

"Yeah? Well, being sorry doesn't make me feel any better. It makes me feel like a fucking fool!" You're inconsolable, and it's humiliating, but you can't hide it. The alcohol brings it out of you like this — not shadowed over by your own ego and need to be close to him. When you're drunk, it feels like you're meant to be alone, and that doesn't fade even when you're right next to him; you want to go. "Let me out!"

"If you would just—

Suguru's doing a scarily good job at keeping his composure, save for the batshit manic girl to his side. He turns onto the side of the street, keeping his lights on as he stops the car and shifts the engine. You're already reaching for the handle to pull to your freedom, but of course, Suguru has the locks on. "Stop acting crazy, you said we'd talk."

"Let me out of this car, you're such an asshole."

"Baby—

"You're so fucking mean to me." You double down, pulling away from his touch when he reaches out again. In your state, he doesn't look like the boy you swore to yourself that you'd love through it all; he looks like a shiny pair of handcuffs, and you want out.

"I'm not mean, I'm just protective."

"Let me out!"

"Fine." Suguru finally gives in, shifting in his seat as he pulls the door lock. You're out before he can draw his next breath, sobbing and shaking as you fall out of the car and onto the street. "You need help, baby. Just say it, and I'll help you."

"I…" You growl, wiping the tears from your eyes with rough, angry hands. "Don't need your fucking help…"

"You're gonna regret this in the morning…!" Suguru doesn't expect you to actually run away; that's the issue. He has to stop, rolling down the driver's window to yell out of the car, "Don't you see how you escalate things? You're drunk."

But you're not listening. Not in this state. Not when self-preservation exists two buildings down the street.

"I just don't even wanna know you anymore. Go away."

It's getting increasingly harder to keep his voice down as you stumble down the street, crying silently into your hand. "You're gonna go in there and drink yourself to death! You think I don't know— hey!"

Running from the jaws of the beast just in time, the road looks a lot freer than a person right now. So, you leave Suguru in the dust, and he takes that for what it was. He doesn't want to go to the party now that you're like this, and he certainly couldn't face Satoru after what happened.

Suguru takes the high road, calling it quits once more in his head, sitting with it, then driving away in the opposite direction of home.

He'll find his way back eventually, but right now he can't be near you. Both of you are shameless and idiotic — clutching at a version of yourselves that will never quite exist. You'll never be easy-headed, and he'd never be decisive. Together, you're a mess, but a piece of him loves it so much that he finds himself chasing the pain.

"Damn…" Satoru mumbles, peeping out of the crowd towards the entrance. He's looking for a familiar head of dark hair, sticking out just a bit taller than everyone else's. It's been all night—three hours into the party —and now it's abnormal. He has to comment on it. "You haven't seen Suguru?"

"Tonight?" Naoya yells over the music, eyes beady and on the prowl, looking everywhere but at the person speaking to him. Dressed in darks — low-waisted sweats and a tank top that doesn't reach the waistband- he's the king of the party and on a mission. Still speaking towards his upperclassman, it's hard to tell when he sees Toji amongst the bodies, giving his cousin a slap on the shoulder as he pushes past in his muscle shirt. "Nah, I haven't!"

Satoru's not holding a drink; he doesn't drink, just kinda lingers about — hands in his pockets or the occasional smoke between his lips. Still, with his lack of substance use, he still fits in with the crowd, just happy making useless conversation with inebriated people. "That's weird, right? I should call him…"

"Can you do that… out there? You're kinda dogging our vibe." Naoya's surrounded by everyone Satoru knows — third and second grades, a few lost firsts, as well. Satoru can have a conversation with anyone he tries to talk to, but it's hard when he has something on his mind. He can't hide it.

He pulls away from his friends as soon as Choso and Jin return, two drinks in each hand. As he pushes through bodies, the cashmere on his loose sweater gets caught in the brush, pinning him. For a moment, he peeks around for you, knowing Suguru couldn't be far behind. If anything, you'd know where he was, but he doesn't even remember seeing you tonight. Satoru hasn't even seen your friends.

He finally makes it out of the house, talking up the first grader 'monitoring' the entrance — really, just high and on top of the world. Satoru asks if he's seen him or you, and everyone around looks at him like he's crazy. It feels like an out-of-body experience — like he's a monitoring spirit hovering over his head, controlling his movements with marionette strings. The lawn is just as packed as the inside, only thinning out towards the road, where the voices are quieter.

He's not expecting to find you — heart deadset on seeing Suguru out here chainsmoking with the regulars. But when he does see you, he knows it's fate waving its wand. In fact, he sees the back of Shoko's head first — that unmistakable back-length brunette hair that sticks her out from any dark-haired crowd. He smirks, sure as hell of himself all of a sudden.

"Shoko—hey!"

Satoru approaches your small group with a smile, breathless as he jogs up. It's only when he sees you — eyes wet with tears and inconsolable in your friend's arms- that he stops, face turning up in worry. "Wow… everything good?"

"Oh— hey, Gojo." Utahime regards him, hands on your shoulders as you do your best to shrug off the drunk tears and be nonchalant. It fails… miserably, because you look drunk. You look sad, and your energy is pouring through these writhing bodies like a curse. You can't escape it. Even around Satoru like this, you can't straighten up. In fact, you buckle at the mere sound of his voice.

Turning away from your friends, you cover your face with your palm and try to stifle back tears — all hunched and pitiful, uncaring of who would walk past and see. You can hear them chatting behind you, tones dipped a shade lower to match your melancholy energy. They won't say his name, but they say everything else.

"No, I haven't seen that dickhead."

"What… happened…?"

"The same old… You know…"

"And he left?"

"I guess."

A few seconds pass, backed by the softness of your sniffles as you feverishly wipe at your face. It feels like reverting to basics — learning to regulate your emotions and just say how you feel. "Yeah, he left…" You croak, turning over your shoulder to give them something.

You're okay — you're alive. And drunk as hell.

"Hey… Lady…" Satoru steps closer to you, pushing through your friends to reach your ear. Still, he doesn't touch; he just lingers close behind your ear, pulling attention when he says, "Is everything okay…?"

It's something in the genuine concern he shows you that your friends don't. The way his hand hovers open-palmed over your back without touching makes you look at him. He waits for you to nod before cracking a smile and turning back to the girls. "So, nobody knows where he went…? Great."

"Is Itadori in there? He was so goddamn worried about our location; now he's nowhere to be found."

"You know he just worries…" Satoru laughs it off, pretending like he didn't just see him two minutes ago with everyone else. Above it all, Satoru wants to talk to you — he can see that something has happened, and if anyone would know where he was, it'd be you. "Wait — you were just with him?"

"He just dropped me off down the road; he's probably gone by now—

"What happened? You know he's not here, right?"

"D'you think I'm stupid? He drove away." You pull away from him with a newfound coldness, under your breath, proclaiming that you need another drink. You don't really recognize anyone on the walkway at first glance; nobody looks like Suguru, and you're mentally checked out. "Hello? I need another drink."

"I don't know anything about that." Satoru laughs, crossing his arms for warmth as the night breeze starts to hit. He watches you snatch the bottle back from Shoko, pushing against them to walk deeper into the party. Satoru wants to crowd you and keep you close, but he can tell how you're feeling, and, frankly, he wants to stay away. He wants to find Suguru.

"Sorry… she's usually not so," Utahime stands on her toes as she watches you part the crowd and get caught up with someone you know. She wants to chase after and doctor every one of your movements, but she wants to stick by Shoko, where it's safe in her mindlessness. "She's usually a happy, party, dancey drunk."

"That's nice… Where exactly did she come from?" Satoru asks with a smile, just to keep them close and calm, if only to feed him the information that he needs. "She came from the left? Right?"

"Uh—

"T-the left! She just ran into us — super crazy."

"No, it was from the right. I remember… I saw his headlights."

Satoru takes the contradictory to the head, nodding feversihly as he weighs both of his options. In reality, he knows Suguru is okay; he just wants to know if he's finally… his.

He wants to know if you two have broken up and how easily he could take your place.

"Thanks, girls." He pats both of them on the shoulder, slouching his own like he's not up to no good as he heads down the path to the street. He could pull out his flip phone and actually call his friend, but Satoru thinks he knows where he is, and he trusts his gut more than he trusts new technology — he just wants to see if he's right.

So, he jogs down the street, footsteps getting lost in the laces that fell untied as he ran. He ignores it, risking his footing as he feels the invisible crunch of time over his shoulders. In reality, it's just his adrenaline racing. The thought of finally being able to exist without you in their life felt like such a far-fetched dream, even when you had broken up in the past. This time just feels different; Satoru feels lighter.

It takes him about ten minutes, slowing into a casual stride, to leave the neighborhood. He hasn't seen any sign of life save for the mangy street cats that skittered away at the sound of footsteps in the quiet, but that's not Suguru. He's on the lookout for the car that his best friend worked odd jobs and did favors to scrape up for — that he slaves over every Saturday to clean in and out, and dreadfully named after the girl he'd been seeing at the time. Satoru can ignore that; he can pretend that his name was shittily keyed into the leather interior instead of yours.

He almost gives up hope and pulls out his phone as he reaches the main roadway, where it splits into streets or into the bridge connecting it to the next ward, but he doesn't. He heads down the dark, dimly lit road until he sees a pair of idling headlights right on the cusp of the next ward, and knows by the pattern of the lights, it's nobody else but the one he needs.

Picking his jog back up as he approaches, Satoru slows down and peeks through the back windows, smiling when he sees that familiar dark head slouched over the wheel. Faintly, music plays from inside, lulling away any background noise that could disturb his contemplation. Satoru approaches the passenger, wrapping his knuckles across the window to pierce through the white noise.

Like he's been startled awake, Suguru sits up, eyes wide as he looks to his window, behind him, and finally to the passenger. Seeing how it's just his friend and not a rabid murderer, Suguru lets out a visible sigh, reaching over to manually crank the window down and unlock the door.

"How did I know you'd be over here? I just knew it."

"Hey," Suguru whispers, opening the door and pushing it out so Satoru can step inside. "Get out of the road before someone rolls over you."

"I know, I know." Satoru bites down on his smile, recognizing that his friend is feeling a bit less lifeless than he does. He slides into the car and settles in, slouching against the seat you once occupied and reaching to click the volume down by one or two levels.

The air inside the car is sad and thick with cigarettes, like he just chain-smoked with the windows up in an attempt on his life. Satoru wouldn't put it past him, but right now he needs fresh air, so he reaches to crank his window down all the way. "Holy shit, you were hotboxing yourself or what?"

"Something like that." Suguru's voice is wrecked — low and raspy, cracked around the edges as he settles back in his own seat. "What, you just walked down the street 'till you found me?"

"Shoko told me you went down here, and I trusted her over Utahime."

"She was right." Suguru laughs, if only for it to die out as soon as it hits. Kiss of Life croons over the speaker, drowned-out and almost mystical as they share fleeting, dark eye contact. Suguru doesn't want to admit how much more at ease he feels with Satoru by his side than with you — he just knows he doesn't have to choose his words. His friend loves him for his shortcomings and stupid temper.

Satoru brings his fist to his lips, biting down on the side of his thumb as he turns towards the perspirated windshield, going over how he should say what he truly needs to say.

"Did you see her?"

"So, what are we, now?"

They both speak at once — Suguru withdrawing almost immediately when he makes out exactly what Satoru just said. On impact, even in the darkness, he can see Satoru's face light up crimson-red.

"Y-yeah, I saw her…" Satoru mumbles after a moment, just to break the silence. He stares dead ahead, moving his fist from his mouth and flattening it into a palm over his eyes.

"What are we?" Suguru repeats like he's letting the words really sink in — asking himself the same question before he continues with the obvious, "We're friends."

Satoru keeps his eyes covered, heart racing as he thinks of what, or how to say exactly what he wants to say. Instead of repeating the obvious, Satoru shakes his head and mutters, "You are impossible to read."

"Did I—

Suguru thinks again, mind flooded with every single recent experience they had together. Sure, it could get intimate, but they've been… like this… since before school. There's never been any use for a label when they were each other's entire world throughout adolescence.

He settles on, "This is not what we need," peering longingly out of his window so he doesn't have to face Satoru head-on. It feels like he's on a roll today, just stomping over affection the second it's given to him. Only with you is he innocent — at least, in his eyes. "I have to have a wife and a family."

"And be repressed your entire life?" They've definitely talked about this before, in the heat of the moment. Only, it's never felt so real before. Satoru truly thought they had a chance this time around, and now he's watching it slip through his fingers like loose sand every time Suguru opens his mouth.

"I'm not… I don't feel repressed."

"I don't want to be your secret anymore, not if you're that deep in denial."

"I'm not in denial, you're just… forcing me to choose, and I can't."

"Why can't you? This is the rest of your life."

"That's why!" Suguru sits up in a frenzy, flicking the music up and reaching for the door locks. "You know what? Just get out."

On guard, Satoru sits up, too, shaking his head. "Don't do that—

"You two are going to…" Suguru starts, arm shaking as he reaches over him to push open his door and shove him out. "I'm going to go crazy dealing with you shits."

Satoru is on the defensive, holding his hands out as Suguru pushes him onto the street. He lets up after a few good shoves, then steps outside the car and slams the door shut. Before he storms off, finally angry in the way Suguru could only make him, he leans through the open window, just before he speeds off.

"Next time you're horny and alone, don't bother calling me!"

"Go fuck yourself," Suguru replies, stone-cold with his foot on the pedal. He doesn't look behind him or towards Satoru before he cuts the wheel, speeding off down the bridge without his lights on.

It's a split-second decision, and one he'd regret for the rest of his life. Satoru doesn't care — he's never felt like this before. He's angry and jittery, watching Suguru's lights flicker farther along the horizon and speed away. It feels like he's been belittled and betrayed, even though he knows Suguru will find his way back eventually. What makes him even madder is that he'd let him right back in.

Now, he understands why you two can't leave each other alone.

He could spend this time overthinking what just happened in that car, or he could live with it. He knows words were spoken that weren't meant, and he knows how Suguru gets when he's made to feel like he has to choose; it's just never been this bad before. He's angry, and that's the feeling that hits him first, then betrayal.

That nasty, lingering, dull feeling in his chest that hits when he really thinks about it is the one that makes him pull out his phone at midnight. Satoru turns back towards the party as he thumbs through his keypad, scrolling to your contact to draft the quickest message he's ever sent.

wanna have sex? not serious. y or n?

Your vision is blurry — mind detached from self, as you stare down at your phone. In the middle of chaos — bodies pressing and shoving you to their whims- you can't focus on anything. Tonight had been nothing, in the grand scheme of things. You can't remember where you were five minutes ago, but you remember that argument with Suguru. It's eating you alive, and you've spent the entire party drinking it down, bursting at the seams.

Naoya is in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, throwing his head back in a stupid laugh. Your friends aren't around, just the slightly familiar faces you've seen around campus. At first glance, you recognize Itadori and his dark-haired girlfriend, then Naoya and one of his brothers to your right. You want to call out to Shoko, or even see if Satoru is still close, but you're fucked up.

You blink, brows furrowing as you recognize the new message notification on the tiny screen. You flip it open as Naoya turns back towards you, picking up the thread of the conversation you were once deaf to two seconds ago.

He's drunk too, but steady, using it as fuel to let his lips say whatever they need to. "Who the fuck knows? They're both not here — probably sucking each other off upstairs."

"Huh?"

His brothers look at each other, jaws on the floor as the unwelcome vision hits. "Gojo and Geto? Oh shit—

Naoya stops again, hands falling to his gut as he laughs harder. You catch his mood over the rush of responding to the new notification, and you're suddenly interested in whatever comes out of his mouth, even though you usually don't give him the time of day. The drunkenness mixes with the weight of the night, sitting on your chest in a carefully brave way.

"Dude, I didn't tell you! Cho saw him blowing Gojo off this fucking morning. Ran out so fucking fast like a pussy." He's laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever discovered, and not like it's the end of your world. You want to reach out and grab his shoulder — forcing him to speak the truth straight into your soul, but something of worth stops you just as your hand flies out.

From your phone, then to your underclassman, you glance back and forth. The alcohol sits in your stomach like a soupy brick, making you nauseated on the spot. You can't imagine it, not that you'd want to, and not after Suguru promised that the kiss was only a one-time thing.

Deep down, you always knew, of course, you knew, but it feels so… disgusting to hear it out loud for everyone to laugh at. It makes you wonder if you ever really knew them, and the extent of their relationship.

Then one of his friends piggybacks, eyes wide with every intention of making use of this shiny new rumor. "No way—

It doesn't hit you the way it would when you're sober — it makes you brave. You shake your head, pretending like everything isn't falling apart in real time as you squint at the message Satoru just sent you.

wanna have sex? not serious. y or n?

 And you reply with shaking thumbs,

 meet upstars. withh condom.

Spencer is a really good boyfriend.

Like… a really good boyfriend. You’re not sure if this is how having a real boyfriend is or if Spencer is just like this.

He’s so good to you. He’s just so- so him. You can’t explain it. Can’t put it into words.

He’s very patient with you. You’ve never explicitly stated it, but he’s picked up on your previous relationship experience- or more accurately, your lack thereof. The morning after you’d gone home with him, night consisting of nothing but easy sleep and warmth, he’d asked you out for real. Asked you if you’d go on a date with him, and you’d agreed, a giddy smile fixed firmly on your face.

But you still worry.

All it takes it one conversation with your parents to push things over the edge.

“Yes, dad. He’s very good to me.”

A laugh crackles over the line. “I tell you, your mother and I never thought we’d see the day.”

The words twinge uncomfortably in your chest. “Hey, I’m not that bad. I’ve just been focused.”

“More like uptight.”

“Dad—“

“You know, you still haven’t come out to visit your poor old parents since getting this so-called cushy job. And now you’ve got this boyfriend. You’re too young to settle down. Don’t you think we should meet him?”

Sometimes conversations turn so quickly they leave you stranded— scrambling to pick up pieces of what you thought was going to happen and piece them together to make something new. Something for the new route the conversation has taken.

You couldn’t hold back your sigh if you tried. “We haven’t been dating for that long dad, I don’t want to spring this on him—“

“Sweetie, if we don’t meet him now, why might never meet him. Who knows how long he’s gonna stick around?”

(Sometimes, in moments like these, for just a split second, you wonder how a father could say something like that, to his daughter. You wonder why, wonder what you did wrong. And then, you imagine Hotch saying those same things, and you can’t, and it almost makes you feel a little better.)

Your blood runs cold. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, you know how things have ended in the past. I’m just saying I’d like to meet him before he’s gone."

You don't dignify his words with a response.

"Come on, honey. I'm just joking with you."

"It's not funny."

"Don't be like that--"

"Goodbye."

You hang up, snapping the phone shut with a sigh.

The older you've gotten, the more conversations with your parents end up like this. You suppose it's the way you 'wasted your potential' or 'never made something of yourself.' They've always held resentment ever since you decided to become an agent. So you know not to take what they say to heart, because their words only come from a place of disappointment and displeasure. It's not a reflection of who you really are or what you've really accomplished.

Or at least, that's what Hotch told you when he'd overheard one of your phone calls. It meant more than you'd let on.

But your Dad's words linger in your head. They're irritating and sharp where they claw around in your head because they're true.

You can count on one hand the amount of romantic endeavors you've had. And from those, they all ended horribly. Your parents lost sympathy towards the end of your attempts, muttered words of needing to try harder to keep them, that you should be satisfied that somebody wanted you at all, that you should try to be less... you.

Try to be less... you, dear. The books and the facts- nobody wants those. Put some more effort into your appearance. Otherwise you'll end up all alone.

You'd tried to take their advice, of course. But the relationships that were fathered your parents direction were not loving. There was nothing soft or gentle or warm about them. You'd never felt more unlovable.

So when the incident with the shooter happened and you were lying on the lecture hall floor, blood coloring the carpet deep scarlet, you'd vowed to never let it happen again. That you were going to use your intellect and wit and passion for what you wanted to do- you'd promised yourself that if you survived, you would try to make your life your own, one step at a time.

This, of course, is easier said than done.

It's easy enough to refuse to let yourself get involved with men who are clearly only interested in your for your badge or your body --though the latter happens so rarely you really don't have to worry about it-- because you don't care about them. They're blips on your radar.

But Spencer? Sweet, sweet Spencer who makes you hot-cocoa and binge watches Doctor Who with you, even the later seasons, which you know he doesn't like as much but you love. Spencer who always has a grounding touch to offer, or a quiet command when you need him. Spencer who puts you first.

But there's a limit to these things, right? As far as you've seen, romantic relationship's are transactional, or conditional. Sometimes both. He can't just... keep doing this forever. It's too kind. Too sweet. It'll come to an end soon. Like, like the honeymoon era in early relationships. That's all it is. Plus, he's older than you, and you have no illusions about your unavoidable impulsiveness and naivety.

You've been told that your standards are too high before. "Struck by the hopeless romantic's arrow," your brother had said once, back when you were still in school, crying over a boy who'd told you that he didn't want to date you because you were too smart for a girl.

"That's not being hopeless romantic. There's no such thing as being too smart for a girl."

"There isn't," He'd amended, "But you're not going to have an easy time finding a guy. You of all people can't really afford to be picky."

He'd been right, in the end. So you're just... having a hard time figuring out how genuine Spencer's actions are. Guy's don't really act all romantic in the context of you. You've been told your whole life to be happy with what you get, and what you've had in the past is decidedly not lining up with how Spencer treats you.

It's a nasty little thing in your ear. Is it real? Does it matter as much to him?

When is it all going to end?

--

Rossi make's an offhand comment during a mission that you talk a lot when you're excited about the subject at hand.

JJ agrees. "It's a little unnerving when the subject is the bruising patterns of strangulation."

That little voice comes back.

Too much too much too much too much too much--

"It's useful," You protest, mouth dry.

JJ snorts, "I'm not sure about that. We need to know that the victim was strangled, not what happens to the body during blunt-force asphyxiation."

You'd grown quiet then, let the chatter and musings of the rest of the team wash over you.

Is that something Spencer finds annoying? You have always found things other's view morbid and disturbing fascinating. But JJ is right. No one wants to hear about that.

You brush the comment off, square your shoulders, get back on with the case.

Be better. Try harder.

You don't seen the furrow of Spencer's brows from where he's been watching you, or the quick look he shares with Hotch.

--

You'd never really thought about how clingy you can be before Emily makes an offhand comment about it while the two of you wait in line at a coffee shop. There's a couple in front of you, the girl all over her partner, kissing and giggling and hugging them close.

"Ugh," Emily groans once the two get their coffee and move on. "I could never understand the appeal of all that. I mean doesn't it feel stifling?"

A little stab of ice in your stomach.

"I don't know. I think it's nice."

"No, thank you. If I were her partner, I'd feel smothered."

You think about that conversation every time you take Spencer's hand or lean into his simple touches. They're invasive little things, the thoughts. It's not hard to pull back on all the touching. You never really ask for them in the first place- always too nervous to come off clingy. But you suppose just taking, taking, taking is just the same.

A quick shake of your head, not leaning in, a quiet "I'm fine." and that little nagging fear of smothering begins to quiet. It doesn't leave, but it does get quieter. For a little while, at least.

--

The hard part is trying to be less without noticeably being less. Spencer's smart- and he's a profiler. If you pull back too much too quickly, he'll notice, and you don't want to talk about this yet. You just need to make sure he'll stay. That things won't—

That you won't find out too late that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you.

That's the kind of thing that can't happen again. But ascertaining his true feelings and desires is difficult, because this is all kind's of new territory for you. You want to believe it's real. You really, really want to believe it's real.

But it's never been real before, so why would it be real now?

--

You've asked around (subtly and carefully, of course) about the type of girl Spencer's dated or drifted towards in the past. You know he said he wanted something soft and sweet, but you can't help but think that you're not really either, nor are you in line with his type. All things considered, you're a mess. Something tired-eyed and hollow is how you feel most days. Some sort of creature perhaps? You're honestly not sure what you are. You've spent your entire life being singled out or otherwise othered- always too smart or too different or too weird or too much or too loud or too quiet or too shy or too, too, too. Always too something. You have never been called soft or sweet. In a demeaning way, sure, but never with the quiet reverence that Spencer said it with that night.

It feels like a balancing act, a bit. Holding all those too much parts so close to your chest with one hand and shoving the ones you think Spencer wants with the other hand.

You could probably drop the one hand. The one holding the bad parts. But you're just not convinced he'll stay. You're not sure that he won't look at them with some form of disgust or pity or something else terrible.

You know the balancing act isn't sustainable— you'll fall eventually, and everything will come crashing down, but until then, you just keep trying. Trying to see if he'll stay, trying to see what to do if he won't. How to ensure he will, if that's something that's possible.

--

The act does not hold up for as long as you hoped it would. It comes crashing down with a glass. Literally.

You and Spencer are in the kitchen on a rare weekend off, cooking and drinking wine and swaying to some little old love song.

It should be perfect, except you're worrying that you look ugly while you're dancing, and you're probably singing off-key, and he maybe wants you to shut up so he can hear the song or dance in peace.

He reaches towards you and you just— your brain shrieks for a moment, all senses going into overdrive and you jerk backward, and your elbow knocks into your wine glass, and it falls, shattering behind you with a deafening crash.

Your entire body tenses, waiting for yelling or sighing or something, because you broke the glass, there's crystalline shards everywhere, the wine red and it looks like blood, maybe it is, maybe you're bleeding because the glass was really close to your foot when it fell but you're not sure because you can't really feel your feet or your fingers or—

"Don't move," Spencer says, voice serious, and tears well in your eyes, because this is when it all ends isn't it? "I don't want you to— honey?"

"Yes?" You croak.

His eyes are swimming with concern as he takes in your hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and scared expression.

Understanding flickers in his features, and you resist the urge to hold your breath.

"Nothing is going to happen to you because of the glass, okay? Everything is fine. We're fine. I'm not mad. See? I'm not mad. I just don't want you to cut your feet on the glass. I'm going to clean this up and get your slippers, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe, voice hoarse. You wring your hands nervously as he leaves to retrieve the necessary supplies to clean the mess, heart beating so fast and so hard you're shocked you can't see it through your shirt.

He's not mad. He's not mad. You're not in trouble. Your parents aren't here. You're not grounded. You're not in trouble. He's not mad.

You're silent while he cleans, focused on getting your breathing under control while he babbles quietly about the history of glass making and the significance of types of wine glasses. The facts and history wash over you in steady waves, easing the tension in your shoulders bit by bit.

"I didn't think you were going to hit me, Spencer."

He continues cleaning. "It's okay if you did. I would never blame you for that."

"But I don't," You say, suddenly desperate, "I know you wouldn't, I've never been hit, not like that."

He's quiet for a few minutes. "Does this have something to do with how you've been acting recently?"

You freeze. "What do you mean?"

He looks up, leaning back on his knees. Making himself smaller, you realize. He's trying not to scare you again.

"You're dating a profiler. Also, I speak fluent you, and you've been chewing all your hangnails again. You only do that when you're stressed and pretending like you're not."

Your finger's twitch at your sides.

His hands come up slowly, and he rubs the length of your waist and hips. "We don't have to talk about it right now, but I think we should soon. I don't want you hurting all by yourself. You've had enough of that. That's what I'm here for."

He finishes cleaning up the glass, and finishes cooking dinner- he'd assured you he'd turned off all burners when the glass hit the floor, so nothing's burnt.

Once you've both eaten, he steers you towards the couch and wordlessly puts on Doctor Who.

The Pandorica is just about to open when you finally decide that if you don't start talking, you never will.

"My parents think you're going to leave me."

Spencer makes a wounded noise in his throat. "Why do they think that?"

"Because it's happened before. I'm, um. I'm not very good at getting into relationships. Or keeping them."

"But that's not your fault."

You sniff hard, rubbing your face with your sleeve. "It is though, isn't it? At least a little. I know I can be a lot. I know I'm not easy to—"

You cut yourself off, but the words hang in the air anyway; unsaid.

I'm not easy to love.

"Anyway," You say, pushing through the lump in your throat. "I just thought. I don't know. I was worried that you'd get fed up with me."

"No," He whispers, voice raw and full of something a lot heavier than fond. "No, no baby. I like that you're clingy and you ramble when you get excited, because it means that we get to talk about something together."

He shifts on the couch, sitting criss-crossed, ducking his head down to catch your gaze. "You know what else I like?"

You scoot over, mirroring his position. "What?"

"I like that you always know when I need you. Even when I don't think I do, you're there. Because I do need you. This isn't a one-way street."

His words hit you straight in your chest. "Oh."

He smiles, brows a little scrunched, brown eyes a deep pool of fondness and a splash of concern. "Yeah. And I'm thinking you need me a little more than you want to let on."

The seam of your pajama pants suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Amazing, the wonders of a sewing machine.

"Maybe."

"Mmm," He hums, "So if I need you, don't you think that you're allowed to need me?"

Your fingers pick and twirl a loose thread around. "...Yes?"

A large, firm hand covers your thigh, giving it a quick squeeze. "Yes. Not only are you allowed to need me, I want you to need me. Cause you know how you're always worried about being the best girlfriend? Well, I'm always worried about being the best boyfriend."

That makes you look up. "Really?"

He chuckles again, a little puff of air fanning your face. "Yes, really. I assure you, contrary to your past experiences, this is one of those bare minimum things in a relationship."

"That does not," He continues, immediately catching the brief flicker of doubt and shame on your face, "Mean that it is your fault at all for how you were treated in the past. You wouldn't expect me to suddenly become an expert in veterinary medicine just because I've been to the vet's office a few times, right?"

"When did you go to the vet's—"

"Shh, I'm being a good boyfriend," He holds up a hand, lips quirking up when you can't suppress a tiny giggle, "But seriously. You had no frame of reference, right? And you were being told it was your fault. But it wasn't. You didn't deserve that."

He lets his words hang in the air for a little while and allows you time to process this new information.

"What do I do now?"

"Well," He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, curls tickling your forehead, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here. Just three things. You have to keep letting me need you, let yourself need me, and one last little thing."

"What?"

You're so close your breaths are mingling.

"Let me show you what this is supposed to look like. How a man is supposed to treat a pretty girl. His pretty girl."

"Oh, well," Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach doing flip-flops, "That sounds pretty hard. I don't know how I'll hold up."

His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, his thumb sweeping strokes under your eye.

"You say that now, but I know what happens to you when I get romantic. You swoon."

You laugh. "I do not swoon."

"You will."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It isn't a kiss-kiss. He's kissing you just to kiss you; just to let you know that he's here, that you have him.

It's sweet and perfect and exactly what you need.

--

Letting yourself need Spencer is marginally easier now that you know he needs you. Now that you know you're not going all in for someone who isn't.

He also starts needing you a bit... louder.

It's late evening, and most people have gone home except you and a couple other members of the team, all still working on paperwork.

Except Spencer, who's decided to drape himself over your shoulders like a cat, his chin resting on your head.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Either finished it or it can be done later."

You shift your shoulders, smiling at how his grumbles vibrate against your back.

He moves his head, pressing his cheek to your head instead of his chin, heaving a deep sigh.

"Your hair smells good."

"Like what?"

"You're shampoo. Yours always smell better than mine."

You continue to work through your paperwork, Spencer a continuous and solid weight against your back.

"Is this even comfortable for your back at all?"

"Doesn't matter. Need girlfriend time."

He can't see it, but you're sure he knows how hard you blush.

--

Spencer's cooking the two of you a late breakfast in the kitchen of his apartment, hair still all mussed from sleep. He's quite the sight. You can't stop staring.

You're sitting on the counter, still dressed in your pajamas, legs swinging.

"You wanna know something cool?"

"You know it,"

"Butterflies and moths can drink blood and tears. There's nutrients in them. Purple Emperor butterflies are especially known for this. It's called mud-puddling."

"So you're telling me I should make sure I bandage any open wounds before I go to a butterfly house?"

"I guess. I can't imagine they'd be able to drink enough blood to actually cause any damage."

"Maybe we'll have to go to a butterfly house. For research."

"Should we get dinner afterwards?"

"We'll deserve it, you know, for all the hard research we'll have done."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose so."

--

Spencer's bed is infinitely more comfortable than your bed. You're pretty sure it's a combination of the fact that it's the only thing in the entire world that smells so much like him and the fact that he spent part of his large FBI paycheck on a fancy mattress. Back support is very important to him.

You're doing a little reading before bed, shamelessly sprawled all over him while he does his own reading. You've got a leg hooked over his hips, the other tangled with his legs, and your arms and head pillowed on his chest. You move a little every time he takes a breath, and more than once you've paused in your reading, mesmerized by the feeling.

He shifts under you, setting his book down on his night stand and making himself more comfortable.

"Should I move?"

"No," he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to him, face pressed to the crook of your neck. He breathes deep, scruffy stubble scratching against your skin. "Like you close. Good for sleep."

Even with the lamp on, and your book in your hand, you fall asleep soon after him.

--

It's an ordinary evening for the two of you. Discarded dishes sit on the coffee table in front of the t.v, neither of you paying them any attention, wrapped up in each other and eyes glued to the screen.

You look up at Spencer who's watching Doctor Who with the focus of a man who's never seen it, even though you know for a fact he's seen it before, several times in fact.

"I want to know the things you like," He'd said simply, the one time you'd asked why he takes your nightly Doctor Who watching so seriously.

And tonight's no different. Tonight, he looks... well, he looks like Spencer. His face illuminated by the TV screen, his hair all mussed from you running your hands through it earlier.

And it just kind of all hits you at once. You know.

"I love you."

He looks down at you, his expression soft and surprised. When your words register, his expression is so sickeningly fond and happy you can't help but lean in, burying your face in his chest. He rubs your back consolingly, then presses a little kiss to the crown of your head.

"I love you too."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

“More than people?”

“Depends on the people.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.

Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.

Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.

Do not say you're full.

And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.

You had asked what the soup incident was.

He had started to walk faster.

Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.

“Valko,” you said softly.

“Yes?”

“You're shaking.”

“I'm not shaking.”

“You are.”

“I’m containing myself.”

“From what?”

“Hereditary embarrassment.”

The door flew open.

A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.

A slow smile cut across her face.

“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”

Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.

“I changed once.”

“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”

His ears went red.

The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”

“Unfortunately,” Valko added.

“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”

“It isn't optional.”

“Because of me.”

You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.

Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.

Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”

Valko muttered, “We were.”

She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”

You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.

Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.

“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”

You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.

“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”

“I hear everything,” the old woman said.

Valko went still.

Milena smiled into her shoulder.

The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.

“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.

She, of course, ignored him.

Instead, she took your face between both hands.

Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.

“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”

“I eat,” Valko protested.

Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”

“That was taken out of context.”

“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.

Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.

Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”

Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”

No one listened to him.

You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.

“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.

Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.

The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.

Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”

“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”

Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”

Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.

Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.

Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.

“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.

You obeyed.

The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.

You chewed. Swallowed.

“It’s delicious.”

Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”

Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”

Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”

“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.

“No.”

“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”

The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.

“That was private.”

“You said it in the kitchen.”

“That makes it private.”

Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”

Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.

The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.

He had spoken of you here.

At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.

Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.

“He was always like this,” she said.

“Baba, please.”

“He was a strange child,” she said.

Valko groaned. “Please.”

“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.

“A dramatic child,” Luka said.

“A biting child,” Milena added.

Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”

“You looked biteable.”

“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”

There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.

You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.

He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.

There he was.

Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.

Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.

“Are you keeping him?”

The kitchen stopped.

Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.

Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”

“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”

His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.

You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.

Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.

His fingers closed around yours at once.

“I’d like to,” you said.

The house held itself still for half a breath.

Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.

“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”

Valko bowed his head.

His shoulders shook.

At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.

Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”

Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”

Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”

“For Valko?” you asked.

“For all of us.”

Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.

Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.

“That's just Valko,” Milena said.

“I am not a dog.”

“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”

Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.

A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.

You noticed on the fourth offering.

His family noticed on the first.

Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.

“Ah,” she said.

Valko froze.

It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.

“What?” he said.

“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”

Mika threw his head back.

You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”

He looked at the cake.

Then he looked at you.

His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.

Milena saw it.

Her teasing quieted.

For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.

Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”

Valko blinked. “Me?”

“Her.” Milena pointed at you.

Valko frowned. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That's not a reason.”

“It has worked on you for years.”

You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.

She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.

Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”

The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.

For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.

“He likes you,” she said.

You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”

“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”

A laugh escaped you.

Milena folded her arms.

“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”

Your throat tightened.

From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”

Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”

“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”

Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”

You laughed softly.

She looked at you again, sharper now.

“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”

“The goat?”

“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”

You glanced back towards the kitchen.

He had asked if his laugh was strange.

Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.

You looked down.

“He didn’t need to worry,”

“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”

“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”

There it was.

The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.

“I’m not here to hurt him,”

“Most people aren’t, at first.”

“Milena.”

Milena’s gaze narrowed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.

“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”

Milena stared at you.

Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”

You looked down, caught.

She seemed satisfied. “Good.”

“Is that approval?”

“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”

“You were being difficult?”

“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”

When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.

His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”

Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”

“I’m not.”

“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”

He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”

You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”

“That was Baba.”

“Family consensus.”

His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”

“I am.”

“You were supposed to be intimidated.”

“By Mika?”

“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”

“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”

Valko sighed.

You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”

He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.

“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”

Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

His smile softened.

For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.

“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”

“I do”

“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”

He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.

“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”

Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.

“No.”

“Yes,”

“No photographs.”

“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.

Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”

Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”

He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”

You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.

“Sit,” she said.

Valko sat.

It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.

For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.

Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.

There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.

Each photograph was another small door.

You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.

At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.

“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.

You turned a page.

A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

He stared at you.

Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.

It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.

Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.

The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.

Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him. “For what?”'

“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”

“I like Milena.”

“That means she behaved.”

“She said she was being polite.”

He winced. “Then she liked you.”

You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.

Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.

She waved back.

Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”

“She loves you.”

“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”

“It’s a good one.”

He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

“Which part?”

“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”

The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.

You reached for him.

This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.

“I meant it,”

His eyes searched yours.

“For tonight?”

“For longer than that.”

He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.

Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”

Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”

You laughed.

He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright, something almost boyish

“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.

You touched his cheek.

Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.

“Welcome home, Valko.”

“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

link to: epilogue/bonus bit

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

⟡ navigation ⭒ masterlist

⟡ spencer reid masterlist

Something is wrong.

Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.

Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.

Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.

Bruce didn’t come.

That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.

Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.

That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.

Bruce didn’t need all of them.

Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.

He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.

That should’ve been his first real warning.

Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers. 

You didn't answer.

Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.

You always know what he means.

The phone stays quiet in his pocket.

No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.

Still.

When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.

Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.

But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—

That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.

And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.

“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.

The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.

“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.

He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.

Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.

Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”

Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.

That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.

Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.

“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”

“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”

The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm. 

Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.

“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.

He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.

Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you. 

The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.

“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”

Dick finally looks up.

It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.

The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.

Jason turns fully to Damian.

“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”

Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.

“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.

“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”

“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.

The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.

“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”

The batarang whistles through the air.

Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.

Crack.

The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.

Jason stares down at it.

At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.

Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.

It settles on Dick.

“Call Bruce.”

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger. 

Guilty.

“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”

“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.

This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.

She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.

“…He’s busy,” Cass says.

Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.

Busy.

Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.

His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless. 

Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.

“B,” Jason says.

Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.

Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.

Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.

Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.

His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.

Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.

He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.

He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.

No one stops him.

Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.

The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.

“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”

Jason almost laughs.

Instead, his mouth twists.

“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”

“Jason—”

“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”

“Red Hood, just give me—”

“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”

He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance. 

Tim knew Jason would find out. 

Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.

“Red Hood—”

“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”

“JASON—”

Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”

The line goes dead.

Not static. Not interference.

Bruce cut it himself.

Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.

The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.

Slowly—too slowly—he turns.

He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.

They look at him like he’s glass.

Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.

Jason doesn’t give them the chance.

“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.

Then he runs.

Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.

His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.

Toward the manor. Toward answers.

Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.

He takes the shorter way.

Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.

And then—

Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.

Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.

Blood.

The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.

Because you’re untouchable.

That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.

It can’t have you.

Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.

He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.

Jason doesn’t bother.

He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.

Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.

It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.

Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.

Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.

The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.

Tonight it only sharpens the edges.

Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.

Jason shoves him.

Hard.

Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.

He doesn’t.

Jason knows he won’t.

“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”

Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.

“…Jason.”

The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.

This is terror.

“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”

Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”

Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.

And the world fractures.

The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.

Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.

You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.

You’re not safe.

You’re not distant.

You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.

You’re real.

You’re fragile.

You’re reachable.

Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.

And now—

Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.

The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.

Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.

Jason focused.

Emotional.

Unanchored.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”

Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.

“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”

“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”

The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.

Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.

It isn’t.

“Where is she,” Jason says.

His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.

He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.

“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”

Jason turns his head.

The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.

“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”

The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.

“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”

“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.

Then—he stills.

Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.

“How long,” Jason says.

The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.

Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.

“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”

The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.

He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.

“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”

Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”

Crime Alley.

The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.

Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.

Two hours.

Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.

The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.

Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.

Time has never belonged to him.

Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.

And the last one standing is never the strongest.

It’s the smallest. 

You would be dying before those kids.

Jason’s breath stutters, just once.

“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”

For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.

Not peaceful—focused.

Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.

“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.

He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.

Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.

“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”

He swallows.

Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.

Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.

Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.

“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”

The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.

Again.

Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.

“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”

He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.

“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”

The words leave him hollowed out.

Then he’s gone.

The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.

It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.

It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.

Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.

You don’t remember the last five hours.

They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.

You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.

Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.

He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.

And you were right. You always are.

Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.

It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.

It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.

He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient. 

Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.

“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”

You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.

Jason would know what to do.

Jason would make this stop.

The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.

It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.

It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.

The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.

Through it all, you think of Jason.

Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.

Of how he warned you.

Of how he would be here already if he knew.

The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.

You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.

Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.

Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.

A void of sleep.

Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.

A void of sleep.

Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.

A void of sleep.

Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.

A void of sleep.

White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.

A void of sleep.

Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.

A void of sleep.

You wake choking on pain.

Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.

He’s in front of you.

Smiling.

Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.

Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.

“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”

Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.

Jason is coming.

And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.

You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.

Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.

He notices.

Of course he does.

He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.

You gag immediately.

Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.

You choke.

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.

Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.

His hand withdraws at last.

Then—

Smack.

Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—

Smack.

The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.

“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.

Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.

“Now.”

He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.

“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”

You don’t answer.

Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.

“Okay?”

Nothing comes out.

The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.

His smile thins.

He stands.

The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.

“Answer.”

You try.

Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.

All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.

And then—

You hear it.

A sound that doesn’t belong to him.

Crying.

Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.

A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.

Something in your chest caves in.

You don’t even see the crowbar move.

The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.

Your body jerks against the restraints.

Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.

You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.

You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.

Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.

“Okay,” you choke out.

The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.

Immediately, the pressure is gone.

The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.

He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.

Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.

“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.

His hands come up next.

Dry. Cracked. Too warm.

He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.

“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”

Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.

He releases your face.

Pats your head once.

The gesture is almost worse than the violence.

“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”

Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.

You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.

“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”

His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.

“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”

“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”

He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.

Then—

A scream.

Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.

It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.

Something in you fractures.

Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”

Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear. 

His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.

He ripped her earrings out of her ears. 

Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.

The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.

He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”

He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”

Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.

“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”

His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.

“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”

“Oh, I don’t need money.”

The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.

“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”

You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Jason— Jason will—”

He doesn’t even flinch at the name.

Maybe that’s mercy.

His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.

“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”

Then his hands leave you entirely.

He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.

“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Your mind blanks.

Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.

Then—

“Very pretty!”

The voice is behind you.

Too young.

A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”

You feel something inside you tear open.

She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.

Joker’s head snaps toward her.

His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”

There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.

Joker bends down.

The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.

Then he’s gone from your line of sight.

The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.

It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.

There’s a wet, sickening crack.

A sound like meat hitting concrete.

“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”

The crowbar hits again.

You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.

Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.

The camera’s red light blinks again.

Once.

Twice.

It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.

Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.

And then the Joker comes back.

You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.

He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.

“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”

Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.

His smile twitches.

“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.

That seems to irritate him.

He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.

“Oh—”

His eyes light up.

“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”

He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”

Then he turns.

Walks away.

His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.

You’re alone.

One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.

You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.

Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.

“How—”

“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”

Your mouth snaps shut.

And the red light keeps blinking.

The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.

He’s laughing before you even see him.

Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.

A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.

The air grows hotter.

Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.

Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.

It doesn’t clang.

It hisses.

The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.

Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.

He’s behind you in the next second.

Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.

“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.

His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.

He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.

A ‘𝙹’.

Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.

“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.

In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.

“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”

His hand peels away from your mouth.

Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”

“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”

The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.

“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”

Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.

You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.

“Tell me who you hate.”

The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.

He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.

The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.

You look at the camera.

That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.

You think of Jason.

Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.

You could say his name now.

You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.

Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.

Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.

None of them feel survivable.

Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.

You spit in his face.

It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.

For a heartbeat, everything freezes.

The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.

You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.

“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”

His breath stutters.

“You must not have left quite an impression.”

It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.

You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.

You’ve given him a reason.

A reason to prove himself.

A reason to keep you alive.

A reason to make you hurt longer.

His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.

Then the brand descends.

The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.

You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.

Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.

We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.

He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.

Leather is good.

Leather is not acid.

Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.

“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.

Instead, the crying breaks harder.

It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong. 

An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—

Jason.

The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.

“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”

“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”

Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.

“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”

“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”

Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”

Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”

Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.

Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.

“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”

That breaks him.

His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”

“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”

“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.

“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”

That does it.

Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.

You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.

Oh.

Was this—

“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.

Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.

A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.

“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”

“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.

“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”

“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.

Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.

“She’s not going to die, Tim.”

“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.

Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.

“Got it.”

Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.

“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”

“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”

But you’re already slipping.

Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.

After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.

“Drink.”

Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.

He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.

“Hey, I don’t need any—”

Jason looks at him.

Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.

Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.

The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.

The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.

Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.

Jason doesn’t listen.

He keeps his focus on you.

On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.

You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.

He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.

And that’s the cruel part of it.

Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.

Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.

The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.

“Dude—what the fuck—”

“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.

All at once, everyone moves.

Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.

Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.

The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.

“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.

She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...

Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.

“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”

“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”

There’s a beat of silence.

The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.

“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”

The Batmobile keeps moving.

Jason breathes.

You breathe.

And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.

You wake up in bed.

Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.

Then you feel him.

Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.

He’s breathing.

That fact alone nearly undoes you.

God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.

Then you see Bruce.

He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.

When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.

Bruce moves instantly.

“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”

“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”

You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.

“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”

Bruce blinks.

Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.

It doesn’t work.

Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.

Bruce freezes.

You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”

Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.

Oh.

You missed Christmas.

What a shame.

After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.

“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”

“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”

It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.

Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.

He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.

“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”

“You let him?” you ask.

Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.

Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”

“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”

Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.

“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”

That’s when Bruce goes still.

Not rigid. Not defensive.

Still.

Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.

Your cheek.

The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred. 

Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.

“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”

You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” you say.

And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.

Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.

“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.

“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”

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"Well," you said, peeling open the Band-Aid. "At least he has good taste."

"In band-aids?"

"In victims."

For the first time since you'd arrived, Remus laughed and the sound surprised both of you.

Teddy had his father's laugh, you'd come to learn. It escaped them in stages: a huff through his nose, a smile he tried and failed to suppress, and then a laugh proper, warm and low and wonderfully unguarded.

Remus thought you'd quit after Teddy bit you, instead, you taught him all afternoon how to express overwhelming joy through words and hugs. He hired you on the spot.

As it turned out, working for Remus Lupin fit surprisingly well into your schedule. He lived only fifteen minutes from campus and taught there himself, though from the other side of the lectern and thankfully not in classes corresponding your major. Getting from your classes to his house was only a fifteen-minute drive.

After the toddler had scared six nannies already, Remus the atheist thought of going to a church and say thanks to The Man Himself when his son seemed so accepting of you. None of the others had lasted more than a month after some incidents... like the one time where Teddy learned that pretending to cry guaranteed attention and subsequently produced tears on command whenever vegetables appeared on his plate, or when he convinced a nanny he had swallowed a coin.

He had not.

He simply wanted to know what happened when people thought you had.

And there came you.

A woman in her mid-twenties, almost done with college and desperately in need of cash.

Somehow, you possessed the extraordinary ability to turn Teddy Lupin into a less unhinged version of himself simply by speaking to him as though he were a thinking human being. A rather radical approach for any of the other babysitters that had had the misfortune of looking after him.

The first month, Teddy stopped biting people.

The second month, he started waiting by the living room window for your car.

By the third, he knew your class schedule better than you did.

"You're late." He accused, arms tightly around himself to show he was clearly furious.

You checked your watch. "I am four minutes early."

"You were eight minutes earlier yesterday."

"That's not how being late works, bubba."

Teddy narrowed his eyes. You narrowed yours right back. Then he broke into a fit of giggles and forced you to play hide n' seek with him for the third time that week.

One rainy afternoon, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor helping Teddy build a cardboard castle from old delivery boxes his dad had abandoned months ago.

The structure was ugly. Dangerously unstable. And somehow required seventeen rolls of tape his dad would absolutely need at some point of the apocalypse he had bought them for.

"Who lives there?" you asked, taping one of the makeshift windows to the side of the castle. You could've pursued architecture.

"A dragon."

"Only a dragon? A single one?"

"A dragon and me." He nods, like it's obvious, like it's a universal truth.

You nodded solemnly, catching one of the falling pieces from the roof. "Fair enough."

Teddy considered this. He looked at you from head to toe, still wearing the princess hat you made for yourself with cardboard and glittery pink markers. "And you." He decides

Your hands paused. "Oh."

"And Dad, I guess."

"How generous of you." You smile

Teddy shrugged. "The dragon likes you."

Remus noticed it before you did.

The way Teddy reached for you first whenever he was upset. The way he shouted your name the moment he got a good grade. The way he insisted on saving half his desserts for you. The way the house seemed fuller whenever you were in it.

Warmer. Louder. Happier.

Ever since Tonks had left not long after Teddy was born, the house had felt different. Quieter. Not in the literal sense; if anything, Teddy seemed determined to produce enough noise for three people. But there was an emptiness to it all the same. A second mug never taken down from the cabinet. A side of the bed that remained untouched. Conversations that ended before they began because there was nobody to have them with. At first, Remus had noticed it everywhere.

In the silence that greeted him after putting Teddy to sleep.

In the groceries he no longer bought.

In the absence of someone asking how his day had been.

Then life carried on, as it tended to do. Teddy grew. The laundry piled up. Bills had to be paid. Homework from both his son and his students needed checking. Somewhere between surviving and parenting, the loneliness stopped feeling like an intruder and settled into something more permanent. A piece of furniture. An old ache. The sort of thing he only noticed when it wasn't truly there.

Which was perhaps why your arrival caught him so off guard: You filled space without trying to.

Suddenly there was laughter coming from the living room when he got home from work. Someone stealing the good pens from his desk. Someone else reminding Teddy to brush his teeth. Someone sitting at the kitchen counter while he made dinner, telling him about a professor who couldn't work the projector.

The house wasn't less messy or more manageable. If anything, it was louder than ever. But it felt alive again.

One evening, after putting Teddy to bed, you found Remus standing in the kitchen nursing a mug of tea. "He's asleep?" he asks, pulling the little tea bag in and out of the water of his cup, the scent of camomile filling the room.

"Barely." You say with a groan, sitting on the kitchen island with a small thud.

This had become a ritual, of sorts. Talking with Remus about both of your days, or your lives, before he awkwardly slipped the fifty dollar bill across the counter and you slipped out the door to go home.

"He asked for three stories?"

"Four."

Remus winced. "My condolences, love."

You laughed. He smiled.

And then neither of you looked away quite as quickly as you should have. It lasted only a second. Maybe two. He should be grabbing his wallet instead of staring at you like a creep, he thought briefly. But something shifted. Not enough to name. Not enough to acknowledge. Just enough to notice. Just enough to remember.

The first school event you attended happened entirely by accident. Or at least that's what you told yourself.

"Dad can't come to my school thing." Teddy delivered the news with all the gravity of someone announcing a death in the family and the hopefulness of asking for extra candy. You glanced up from his math worksheet spread across the kitchen table. "What do you mean he can't come?"

"He has a meeting at his school." He sighs, resting his chubby cheek in his hand as he scribbles down the page instead of writing actual numbers.

"Oh."

Teddy stared. You stared back. The silence stretched.

"Okay?"

"It's my assembly." Teddy said in the whiniest of tones, spinning around in his chair without taking his eyes off of you, turning his head every time his back faced you

"I know- Bubba, you're going to get dizzy and vomit those dino nuggets, stop."

He stops himself, his little hands clawing at the kitchen island to make himself sit straight again. "You have to come!"

You blinked. "I absolutely do not."

"You do!"

"Teddy."

"You're my emergency contact." He says in an attempt to somehow tie you into a school assembly.

"Your dad is your emergency contact." Busted. Your smirk is proud, like you defeated a debate professor rather than a six year old.

"You're my second emergency contact." He looked unbearably pleased with himself. As though he'd just discovered a legal loophole.

You sighed. "That is not how this works."

"It is if I start crying." He grins.

"You wouldn't."

His eyes immediately began watering.

"Oh, for God's sake- fine, fine, fine!"

The assembly took place on a Thursday morning. You had skipped a lecture to be there. A decision you absolutely weren't regretting as you sat in an uncomfortable folding chair surrounded by parents.

Definitely not. Not even a little.

The gymnasium was packed. Children buzzed with excitement. Teachers ran around looking exhausted. A little girl dressed as a sunflower was already crying and smudging her seed makeup.

It was chaos.

"Teddy Lupin?" a woman sitting beside you asked.

You looked up. "Yeah!"

The woman smiled. "Oh, you're his mother."

The words hit you so unexpectedly that your brain short-circuited.

"No."

"No?" The woman looked awfully confused.

"No." You laughed awkwardly. "I'm not."

"Oh."

You should have corrected her.cYou should have explained. Babysitter. Family friend. Anything.

Instead, your head drifted toward the stage. Toward Teddy. Toward the little paper crown sitting crookedly on his head. Toward the seat beside you. Empty and reserved for Remus.

A faculty emergency had kept him away.

You'd watched him apologize to Teddy all morning.

Watched Teddy pretend not to care.

Watched Remus look heartbroken anyway.

"It's complicated," you decided on.

The woman nodded with a careful smile as if that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

The moment Teddy stepped onto the stage, he found you. Not his teacher. Not his classmates. You.

His entire face lit up. He waved both arms enthusiastically and showed off the crown you had made him days before.

You waved back. A teacher immediately pushed his hands down and he looked bothered but then... The performance began.

Teddy missed half his cues. Forgot two lines. Knocked over a cardboard tree. And somehow still managed to be the most amazing thing you had ever seen. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt and he laughed with you. By the end, you had nearly two hundred photos on your phone.

Half of them blurry. All of them precious.

Remus called before you even reached your car with Teddy in hand, a huge ice cream on his as you walked in the school's parking lot.

"How was it?"

You smiled. "You owe me another fifty dollars."

"What?" You can hear the smile on his voice.

"I sat through forty-five minutes of second graders singing off-key, I'm entitled to financial compensation."

A pause. Then:

"So it was good?"

You could practically hear the hope in his voice. You thought of the photograph you took earlier, now on your main wallpaper.

Teddy, grinning proudly from the stage. Paper crown crooked. Missing front tooth. The happiest, most perfect kid in the world.

"It was perfect."

The silence on the other end lasted a moment longer than it should have. "Thank you." Something in his voice made your chest ache.

"It wasn't a big deal, Remus."

"It was."

You leaned against your car as Teddy got inside. Suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. "What are you doing now?" he asked.

"Dropping Teddy at campus and then home... why?"

Another pause. Then: "Teddy wants to celebrate."

You laughed.

"Celebrate what?"

"This morning he said something about surviving elementary theatre."

"Fair."

"Would you...?" The hesitation surprised you. "Would you like to come to dinner?"

You should have said no.

You had reading to do.

Laundry.

Assignments.

A life outside of the Lupins.

Instead— "Only if Teddy picks the restaurant." Remus groaned.

"Oh no."

"What's wrong?" You frown, thinking for one terrible moment that dinner plans were cancelled.

"He likes that dinosaur-themed place."

"You say that like it's bad." You smile, getting inside the car and buckling Teddy's seatbelt.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Remus said gravely, "she's encouraging him!"

You spent dinner watching the performance's videos, laughing hysterically at Teddy making excuses for stepping on another boy's feet while dancing and how the choreography was super tough.

Much later, neither of you would be able to say exactly when you stopped feeling like Teddy's babysitter.

Only that, somehow, somewhere between dinosaur bandages, cardboard castles and bedtime stories, you had become part of the family. And nobody seemed particularly interested in giving you back.

Summer turned into autumn.

Autumn turned into winter.

And somewhere in between, you stopped knocking.

It had happened after Teddy came down with a stomach bug and Remus got stuck in traffic on the way home from campus. He'd handed you a spare key the next morning with a mumbled, "Just in case." You'd accepted it without much thought.

Months later, it still hung from your keychain.

"Technically," Remus had said once, watching Teddy color at the kitchen table, "you're only supposed to use it for emergencies."

Teddy didn't even look up from his crayons. "She lives here."

You nearly choked on your coffee. "I absolutely do not."

"You have a key."

"That doesn't mean I live here, Bubba. I got my own place-."

"You have pajamas."

"They're for sleepovers when you're too much of a baby to sleep alone when your dad's late!" You laugh

"You have a toothbrush." He doesn't take the bait. He will tolerate being called a baby if it is to prove a point.

"Teddy."

"You have your own mug." You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because annoyingly enough, the little traitor was right.

The mug sat beside the coffee machine every morning; a chipped blue thing with tiny stars painted around the rim. Nobody remembered how it had become yours. One day it simply had.

Much like the cardigan hanging over the back of the couch, the spare phone charger Remus had bought for you that now rested permanently plugged into the kitchen outlet. The blanket Teddy insisted belonged to you during movie nights. Little pieces of yourself scattered throughout the house.

Evidence. Proof.

Signs of a life quietly intertwining with theirs. Not that anyone seemed particularly concerned about it. Especially not Remus.

One evening, after a particularly miserable exam, you let yourself into the house and immediately dropped your backpack onto the floor.

"I'm dropping out."

"Hi, sweetheart."

Remus looked up from where he stood at the stove.

"You didn't even ask what happened." You groan, taking off your shoes and padding inside.

"You say you're dropping out at least twice a month." Remus laughs, handing you tea that was already waiting for you in the blue starry mug.

"I mean it this time."

"You meant it last time."

"And the time before that." Teddy chimes in.

"Exactly."

You narrowed your eyes. He smiled into his tea.

Teddy looked up from the table. "I think she's... bluffing!" You had taught him that word a month ago when he heard you singing a song and asked what 'bluffing' meant.

"Thank you, Theodore." Remus hums

"You're welcome."

And for a brief, stupid moment, standing there in your socks with your backpack abandoned by the door and the smell of dinner filling the kitchen, you forgot this wasn't your home. The realization came later.

Alone in your apartment, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling.

Thinking about the way Teddy had absent-mindedly reached for your hand while telling a story. The way Remus always made enough tea for two. The way neither of them seemed surprised when you showed up anymore.

Looking back, perhaps that should have worried you.

The ease of it all.

The way you slipped into their lives and they slipped into yours.

The way none of it felt temporary anymore.

The doorbell rang on a Thursday afternoon, sunset already bleeding in the sky.

Teddy was halfway through explaining why dinosaurs would perform terribly in modern society when Remus got up to answer it. "Don't move," he told his son.

"I wasn't planning to."

"That's what you said before climbing onto the garage roof."

"I was trying to help the bird... it was one time."

"One time too many." You laughed into your mug.

Remus rolled his eyes affectionately before disappearing into the hallway. The conversation at the table continued for all of ten seconds.

Then it stopped.

Not because of anything you could hear. Because of what you couldn't.

No footsteps.

No greeting.

No door closing.

Just silence.

A strange, heavy sort of silence.

The kind that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You exchanged a glance with Teddy. He frowned.

Then, from the hallway—

"Dora" Remus said in a broken sigh.

"Hello, Remus."

A woman's voice. Soft and familiar. A tiny bit broken around the edges.

The mug slipped slightly in your hands. Something crashed to a halt in the other room. For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Teddy's chair scraped loudly against the floor. His eyes had gone impossibly wide as he ran to the hall.

"Dad?" The word hung in the air. A heartbeat later, another one followed. Small. Disbelieving. Hopeful.

"Mom?".

Remus' ex wife.

Teddy's mom.

It was hard to put an older face to the name. Remus had told you the whole story in one of your late-night kitchen conversations after a particularly harsh day at faculty, all broken and tired. A storm raged outside, and he basically forced you to stay there and use the couch. You'd found him sitting alone in the kitchen after midnight, grading papers with the thousand-yard stare of a man questioning every decision that had led him to academia.

"Bad essays?" you asked as you poured yourself some water.

"Worse."

You set your glass down beside him. "How bad?"

Remus looked up, grabbed the paper he was grading and read: "'The Industrial Revolution was important because industry was invented.'"

You winced. "That's rough."

"I nearly resigned." The laugh that followed faded quickly. He put down the pen and took off his glasses, running a hand through his sandy hair as he took a deep breath. Silence settled between you. Comfortable.

The kind that only existed after months of knowing someone.

Then, without really meaning to, your eyes drifted toward the photograph on the fridge. The same photograph you'd seen dozens of times.

A younger Remus. A baby Teddy. A woman with big eyes and pink hair.

"Was she funny?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

Remus followed your gaze. For a moment, he didn't answer.

Then... "Very."

You nodded then waited.

Eventually, he sighed. "You're curious."

"A little." you admit, the greenish water in your cup suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. God why did you have to be so nosy, the topic was clearly sensitive for the man and-

"Fair." He says before looking up "Her name's Nymphadora."

You immediately grimaced. "That's fucking criminal."

"It is." He laughs

"What kind of parent names a child Nymphadora?" I sigh

"The kind who hated her almost as much as she did."

That earned a genuine laugh. Then his expression softened. Not with longing. With memory. "She was loud."

You smiled. "Teddy had to get it from someone."

"Impossible not to notice when she entered a room." His fingers tapped absent-mindedly against the mug in front of him as he stared into the garden. "She loved Teddy."

You hesitated. Past tense. Loved.

Not loves.

Loved. The distinction settled heavily in your chest. "What happened?"

For a second, you thought he'd dodge the question like the many times Sirius made a joke about it during family dinners. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. Looking older suddenly. More tired.

"We had Teddy."

You waited. "And?"

"And she left." Just like that. No dramatic explanation. No elaborate story. Three words.

You frowned. "Just... left?"

"Pretty much." He scoffed but there was no anger in his voice. Which somehow made it worse.

"One day she told me she couldn't do it anymore." His eyes remained fixed on the table. "Couldn't do what?" You ask.

"Any of it... the house payment, the marriage, the responsibility."

You swallowed a small lump in your throat, scared to ask until you did "Teddy?"

A pause. Then: "Especially Teddy."

The words hit harder than they should have because they weren't cruel. Just honest. The honesty made them hurt.

"How old was he?"

"Six months."

You stared. Remus stared back into his tea.

"Some people aren't built for parenthood." You didn't know what to say. You were a dumb twenty something year old that could barely keep herself alive with campus meals and an awful sleep schedule. You couldn't judge the woman...

"So that's it?"

He laughed. A short, bitter thing. "No." The answer came immediately, almost still resentful. "No, that's not it."

For the first time that evening, genuine anger flashed across his face. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared. But it was there for the briefest second. "I spent years furious." The admission surprised you. Remus was a gentle man, in every sense of the word. He never yelled at Teddy even when he was in one of his moods, never cursed unless it was in good spirits and never once did you see him express anything but love and maybe, sometimes sadness. "I thought I'd done something wrong."

His jaw tightened. "I thought if I'd been a better husband she would've stayed."

The kitchen felt very quiet.

Then: "Eventually I realized it wasn't about me." A pause. "Or even about Teddy." Another. "She just didn't want this life." He says looking around at the house, his eyes fixated on Teddy's drawings hanging in the frigge.

You looked down at your tea.

Thought about the sleeping child upstairs. At the house built around you both. And for the first time, you understood why Remus looked so exhausted sometimes.

Because he'd spent years being both parents. Years picking up every piece she left behind.

"Do you hate her?" You mumble softly.

Remus was silent for a long time. Then he shook his head. "No." The answer sounded tired.

Not forgiving. Not yet. Just tired.

"I hate what happened." His eyes drifted toward the stairs. Toward Teddy's room. "I hate what it did to him."

A pause. "If she walked through that door tomorrow, I'd probably slam it in her face." You laughed softly.

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Another pause. Then: "But if Teddy wanted to see her..."

Remus closed his eyes briefly and you saw the fight leaving him all at once. "I'd figure it out."

And so that's why seeing this woman in the doorway, with Teddy clinging to her legs, surprised you so.

Remus was looking at the floor intently, breathing heavily, hand still in the door as Nymphadora walked inside and sat on the couch as Teddy hugged her. The sight makes your heart squeeze.

You remained rooted to your spot by the kitchen island as she finally acknowledged your presence. "Oh?" The single syllable nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You weren't stupid.

You knew exactly how this looked.

You were already in your pajamas curled up on a kitchen stool. A mug of tea cooling beside your phone as it charged from the wall outlet, your college bag rested carelessly beside the couch. The blanket draped over your lap belonged to the house. The blue, chipped mug in your hand did too. Slowly, painfully, you became aware of every trace of yourself scattered throughout the room.

The cardigan hanging over the back of a chair. The charger plugged into the kitchen wall. The half-finished crossword you'd abandoned on the coffee table.

Evidence.

Evidence everywhere.

The realization hit all at once. This wasn't your home. But God, it looked and felt like it was. Nymphadora's gaze swept across the room. Taking everything in. The tea. The blanket. The bag. You.

Something flickered across her face. Surprise. Confusion. Perhaps even understanding. You couldn't tell.

Suddenly you felt eighteen again. Awkward. Out of place. Caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing and feeling incredibly embarassed about it.

"Teddy's babysitter." The words escaped before anyone could ask. You hated how quickly you'd said them. As though trying to justify your own existence. As though trying to explain why you were here.

Nymphadora blinked. Then smiled, a small one. Polite and distant. "Oh." The same thing she'd said before. Only this time it sounded different. You couldn't explain how, just that it did.

You looked at Teddy.

Then at Remus.

Remus still hadn't moved, and had barely spoken. The silence surrounding him felt strange. Heavy. Like a storm cloud sitting in the middle of the living room.

Nymphadora noticed too. Her smile faded slightly. "Hi, Remus."

Finally, his eyes lifted meeting hers for the first time. The room seemed to hold its breath. "Tonks."

Not Dora.

Not Nymphadora.

Not love.

Not anything affectionate.

Just Tonks.

The distance in a single syllable was almost impressive. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Years stretched silently between them. Then Teddy squeezed himself tighter against his mother's side. And whatever Remus had been about to say disappeared.

Because there it was.

The reason she was standing in his living room.

The reason he hadn't slammed the door.

The reason he probably never would.

Their son.

Of course you sleep in your place that night.

You stood, reached for your keys and your overnight bag. For the cardigan you'd left hanging over the couch weeks ago. For some reason, collecting your things felt different tonight. Like you were cleaning up after yourself. Like you were erasing evidence.

"Drive safe." Remus' voice caught you by surprise. You looked up and he was already holding the front door open.

The autumn air slipped inside. Cold against your skin.

"You too." The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I'm not driving anywhere."

"You never know." For a moment neither of you moved. The silence stretched. Not awkward.

You drove home in your pijamas and in spite of Teddy's pleas for you to stay to "meet his mommy together". The sentence made your blood boil and heart break at the same time. The sweet boy hadn't grown up with her, he didn't know her. He was just meeting her and it was the most heartbreakingly sad thing you had ever seen. How could he know her? And yet he loved her already.

The realization sat heavily in your chest during the drive home, not because Teddy was wrong but because he wasn't. She was his mother. Of course he wanted her. Of course he looked at her like she'd hung the moon. Of course he forgave her before she had even apologized. He was a child.

The next morning, you still went. Of course you did. Teddy had asked if you'd come back. You'd promised.

So you found yourself standing on the Lupins' doorstep shortly after ten in the morning with a bag of groceries balanced on your hip and a spare key in your pocket. The key felt heavier than usual. You knocked anyway out of habit.

The door swung open before you could use it. Teddy practically launched himself at you. "You came!"

You laughed as he nearly knocked you over. "I said I would."

"I know but sometimes adults lie."

"That's a concerning thing to say at eight in the morning."

"It's ten."

"Still concerning."

Teddy grinned then grabbed your hand and dragged you inside. The smile slipped from your face almost immediately. The kitchen smelled like pancakes, fresh ones. The dishes had already been washed. His favorite dinosaur cup had already been filled with juice.

And standing in the middle of it all was Nymphadora Tonks. As though she'd always belonged there. As though she'd never left.

"Oh!" she said brightly.

"Hi." You smiled automatically.

"Hi."

Teddy was already halfway through explaining something about velociraptors. Neither of you listened. For a moment, you simply stood there. Watching Nymphadora tying Teddy's shoelaces. Nymphadora reminding him to finish his breakfast. Nymphadora wiping syrup off his cheek.

Things you had done a hundred times. Things she should have been doing. The realization settled slowly.

Painfully like a bruise.

Nobody had asked you to leave. Nobody had told you that you weren't needed. And yet the space you'd occupied for years suddenly had an owner again.

You stayed for an hour. Maybe two.

Long enough to help Teddy build a blanket fort.

Long enough to laugh at one of his terrible jokes.

Long enough to realize you didn't know what you were supposed to do anymore.

When you finally stood to leave, Teddy frowned. "Where are you going?"

Home.

Nowhere.

Anywhere.

"I've got things to do."

"Like what?"

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out. Because the truth was that college was out for winter break. You didn't have classes. You didn't have assignments. You didn't have work. You had planned on spending most of your vacation here. Movie nights and board games and helping Teddy build increasingly dangerous engineering projects. You hadn't realized how much of your life had quietly rearranged itself around theirs until now.

"Oh."

Teddy seemed unsatisfied by the answer. But Nymphadora smiled. "Let her go be a grown-up."

You laughed politely. Then left.

The drive home felt longer than it should have. The apartment felt smaller. Quieter. You spent three hours wandering aimlessly between rooms.

Started a book. Put it down.

Turned on the television. Turned it off.

Made tea and accidentally made enough for two. Forgot to drink both cups.

By two in the afternoon, you were considering taking a nap simply out of boredom when your phone rang. Remus.

You answered immediately.

"Hey."

A pause.

Then: "Please tell me you're free."

You sat upright. Something in his voice made your stomach drop.

"What happened?"

Another pause, longer this time.

When he finally spoke, he sounded exhausted.

"Teddy and Tonks had a fight."

You blinked. "A fight?" He's six years old how does he manage to-

"A spectacular one."

"What happened?"

Remus sighed heavily. "I think she tried to parent him."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

You winced. That explained everything. Teddy had never loved being told what to do from anyone who wasn't Remus. Or you. That aditional thought bothered you.

"Teddy yelled that she wasn't his mother." The words landed heavily. Painfully. You closed your eyes.

"Oh fuck."

Another silence.

Then: "He locked himself in his room." You were already reaching for your shoes. "And?"

"And apparently I'm raising a tiny dictator because he says he'll only come out if you talk to him." Your heart broke instantly somewhere between the front door and your car keys. Remus let out a tired breath. "He keeps asking for you."

And suddenly, for the first time all day, you knew exactly where you were supposed to be.

The drive to the Lupins' house took twelve minutes and you spent eleven of them trying not to imagine Teddy crying. The twelfth was worse. The house was quiet when you arrived.

Wrongly quiet.

Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that follows shouting.

Remus opened the door before you could knock. He looked exhausted.

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs."

You were already moving.

"Hey—" You paused halfway up the stairs. Remus rubbed a hand over his face.

"He won't talk to me." The admission sounded almost defeated. You softened immediately. "I'll try."

He nodded. The door to Teddy's room was closed. A small dinosaur sticker stared at you from eye level. You knocked once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing.

"Teddy?"

Silence.

Then: "Go away."

You exhaled slowly. "No."

"Please." The word was so small and pleading it nearly broke your heart.

You rested your forehead against the door. "Teddy."

Nothing.

Then, after a moment: "...is it you?". Your throat tightened.

"Yeah, bubba s'me, open the door for me."

The lock clicked immediately. The door opened just enough for you to see one watery hazel eye. Then he launched himself at you.

Hard and nearly knocking the air from your lungs.

You caught him automatically. His face buried itself against your shoulder. And just like that, you knew.

Not because of what he said. Because of how tightly he was holding on. You had known fear like this before: the quiet kind.

The kind that settled in your chest after someone raised their voice. The kind that made you study every expression, every footstep, every slammed door. Trying to determine whether you were safe yet. You recognized it the moment Teddy looked up at you. "Hey."

His eyes were red, his chubby cheeks blotchy. A child trying very hard not to cry anymore. "Hey."

You sat down on the floor beside his bed and he immediately curled into your side. Neither of you spoke.

Sometimes there wasn't much to say.

A few minutes passed before he finally whispered "I was bad."

Your heart sank. "No bubba-" His fingers tightened in your sweatshirt.

"I was."

"Teddy."

"Mom said so."

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Not enough to knock you over. Enough. You chose your next words carefully. "What happened?" Teddy stared at the carpet. For a long time, you thought he wouldn't answer.

Then: "I spilled juice."

You blinked. "That's it?"

He shrugged. Small. Miserable. Ashamed.

"There was already juice on the floor."

"Okay."

"And then I dropped the cup."

You waited.

"And then she yelled." The words came out in a rush, as though saying them quickly would make them hurt less. You felt something twist painfully inside your chest.

Not anger.

Not yet.

Recognition. Children remembered yelling differently. Adults forgot that. Adults remembered the reason. Children remembered the sinking feeling.

"I think..." Teddy swallowed. "I think she hates me."

"Oh, sweetheart, no..." The words escaped immediately, before you could stop them. His eyes filled again. And there it was.

The thing he'd been carrying around all afternoon.

Not anger. Not even sadness. Fear. The awful certainty only children could have. The belief that one mistake could make someone stop loving them. You knew that feeling far too well. You gently brushed a hand through his hair.

"Listen to me." Teddy looked up. "If somebody gets frustrated, that doesn't mean they hate you."

He said nothing. "So what if she yelled?"

You smiled softly. "Then she shouldn't have yelled."

His eyes widened as though he hadn't considered that possibility. As though adults existed in a category where they were automatically right.

"No one gets to yell at you just because they're upset." The words surprised even you. They sounded older than you remembered being. Older than you felt. You swallowed. Then nudged his shoulder gently.

"But." Teddy sniffled. "But sometimes adults mess up just like kids do."

The room fell quiet. Downstairs, a floorboard creaked, someone moving around the kitchen. Probably Remus. Probably Tonks. Probably both.

Teddy leaned into your side. "You really came." The words were barely above a whisper. You closed your eyes briefly. Then pressed a kiss against the top of his head. "Always."

And somewhere downstairs, a chair scraped across the floor. As though someone had just sat down very suddenly.

You saw less and less of the Lupins after that.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary, an adjustment period.

Tonks and Teddy needed time.

Remus and Tonks needed time.

You were being mature about it. Reasonable.

Normal.

Then one week became two, two became three, and suddenly the absence had settled into something real. The strange thing was that nobody had asked you to leave. Not once.

Teddy still asked about you.

Tonks still invited you over.

Remus still texted occasionally: A photograph of a disastrous science project, a reminder to send him the name of a book you'd recommended, a complaint about faculty meetings. Small things. Ordinary things.

Which somehow made them worse, because every message reminded you that life was continuing without you. One evening, your phone buzzed while you were making dinner for one.

remus:): Do you remember how you got Teddy to eat broccoli?

You stared at the message.

Then laughed despite yourself, replying 'Blackmail'.

His reply arrived immediately.

remus:): I knew it.

You smiled, then stared at the screen long after the conversation ended because three months ago, you wouldn't have received that question through a phone. You would've been standing in his kitchen. Stealing vegetables from Teddy's plate. Listening to Remus complain about grading.

The distance hurt in ways you hadn't expected, not because you missed the house.

Because you missed him. Teddy or Remus you didn't know.

And apparently, he missed you too. Teddy or Remus you didn't know.

Then you realized it gradually, in the way his messages lingered or in the way he found increasingly ridiculous reasons to contact you... in the way conversations that should've lasted three minutes somehow stretched into forty.

One night he called. You answered without thinking.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Silence. Comfortable. Dangerous. You sat down on your couch.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"You only call when something happened."

A low, familiar laugh.

God. You missed that laugh.

"That's offensive."

"It's true."

Another laugh, then silence again. You waited.

Eventually: "I just wanted to hear your voice."

The room stopped. Not completely. Just enough. Long enough for your heart to stumble over itself. On the other end of the line, Remus went quiet too. As though he'd only realized what he'd said after saying it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you were brave enough. So instead he asked about your classes. And you let him. Because some things were easier to survive when they remained unnamed.

Later that night, long after the call ended, Remus sat alone in the kitchen. The house was asleep. Tonks upstairs. Teddy dreaming. A mug of tea cooling between his hands. For the first time in months, he allowed himself to admit it.

The house felt full again.

It should have been enough.

For a while, he thought it might be but every time something funny happened, he still reached for his phone. Every time Teddy did something ridiculous, he wanted to tell you. Every time he saw an article about your major's studies, he thought of you. And every time he opened the front door after work, a small part of him still expected to find you sitting on the kitchen island.

Waiting. The realization terrified him. Because Tonks had come home. And somehow, impossibly, he still missed you.

At first, Remus thought time would fix it because time fixed most things. Grief dulled. Anger softened. Old wounds scarred over. That was what people said, anyway. So he tried.

God, he tried.

He took Tonks to dinner and sat beside her during movie nights and listened when she talked about the years she'd spent away. About the jobs she'd worked, about the places she'd lived, about the mistakes she'd made.

He listened because she deserved that much. Because Teddy deserved that much. Because families weren't things you abandoned the moment they became difficult. Some evenings, he would look across the dinner table and see exactly what he had wanted for years.

Tonks laughing.

Teddy talking with his mouth full.

Three plates instead of two.

A family.

A complete one.

It should have made him happy.

Instead, there was always something missing. A fourth laugh. A familiar voice from the kitchen. Someone stealing fries from Teddy's plate. Someone sitting cross-legged on the counter while he cooked. The absence followed him everywhere.

One night, Tonks reached across the couch and took his hand. Remus nearly jumped not because he didn't expect affection but because he hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd wanted it. Tonks noticed immediately. Of course she did. She'd always been good at reading people.The smile she gave him afterward broke his heart. Not because it was sad. Because it was understanding.

Weeks passed. Then months. And somehow things became worse. Not better. He found himself dreading evenings. Dreading the moments when the house finally became quiet. Because that was when pretending became hardest.

Tonks would sit beside him... close enough for him to smell her shampoo, close enough that, years ago, he would have reached for her without thinking. Now he found himself staring at the television. Or his tea. Or literally anything else.

Anything but her.

One evening, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. A simple thing. Affectionate. Normal. Remus froze. The reaction lasted less than a second. Long enough. Tonks pulled away first.

The silence afterward felt endless.

"I'm sorry."

The words escaped before he could stop them. Tonks stared at him. Then laughed softly not because it was funny, because the alternative was crying.

"You don't have to apologize." The lie hung between them. Neither of them challenged it.

That night, long after she'd fallen asleep, Remus lay awake staring at the ceiling. The room was dark. The house silent. Beside him, Tonks shifted in her sleep. For a moment, he remembered being twenty-five.

Remembered loving her.

Remembered believing that was enough.

Then his mind drifted somewhere else. To a girl sitting on a kitchen island. To laughter. To dinosaur bandages. To someone who always stole his good pens. Remus closed his eyes. The guilt was immediate.

Crushing.

Because Tonks wasn't doing anything wrong. She was trying. Trying harder than she ever had before. And somehow he still found himself reaching for memories that weren't hers.

Two months later, he woke to an empty bed. At first, he didn't think anything of it. Tonks got up early sometimes. So did Teddy. The house remained silent. Strangely silent.

Remus frowned.

Sat up.

The other side of the mattress was cold. Not recently vacated. Cold. A knot formed immediately in his stomach. He stood. Pulled on a sweater. Walked downstairs. Nobody in the kitchen. Nobody in the living room. Then he saw it.

A folded piece of paper sitting beside the coffee machine.

His name.

Written in familiar handwriting. For one terrible moment, he already knew. His hands shook as he unfolded it.

Remus, I'm sorry.

The words blurred almost instantly. Not because he was crying. Not yet. Because he couldn't stop staring at them.

I'm sorry.

Again.

Always sorry.

Never staying.

He read the rest anyway: About not belonging here anymore. About how hard she'd tried. About how Teddy deserved better than a mother who had to force herself to stay. About how he deserved better too.

By the time he reached the end, his hands were trembling. The kitchen felt very far away. Very quiet. Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

"Teddy?" he called automatically. No answer.

Then: "Dad?"

The note slipped from his fingers.

Teddy appeared in the doorway wearing dinosaur pajamas. Still half asleep. Still smiling.

"Mom said we'd make pancakes today."

Remus forgot how to breathe. The smile disappeared immediately. Children always knew. Some instinct science was yet to figure out. Some horrible little instinct.

"Dad?" Remus swallowed. Hard. "Teddy."

The boy's face changed. Confusion. Then fear. Then understanding.

"No." The word came instantly. Before Remus had said anything. "No."

"Teddy—"

"No."

His voice cracked.

Small.

Desperate.

"No."

Remus crossed the room in two strides and caught him before he could run. Before he could fall apart. Before they both did. Teddy fought him for exactly three seconds with all his might. Then collapsed. The sob that left him sounded too big for a seven year old.

Remus held him tighter.

His own vision blurring. His own chest splitting open. Not because he'd lost Tonks, that grief felt known. Ancient. A wound reopened too many times to surprise him anymore. No.

The unbearable part was watching Teddy lose her again. And knowing he had no idea how to make it hurt less.

James takes Teddy for the afternoon. It isn't a difficult decision.

Harry adores Teddy.

Teddy adores Harry.

And James takes one look at Remus' face before saying, gently "I've got him."

Remus doesn't argue, doesn't have the energy. The house is silent after they leave and silence had never bothered him before but now it feels unbearable; Every room is full of ghosts. Tonks' coffee mug. Tonks' handwriting on the fridge. The blanket she'd used on the couch.

The things left after she left. Again.

By three in the afternoon, Remus is sitting on the kitchen floor not because he fell but because he couldn't make himself stand anymore. The note lies crumpled beside him. His tea has gone cold. The house won't stop being empty. And for the first time all day, he lets himself cry.

Not quietly.

Not dignified.

The ugly kind. The exhausted kind. The kind that comes after years.

Years of trying.

Of hoping.

Of being angry.

Then forgiving.

Then hoping again.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

James. He ignores it. It buzzes again.

And again.

Finally, he answers.

"She's gone." The words come out broken. James goes quiet immediately. "Remus—"

"She's gone."

A laugh escapes him, a horrible one.

"Again."

Silence.

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No."

"Okay."

Another pause. "Who do you want?" The question catches him off guard because the answer arrives instantly, without thinking.

Without hesitation. Without permission.

You.

The realization hits like a punch, James hears the silence and understands immediately. Of course he does. Remus presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. Humiliating. Pathetic. True.

"Oh, mate." And somehow that's worse. James sounds sad, not surprised. Like he'd been waiting for Remus to figure it out.

The call ends ten minutes later. Remus doesn't remember how. The house remains silent, he stares at his phone, at your name for a long time. Then presses call. You answer on the second ring.

"Hello?"

And that nearly does him in. Just your voice. Familiar. Warm. Normal.

"Remus?"

Nothing. His throat closes completely.

"Remus?"

More urgent now, concerned. He then tries to speak. Fails. A horrible sound leaves him instead.

Not quite a sob.

Close enough.

The silence on your end lasts half a second.

"I'm coming over."

No questions. No hesitation. No explanation. Just certainty. The line goes dead and twenty-seven minutes later, you're standing on his front porch.

Remus opens the door before you can knock, one look at him and your heart breaks.

He looks awful.

Eyes red.

Face pale.

Exhaustion carved into every line.

For a second neither of you move.

Then you step forward and Remus folds. Not dramatically. Not romantically.

Just... Falls apart.

Like something inside him finally gave way. You wrap your arms around him automatically the same way you've done with Teddy, the same way you've done with frightened children and grieving friends and exhausted classmates.

And Remus lets you, for the first time, really lets you.

His forehead presses against your shoulder, his hands clutch the back of your sweater and suddenly he's crying again.

You don't say anything. You just hold him. The way he's held everyone else for years.

Eventually the storm passes. Not completely. Enough.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor side by side.

The evening sun creeping through the windows, neither of you looking at each other.

"I tried." His voice is rough. Raw. "I really tried."

"I know." A laugh. Broken around the edges.

"God." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I wanted it to work."

You stare at the floor.

Unable to think of anything that doesn't hurt.

Then: "I know."

Silence settles between you, the way it always has been, comfortable.

The way it probably always will be.

And suddenly Remus is so tired of pretending. So tired of carrying it. So tired of saying everything except the truth.

"I missed you."

The words slip out quietly, honestly.

Your breath catches. Neither of you move. The kitchen feels very small suddenly. Very still. Remus laughs weakly.

"I know."

Another silence.

Then: "I know I shouldn't have."

Your eyes close. Because that's the problem. Because you've missed him too. Every day. Every fucking day.

"I know." His head finally turns, meeting your gaze.

Years of affection sitting quietly between you.

Years of almosts.

Years of choosing not to look too closely.

And suddenly neither of you have the energy for denial anymore.

Not after today.

Not after everything.

"I love you."

Exhausted.

Certain.

Like admitting the sky is blue. Like admitting something everyone already knows. For a moment, you simply stare at him.

Then your eyes fill. Because of course.

Of course.

The stupid, wonderful, impossible man.

"I know."

A laugh escapes him, wet and broken. "That wasn't the response I was hoping for."

You laugh too. The first real laugh all day. Then reach for his hand. Squeeze. And finally say the thing that's been true for a very long time.

"I love you too."

Years later, Teddy would remember two things about the day his mother left.

The first was the note.

The second was that you came the way you always had.

You came with groceries because Remus had forgotten to eat, you came with ice cream because Teddy had stopped talking.

You came because nobody asked you not to.

And because, despite everything, this was still the first place you thought of when someone said home. The months that followed were difficult. Teddy was angry. Then sad. Then angry again.

Remus spent a long time pretending he wasn't heartbroken, not because he'd lost Tonks, that grief had happened years ago. No. What broke him was watching Teddy wait. Watching him glance toward the door whenever the bell rang. Watching him check his phone on birthdays. Watching hope slowly become disappointment.

There were no grand speeches, no magical solutions. Just ordinary days. Homework at the kitchen table. Movie nights. School assemblies. Burnt pancakes. Life.

Life, stubborn and relentless, carrying all three of you forward whether you were ready or not.

One day, almost a year later, Teddy stopped waiting by the window. Neither of you mentioned it. The absence hurt enough, the next year, he forgot to ask if she would call on his birthday. That hurt too.

But less.

Healing often did.

The first time Remus told you he loved you, he was crying on the kitchen floor, the second time happened six months later while you were arguing over whether dinosaurs would survive modern society, the third happened while folding laundry, the fourth happened half asleep.

By the fifth, neither of you were counting anymore.

Love, it turned out, was rarely grand.

Mostly it was repetitive.

Choosing the same person over and over again. On purpose. Years later, you found an old photograph while cleaning.

Remus and Teddy and you. A cardboard castle. The roof half collapsed. Tape everywhere.

You smiled immediately.

Teddy, now significantly taller than either of you liked to admit, glanced over your shoulder. "God."

You laughed. "What?"

"I was so weird." He sighs.

"You built a dragon fortress out of Amazon boxes."

"I know." He cringes.

"You made me wear a cardboard princess hat."

"I know." He groans.

"You bit me."

Teddy looked thoughtful. Then nodded. "Yeah." The lack of remorse after all these years was astonishing. You showed him the photograph anyway. Teddy stared at it for a long moment.

At himself.

At his father.

At you.

The smile that crossed his face was soft. Almost nostalgic.

"You know..."

"What?"

He pointed at the picture, at the three people squeezed together inside that ridiculous cardboard castle. And said, with complete certainty:

"This was always my family."

The room went quiet. Across the kitchen, Remus looked up from his book. You felt your throat tighten. Teddy didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was why he'd said it.

He grinned suddenly. Then ruined the moment completely.

"Also, I still think biting you was a good idea."

You threw a dish towel at his head.

Remus laughed. Teddy laughed harder.

And surrounded by the noise of the life you had built together, you found yourself laughing too.

The first time Teddy Lupin bit you, he left a mark on your hand.

Years later, neither of you had any idea he'd leave one on your life.

You laughed, slipping under her big umbrella and heading towards the porch. "Not everyone who writes horror is a freak," you murmured, wiping your muddy shoes on the welcome mat, which seemed as old as the house itself. Cute.

"No, but everyone who moves to the place in the middle of the forest and without any signal..." She looked at her phone. "...only to move into a haunted house, certainly is."

"It’s not haunted!" You giggled, opening the white, wooden door. "Oh!"

The inside was as beautiful as you expected. Warmth spilled over the old desks and dark walls, giving the interior an antique soul. The Persian-style carpet under your feet looked as if freshly washed, drawing you towards the centre of the house. Long, dark stairs led to the second floor, while two corridors welcomed you further inside.

Shoko followed you into the kitchen – old and slightly rusty, with rain tapping against the large windows. You hurried to explore other rooms – the living room, a small basement that Shoko refused to enter, and a cosy office with beautiful mosaic windows overlooking the garden. Eventually, your feet carried you upstairs.

The big bedroom, with a baldachin bed and a wide windowsill, seemed an ideal spot for reading in the evening. Shoko grimaced at the old, flowery tapestry covering the walls and the crimson carpet on the floor. 

"Has no one redecorated this house since the nineteenth century?" she murmured, and then her eyes fell on the bedside table. "Oh my gosh, is that a paraffin lamp? Are you kidding me?"

Your eyes fell on the little, yellow lamp and twinkled like little stars. It was indeed a paraffin lamp, and you would surely check whether it was still working.

"Oh, come on, it has a soul!" You tapped your finger against a crying window before turning back to sighing Shoko. "I love it. Just imagine how beautiful it’ll be when the garden blooms again."

Your friend walked to your side, looking out the window. The sky was torn apart over the withered trees and flowers, but she had to admit it indeed had potential. With just a bit of care and patience, the whole place could be turned into a fine summer house, with her and Utahime coming over for the weekends.

"I saw a lake nearby. I guess… we could have a BBQ or something," she muttered, and you bounced on your feet with a squeak. 

Your arms wrapped around her shoulders, and cheek nuzzled against hers. "I told you! I’ll make sure you love this place. And since Utahime also likes gardening, just bring her over at the weekend."

The moving company brought all your things inside, and when you went downstairs, heavy boxes loomed like wicked trees over the living room. The old crimson sofa seemed a bit dusty, so you both sat on a carpet and began to unpack slowly. 

Wind and rain hit the windows, letting the faint tap-tap-tap fill the house. After an hour, you ordered a pizza and stuffed yourself, enjoying the dark, rainy day from the porch. The air smelt earthy, tickling your skin with a gentle chill. A light jumper warmed your goose-bumped arms, and you laughed, thinking how delirious the weather was. 

"So does it look like the place to give you an idea for another story?" Shoko asked, taking another slice. 

A low hum slipped past your lips as the crispness wrapped around your nostrils. "I can already sense another best-selling murder in a little, eerie town. Or a haunted house, maybe?"

She giggled, nodding slowly. "A haunted house would work," she said, her eyes looking up the long stairs to the attic. "I guess you can ask neighbours about any freaky accidents. Aren’t they like a hundred years old?"

"I don’t know, the listing only mentioned that they’re quiet."

"So maybe they’re dead."

A low tsk escaped your lips, and Shoko chuckled. "I’m just joking. But if they really have been living that long, you should ask them some questions." She wrapped a loose jumper around her arms a bit tighter as a chill wind smooched her cheeks. "This place is so fucking old I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had been murdered here."

A minute of comfortable silence stretched between you before Shoko turned your way, a slight frown on her forehead. "I’m serious. This place was crazy cheap, so what if someone died here? In, you know, the most wicked and horrible way."

Shivers washed over your spine at the sheer thought of someone dying in the same living room where you had just unpacked your things. But at the same time, something exciting bubbled in your belly. Something telling you that the writer’s block that had haunted you for the past few months would finally dissolve into thin air.

That, after all, was the whole point of moving hours away from your previous town. Leave family and friends behind, only to get yourself cosy somewhere, nowhere, in the middle of a forest. In a small, unknown town, living in a centuries-old Victorian house that kept the secrets of the most unknown and dreadful kind.

It’s been a while since you wrote something good. Winning the global charts, an immediate bestseller-type of good.

The past few months had truly been nothing but hellish, with a nasty break-up topping it all. You still tried to kick Sukuna’s body, hunched over some blonde slut, on your shared sofa in your shared apartment out of your mind. His pathetic attempts to coax you up, because he’s been a bit too lonely, simply overly drunk, and he absolutely didn’t mean it. 

Three years of relationship ended just like that and a week later, with all the money saved on the previous two bestsellers, you bought this house. 

Old and very pinkish, waiting for its owner for a very long time. You didn’t ask much about why. Didn’t ask whether someone had died here or if it was haunted. At that point in your life, it simply didn’t matter. The only thing you were thinking about was how to get away from Sukuna’s begging to bring you back and cut yourself off from your editor’s constant prying about the newest text.

Shoko glanced at your furrowed forehead and sighed. "Here," she said, fiddling with her jeans’ pocket and placing something on the table. "I found it in the drawer of your night table. Maybe you could start by asking about them?"

You looked at the piece of paper before noticing it was, in fact, a picture. Old and a bit crumpled, it showed two young men. The first, closer to the camera, had a loose strand of black hair brushing his cheek. Eyes slightly lidded, looking down at his hands. He looked rather handsome, with a sharp jaw and a straight nose, no more than in his late twenties. 

The other man behind him seemed almost ghastly. With white hair and crystal eyes, he looked straight into the camera. Two raised fingers covered his lips, but with only such a bit of detail, you noticed that the beauty of his face was indeed unmatched.

You flipped the photo to see if it had a description. There was something, a few letters, but someone blanked them out with a black marker.

"Previous owners?" You asked, squinting eyes and trying to read what was written under the heavy marker. Unfortunately, to no avail. 

Shoko shrugged, chewing another slice of pizza. "A bit young for the owners, no?" You shot her a look, and she chuckled. "Right, sorry. They do look our age. But I don’t think they make cameras like that anymore. It must’ve been taken a long time ago."

Your brows suddenly furrowed, as if you had just remembered something. "You said you found it in the bedside table?" Shoko nodded. "I checked it before, but there was nothing inside."

She stopped chewing, chestnut eyes suddenly bulging. If the plate wasn’t already on her thighs, she would drop a slice of pizza, sauce-side down, dirtying her jeans. 

"Don’t joke," she murmured, seeing the wicked smile turning your lips. "Oh my god, stop! I really think there’s something wrong with this house!"

But the thing was – you did not, in fact, joke. After coming into the bedroom and opening all the furniture with handles, you truly didn’t see this photo. It may have slipped to the bottom of the drawer or stuck to one of its sides. You may also have missed one of the three drawers the table had, and indeed didn’t notice it.

Your thumb brushed the old photo. And only then did you notice a yellow, slightly hazy date in the corner. 

1966.

Shoko looked at the point your thumb just brushed over and pretended the goosebumps washed over her spine. 

"Sixty years ago," she muttered, staring at it with wide eyes. "If your neighbours are that old, surely they will know something about them."

Two hours later, after Shoko helped you unpack most of your belongings and returned to your city – though not before repeatedly assuring you, just call me if anything happens; I’ll get here as fast as I can – you finally found yourself in front of a neighbour's door.

The short stairs led to the ground floor, and you noticed they lived just beneath your kitchen. Thick wooden doors featured a small window in the centre, mostly covered by a curtain. You knocked once, twice, and before deciding to ring the doorbell, you thankfully looked down at the old mat with a don’t ring the doorbell or whistle sign.

"So what am I supposed to do?" You wondered, trying to peek through the blinds.

The inside looked a bit empty, dark, as if no life had graced it for a long, long time. But with a squint of your eyes, you noticed a gentle flicker of the lamp, shining somewhere deep within the house. 

"Hello?" You knocked again. "I’m your new neighbour! Just wanted to drop by and say hi!"

But the long silence that stretched between you and the wooden door was broken only by the soft pattering of rain. 

And so, with a photo in the back pocket of your jeans and gaze lowered, you turned away and walked up the stairs.

Not a second later, someone fiddled with the handle. You heard a whisper, and the door opened with a loud bang. "Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Next time, try to knock a bit louder!"

You looked over your shoulder and saw a tall, old woman. With a strange waist-to-breast ratio, you wondered how her back handled the weight of such size. Blond hair, neatly brushed into a bob, and blue eyeshadow smeared on her eyelids.

You tried to suppress a giggle at the pink fur she wore, which made her look more like an old dancer than a senior lady.

"Oh, hello. I’m sorry to bother you, but I just moved in and wanted to say—"

"Of course, sweetie, come in, come in," she turned back to look at someone. "Darling, please boil the water for tea! We have a guest."

And so you slipped inside the dark house, only then noticing that the long corridor stretched further into the place. The woman led you right to the velvet curtain covering the rest of the home, and as she lifted it, a large, dimly lit living room spread before you. 

With multiple flickering candles scattered all over the place – decorating the chimney, shelves, and a low wooden table set right out from the sofa. Red cushions swallowed you whole as you plumped down. 

Only then did you notice at least five dogs running around the room. Barking, sniffing your slightly wet shoes, jumping on the sofa and trying to lick your cheek. You pushed them away with a low giggle before a blond woman took them all down to the old carpet and joined you on the couch.

"Call me Miss Forcible, sweetie," she said, looking towards the chimney. At the large picture showing two slim women dressed in tight gymnastic suits. "For I was unmatched for a whole life!"

A short gasp slipped past your lips as you looked closer. Both women looked as if they were in their late twenties, with beaming smiles and circus-like decorations stretching behind them. A waterfall of colours, ribbons and lights, and you could almost smell the familiar scent of burnt popcorn and the cheesy melody that mingled with children’s laughter. 

You recognised the tall lady with long, blond hair, but the other one, with an arm wrapped around her waist…

"And me, Miss Pink!" A slightly pitched voice filled the dimmed living room, turning your head towards a room that seemed to be a kitchen. 

A short, older woman walked out, carrying three cups of tea. A bit curvier than her friend, much, much smaller, she reminded you of an apple. Pink hair curled under her eyes, making her plump face look even plumper.  

Three cups of tea were set on the low table, while Miss Pink slouched in the soft chair next to the couch. Dressed in a green bathrobe braided with plastic feathers. Her rosy face smooched with a round, crimson blush, reminding you of those vintage china dolls with cheeks plump like peaches and a round bloom coating their pale skin.

"Oh, our new neighbour?" She asked, looking at her friend. 

Miss Forcible nodded, placing a cup in front of you. "Yes, darling, this is…"

You introduced yourself with a giggle, feeling a slightly intimate manner stretch between the two women.

"Such a beautiful name!" Miss Pink gasped, pushing a plate of buttery cookies towards you. "And what a beautiful owner!"

A shy thank you slipped past your lips as you bit into a cookie. Buttery creaminess spilled over your tongue, with a few sugary droplets moving under your teeth. 

Miss Forcible nodded and picked up her cup of tea. "So why here, sweetie? Isn’t Pink Palace a bit too… vintage for a young bird like you?"

You swallowed the cookie and took a sip of black, bitter tea. Miss Pink watched you with a gentle smile, like a sweet, caressing auntie. 

"I think the house is beautiful. And I just needed a little break from the city’s rush," you half-lied, not mentioning the break-up. "Oh, I’m also a horror writer and thought a Victorian house would be a perfect place to get a few fresh ideas."

A few dogs sat patiently by your legs, waiting for a few crumbs to drop onto the carpet. Something sweet lingered in the air, and the room was much warmer than your house. More cosy, homey, so you let yourself sink deeper into the couch.

"This house is full of ghastly stories!" Miss Pink gasped. "And if you visit a nearby town, I’m sure you’ll find some spooky tales. I think you can still visit the place where they burned witches," she giggled, and you followed. A minute later, a thought clouded her forehead, and thin, pale eyebrows lifted. "Actually, why won’t you ask the boys? They know everything about that stuff."

Your head tilted, and your hand froze over the second cookie. Miss Pink nodded, as if to herself, and Miss Forcible sighed. 

"Darling, they moved out a long time ago," she said, adding a sugar cube to her tea. The third one already. "She’s too young to know them."

Miss Pink hummed under her breath, chubby fingers fiddling with a bathrobe. "Ah, right, indeed. I seem to forget how much time has passed," she muttered, taking a sip of tea. "I wonder how they’re doing."

Now your ears pricked up and eyes shone with curiosity. It was a pity you didn’t have a notebook to write down this brief chit-chat, but your brain was already working at full speed to memorise every detail. 

"Who knows?" Miss Forcible waved her hand. "Moved out, went missing… They just disappeared one day. It was for the best; enough problems had been caused by their presence."

And then, you remembered. The thing you came here for. 

The picture felt like a burn on your skin, as if reminding you of a hidden mystery within its thin, paper-like form. You pulled it from your back pocket and placed it on the low table. A few candles cast a warm glow over the old photo, making it shimmer faintly.

"Are you talking about these two?"

Miss Pink and Forcible leaned in, squinting at the photo. One of the dogs leapt onto the sofa, nuzzling its furry head against your shoulder and waiting to be stroked. You scratched it with a giggle, as it bounced in place. Miss Pink gasped, pointing at the men with her long nail. 

"Darling, we made this photo!" She exclaimed, glancing up at Miss Forcible. 

"Mhm," the other woman hummed, still squinting her blue eyes. "I remember. On the day you broke your ankle."

"And they needed to take me all the way to the town’s hospital," Miss Pink said, turning your way. "We were fifteen then, just before a local acrobatic competition."

Your head tilted as a few questions began to bubble beneath your chest. "So it was…"

"Sixty years ago," Miss Forcible sighed, setting down her cup of tea. "They lived here for four years before their sudden disappearance."

Candles on the table flickered, though the air stayed still and sweet. Sugary, with a buttery scent clinging to your clothes. But you didn’t mind, taking another cookie from the plate. 

"Can you tell me a bit more about them?" You asked, swallowing the sweetness with warm tea.

But Miss Forcible only frowned, her gaze fixed on the low table. Blonde locks were neatly tucked behind her ears, and blue eyeshadow smudged across the eyelids and along the waterline. She looked young for a seventy-five-year-old, though wrinkles did indeed bend and curve across her slim face. 

"They were real gentlemen…"

"Only because they were nice to us doesn't mean they may be called gentlemen, darling."

Miss Pink pouted, shaking her head. "Well, they were quite nice indeed. And funny, especially this one," she said, her finger pointing at the white-haired man. "Although I don't seem to remember his name. He always gave me sweets and dolls," she added, this time her wrinkled finger moving to the black-haired man. "Made by him. Oh, and he always spent all day in the garden! It was so beautiful, I tell you, sweetie. I lived in the attic apartment back then, and we always had so much fun!"

A smile tugged at your lips as the image of such a vast space in full bloom suddenly popped into your mind. If only the rain stopped for a moment, you could go and take care of it. Ignore the book you haven't even started yet and your phone, which glimmered with a dickhead nickname at least five times a day.

"But the townspeople never liked them," Miss Forcible added, pulling a heavy sigh from her darling. "Outcasts, you may say."

"Why?" You asked, taking a sip of still-warm tea. 

It pooled in your stomach, rising as a fluttering, tender feeling.