alice ★

“Something troubles you.” 

You blinked at him from where he was sitting on the bed, his back pressed into the pillows, baby Mariah cradled against his chest, her fists clenched and brows furrowed in sleep. Practically melting into his warmth. 

You’d felt him get up minutes before, that cold rush of air unwelcome against your legs as the furs heaved up and flopped, giving way to an increasingly familiar empty spot. This was the fourth night in a row that he’d tossed and turned, sighing and groaning in frustration, before ultimately sneaking his way into the nursery and stealing Mariah back to your chambers. 

She was so tiny - even when she wasn’t pressed against the wide expanse of his chest or held gently in his hands. Almost an entire moon early. Loved so fiercely, so dearly.

Cregan didn’t move at first, but you knew he’d heard you. His face remained still, silver eyes fixated and entranced by the sleeping babe. But you knew your husband well enough to search for subtle tells. Like the fractional tightening of his fist as he rearranged the furs around Mariah. A nervous habit - newly developed.

The loss of Jace weighed heavily on his conscience, you could read that much through the grave, pensive glances he’d routinely cast about, whether looking at you, Rickon, or the walls of Winterfell. Like he was memorising things. 

His hand stilled, and he breathed a soft, broken admission of, “Yes.” It was whispered in the way matters of the mind were whispered in darkness, bruised knees pressed to stone at the mercy of the Seven. 

The whisper of a man weary and ragged and exhausted by war and loss. 

You said nothing, merely watched him through half-closed eyes, sleep still tugging at the edges of your mind, weighing you down. He looked beautiful like this, though you supposed he always does. Dark hair in waves, sharp jaw, defined nose, clear eyes. He might be intimidating to strangers, but he was far from it, really. 

He was rather soft.

You reached a tired hand out, fingers finding his warm skin, feeling his stomach jump at your sudden touch, before you rested your hand on Mariah’s back. Cregan made a noise at the back of his throat, and you turned your attention back to him.

He was looking at you this time. Shadowy bags decorated his under eyes, making him look older in the night-time. Nothing on his face betrayed the gnawing concern eating at him, though. He wouldn’t be the Lord of the North if he wore his emotions bare for everyone to see. 

Ever stoic and hardy in nature. At least, when he needed to be.

You felt your brows tug together, mouth open, about to speak, before the hand on Mariah’s back, under your own, tightened against her slightly. He pushed himself down the bed, head now resting on the pillows, back pressed into the mattress, and twisted himself so he was angled towards you.

You felt your lips twitch upwards, a fond smile begging to make an appearance, and took the hint, shifting until you were close enough to rest your head on his shoulder, battling against the exhaustion to remain awake.

“Do you wish to discuss the matter now?” You prodded gently, hand resting on the meat of his arm as you watched Mariah slowly rise and fall with his breaths. Her dark hair was a mess from the cradle, and you could see where Cregan had attempted to tame it down.

He inhaled again, deeper this time, “It can wait til morning.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, my love.”

Despite the certainty of his word, you held countless doubts. Doubts stemming from a place that intersects with experience, with knowing someone and loving them. But you also knew that Cregan was the type of person who only spoke - where his emotions were concerned - when he absolutely wanted to. There was no wrestling that kind of thing out of him when he was unwilling.

Instead, you succumbed to the heaviness of your eyes, forehead resting gently against arm, and let yourself drift once more.

It was a deep sleep, that much you remembered: you were snug, warm, and hadn’t moved an inch since the midnight discussion. Only, when you were rather violently shaken awake at the crack of dawn by a familiar pair of hands, you had no recollection of the slumber you’d succumbed to.

There was only the racing of your heart, an unpleasant spike of adrenaline, and a shroud of mental confusion as you blinked awake one second and sat up the other.

“What happened?” 

The children. That could have been the only reason for such a rude awakening, by Cregan nonetheless. The man with a tender touch, kisses, and nothing but love. 

You blinked, hand resting over your chest, “What?”

Cregan was standing by the side of your bed, his furs already on, a grave yet dedicated look etched into the lines of his face. He swallowed, brows furrowing, “I couldn’t wake you.”

You heaved a breath, moving your hand from your chest to your cheek, “That’s because I was asleep, Cregan.”

He lowered his head, hands knitting together, before looking at you once more, “I’m sorry.”

You considered him for a moment, “The children, are they alright?”

“Yes. They’re asleep.”

Your eyes drifted from his tense figure to the dim light peeking through behind the curtains. There was no doubt about it now, you were awake. Firmly, solidly, definitely. The adrenaline had seen to that.

However, your concern for your husband - like it did so frequently - still bled through any traces of annoyance at the rude disruption. You hadn’t known his promise to speak in the morning would have occurred as lively as this, nor as specific as this, but when you turned back to look at him, there was something undeniably heavy weighing on his mind. 

“My love–”

“Get dressed quickly. Please.”

You blinked, inhaling steadily, something uneasy and dreadful climbing up your throat. His tone left no room for negotiation, so you threw the covers back, feet finding their way into woollen socks and boots, and before you could even utter a word, Cregan was before you, laying your overcoat and furs on the bed and crouching at your feet, nimble fingers making quick work of the laces. 

Something warm tugged in your chest.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered, somewhat under  his breath.

Your hands gravitated towards his hair, tucking fallen locks behind his ear. He spoke almost prophetically. As though he was apologising in anticipation of something. That same spike of dread clutched once more at your insides, restricting your airways.

But only briefly.

He finished tying your laces, tilting his head up to look at you, eyes damp and shimmering in what little light there was. You felt, more than registered, your eyes narrow at the sight.

“Sometimes I think you were made to exist with the purpose of frightening me.” Your hand dropped, but his stare never wavered.

“I frighten you?” His voice was soft, gravelly, raw like the early morning chill.

You shook your head, “What you make me feel frightens me.”

In response: the barest hint of a smile.

The thundering of two pairs of footsteps could be heard echoing for hundreds of yards, you were certain of it. How the entire castle didn’t wake at the noise, you weren’t entirely sure.

Cregan’s hand held yours tightly as he led you through winding corridors. You lost any sense of familiarity around twelve turns ago, these walls strange and foreign, and the speed of travel sent chills up your skirts, your skin prickling in uncertainty.

Cregan hadn’t said a single word. No hint of where he was taking you, but the further you got into the depths of Winterfell, the less certain you were about it being something even remotely positive.

He slowed down quickly.

Stopped in front of an old wooden door, the hinges rusted and panels splintered. Ancient, worn. 

And then he dropped your hand, and buried his hands under the neckline of his tunic, producing a chain of sorts.

“A key.”

“A key.” He repeated, lifting it up off his neck, and handing it to you.

Your eyes drifted from the door to the rusted thing in your hand, knowing what he was implying, but not quite sure what he was trying to get at.

“Elaboration is necessary.” Your jaw clenched fractionally, and his eyes caught the slight tell easily.

He inhaled steadily, not because he was nervous particularly, but because admitting this would mean admitting his worries - those ones he kept close to his chest, locked away behind the place he kept you, the place he kept Rickon and Mariah, and all things he held sacred. Worries he hadn’t yet had the courage to speak aloud to you.

Timing was key, he told himself. 

Yet, time was dwindling.

You looked up at him, his expression unreadable. His grey eyes pierced yours for a beat longer, the faint sound of scraping distantly echoing through the corridors. And then his mouth moved. It was small, the barest twitch of his bottom lip, but it was enough to support your suspicions.

The dust remained heavily in the air, clinging to the walls. The damp smell infiltrated your nostrils and the sourness of it burned your throat.

“Do you remember the path we just took?” Was what he settled for, after some deliberation.

A stone of dread bounced in your stomach before settling, the ripples of it chilling the tips of your fingers. You nodded once, unable to form words.

He watched you, not moving nor speaking, until his fingers plied the rusted key out of your own hand and he stepped forward to place it into the keyhole. The hole itself looked newer, the bronze not yet tarnished, and you swallowed the bile slowly rising in your throat.

You’d hurried through the walls of Winterfell for fifteen minutes, and never had you felt so cold before.

With a firm push, the door creaked open slowly, catching on the stone floor on the other side, the wood splintering slightly. 

Cregan, in his furs with his hair tied up and free hand gripping the lantern he'd just taken out of its holding, stepped through, and you moved to stand in the doorway, not attempting to venture further.

There was a short corridor immediately upon passing through the entrance, before the dark abyss dropped into a staircase that spiralled downwards.

He took five steps, cloak brushing the ground, before turning around to face you.

“Down here, then follow the corridor for roughly two miles-”

“Cregan-”

“And then another staircase will appear, upwards. The trapdoor opens into a cabin located far away enough to evade immediate searching, but close enough that the lands will be familiar to you. It remains untouched, privy only to myself and you-”

“Stop talking.” You whispered, the hiss of the words stinging in the silence. Something was trying to claw up your throat, and with every second your mind reeled, the burn of your eyes intensified, chin fighting against a tremble.

All you could manage was a defeated glare steeped in fury.

“You will be safe, I swear it.” He muttered, eyes straying to the ground beneath you both. Cold, grey, jagged stone.

You shook your head, eyes teary but refusing to cry at his implication.

Mariah was barely three moons old. You were still exhausted from the effort of her birth. Your mind was on the children, your husband, and this ever-present war that tinged the edges of every moment a harsh, ashen black. Dragons, swords, blood, death.

War was imminent, and you’d known that for years, now. Except, now it was here. And it was real.

“I will march South to meet my men,” his voice did not betray the part of his soul that shattered when you turned your face away from him, lip caught between your teeth, chin wobbling, “and I will not make any oaths to you that I have a chance of breaking against my own will-”

“Cregan.” A breath, a shake of your head.

“If I fall-”

“Fuck you.”

“And those who have slain me possess the power to travel north, I do not know how long Winterfell will continue to stand in my name-”

“You will not fall.”

“Showing you this will provide me with peace of mind that both you and the children are safe, should anything become of me.” He paused, and you shut your eyes, face still turned towards where you’d just come from.

Two children without their fathers, a throne without a Lord, Winterfell without a Stark.

A lady, widowed.

He blinked, and when his eyes opened you were nowhere to be seen.

You sighed through your nose, more weary now than you had been for a few weeks. Your mind was no place to find solace, and yet, you had nothing to occupy it with. The children were asleep, Mariah due to wake in a few hours for a feed, and you dismissed your maids early for the sake of a few hours of extra sleep. Yet, as your fingers threaded and wove your hair into a braid, you could not deny the desires of your heart.

You hadn’t seen Cregan since the journey into the uncharted corridors of Winterfell that morning. Whether it had been you who had avoided him, or he who had avoided you, it was not entirely too clear, yet you knew each other well enough to suspect the both of you needed the space to breathe and contemplate, even if it drove you half mad with it.

You blinked, eyes flickering to the reflection of your chamber door when the sound of a familiar pair of heavy footsteps could be heard pounding down the corridor.  

The door creaked open softly, and you watched as he poked his head through the gap, eyes first landing on the untouched bed, before traversing to you. You were wearing your nightgown, sitting at the vanity by the window, and your eyes met in the mirror.

He stepped through the door, expression largely unreadable, yet with a hint of relief that he’d found you in your shared chambers and not elsewhere.

You could never quite get used to that; he had a habit of expecting you to remove yourself from his presence during spats, yet you’d never given him reason to think you’d leave. Not once since your wedding night had you ever chosen to sleep away from him and take up a guest room.

You let out a breath, your shoulders dropping slightly, before offering him a smile. It was sad, small, and a little shaky.

He straightened, nodding once, the corners of his mouth relaxing into a flicker of a smile. Also sad, small and a little shaky. 

You watched him in the reflection, as he shrugged off his furs and stripped to his skin, unknotting the leather tie from his hair, tucking the now greasy strands behind his ears. He met your eyes once more, never shying away from your gaze. Even a few yards away you could observe how the tips of his ears flushed pink at your attention.

You kept your smile private as he wandered into the washroom, and, knowing he would be a while, turned to your ink and papers.

You were moving the pillows from your bed to the chaise longue when he re-entered, hair damp and wavy, skin warm to the touch, wearing his small clothes. Your hand faltered on one pillow as you took him in.

Freshly shaven, cheeks rosy. You liked him like this: off-guard and soft. He looked younger in the dark candlelight, less like a young Lord and more like the twenty-one year old he was. 

His throat worked as he swallowed, before grabbing one of his own pillows and throwing it across the room without caring much where it landed. 

Your hand still hadn’t moved from where it was clutching the silken cushion. 

He paused, sensing your conflict, a crease forming between his brows as he took in the deliberation written across your face. 

He barely had three seconds to raise his hands before you flung it at his face, his hands outstretched to receive it - barely.

Your hair stirred from the swift air, lips barely concealing a smile. He was mirroring your small grin when he moved the pillow away from his face, shoulders less tense than they had been when he’d tried sneaking in earlier. 

His eyes were soft, bags telling of his exhaustion, and you felt a stab of guilt at perhaps contributing towards it. 

“Does this mean I am forgiven?” His brow twitched, a subtle tell he wasn’t as confident as he let on, yet his voice was soft in a way that warmed something inside you.

You sighed, “There is nothing to forgive.” 

He nodded, but said nothing, merely continuing to tidy away the pillows until the bed was cushioned enough for the both of you.

You didn’t immediately get under the covers, but he did. His back was pressed straight against the headboard, and you were sitting on the mattress, far enough away from him to look at his face without straining your neck, but close enough for reassurance. Mutual reassurance.

His face was unreadable, but he was holding himself like he was preparing to discuss matters of the court with the noblemen. Not like you were man and wife with two young children. 

You swallowed, “I am not sorry for walking away this morning.”

He nodded once, expression remaining unreadable yet significantly less troubled, “I do not need you to be.”

You inhaled, fingers tracing the embroidery on your bedding, heart pounding. The subject matter of the morning had been upsetting, but only because you refused to consider a future without him. The loss and the grief people would have to endure was astronomical if he did not return alive. 

Him admitting it was possible he would be slain was…heartbreaking to even consider.

“I am merely scared, is all.” You muttered under your breath.

You didn’t have to be looking at him to know the soft expel of breath loosened his shoulders and made something so devastatingly human cross his face.

“That is understandable, my love.”

 The gentility in his tone only worked to waver your will to continue. You wanted to crawl under the covers and be within his warmth, his life. 

“Because we are married, and we have children, and we love each other,” you continued, lifting your eyes to meet his piercing grey gaze, “and you are not allowed to die.” The next breath shook in your ribs, and you teased the inside of your cheek with your teeth, fighting to maintain composure.

He said nothing, but gave you space and time. His hand twitched, though.

“Selfishly, I do not think I could recover from that.” You admitted, eyes watering, “I have spent all day trying not to picture you slain on foreign lands, never to return home, and even though I knew you were doors away, I missed you. So, no, Cregan, you are forbidden to die.”

He nodded gravely, something flickering in his eyes. Recognition? 

“Mariah is weeks old. If you do not return, she will not remember you. Rickon is older, that is true, but I did not know Arra. She lives through your memories, he can only truly know her if you are alive. Then there is the matter of the North itself...”

You did not expand on the latter point, yet he knew you’d finished your point anyway. 

“Of course, my love.” 

His eyes were watery when you looked at him, jaw clenched. The candle by the side of his bed shone almost angelically on the side of his face, illuminating the silver scars he bore. One through his eyebrow, another on his jaw. A childhood accident that involved a horse and daggers and three children too confident in their own skills.

You wanted to touch him, drag your fingers down his face and lift the corners of his mouth even if he frowned and grumbled in protest.

“And what of you?” 

You froze halfway into getting under the covers.

“My wife.”

A delicious shiver shot down your spine at the reverence woven into those two words.

You swallowed nervously, countering his question with your own, “What if it were me, and you did not know whether I would return alive, if at all? What if when I left you and the children, it could be for the last time, and neither one of us would know it?” 

The look he wore on his face pierced through your chest. The air stilled in your lungs, and breathing became a manual effort.

You’d seen Cregan wear a great deal many expressions, yet this one was not one you could count yourself familiar with. Glassy eyes committing you to memory right on the spot, eyebrows slightly raised yet drawn together, lips parted but barely. He was both breathtaking and heartbreaking.

“I have said my piece and it will do me no good to dwell on a future in which I will have to…run through that corridor, without you. Particularly not at this moment.” 

You quickly dove under the covers after that, wanting to rid yourself of the dread and nausea and utter misery of the conversation. When your head hit the pillow, however, Cregan was still sitting up, his fingers twisting his wedding ring.

“I confess I am not skilled at make speeches, least of all speeches of this sort.” He whispered, devotion behind intention.

You frowned at his words, before slowly pushing yourself back up, cheek resting on his knee from where he’d drawn them up and planted his feet on the mattress. He looked at you then, wholly, and in that moment - as in many - you knew he was speaking straight into your soul. That he’d heard the words you’d spoken and considered them carefully.

He may be the Lord of Winterfell, but he was also a man hopelessly in love.

“It is challenging for me to put into words, and I am sorry that I can only offer you this.” His hand brushed some of your hair behind your ear with such reverence you weren’t sure if it was him or the cold air from the open window that made you tremble, “I love you. Dearly. So much so that I have difficulty talking about it. War is bloody, but it is the nature of things, and I cannot make vows to you that I know I may not hold. It is not my people’s way, it is not my way.” He inhaled, “However, I do vow to you and to our babes that I will fight, most ardently, to return to these walls. To them. To you, whom my thoughts can scarce depart from when you are not in my presence.”

You felt more than you thought in that moment, acting sheerly on instinct as you pushed yourself up, hand cradling his face as you pressed your lips to his, sealing his promise. His hand snaked its way across your back, wrapping around your waist and tugging you closer.

It was you who pulled back, if only to read the lines on his face and the shine in his eyes.

Tommy wasn’t quite sure when he’d stopped waking up in cold sweats, heart racing under the worn cotton of his sleep shirt, eyes wide, and head still stuck in the violent clutches of the tunnels. It didn’t happen instantly, it was a gradual change. One that coincided with you.

He didn’t consider himself much of a romantic - his brain was a little too damaged for that - but there was something about you that inexplicably drew him in. You were quieter than most; content to watch rather than talk, but every word you spoke had weight and intent behind it. Focused and deliberate.

Intelligent, that one, Polly had said one evening, after watching Tommy watch you out of the corner of his eye. You hadn’t been doing anything particularly interesting: Ada was leaning her head on your shoulder and you had yours on top of hers; you’d both had a little too much to drink, and your cheeks were aching from smiling, eyes heavy from exhaustion, and Tommy had just watched you roll your eyes silently at John and Arthur.

Never one to fight for attention. You were just there, and loved, and admired, and respected.

Tommy smiled a lot that night, and only Polly knew the reason for it.

And somewhere along the line, after a few close shaves, he’d bitten the bullet and overstepped. Landed himself with a stinging cheek and a blow to his ego when you told him no because it would be embarrassing. 

He’d scoffed in your face at that. Embarrassing? Tommy Shelby?

He’d thought about it for weeks after - months, even. Then figured out he had to earn you: you weren't someone to be bought through expensive jewellery or grand gestures. You needed effort, consistency, proof of affection.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worked so hard.

And if he were to be honest, he wasn’t quite sure how the both of you had ended up with wedding bands on your fingers and peaceful mornings - but he certainly didn’t miss the darkness. The cold. The terror. 

He woke up now simply because his eyes opened or because one of you hadn’t shut the curtains properly and the light of the sun disturbed him. In other words, he woke up like most people did: warm, cosy, calm. 

Often you had an arm or leg slung over his waist, sometimes your hair was splayed across his chest. Other times he had his face buried in the pillow, an arm tugging you to his side - never too far from each other.

You’d brought up his night terrors - or lack of - a few weeks after the wedding, a year deep into a rather healthy relationship given the fact that he was who he was.

His eyes were shut, body submerged in warm water. You were sitting on the bathroom floor next to him, hair damp and in a robe already, massaging a lavender oil concoction into his hair with hands so gentle yet firm that if he thought about it for too long something would compel him to clear his throat and rid himself of the lump that had formed. 

He felt himself melt a little the longer your fingers raked, simply massaging the tension from his body, even so much that when you murmured a low, thoughtful, “Tom?” under your breath he didn’t so much as move. Just hummed in reply.

“What have you dreamt about lately?” Your tone was soft, inquisitive, careful in a way to not disturb the atmosphere, but confident enough to not worry about offence.

You’d thought about it before, he realised. 

Lately. You’d noticed the change before he did.

Yet, before he came to that realisation, his eyes blinked open slowly, the word France springing to mind automatically, lingering like a bad taste on his tongue. And then he’d thought about it - properly. 

It was true, he did dream about France, but he no longer woke up screaming.  

His eyes had flickered upwards slightly, mildly surprised as you blinked at him, hands slowing. Patiently waiting. 

“Sometimes France, sometimes you.” He mumbled, “But mostly nothing.”

The corner of your mouth quirked upwards as you nodded slowly. He succumbed to the heaviness of his eyelids despite his racing heart. He was sure you could see how quick it was beating as the bathwater sloshed against his chest, each ripple cast by the thudding against his breastbone.

You hadn’t said anything in response, but Tommy went to sleep that night contemplating the meaning of inner peace. 

Now he wakes, on this glorious Sunday morning, the sun peaking through the curtains - but not at all blinding - his heart beating softly in the safety of his sternum, his mind not plagued by the ghost of blood and the lethal glint of metal, resting easy in the knowledge that he would not have any duty to attend to other than his wife. 

His family could call, in fact, he knew they probably would, but he hoped they’d leave him out of any trouble for as long as they could help it.

He inhaled softly, his hand resting comfortably on the skin of his torso, his sense of smell picking up the faint yet lingering scent of lavender that seemed to cling to the sheets, the pillows, and you. 

He blinked up at the ceiling once before rolling his head to the side. You were curled under the duvet cover, the top of your head only just visible, but he could feel the knuckles of one of your hands resting against his ribs, a pressure that grew more prominent with every inhale. 

You've been sleeping a lot lately, more than usual. He’d come home from finishing up the day’s business to find you dozing on the sofa, creases from pillows etched into your cheek. You kept leaving cupboard doors open in the kitchen, and in the last two weeks you’d pulled faces when you’d asked him if he fancied sausages for tea at all. He’d watched you grimace, like you couldn’t picture the idea of anything worse, and he’d file it away in his mind for safe-keeping - a collection of recent oddities that had struck him as unusual - before shaking his head softly, a trace of a smile on his face.

You were intelligent, sure. But no one quite knew you like Tommy knew you. Where you tended to brush things off as illnesses or viral bugs bound to pass, he worried more. Thought every time you pressed your lips together and inhaled deeply, uncomfortably, you were going to be ripped out of his grasp. Every time he noticed that, his step would falter or his words would slow, and his hands would flex as though ready to catch you before you even knew you were falling.

He wasn’t entirely surprised, then, that you had yet to notice. It had only been two weeks, he supposed, and Polly had yet to get her hands on you properly. 

He swallowed, shifting slightly so that he could run his fingers through your hair by means of kind awakening. You were warm, in that lovely way where if he got close enough he could feel you radiate heat and smell something so distinctly you.

Your fingers twitched against his ribs, but his hand didn’t slow. Not until you lifted your head from the duvet, eyes still half-shut but clearly trying to blink yourself awake. 

You sighed, before shuffling closer to him, nose tickling his shoulder. He had that stupid smile on his face, the one that told you he wasn’t aware that his mouth had curled ever so slightly, and he was so intently, but so adoringly, gazing at you.

Gazing - because Tommy didn’t do hard stares at you, he never had.

“What?” You mumbled, voice croaky from misuse, and the curl of his lips intensified, deepened, made the dimple in his cheek pop. The skin around his eyes crinkled, and you lifted yourself up onto one elbow, looking down at him with suspicion.

It wasn’t often he looked cheeky, but he’d clearly woken up this morning with secrets.

He shook his head, “Nothing.”

You hummed, not entirely convinced, before stating, with conviction and amusement, “Liar.”

“Perhaps.” 

You rolled your eyes before settling yourself back down, ear pressed between the valley of his peck and collarbone, fingers tracing the outline of his tattoo, “What do you want to do today?” You punctuated the question with a yawn, the mere idea of even leaving the house unpleasant in your mind.

His hands were in your hair again, thumb swiping over your cheekbone delicately. He was watching you closely, you could feel his eyes on you, “Stay in bed.” He whispered into your hair.

Your hand stopped, palm slowly pressing wholly against his tattoo, able to feel the consistent thrum of his heartbeat against your skin. You tried not to let the relief bleed into your tone, but not much got past Tommy - it never did, “Really?”

You tilted your head back, and this time it was your turn to watch him. The sun hadn’t woken him this morning, his blue eyes weren’t clear pools, but they still glowed brightly. He hadn’t reached for his cigarettes yet, and the almost shy look on his face felt foreign without his fingers absent-mindedly fidgeting with the paper of one.

He nodded, “Today I shall be left alone with nought but the company of my wife to keep me sane.” His words packed a punch, but were spoken with such deliberate gentility that you couldn’t help but remain suspicious of his intentions.

You hesitated, “Is everything okay?”

He breathed a laugh that rumbled through his chest, before humming contentedly. Then, “I’m gonna go downstairs and collect today’s paper, and John will drop by with some fresh croissants from the bakery in a bit, but you can stay here. As long as you like.”

“And do what?”

“Read. Sleep. Talk. Whatever you want to do.”

You sighed, already sounding drained despite the early hour, and Tommy felt you melt a little against him, like you’d been given permission to simply exist without strings, “Are you winding me up?”

Tommy just grinned, eyes boring into the ceiling once more, delighted to simply live and breathe in your bubble. Delighted to temporarily cut the ties to his world and fulfil your whims and fancies should you desire anything of the sort, “If you want me to.”

You blinked against his skin - he could feel your lashes tickle him - before groaning and lifting your head up again. Perhaps it was the angle, or maybe it was because the room had managed to get that little bit lighter in such a short amount of time, but he could make out the bags under your eyes and the creases on your face from the pillow. He followed one divot down your cheek and mapped it across your shoulder, fingertip trailing down your forearm, goosebumps from his touch erupting in his wake.

You watched him closely, tongue poking the inside of your cheek. You looked a little more serious than just a moment ago, and Tommy wanted to chase it away as soon as he could.

“Have I missed something?” There was a crease between your brows, and where you were previously amused yet suspicious, there was instead an element of concern.

He felt his cheek twitch unconsciously. 

Should he lie when he knew you would suss him out? Or should he simply tell you the truth? That he’d noticed your behaviours and routines had changed a little over the last few weeks, that you felt different in his hands, were more inclined to seek him out simply for seeing him. That the glaring symptom to him was that you were mostly just tired?

How could he explain that he was so attuned to you that the simple matter of a daytime nap was signal enough that something was clearly afoot, without sounding like a love sick fool (not that he would mind that title should you throw it his way)?

He considered you for a brief second longer, his hands roving once more down your arm to come to rest on the back of your hand, toying with your engagement ring and wedding band.

Brain fog, he realised. You’d been slower to recall things lately, nothing too noticeable, nor any particular cause for concern - he’d just brushed it off as fatigue initially, but now it was clearly another symptom you’d not yet deciphered the cause of.

You doubted yourself.

“No special occasion, if that’s what you’re asking.” He mumbled, watching with rather unabashed adoration as you stifled another yawn with the back of your hand.

But, ever sharp-minded, you caught the implication hidden between the lines, “But I have missed something?”

“Yes.”

You straightened, eyes suddenly wider, brighter, “What’s the date?”

Tommy’s cheek twitched again, “I’ll have to check the paper–”

“Go fucking get it then.” You complained, shoving at his arm half-heartedly. He went easily, laughing softly as he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He didn’t even need to reach for the gun holster today, nor his razor cap.

“Of course, my lady. At your command.”

He could hear you groan behind him, and when he turned you had your hands over your face, ring sparkling in the light, “Thomas.”

“Darling.” He smirked, before leaning across the bed, his hand tugging at your wrist, hair drooping in his face and yours when you peeked at him through your fingers, “Everything will be alright, yeah? You and me. Perfect, no matter what.”

You just breathed. He could feel your lungs expand with the close proximity of the arm supporting him on the mattress, eyes boring into his. Not seeking reassurance - he knew you well enough to know this wasn’t a completely daunting concept. Knew you well enough to know you just needed him to be a steady presence to lean on should you need it.

“You suspect?” You dropped your hands from your face and he took the opportunity to press a sweet kiss to your collarbone.

“I suspect.” 

You hummed, poking a finger into the hollow of his cheek, “Please can you go and get the paper?” 

He grinned, and you stifled your own at the sight of his, “Yes, my lady.” He began to pull away once more, and you - quickly, without thinking - you cupped the back of his neck and drew him closer, his elbow bucking slightly in surprise, before pressing a chaste, heated kiss against his mouth, immediately followed by a hand against his chest, shoving gently.

A pull and push meant to tease. 

He rolled his eyes fondly, reaching for the pair of wool socks on his bedside cabinet, before standing up next to the bed, eyes lingering on you as you pushed yourself back under the duvet, watching him leave.

“Make haste.” You spoke into your pillow but he heard it all the same, an affectionate smile on his face, reserved only for you.

There was something bugging you. Something niggling at the back of your mind, that seemed to grow stronger, get louder with each passing second. You were fighting sleep, had felt the seventy three minutes you’d been lying awake staring at the ceiling practically pass through you. 

Every so often a car would pass, its headlights illuminating the ceiling as the light snuck through the blinds, before it danced across the room, disappearing completely. 

But you couldn’t even let that lull you to sleep. The same issue applied to the sleeping man beside you: it wasn’t often Carl Morck slept like he was dead to the world, but not even the soothing lull of his breathing brought you enough comfort to slip into unconsciousness. And that was how you knew you probably weren’t sleeping.

With that, the itch returned. Instead of staring at the ceiling, your eyes drifted towards the corner of the room. The desk - originally Carl’s, but since you started staying over he’d shoved his stuff over to make room for yours. It was your notebook, that A5, lined black one, the one you took all your notes in, no matter how apparently inconsequential they seemed at the time. If you squinted, you could just about make out the shadow of it, and the more you looked, the more you felt the need to get up and take a seat.

You’d missed something - you knew you had. Something was wrong.

The case: a missing child, an armed robbery, two homicides, and a gang. It was like you had all the pieces of the puzzle bar the one that completed it. 

You swallowed nervously, turning your head to catch a glimpse of Carl. He was on his front, one arm tucked under his pillow, and you could make out the sharp contour of his nose, the dark shape of his beard. His hair was shorter; when you both got in he’d asked you to trim it a little, and although you missed the length, he looked…gorgeous. Like always. But you loved that his eyes seemed to shine a little brighter now. 

In a way it felt like you could see more of his face, and - the notebook.

The fucking notebook. 

Your hands came up to cover your eyes, and if it weren’t for him asleep next to you, you’d probably have sworn out loud or kicked off the duvet in frustration. Instead you peeled back the covers, refraining from letting out a sharp hiss at the cold floorboards on your feet as you stood, knees and back cracking with the effort. The clock at your bedside read 01:32 and you rolled your eyes.

If you didn’t figure out what was bugging you in the next three hours, you knew you’d be an absolute pain to deal with for the entire week.

No pressure, or anything, though.

You tiptoed across the floor, grabbing a hoodie out of the washbasket because you knew the wardrobe doors would creak if you opened them. One sniff at the thick cotton and you knew it was one of Carl’s. Socks and slippers found themselves on your feet before you cautiously tugged the door handle down, slipping into the kitchen - minding Jasper and Martin - and fixing a cup of tea before sneaking back into the bedroom.

Carl was still asleep, mercifully, and you took a seat at the desk chair, knees pulled up to your chin, before clicking on the little lamp he’s put there for nights where the insomnia seemed to maintain a vice grip on your mind - his mind. 

You opened your notebook carefully, starting from the very first page. Details of the first robbery, bags of drug money taken from the personal homes of gang members. Then the third robbery: mistakes were made, shots were fired, two were found dead and a child was missing.

You weren’t quite sure how long you re-examined every little detail for, but by the time you’d rewritten the important bits - snippets of information from interviews, relationships, identities - your hand was cramping, you’d drunk your tea, and you found yourself looking at a photo.

Stuck looking at it for so long you lost track of time. There was something about it that made the thought of it ever leaving your hand so inexplicably wrong that you found yourself flipping it over, eyes roving over your handwriting from yesterday.

Brothers. The one on the right had been killed a few years ago, something about broken gang rules, and…the breath stilled in your lungs. You flipped the photo back over, so sure you’d missed something, and–

Fuck.

You froze again, before quickly scrambling around one of the pen pots for a pair of Carl’s old glasses. In your revelation, you’d momentarily forgotten to be completely quiet, mumbling under your breath and letting the pens clatter around. In the silence of the room, the noise was loud, and unbeknownst to you, the sleepy eyed detective in the bed began to blink awake.

But you? You were on a roll. 

The brother. The first time you’d seen this photo he hadn’t looked that familiar, but something - namely the thing - about him bugged you. You’d remember someone if you came face to face with them, but what if you never did? One of the robbers had already shown up dead, and before that you’d made the trip to his house, looked at his stuff.

His photos. 

You switched the tablet on, waiting impatiently for the screen to load so you could log into the database and access the forensic photos.

And…there. There he was - the brother. There, in both photos. It had been one of thirty three stuck to the robber’s fridge. 

The mystery second robber had been right in front of you, and if you were right - if your hypothesis was correct - finding him would also mean finding the missing kid–

“What the fuck are you doing?” A low, gravelly voice dripping with exhaustion muttered in your ear, and if you hadn’t gotten used to his sneaking around, you’d have probably jumped out of your seat or tried to elbow him in the face. 

Instead, you simply raised your brows, flicking through the files. Something zipped down your spine as he came up behind you, one hand resting on the back of the chair as the other leant on the desk, effectively caging you in. You could feel his warmth without him even touching you, and you suppressed a smile.

“My job.” You replied simply, only allowing yourself to sit back into your chair when you pulled up the file of a certain Gregory Walsh. The missing man, the final piece.

Carl hummed once, and you could practically hear his eyes skimming over everything, “And?”

“I think I’ve figured out the identity of the second robber, which means–”

“Finding the kid.”

You nodded, about to open your email to send the message to your team. If anything, Gregory would be a potential lead to exhaust and cross off the list if it turned out to be wrong, but…you trusted your gut. 

Except Carl - when it got past a certain time - had a rather difficult time managing to shut himself off from cases when he was supposed to be sleeping, and so instead of reading your notes like he would during the day, he turned his attention to you.

The arm on the back of your chair trailed a path over your spine, before gently shifting your hair to the side.

You tried to focus on typing in your contact information, but as soon as he leaned down to press delicate kisses to the back of your neck, your hands faltered.

“That’s great and all, but come back to bed.” He muttered, hooking his chin over your shoulder, and you resisted the urge to smile.

This might be one of your favourite versions of Carl: soft, sweet from sleep, completely shut off from police work. Inevitably, unmistakably him - only without some of the usual grumpiness he harboured.

(He said it was because he didn’t have the energy, but you had a feeling it was because he was trying to get laid.)

Your teeth caught your bottom lip momentarily, aware of his burning gaze on the side of your face, “Just a sec, I need to send this over to my team.”

He made a noise of protest that seemed to catch in his throat, and he rolled his eyes fondly, “A sec is at least ten minutes when it comes to you.”

“But hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

You sighed, though there was hardly any complaint in it, “One email and then I need to clean my teeth again.”

He seemed to think about it for a moment or two, before nodding in compliance, “Deal, but if you’re still sitting there in five minutes time I’m gonna carry you over there. I’ve watched you sit and shiver for too long to be comfortable with it anymore, alright?”

You frowned, “I’m not-”

And then you seemed to register the deep chill in your bones, your skin so cold to the touch that it was no wonder you’d taken note of how warm he was.

Fuck, you were properly cold.

“Oh.” Was all you managed.

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” Carl parroted, and this time you actually did take your attention away from the screen; using a palm to shove his head away with as much gentle force as you could manage. Your efforts backfired massively when he caught your wrist, using the leverage to wrestle you over his shoulder.

“Oi!” You protested, lifting your head from where it’d landed against his back, his arms wrapped tight across the back of your legs, “Put me down.”

“With pleasure.” He muttered, tone dripping with sarcasm that had you rolling your eyes again as he dropped you unceremoniously on the bed.

“My–”

“Tablet, yes.” He let his eyes linger on you for a moment, corners of his mouth ticked up in a barely disguised smirk, before reaching across the desk and holding it out to you.

Your eyes narrowed in his direction, hand slowly reaching out to take it off him, but still very much expecting him to rip it out of your reach at the last second, “Are you gonna be mean?”

Carl shrugged, “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Like fuck you don’t.” Your fingers touched the glass screen, eyes fixated on him as he raised a brow in challenge, before your grip tightened.

It slid out of his hands and into yours, and he smiled wider - equally sardonic - and you huffed a small breath of victory before scrambling to bury yourself under the covers, the light on the desk switching off and plunging the room into darkness once more. 

Your eyes were heavy - much heavier than they had been five minutes ago - not helped in any way by the immediate blanket of warmth that greeted you from under the duvet, the electric blanket clearly on full blast, and your head snapped in the direction of Carl - watching his shadowy figure make his way around the bed, before climbing in next to you.

He turned on his side, eyes blinking up at you from your seated position, and you looked away.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You answered a little too quickly, turning your attention back to the half-written email. You stared at the words, but your mind remained blank, full of the rather enticing image of his blue eyes - still blue even in the dark - looking at you, waiting patiently for you to finish.

And, despite the hours you’d put into working on the case, you hurriedly typed out some bullet points, before saving the email to drafts. It didn’t really matter what time you sent the email; no one would be awake to receive it at this time of night anyway, and you knew you’d wake up early anyway because Carl was never one to sleep in, and you always woke up when he was getting dressed.

“You put the electric blanket on.” You muttered, switching off your tablet and placing it on your bedside table, before sliding back under the covers.

He hummed lowly, the kind of hum you’d learnt translated into a human ‘yeah, and?’, and you truly couldn’t help yourself when you planted yourself right in front of his face, nose-to-nose, “You wouldn’t be able to finish the case if you froze overnight.” Was his only answer, and you could feel his warmth, feel his eyelashes flutter closed, feel the blankets lift and shift as he moved his hand to rest over the curve of your waist, dragging you into him, leg shifting to accommodate him properly.

The kiss that followed was natural, soft, languid, entirely drenched in emotion that two sleep-deprived people were too tired to speak aloud.

You pulled away, lips tingling, warmer with something other than the manufactured heat beaming from underneath you, “You can be really cute sometimes.”

Truth be told, Jack jumped at the chance to take Howard to Presby - itched for it, even, and he had the decency to feel a shred of guilt at his selfish reasons as to why. 

It had already been a hell of a day: a preemptive shut down at the Pitt, his shoulder was killing him, and he was running on fumes of adrenaline and sheer will. And in his mind, his fucked up mind, the central reason for taking Howard to Presby was because he knew it’d be quicker than getting sucked into the chaos of the Pitt - and the quicker he managed Howard’s case, the quicker he could go home, because, man, he missed his wife. 

The close call earlier that day had done something to him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His chest felt tighter every time he thought of the graze on his shoulder, his lips twisted themselves into a grimace and he felt that odd sensation of impending doom weigh his body down. 

At first he attributed it to stress. Then he decided it was simply because this was his first close call since the Middle East. Then (he’d been self-reflecting because it had been eating away at him; he knew he hadn’t quite pinpointed the mystery to this sudden, knee-jerk ‘no’ reaction to the mere thought of volunteering for another SWAT shift), he concluded that maybe he didn’t have to figure it out in the mess of the 4th of July day shift.

That being said, however, the entire journey to Presby, amid a rather jolly conversation with Howard (he knew the chances of sleep were slim anyway), he felt…off. The muscles in his back were tense, and his skin prickled with goosebumps despite the hot weather - like he was anticipating the next disaster with every corner they turned.

He shrugged it off, tried to shelve it, but the sight of your car by the ambulance bay seemed to yank everything to the forefront of his mind. He froze for a second, double-checking the number plate, but…definitely your car.

Howard noticed. To say the man was bed-bound, he was remarkably observant.

“Are you okay?” The robotic voice snapped his attention back to his patient, and Jack blinked, swallowing harshly, unable to help it when his eyes darted back to your car. Not too outwardly worried - there were plentiful reasons as to why your car was here - but a little concerned nonetheless. Confused, maybe.

Neither of you were supposed to be working today, but somehow those plans had both derailed within hours of your last shift ending.

Jack nodded, clearing his throat, “Peachy.” Fuck it was hot outside, “You ready for this? Presby’s attendings are real pieces of work.”

He didn’t bother mentioning that said attendings were aware of their oncoming patient, nor did he mention one of the attendings was his attending, but he knew Howard got the gist of everything. 

He watched the man’s face closely as his eyebrows lifted, as much of a smile as he could manage softening his eyes, “Put me in, coach.” The reply came after a short delay, and Jack chuckled a laugh, eyes scanning the madness. It was significantly less disorderly than the Pitt, but still nigh on the busiest he’d ever seen it here. Patients lining the corridors, a cool room on the go, staff everywhere. At least you guys still had your systems up and running for the time being, but it was clear you’d also received some less urgent cases from Westbridge.

No sign of you, though. That realisation coincided with striking disappointment.

“See, you say that now.” Jack leaned down to whisper, rather loudly, in Howard’s ear.

It was only when he’d handed Howard off to the Presby radiologists that he stopped. Simply stopped where he was in this ED that was a reflection of his, yet lacking something distinctly homely, and scanned the sea of faces for yours. 

He twiddled his wedding band restlessly, before wandering over to the nurse’s station and flagging down Julie. She’d just slammed the phone down and logged onto one of the screens at the desk.

“Hey, Julie–”

“How–Jack?” The charge nurse blinked behind her glasses, eyes scanning over his form, before something clearly registered in her mind, “Did you bring the patient over from PTMC?”

“Yeah.” Jack shook his head, wary that he was cutting it close with time, “Really sorry, but is she–”

“She’s in on-call room three.” Julie smiled warmly at him, and Jack tried to give her one back. It fell short. Tight around the edges. He ran his hand across his chest, massaging at the weight that had settled there.

“Perfect, thank you.”

Chest tight, mind racing, heart thudding. His fingers remained attached to his wedding ring, spinning it constantly as though it tethered his boots to the ground. He wasn’t sure where this carnal need to just see your face had come from; this incurable itch - he wasn’t usually this bad.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the SWAT mission. Stray bullets ricocheting as the robbers panicked, no doubt also attributed to the sight of camo uniforms and guns twice the size of their own.

A close shave for everyone. A close shave for Jack. His wound tingled once again, and he rolled his shoulder in an attempt to rid himself of the sensation.

He inhaled deeply, people passing him in a blur as he ducked his head down, steps quick and sure as he knocked on the door bearing a number three, before stepping inside.

Darkness. 

He exhaled softly, the metal of his ring clinking on the cold doorknob as it clicked shut behind him. He barely had time to compose himself before the sound of sheets rustling drew his eyes to the vague outline of a bed.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that it wasn’t you in the bed, but he could almost sense it. That tugging sensation: like the golden thread had suddenly been pulled taut at the close proximity. He felt his shoulder drop slowly, an inch, maybe. Felt the trembling of his ribs ease.

Then a light flicked on.

He blinked a few times, and so did you. 

You were sitting upright, but not wearing scrubs - only a pair of cargos and a grey vest. Whilst he was trying to decipher the sudden dissipation of stress symptoms at your mere appearance, you were staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

Your eyes raked over him, stood stiff as a board, jaw clenched tightly, a slightly wild look in his eyes. He looked more rigid, more rough than you were used to. Like he was thinking too much about holding himself normally. He wasn’t soft at the edges: there was a slight crease between his brows, and his hand was fidgeting at his side, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do with himself. Like he’d been caught with it in the cookie jar.

It wasn’t a thought, more so an innate feeling that something wasn’t quite right. And maybe it was because you’d not been able to get a wink of sleep after he’d left for his SWAT shift, maybe it was because he was all you’d been able to think about, maybe it was because you hadn’t stopped worrying since he got the call, but you couldn’t quite believe he was here. Like you’d summoned him by sheer will, or something.

“Jack.” It wasn’t a question - it was devotion, vexation, love, and fear all poured into one mix like a promise.

His throat worked as he swallowed, and his eyes fluttered as he fought the urge to blink again. His hand fell from the doorknob with a soft swish. 

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t even have to for you to push yourself up off the bed. He met you halfway, his limbs feeling a little heavy as you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, mindful of his wound, and he buried his cold nose into your neck, his own arms finding their home on your waist before yanking - ever closer. 

“I just need a minute.” He mumbled, ever steady, ever sturdy, ever reliable, yet still folding completely in your presence.

“However long you want.” You corrected, one hand curling around to lightly scratch the curls at the nape of his neck, still damp with sweat. He hadn’t showered, that much was obvious from the smell coming off him, but after tending to a few of your own patients you’d grown accustomed to it.

He felt tense against you, and despite the rate your brain was working, you managed to keep every burning question inside until you knew he was ready. He just needed a moment to catch his breath. A little slice of peace with no duty to fulfil, no responsibilities to attend to. And who were you to deny him of that?

He readjusted his grip, thumb slowly gliding over the soft cotton of your top in timing with every breath you took - grounding himself as best as he could. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it from where you were pressed together, and his own body heat was slowly bleeding into yours.

And then you couldn’t take it a second longer, the worry tumbling out of your mouth, “Are you okay?”

You tried to rein in the concern that inevitably bled into your tone, but the last text you’d sent him asking for clarification on the ‘minor graze on my shoulder, all good x’ text had remained unanswered, and although you wouldn’t outwardly say that his appearance at your place of work worried you slightly, it wasn’t exactly usual for him to show up in this way.

He nodded, humming gruffly, but didn’t let go just yet, “Came in with a patient, he needed a scan but our machines can’t take his weight.”

“Okay.” You muttered the hand massaging his hair slipping to trace the freckled-spattered skin under the neck of his t-shirt, “Your shoulder?”

A beat of silence.

“Fine. Cleaned and bandaged. Small, shallow.” His voice was flat, listing off information methodically, like it hadn’t happened to him, but one of his patients.

You felt one of your eyes twitch, “Bullet?” Your voice sounded small, tinged with thinly-veiled apprehension. 

He raised his head a little, “Yeah.”

You felt something in your chest splinter, and you exhaled softly, hand stilling in his shirt, worry knocking against your sternum. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t even need to; he already knew how you felt about his extra-curricular, adrenaline-fuelled excursions, and with the way his heartbeat up-ticked at his breath of an admission, you figured it was that that had spurred this little meeting.

Shot at, a voice echoed through your mind, and you resisted the urge to get his top off and look at the damage for yourself.

He huffed a little breath, and you waited for him to speak.

“I think I want to stop with the SWAT stuff.” He mumbled the words into your neck, and your brain stalled for a moment.

Stop? Jack Abbot? 

Your brows furrowed of their own volition, and you felt yourself pull away from him slightly, just far enough to look at his face, read the unspoken words etched into the lines of his skin.

There was not a single trace of amusement on his features whatsoever. He looked stern, almost, his mouth set in a straight line, eyes looking straight into yours, the only hint of softness evidenced through the small crease in the middle of his forehead. He blinked, his cheek twitching under your scrutiny, before shying away from your gaze, eyes flickering to the floor.

“Are you sure?” You lifted one hand to his face, palm resting against the hollow of his cheek, thumb sweeping under the fragile skin of his eye, trying to wrestle his attention back to you.

To confirm that this wasn’t some cruel joke to get your hopes up.

He nodded, humming, before dragging his eyes back to yours.

“Can I ask why?”

His lips parted, and he readjusted his stance, eyes briefly darting to the clock on the wall, “I’ve got too much to lose to be throwing myself in the way of active fire.”

The breath in your lungs stilled, as did your thumb on his warm skin, but he hadn’t finished.

“And I don’t mean I didn’t know how lucky I was beforehand, because I did. I do. I just…Getting shot at really put things into perspective, and I…don’t wanna die.” He swallowed, before slowly nodding his head.

You raised your brows, head tilting curiously, “That’s nice to know.”

He hummed again, teeth teasing his bottom lip, “I thought so too.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Your hands slid from him, coming to rest at his hips, your fingers twisting the black cotton of his shirt.

“Promise.” He nodded, raising a hand to trace your brow bone - an unconscious, affectionate caress, “You coming home later today or pulling a double?”

“Coming home; I only came in to distract myself. I’ll follow your ride back to the Pitt and we can go back together. Good?” 

“Perfect.”

After a moment of silence, he sighed out of his nose, before stepping into your space like he couldn’t quite help it, and wrapped himself around you once more.