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buckets-and-trees · 1 month ago

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Red, White & True: Boston & New York [14/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 9.1k (yes, another long one!) Summary: On the eve of the election, nerves and emotions are high, but so are your hopes for the future as a tight race becomes impossibly tighter when so many people doubted a third candidate could make a deep run. Regardless of how things turn out, you're ready to face the fact that your life will never be the same again.

Content/Warnings: political/campaign policy and discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, EXPLICIT SMUT finally (vaginal fingering, cock stroking, breast play, vaginal intercourse)

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Author Notes: I missed getting a Friday posting out, but that's because these two had a lot to do and say in this chapter. To be honest, if I cut out all of the side characters and political plot, we'd shave down significantly, but that's part of your story with Steve, too.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 1 - LATE EVENING - COLUMBUS TO BOSTON]

The campaign plane hums around you, a cocoon of noise both soothing and maddening. You've been staring at the same paragraph in your briefing notes for ten minutes, the words blurring together as exhaustion tugs at the edges of your consciousness. Fourteen states in thirteen days. It shouldn't be possible, and yet here you are, somehow still standing—or rather, sitting—in the final stretch of the most grueling marathon of your life.

Two weeks. Two weeks of campaign schedules that have kept you and Steve apart more than together, crisscrossing the country like stars with intersecting orbits—occasionally aligning for campaign appearances together before spinning away again to cover more territory.

You glance at your watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Your motorcade was delayed in traffic, so you didn’t make it to the tarmac to board the plane to see Steve before his intelligence briefing started, and now it has already run twenty minutes longer than scheduled. The private meeting area at the front of the plane has been sealed off, transformed into a temporary SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—for the classified briefing, with Secret Service agents positioned like sentinels outside the door.

You make a conscious effort not to glare at the agents - it’s not their fault, they’re only doing their job. But inside you feel very huffy, knowing the precious hours together before landing in Boston are dwindling by the second.

You return your gaze to the briefing book in your lap, silently mouthing the words to force your tired brain to absorb them. Tomorrow's schedule in Boston includes a visit to a community health center in Roxbury, followed by meetings with healthcare advocates—you need to know these statistics cold. But the numbers swim before your eyes as the plane encounters a pocket of turbulence, jostling you in your seat.

Across the aisle, Sam catches your eye. He's been watching you fidget for the past half hour, his expression knowing as always.

"He'll be out soon," Sam says, his voice low enough that only you can hear it over the drone of the engines.

You sigh, closing the briefing book. "How can you tell?"

“I can’t, I’m just trying to make you feel better,” he replies with a wink.

“It’s only working a little bit,” you say.

Sophia is on his other side, and you smile a little, seeing that she’s managed to nod off, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder. She’s worked herself to the bone every day of the campaign, and she’s become such a rock to you. A rock and a trusted friend.

So has Sam. So have so many of the campaign staff, the lot of you walking through fire day in and day out together for this brilliantly mad quest to try and get Steve elected.

"Speaking of making me feel better," you say, suddenly struck by something you've been meaning to say for weeks, "I never properly thanked you."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For all the interference you ran with my mom while she was on the campaign trail with us a couple of weeks ago." You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice even more. "You and Sophia did a lot to make her feel comfortable in this whole scene. She adored you, but I know you also took advantage of opportunities to shift her perspective on Steve and our whole arrangement.”

Sam's expression softens, a smile warming his features. "Your mom's great. She cares about you a lot - her worries were normal."

You smile wider. “You did the same with me, too, the day before I married Steve. And you did it with Steve and Bucky for me back in September. You see people and you build bridges between people.”

Sam's smile turns slightly embarrassed, but his eyes hold yours steadily. "Just part of the service," he jokes, but then grows more serious. "Everyone deserves a chance to understand each other. Especially people who matter to each other."

"Well, thank you," you say simply.

"You're welcome." Sam shifts, careful not to disturb Sophia. "Besides, your mom was right about some things. This whole arrangement was crazy."

You laugh softly. "Was?"

"Is," he corrects with a grin. "But it's working out better than any of us could have predicted, isn't it?"

Before you can answer, the door at the front of the plane opens. Steve emerges, followed by a somber-looking woman in a dark suit whom you recognize as Maria Hill.

You straighten in your seat, drinking in the sight of Steve after three days apart. He looks tired—more than tired, something about his expression unsettles you immediately. There's a tightness around his eyes, a gravity to his movements that wasn't there when you spoke over FaceTime this morning.

Steve's gaze finds yours immediately. His expression softens, but the tension doesn't fully leave his features. He exchanges a few final words with Maria, their heads bent close together, her voice too low for you to hear over the drone of the engines.

You watch as Steve nods once, decisively, before Maria turns and heads toward the rear of the plane where some of the intelligence staff are seated. Steve makes his way down the aisle toward you, stopping briefly to speak with Jake and Elspeth.

When he finally reaches you, the knot of concern in your chest tightens. Up close, the strain around his eyes is more pronounced, the set of his jaw rigid.

"Hi," you say softly as he slides into the seat beside you.

"Hi," Steve replies, his voice low and slightly rough, as if he's been talking for hours. His hand finds yours immediately, fingers interlacing with a gentle pressure that feels almost desperate in its need for connection.

You search his face. "What's wrong?"

Most of the staff are either working, sleeping, or wearing noise-canceling headphones, but he still lowers his voice to a near whisper. "Nothing immediate. Just... concerning intelligence."

The muscles in your stomach tighten. Since Steve became a serious contender in the presidential race, he's been receiving regular intelligence briefings—a tradition for major party candidates to ensure a smooth transition should they win. You've grown accustomed to the routine, to the way he emerges from these meetings with a thoughtful, typically troubled expression. Most of the information he’s given in those meetings is also highly sensitive if not outright classified.

You take his hand in both of yours, bringing it to rest in your lap. "Is it something you can talk about?" you ask, keeping your voice equally low.

Steve lets out a long, slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as you hold his hand. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin, a grounding gesture that seems as much for his benefit as for yours.

"I can't discuss the details," he says after a moment, his voice barely audible over the engines. "But there are situations developing that will need immediate attention after the election." His eyes meet yours, troubled and deep. "No matter who wins."

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words. Steve has always carried the burdens of leadership differently than others—not as opportunities or challenges, but as sacred obligations to the people counting on him.

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask, knowing there likely isn't but needing to offer anyway.

"There is," Steve says, his voice softening as he shifts closer to you. "Just be here."

He leans back in his seat, his eyes closing briefly as he draws a deep breath. When they open again, there's something vulnerable in his gaze that makes your chest ache.

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "These past three days felt like three weeks."

"I know," you whisper, squeezing his hand. "The swing through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana was productive, but every event I kept thinking of what you would say, how you would handle it."

A small smile touches his lips. "And how did hypothetical me do?"

"Not nearly as well as real me," you tease, drawing the laugh from him you'd hoped for. "But you would have been proud. Polling suggests we gained ground with suburban women in all three states."

Steve's smile broadens, some of the tension leaving his face. "I am proud. Especially of that interview you did in Indianapolis." His hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers gently massaging the tension there.

You lean into his touch, your eyes briefly closing at the relief his fingers bring to muscles knotted from days of campaign stress.

"I just answered honestly," you say, remembering the local news interview that had unexpectedly gone viral after you'd spoken candidly about healthcare access in rural communities.

"That's what made it powerful," Steve says. His voice drops even lower, meant only for you. "Two days left. Can you believe it?"

You shake your head, still processing the whirlwind that has been your life since that fateful meeting with Pepper Potts in May. "Sometimes it feels like we've been campaigning forever. Other times, I can't believe how quickly it's all happened."

Steve's eyes hold yours, something profound shifting in their blue depths. "I keep thinking about where we were six months ago. How impossible this all seemed." His voice is a gentle rumble that vibrates through you. "Now we're two days from potentially—"

"Don't," you whisper, pressing a finger lightly to his lips. "No jinxing it."

He smiles against your finger, then captures your hand and kisses your palm. "Superstitious now?"

"Cautiously optimistic," you correct, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest that his touch evokes.

The plane encounters another patch of turbulence, more pronounced this time. Steve's arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders, steadying you as the aircraft shudders. You lean into him, and the turbulence settles.

"That's what I like to hear," Steve murmurs, his arm remaining around you even after the turbulence passes. "Cautiously optimistic is exactly where we need to be."

You rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—that perfect blend of clean cotton, subtle cologne, and something that is uniquely Steve. Despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs, despite the worry you'd seen etched in his features moments ago, this closeness grounds you in a way nothing else can. And once again, as the two of you quietly converse, tucked comfortably into one another, you fight but are unable to keep from falling asleep in his arms.

You wake to gentle pressure against your temple—Steve's lips brushing a kiss there, his breath warm against your skin.

"We're starting our descent," he murmurs. "You've been out for about an hour."

Blinking away sleep, you straighten in your seat, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to—"

"You needed it," Steve says, his hand still resting comfortably on your knee. Through the window, you can see the scattered constellation of Boston's lights growing larger below.

"Did you sleep at all?" you ask, noting the lingering tension around his eyes.

He shakes his head. "Too much on my mind."

You reach up to smooth a strand of hair that's fallen across his forehead. "The briefing?"

"That. The polls. Tomorrow's schedule.”

"The usual campaign insomnia," you say with understanding, your fingers lingering at his temple where you can feel the tension gathered there.

"Something like that," he agrees, but there's a note in his voice that tells you it's more than just pre-election jitters.

The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing your imminent arrival. Around you, the campaign staff begin to stir, gathering materials, checking phones that had been silenced during the flight. You deplane and the team piles into a dozen vehicles waiting on the tarmac to take you all directly to the hotel to catch the limited amount of sleep you’ll be afforded before things start back up in the morning.

[NOVEMBER 2 - BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS]

Morning arrives too soon, the pale November light filtering through the hotel curtains you forgot to fully close. For a moment, you lie perfectly still, orienting yourself in yet another unfamiliar room. Boston. The final day before the election.

The other side of the bed is empty. Though everything between you and Steve has changed, deepened, and grown, you are still dancing around sharing a room and a bed. After that night you asked him to stay with you in Tucson, your mom had come for those next few days on the campaign, and then your itineraries had split you up geographically, but even on the nights of overlap, there seemed to be this half-spoken avoidance. You have been hesitant of exploring the intimacy and domesticity of sleeping together routinely in this environment. There are so many things you and Steve have said to each other and about each other, but there are still things that have been left unsaid, and the endless circuit of the campaign cycle didn’t seem like the place to say any of it.

The digital clock reads 5:47, and though you’re annoyed you’ve woken up before your scheduled 6am start to the day, you are glad for the precious few minutes of sleepy solitude you still have. You allow yourself the luxury of stretching, muscles protesting after weeks of constant movement and too little rest. The sheets smell of hotel laundry—a scent that has become almost as familiar as your old home.

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. A text from Steve: Good morning. Couldn't sleep, went for a run. Briefing and breakfast at 7?

You smile at his predictability—yo’ve heard about his runs, and even on the precipice of potentially becoming the next president, Steve Rogers seeks clarity in the rhythm of his feet against pavement. You don’t expect it to change, regardless of how the election results go. You type back: Yes to breakfast. Coffee already necessary. Be safe.

The three dots appear immediately, then: Always am. Sleep well?

Better than expected, but not long enough, you reply honestly. Hotel pillows are growing on me.

Dangerous adaptation, he responds with a laughing emoji. Then, a moment later: Going to catch sunrise over Boston Harbor. Wish you were here.

The simple sentiment warms you more than it should. Six months ago, such casual intimacy between you would have been unimaginable. Now it feels as natural as breathing.

Bed better than running, you send back.

His response is immediate: Debatable. Will bring you coffee when I get back.

You smile, setting your phone down and pulling yourself reluctantly from the warmth of the bed. The hotel room is elegant but impersonal, like all the others you've occupied during this campaign—luxury without personality, comfort without home. You've become an expert at navigating unfamiliar bathrooms in the dark, at finding the light switches and remembering which side of the bed you chose the night before.

The shower helps clear the fog of too little sleep. As the hot water cascades over your shoulders, you mentally rehearse today's schedule: the community health center visit, lunch with healthcare advocates, an afternoon rally at Boston University, and then the massive evening event at Faneuil Hall. The final push before Election Day.

By the time you emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, your phone is lighting up with notifications. Campaign updates, news alerts, text messages from Sam about last-minute scheduling changes. The bubble of morning solitude pops, reality rushing in with the force of a breaking dam.

You dress quickly in the outfit laid out the night before—a carefully selected ensemble that projects both approachability and professionalism. The campaign's messaging team has fine-tuned every visual element of these final appearances, down to the color of your scarf, which matches the campaign's signature blue.

A soft knock at the door comes just as you're fastening your watch. Through the peephole, you see Steve, looking refreshed despite the early hour, a cardboard tray holding two coffee cups in one hand.

"Morning," he says when you open the door, his smile warming his tired eyes. He's showered and changed since his run, dressed in a navy suit that makes his eyes even more blue. "Coffee as promised."

"You're a lifesaver," you murmur, accepting the cup he offers. "How was the harbor?" you ask, stepping out into the hall to walk down to breakfast with him.

"Peaceful. Water was like glass. Sun coming up behind the city." He pauses, something wistful crossing his features. "Made me wish I had my sketchbook."

You take a long sip of coffee, savoring the perfect blend—he remembers exactly how you like it. "When this is all over, we should come back. You can sketch all day if you want."

Steve's smile deepens, creating those little crinkles around his eyes that you've grown to love. "I'll hold you to that."

The two of you walk in comfortable silence down the rest of the hallway to the elevator, Secret Service agents quietly flanking you. Steve's presence beside you is solid, reassuring. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, you catch glimpses of yourselves—a little tired, a little worn, but standing tall. The potential First Couple. The thought still feels surreal.

"Sleep well?" he asks softly as the elevator descends.

"You already asked me that," you remind him with a smile.

"I know. Just checking if your answer changes in person." His hand finds the small of your back as the doors open, a gentle, protective gesture that's become second nature.

Another hotel conference room has been transformed into another campaign outpost, screens displaying polling data and schedules lining the walls. Campaign staff mill about, some already deep in conversation, others nursing coffee with the glazed look of people running on fumes and determination.

Sam spots you first, raising his coffee cup in greeting from where he's huddled with Sophia, Bucky and Jake. You're about to head their way when you notice a familiar figure standing near the breakfast buffet—Maria Hill, the same intelligence officer from the plane. She's not alone. A man in an impeccable dark suit stands beside her, his posture military-straight, his expression grave as he surveys the room with calculated precision.

Steve's hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back. You glance up at him, catching the slight hardening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

"What is it?" you ask quietly.

"Agent Calloway," Steve acknowledges with a slight nod, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension you feel radiating through his palm against your back. "I wasn't expecting to see you in Boston."

The man—Agent Calloway—turns toward you both, his weathered face revealing nothing as he approaches with measured steps. He's older than Maria, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped greying hair and eyes that seem to catalog every detail of the room in continuous sweeps.

"Captain Rogers," he says, extending a hand to Steve. "I’ve been assigned to personally oversee the enhanced security protocols for these final campaign events." His handshake is brief, then his attention shifts to you with professional efficiency. "Ma'am," he says with a respectful nod.

You return the greeting, a sense of unease creeping up your spine. Enhanced security protocols. The words are heavy, unexpected. Should you be more worried?

You offer what you hope is a polite smile, but Calloway's steel-gray eyes catch the flicker of worry that crosses your face. His expression softens marginally—the change so subtle you might have missed it if you weren't studying him so intently.

"Please don't be concerned, ma'am," he says, his voice dropping to a more conversational tone. "Enhanced protocols are standard procedure for the final days before an election. The heightened visibility, larger crowds—it's all part of the calculus."

You nod, attempting to look reassured, but you can feel Steve's body beside yours, taut as a bowstring.

"Standard procedure," Steve repeats, the words measured and careful. His face maintains the pleasant, diplomatic expression he's perfected during the campaign, but you know the mask. “It seems a bit unnece–”

“Captain Rogers,” Calloway interrupts, “sir, let me stop you right there. My men and women and I are more than aware of your capability to defend yourself. They assigned me because I’m the one who will take the least amount of pushback from you. We know you’re an Avenger. Should anything happen, we would not be surprised to have you fighting and defending alongside us.”

You don’t even have to look, you can feel the frown emanating from Steve. You keep your eyes on Calloway’s face.

“Our responsibility is to keep an eye on everyone and everything to keep you and the public safe. Your responsibility right now is to campaign. If elected, it will be to lead the American people. That’s why we’re here. Let us do our job so you can do yours.”

“This old man is retired anyway,” Sam chimes in, stepping up next to Steve and clapping him on the back, jostling him on purpose to loosen him up.

The tension in Steve's shoulders doesn't fully dissipate, but his expression softens at Sam's intervention. He nods once at Calloway, conceding the point without quite relinquishing his concern.

"I appreciate the dedication," Steve says, his voice measured. "Just make sure your team keeps my staff safe - I’m no more important than them."

"Consider it done," Calloway responds with crisp efficiency. "We've been briefed on all locations and have advance teams in place. They will monitor and update throughout the day.”

Maria Hill approaches, tablet in hand. "If you have a moment, Captain, there are some logistics we should review before your first event." Her tone is professional, but you catch the subtle urgency beneath.

Steve's eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you. "I'll catch up with you," he says, his hand squeezing yours briefly before following Maria and Calloway to a quieter corner of the room.

Sam stays beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. "Don't worry," he says quietly as you both watch Steve step away. "Extra security is normal for the final push."

"Is it?" you ask, unable to keep the doubt from your voice.

"Yes," Sam insists, then adds with a half-smile, "though having Hill still on site for national security and intelligence updates is... possibly not."

You turn to face him fully. "Sam."

He meets your gaze, “I’m genuinely not concerned yet - I’m alert, but not concerned. Bucky agrees, he thinks whatever situation is developing is probably serious, but that Maria’s staying close more out of a personal sense of duty than any real safety concern.”

You frown. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No. I’ve been around these heroes for years, and I know sometimes they try and save us regular folk from bad news, but in the end that never helps. I don’t think Bucky will hold back with you, and I don’t think Steve would intentionally either, but I can definitely promise I’ll bullshit you now and then, but I’ll always be straight with you when it matters.”

You nod, finding comfort in Sam's directness. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

"Come on," Sam says, guiding you toward the breakfast buffet. "You need to eat something. Big day ahead."

You follow him, but your eyes drift back to Steve, who's now leaning over a tablet with Maria and Calloway, his brow furrowed in concentration. The three of them speak in low voices, their expressions grave. The knot of unease in your stomach tightens.

"He's concerned," you murmur, more to yourself than to Sam.

"He's always concerned," Sam counters gently. "It's his default setting. Has been since I met him."

You smile despite yourself. "I've noticed."

Sophia waves you over to a table where she's sitting with Bucky and Jake, campaign materials spread between their plates. As you approach, you notice the dark circles under Sophia's eyes, the slight tremor in Jake's hand as he lifts his coffee cup. Everyone is feeling the weight of these final hours.

"Morning," Jake greets you, sliding a folder across the table. "Final numbers from last night's polling.”

"How's it looking?" you ask, opening the folder as you settle into a chair next to Sophia.

"It's tight," Jake says. "The national polls still have Monroe up by two, but within the margin of error."

"The battleground states are where it matters," Sophia adds, tapping a spreadsheet with her pen. "Pennsylvania and Michigan are looking good, but Wisconsin and Arizona are razor-thin with Steve biting on both their heels."

You nod, scanning the numbers. Your stomach churns with a familiar mixture of hope and anxiety that has become your constant companion these last weeks. The race is close—closer than any of you had anticipated when this journey began.

"Florida's polling is all over the place," Bucky says, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Depending on which poll you believe, Steve, Monroe, or Peterson take the sunshine state, and it skews the board no matter which way it goes.”

“So, basically, we’re doing well, but no one knows how well?” you ask.

"It's an election," Jake says with a wry smile. "No one ever really knows until the votes are counted."

Bucky leans forward, his metal hand tapping lightly on the table. "What matters is that we're competitive everywhere we need to be. Six months ago, no one thought an independent candidate could seriously contend. Now..." His voice trails off as his eyes drift to where Steve is still deep in conversation with Maria and Calloway.

"Now we've got them scared," Sophia finishes, a fierce pride in her voice.

[NOVEMBER 2 - EVENING - NEW YORK CITY]

You and Steve are put into a car with Jake and Lisa once you touchdown in New York, getting off the campaign plane for the final time. Your campaign manager and press secretary want to use the short ride from La Guardia to the hotel in Midtown Manhattan to review final notes before the morning.

"The itinerary is straightforward," Jake says, scrolling through his tablet. "Early breakfast with the New York campaign volunteers at 6 AM, radio morning shows from 6:30 to 7, then straight to your polling place in Brooklyn by 7:30. We want the images of you two voting to hit the morning news cycles."

"After that," Lisa continues, "it's a series of get-out-the-vote stops across the city. We'll hit all five boroughs by mid-afternoon.”

“Then we have a break for the two of you until dinner and a final event in Central Park at 7 PM, which should give us prime placement for the evening news for all time zones," Jake says. “It should hopefully pull in some undecided voters - the ones who are debating whether to go home after work or go to the polls, and those are the voters likely to sway to you.”

Steve nods, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand where it rests between you on the seat. "And the rest of the night?"

"We've secured the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza for the watch party," Lisa says. "Doors open to supporters at seven, but we don't expect either of you to make an appearance until at least nine, when the first results start coming in."

“This is why we’ve got the afternoon siesta for the two of you,” Jake says, his tone straightforward, logical, leaving no space to argue, “you’ll both need to be public-ready.”

"And if it's a long night?" you ask, voicing the question that's been weighing on all of you. With such a tight race, a definitive result by the end of the night is far from guaranteed.

Jake and Lisa exchange glances. "We have contingency plans," Lisa answers. “The event in Central Park will continue through the night as long as it’s viable. If there’s any need for a public address, we want you to make it to the crowd outdoors in the park.”

“Absolutely,” Steve nods, “it’ll be a cold, long night for them, and if there’s something to be said, I want to be able to show them how much they’re appreciated.”

The car glides through late-night New York traffic, the city lights reflecting off rain-slicked streets. You feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down—the culmination of months of exhausting work, of speeches and handshakes and strategy sessions. Of a marriage that began as strategy and transformed into something neither of you could have predicted.

"What about security?" Steve asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.

Jake nods, his expression serious. "Calloway's team has coordinated with NYPD, FBI, and Homeland. The security presence will be significant but as unobtrusive as possible. We don't want to alarm voters or create bottlenecks at polling places."

The car slows as it approaches The Plaza Hotel, the familiar choreography of arrival unfolding once more. Secret Service agents radio ahead, confirming positions.

Even though your home is in New York - the new home you have yet to truly live in yet with Steve in Brooklyn - you’re staying at The Plaza Hotel since it will be campaign headquarters for the next 36 hours, ready to go in the morning immediately with the campaign staff.

The SUV pulls to a stop under the elegant awning of The Plaza, its golden lights glowing against the darkness. Immediately, the flurry of your arrival begins—Secret Service agents materializing from seemingly nowhere, forming a protective perimeter as hotel staff stand at attention near the entrance. Despite the late hour, a small crowd of reporters and curious onlookers has gathered behind barricades, camera flashes punctuating the darkness like artificial lightning.

"Ready?" Steve asks quietly.

“Let’s do this.” You nod, summoning a smile that feels genuine despite your exhaustion. This is the final push—one more night, one more day, and then whatever comes next.

The moment the car door opens, the world rushes in—the cool November air carrying the scent of rain and the city, the sounds of late night traffic, the frenzied murmur of voices. Steve exits first, turning to offer you his hand. Camera flashes explode like silent lightning around you and Steve.

"Captain Rogers! How are you feeling about tomorrow?" "Any response to Senator Monroe's latest polling numbers?" "Are you confident about your chances?"

Steve offers a practiced wave and a warm smile that somehow manages to convey both confidence and humility. "We're focused on getting out the vote tomorrow," he calls to the reporters, his voice carrying just enough to be heard without seeming to shout. "Every American deserves to have their voice heard in this election."

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you forward with practiced ease as the two of you navigate the gauntlet of questions and flashing cameras. The Secret Service forms a protective bubble around you, not pushing or shoving but somehow creating space through sheer presence. You've become accustomed to this dance—the careful balance of accessibility and security, of warmth and vigilance.

The Plaza's ornate lobby envelops you in sudden quiet, the thick carpets and soaring ceilings absorbing the chaos that swirls just outside its revolving doors. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over marble floors, transforming the space into something from another era—a pocket of gilded elegance that has somehow survived the city's constant reinvention.

The advance campaign staff move with practiced efficiency, checking in with each other in hushed tones. Several nod respectfully as you and Steve pass, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and determination. These are the people who have sacrificed sleep, stability, and sometimes sanity to bring this improbable campaign to the precipice of possible victory.

Amidst the quiet bustle, you spot Eric, your logistics coordinator. When she sees you, Eric breaks away from the hotel staff, his efficiency on display even at this late hour. He's been with the campaign since June, and his ability to coordinate the movement of hundreds of people across the country with military precision has been invaluable.

"Captain Rogers, Mrs. Rogers," he greets you both with a quick nod. "Everything's set for tomorrow. Your rooms are ready—you’re on the fifteenth floor. The campaign staff is distributed across the fourteenth and fifteenth."

He hands each of you a key card in a small Plaza-emblazoned envelope. "I've had your luggage sent up. The 6 AM breakfast meeting will be in the Grand Ballroom. We've converted the Edwardian Room into our command center—all the polling data will be coming in there throughout the day tomorrow."

"Thank you, Eric. For everything." The simple words feel inadequate for the months of meticulous planning he's orchestrated, transforming the logistical nightmare of a presidential campaign into something almost manageable.

"Just doing my job," he replies with characteristic modesty, but his tired eyes brighten at the recognition. "Oh, and Mrs. Potts called. She's arriving early tomorrow morning. She'll meet you directly at the breakfast event."

Steve nods, his hand still resting gently at the small of your back, like it’s always belonged there. "Perfect.”

Jake checks his watch and stifles a yawn. "It's almost eleven. We made good time. You two head up, Lisa and I will help Eric marshal the rest of the troops as they arrive.”

You suspect Steve agrees because then he can hold you to going up as well, and he always tries to take care of you and the rest of his team. The two of you cross the lobby to the elevators, and it’s only a few moments before one arrives. Two Secret Service agents file in with you. As the lift ascends, the subtle vibration beneath your feet seems to harmonize with the nervous flutter in your chest.

Your fingers fidget with the edge of your sleeve, a small tell that you've never quite managed to control when anticipation takes hold. Steve notices—of course he notices. Those observant blue eyes miss nothing, especially when it comes to you.

"Hey," Steve's voice is gentle as his hand covers yours, stilling the restless movement. "You okay?"

You look up to find his eyes studying you with that particular intensity that always makes your heart skip—the look that sees past practiced smiles and campaign-ready expressions to the truth underneath.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, then catch yourself. After everything you've been through together, the practiced deflections feel wrong. "Actually, I'm a little nervous."

His brow furrows slightly, concern deepening the blue of his eyes. "About tomorrow?"

"No. Well, yes, of course about tomorrow, but that's not—" You pause as the elevator slows, the display indicating you've reached the fifteenth floor. The doors slide open to reveal an elegantly appointed hallway, its rich carpeting muffling the sound as the Secret Service agents step out first, performing their customary sweep.

"All clear, sir," one of them says, positioning himself discreetly near the elevator bank while the other advances down the hallway, you and Steve following behind.

You watch the numbers of the doors as you pass, then stop when you get to room 1518. “This is me,” you say.

He frowns briefly, looking at the number on his key card envelope. “Mine says 1518, too.”

“Mhmm,” you nod, looking up at him through your lashes.

The realization settles over Steve's face, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding. "Oh," he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I see."

You hand your key card to the agent, who taps it to the door and enters to do a security sweep.

"I asked Sophia to arrange it with Eric," you admit, heat rising to your cheeks despite your best efforts. "I thought… for our last night before everything changes one way or another, I just want to be with you."

Steve's expression softens and he steps closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"That’s what you were nervous about?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Asking me to stay with you tonight?"

You nod, feeling shy despite the months of growing intimacy between you. "We've been dancing around it. But tonight..."

Steve's hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He doesn’t say anything, the way he looks at your face, you don’t need him to. Reassurance and longing are written and reflected there.

A moment later, the agent steps out of the room. “All clear. We’ll be monitoring the floor.”

“Thank you, Roberts,” Steve says without looking away from you.

You enter first, and the door swings open to reveal a spacious suite, elegantly appointed in the Plaza's signature style—cream walls, gold accents, plush furnishings in muted tones. Your luggage sits neatly arranged near the closet, and a small bouquet of fresh flowers brightens the writing desk.

Steve follows right behind you, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud that seems to seal you both away from the world outside. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sudden privacy after days of constant company and scrutiny creating a bubble of stillness around you.

"So," Steve says.

The word hangs between you, heavy with unspoken anticipation. You turn to face him fully, taking in the sight of him—this man who has somehow become the center of your universe in the span of a few tumultuous months. The lines of fatigue around his eyes only enhance the intensity of his gaze as it locks with yours.

"So," you echo, a small smile playing at your lips. "Here we are."

"Here we are," he agrees, his voice a low rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance until mere inches separate you. "The night before everything changes."

You reach up, fingers gently tugging to loosen his tie. "Everything's already changed, Steve. Whatever happens tomorrow..."

"We face it together," he finishes, capturing your hand where it rests against his chest. His fingers envelop yours, warm and steady. "Just like we promised."

The weight of tomorrow presses against the edges of your consciousness, but here, in this moment, there is only Steve—his presence solid and real before you. The campaign, the election, the world waiting beyond these walls—all of it recedes as you lean into him.

"I'm glad you arranged this," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Us tonight."

"I've wanted to for weeks," you admit. "But everything's been so intense, and there never seemed to be the right moment to..."

"I know." His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his touch gentle yet grounding. "And I’ve never wanted to assume or rush, but I've wanted it too."

Your eyes drift closed as he leans forward, his breath warm against your lips just before they meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, but as his arms encircle you, drawing you closer against the solid warmth of his chest, something shifts—urgency bleeding into tenderness, months of carefully banked desire kindling into something more demanding.

Your fingers thread through his hair, fusing him to you as the kiss deepens. His hands span your waist, lifting you effortlessly until your feet barely touch the ground. The sensation of being suspended, weightless in his embrace, sends a thrill through you that has nothing to do with the campaign or tomorrow's uncertainties.

When you finally break apart, both breathless, Steve rests his forehead against yours. His eyes, when they open, are darkened with desire but still impossibly blue. His eyes hold yours, a universe of emotion swirling in their blue depths. He shrugs off his suit coat, you slip out of your coat, and Steve takes both and drapes them over a nearby armchair. Then Steve steps close to you again, his hands moving to frame your face, his touch reverent as his thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones.

"I've been hungry for this moment," he confesses, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you where your bodies press together. "Being alone with you. Really alone."

"Me, too," you confess, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw and his well-trimmed beard.

His smile in response is both tender and knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the journey that brought you here—from strangers to hesitant allies to something neither of you could have anticipated. His hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips find yours again.

This kiss is different—deeper, unhurried yet purposeful. The careful restraint that's defined so much of your relationship begins to unravel with each passing second. His lips move against yours with increasing urgency, and you respond in kind, your body arching into his as if drawn by some invisible force.

Steve guides you backward through the suite with what feels like a dancer's grace, each step purposeful yet fluid. The world narrows to the points where your bodies connect—his hand at the small of your back, his chest against yours, his lips moving with increasing urgency against your own. The sitting room passes in a blur of cream and gold, furniture mere obstacles to navigate around as you drift through the space in this intimate waltz.

Your fingers work at his tie again, tugging the knot loose with fumbling eagerness. The silk slides free with a whisper against cotton, and you let it fall, forgotten, somewhere behind you. His mouth never leaves yours as you move together, his breath mingling with your own in the narrow space between kisses. Your shoulder bumps gently against a doorframe—the threshold to the bedroom—and Steve's arm tightens around you, steadying you against him.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips, the words more breath than sound.

You feel the familiar pressure of his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway and into the bedroom. The soft glow of city lights filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in muted blues and golds.

Your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, move to the buttons of his crisp white shirt. The first button slips free easily, revealing a triangle of warm skin at his throat that you caress briefly before continuing your task. The second proves more challenging as Steve's kisses grow more insistent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes focusing on anything else nearly impossible. You manage the third button just as the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed.

At some point between the sitting room and the bedroom, Steve had evidently unzipped your dress, because now he quickly pushes the fabric down over your shoulders, and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet. He turns you around in his arms, pulling you flush against him. Without missing a beat, his left hand comes up to collar your throat and turn your head to the side so he can continue devouring your lips with his own. His other hand slides over the roundness of your stomach and down into your panties, no hesitation

His fingers slide against you, finding you already wet and ready for him. You gasp against his mouth at the contact, your body arching into his touch. Steve's lips trail from yours to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot on your skin, and his beard scratching pleasantly against your neck.

"I've wanted this for so long," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "Wanted you."

You reach back, fingers threading through his hair as his thumb circles your most sensitive spot with exquisite precision. Your legs tremble, and he tightens his arm across your chest, supporting your weight as pleasure builds with each deliberate stroke.

"Steve," you breathe, the word half plea, half prayer.

He turns you in his arms once more, then pushes you back onto the mattress. He’s quick to follow, hovering over you as you both slither further up the bed, capturing your mouth in that kiss that's constant hunger and heat.

His shirt hangs open now, and you push it from his shoulders, murmuring, “Too many clothes,” desperate to feel his skin against yours. He shrugs it off, chuckling against your lips.

"I agree," he murmurs, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity. As he tosses it aside, his eyes darken with appreciation, taking in the sight of you beneath him. "God, you're beautiful."

His palm cups your breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak as he lowers his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. You arch into his touch, fingers working at his belt buckle with growing urgency. The metal clinks as it comes free, and Steve shifts to help you push his pants down his hips.

The bed cradles you as Steve's weight settles over you, his body a perfect counterbalance of power and restraint. Every touch feels like a revelation, each kiss deeper than the last. His hands trace the curves of your body with reverence, as if mapping territories both familiar and new.

"You're beautiful," he whispers against your collarbone, his lips tracking a slow path downward. "So beautiful."

Your fingers explore the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath warm skin as he moves. When his mouth closes over your breast, a soft gasp escapes you, your back arching into the sensation. His beard creates a delicious friction against your sensitive skin, the contrast between softness and roughness heightening every sensation.

He sucks and lavishes your nipple with attention that makes your head spin before moving his mouth to your other breast and delivering more of the dizzying pleasure. Only when he has you squirming beneath him is he satisfied. He moves back up your body, and his mouth captures yours again.

Your hands slide over the muscled planes of his chest, marveling at the contrast between the softness of his skin and the hardness of the body beneath. When your fingers trace the defined ridges of his abdomen, following the trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Steve shivers beneath your touch, his breath catching as your fingers dip below the elastic of his boxers. The hardness of him strains against the fabric, his physical desire for you manifested plainly. You trace the length of him through the cotton, reveling in the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes darken to midnight as they hold yours.

"I need you," you whisper, emboldened by the naked want in his gaze. "All of you."

The words act like a catalyst. Steve moves with sudden purpose, stripping away the last barriers between you until there's nothing but skin against skin, heat against heat. His weight settles partially on you, one strong thigh slipping between yours as he claims your mouth again. You’re sure you’re going to forget to breathe, the way this man - your husband - kisses you in this moment.

His hand skims down your side, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding between your bodies. When his fingers find your folds again, you gasp against his mouth, your body arching into his touch. He explores you with gentle thoroughness, learning what makes your breath catch, what draws those soft moans from deep in your throat.

"Steve," you breathe, his name a plea as tension coils tighter within you. "Please."

He understands what you're asking for, positioning himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance. His eyes find yours, intense and questioning even now.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough with need but still so careful, so considerate.

In answer, you wrap your legs around his hips, drawing him closer. The first slow push of him entering you draws a moan from both your lips, the sensation of fullness, of completeness, overwhelming in its intensity. He moves with deliberate control, giving you time to adjust to him, his forehead pressed against yours.

"Yes," you whisper, tracing his cheekbone with trembling fingers. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Steve's eyes hold yours as he begins to move, setting a rhythm that quickly has you both breathing hard. The world narrows to this—to the perfect friction where your bodies join, to the sound of his breath against your ear, to the weight of him above you, anchoring you against the rising tide of pleasure.

His pace quickens, driven by your encouraging moans and the way your hips rise to meet each thrust. One of his hands slides beneath you, tilting your hips at an angle that has you gasping his name, your nails digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders.

"Steve," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips as pleasure builds within you, coiling tighter with each movement of his hips against yours.

"Let go," he murmurs against your throat, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I've got you."

His mouth captures yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last, as if he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

The exquisite tension builds and builds until it finally breaks like a wave crashing against shore, pleasure radiating outward from where your bodies join. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out, fingers gripping Steve's shoulders as if he's the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned liquid with sensation. He follows you moments later, his rhythm faltering as his release claims him, your name a reverent whisper against your throat.

For several heartbeats, neither of you moves, bodies still joined, breaths mingling in the narrow space between your faces. Steve's weight is carefully balanced on his forearms, his body a warm shelter above yours. When he lifts his head to look at you, the tenderness in his gaze makes your chest ache with an emotion too vast to name.

"Hey," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead with gentle fingers.

"Hey yourself," you reply, voice slightly hoarse.

As the aftershocks subside, Steve gathers you close, rolling to his side and bringing you with him. Your head finds the perfect resting place against his chest, where you can hear the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine as the world slowly expands beyond the two of you once more.

"That was..." you begin, struggling to find words adequate for what just transpired between you.

"Worth waiting for," Steve finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Though I've been thinking about it since that night in Tucson."

You smile against his skin. "Only since Tucson?”

His chuckle vibrates through his chest and into yours, a warm sound that wraps around you like a blanket. "Maybe before," he admits, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "Maybe since that day in the garden at the DAR headquarters when you told me what you really thought about my speech."

"That long?" you ask, tilting your head to look up at him, finding his expression soft with memory. That had been a sweltering hot afternoon in mid-July - long before you thought he viewed you as more than an ally.

"You surprised me," Steve says simply. "Not many people do that anymore."

You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly, drinking in the sight of him relaxed and unguarded in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. "For me it was the hospital visit in Chicago."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Really? That early?"

"Not consciously," you admit, tracing the line of his collarbone with your fingertip. Chicago had been the very tail end of June. "But looking back, that's when everything started to shift. You were so you, even when no one was watching."

Steve captures your wandering hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm. “I love you,” he declares for the first time, no restraint, voice firm and warm.

Your heart skips a beat, but you’re quick to respond in kind, grinning when you say, “I love you, too,” your face splitting into a wide grin.

The moment hangs between you, weightless and perfect. Steve's smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that way that makes your heart flutter. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your skin.

“I love you,” he says again.

You settle back against him, content in the circle of his arms as the sounds of the city filter in through the windows—distant sirens, the occasional car horn, the ambient hum that is uniquely New York. Tomorrow looms beyond this moment, with all its uncertainties and possibilities, but here, now, there is only this—the steady rhythm of Steve's heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his body, the love you’ve been building together finally spoken aloud.

"I've been thinking about this," he confesses, his voice still thick with emotion. "About tonight. About us. About what happens after tomorrow."

You flatten your palm over his chest, anchoring yourself against the tide of feelings his words evoke. "What do you think happens? After tomorrow?"

He’s quiet for a moment, and you wait. "I don't know what happens with the election. But I know what I want to happen with us."

Your heart beats faster, a flutter of anticipation rising in your chest. "Tell me."

Steve takes a breath, his hands sliding up and down your back, caressing your body with gentle reverence. "I want us to continue building our life together. The real one I feel like we’ve been nurturing—not just for the cameras or the campaign. I want mornings and evenings and all the moments in between."

The raw honesty in his voice catches at something deep inside you. This is Steve—the man beneath the mantle.

"I want that too," you whisper, the words feeling like a promise. "All of it."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against the solid warmth of his chest. Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony, but in this room, in this bed, time seems suspended—a perfect bubble of peace before tomorrow's storm.

"No matter what happens with the election," Steve murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "this—us—is real. It's the most real thing in my life."

You lift your head to look at him, taking in the sincerity etched across his features, the vulnerability in his eyes that he shows to so few. "Mine too."

His smile in response warms you from the inside out. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with tender precision. "Get some sleep," he whispers.

“You first,” you tease.

He laughs softly before kissing you once more before you both drift off.

next part: Election Day in New York, part 1

Did I include links for rooms at The Plaza, including the room type I decided I wanted you and Steve to spend the night together in? Yes. Yes, I did.

DID YOU ALSO GET TO FINALLY HAVE SEX WITH YOUR FANTASTIC HUSBAND? YES! THE THING WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! SLOWEST BURN OF ALL TIME, but I knew from the very beginning that I wanted your first time to be on the eve of the election, and even as the story gained more plot and put more and more chapters and developments between where we started and getting to this night, I'm so glad I stuck to that part of the original plan.

....can you believe I thought this story was only going to be six or seven chapters? 🤣

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#steve rogers smut #steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #slow burn #political au #steve rogers x y/n #red white & true #aspen wrote something #female reader #steve rogers x yn

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phoenixblaze1412 · 2 months ago

Note

So glad to see a Dottore writer! Can I ask for dottore and the segments with a reader who oversleeps a lot? someone who sleeps like 12-14 hours. sleepiest guy ever.

The first time Dottore realized how much you overslept, he assumed it was a one-time occurrence. A simple exhaustion, nothing more. But as time passed, it became glaringly obvious.

You were, without a doubt, the sleepiest person in all of Snezhnaya.

Twelve to fourteen hours of sleep a day? Completely normal for you.

Nodding off mid-experiment? A weekly event.

Disappearing for "just a quick nap" and waking up the next morning? Routine.

Dottore, of course, found it both fascinating and mildly concerning. As a scientist, he initially considered analyzing your sleep patterns, wondering if some neurological anomaly was at play.

But after repeated tests revealed nothing unusual besides an innate talent for sleeping anywhere, anytime. He resigned himself to the reality that you were simply like this. The segments, however, all had their own ways of dealing with your chronic drowsiness.

Alpha: The Most Responsible (and Slightly Annoyed)

Alpha took it upon himself to try and keep you on schedule. Emphasis on try as Theta would say. He’d knock on your door in the mornings with an exasperated sigh, already expecting no response.

“Wake up. It’s nearly noon.”

Silence.

Alpha knocked again, harder. “I’m not asking.”

Still nothing.

By the third attempt, he simply resorted to dragging your blanket off the bed, knowing it was the only thing that might stir you.

It didn’t.

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose before calling for the others. “We need backup.”

Theta: The Chaos Enabler

Theta found your sleepiness hilarious. Unlike Alpha, he wasn’t interested in fixing your sleep schedule—he was interested in seeing just how deep your slumber truly was.

“How long do you think it’ll take for them to wake up if I draw on their face?” he asked Zeta one morning.

Zeta, ever composed, sighed. “That’s childish.”

Theta grinned. “You’re right. We should stack things on them instead.”

Dottore eventually had to ban “experiments” involving your unconscious body when he walked in to find a precariously balanced tower of books, vials, and a very confused laboratory rat resting on your back while you continued to sleep peacefully.

Zeta: The Quiet Observer

Zeta didn’t interfere much with your sleeping habits, but he did take note of how it affected your well-being. If you had trouble focusing after waking up or if you seemed groggy for too long, he would wordlessly hand you a strong cup of tea and remind you to pace yourself.

“You don’t have to rush,” he’d say whenever you stumbled into the lab, hair still a mess from sleep. “Just be awake enough not to mix volatile chemicals incorrectly.”

That had happened once. Just once. And no one wanted a repeat of it.

Epsilon: The Concerned One

Unlike the others, Epsilon actually worried about your excessive sleeping. “Maybe it’s a deficiency,” he suggested one day. “Or an underlying illness. We should run more tests.”

Dottore hummed in consideration before glancing at you, drooling on your desk in the middle of a meeting. “…Or they could just be lazy.”

Epsilon frowned. “I don’t think laziness explains this level of unconsciousness.”

Dottore chuckled. “No, but watching the others struggle to wake them up is entertaining.”

Dottore: The Only One Who Can Wake You Instantly

Despite all the segments’ attempts, there was only one undeniable fact: when Dottore himself called your name, you woke up immediately.

Whether it was fear, respect, or some kind of Pavlovian response, no one knew.

Theta once tested this theory by mimicking Dottore’s tone and cadence. It failed miserably.

You slept through it.

But the moment the real Dottore leaned over your bed and murmured, “If you don’t wake up in the next ten seconds, I’m increasing your workload,” your eyes snapped open instantly.

Dottore smirked. “Fascinating.”

The others groaned. “That’s not fair.”

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #dottore #dottore x reader #zandik x reader #il dottore #il dottore x reader #gender neutral reader

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dairyfairyy · 5 months ago

Text

20 years isn't that old.

18 (and 1/2) is only two years less than 20. At eighteen, Two-bit lived in his laughs and jokes as the world around him deteriorated. The two kids he once babysat would be torn apart. He would say his goodbyes to one without knowing it, leaving the other dead inside.

17 is three years younger than 20. Dallas Winston and Steve Randle would have been in their last two years in high school. The two, instead of worrying about their futures, were forced to run, both taught how to keep their hands visible and keep their heads low when sirens passed by them on the street.

16 is four years younger than 20. Johnny Cade and Sodapop Curtis, the second youngest group in the gang. One dead in an attempt of being a hero, the other working to the bone to be the other pillar of support to help sustain a household. Sixteen is much closer to twenty, but still not far from ten.

14 is six years younger than 20. Ponyboy Curtis, not even fourteen for over two months, living through the unthinkable. Nearly burned alive, five people dead in less than a year, all but forcing him to live a nightmare.

20 isn't far off from 18. 18 isn't far off from 17. 17 isn't far off from 16. 16 isn't far off from 14. 14 isn't far off from 20.

Darrel Shaynne Curtis Jr. was 20 years old.

#guess who was stuck between the role of a brother and a father #loll wasn't me but u know who #idk what the point of this was i just wanted to spit out the fact that DARRY IS ONLY 20 #hes not an adult either you know #my dude is still learning how to be an adult himself #the outsiders #darry curtis #the outsiders 1983 #ponyboy curtis #sodapop curtis #johnny cade #dallas winston #steve randle #twobit mathews #its near 1am again so im sorry if it makes no sense 😭😭#i dont even think their ages are rightt💀#please tell me if they're not right bc i might die if these are the wrong ones

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elliesbelle · 1 year ago

Text

nobody compares to you

chapter 14

pairing: ellie x reader

synopsis: you're in your junior year of college and at a party, you run into the girl who broke your heart: ellie williams. despite the time it took to reset your life, will you risk a broken heart again for her?

content warnings: modern college au, cursing, angst, dealer!ellie, some setting is in a hospital, mentions of catheters and needles, descriptions and talk of anaphylaxis, mentions of financial difficulties, mentions of alcohol, mentions of toxic parents, mentions of death and suicide, minors do not interact

word count: 7.9k

chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen

series masterlist

my masterlist

i have a ko-if if you like my work so much that you feel compelled to tip me ♡︎

the "nobody compares to you" spotify playlist

palestine will be free

The first thing you feel is something plastic poking the inside of your nose. It smelled of chilly, medicinal air conditioning.

The next thing you feel is a massive, unpleasant weight on your chest. Then at the crown of your head. Then some weird pressure squeezing your calves every few seconds. Then an entirely full bladder.

“I need to fucking pee.” You mutter, voice dry and raspy.

“I think you can just go, dude.” A familiar voice replies.

You fight against the crustiness of your eyes but immediately regret it. All you can see through the slits of your eyelids is a harsh, white light.

“Am I… Am I fucking blind?” You whine.

“I’m pretty sure that your eyeballs are still inside your head. So hopefully not.” You hear the voice chuckle.

You fight against the unforgiving glare from above, forcing your eyes open. It takes a few moments to gain control of your body, but you’re eventually able to crane your neck towards where the voice had previously echoed from.

“J-Jesse?” You croak.

“Yeah. I’m here, bud.” Your raven-haired friend smiles.

You spot him to your left, sitting in, what appears to be, an uncomfortable armchair. He wore a blue disposable mask over his nose and mouth, his hair looking unkempt and unshowered, and you notice how his clothes look wrinkled and slept in.

“What happened? Are you alright? What’s going on?” You groggily inquire.

“You’re the one all strapped to a hospital bed, but you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

Jesse takes your hand and squeezes it appreciatively. He flashes you a soft, warm smile.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“I-I’m not sure…” You admit. “What… what the hell happened?”

“Well,” Jesse starts slowly. “You went on a date with Anderson to Orchards yesterday. At the end of it, you were being a total dummy and made out with her after she ate a whole plate of shrimp.”

“N-no, no,” You interrupt, scrunching your face up as you try to recall the previous day’s events. “She ate this whole soup thing for dinner. Some weird French dish with some weird-sounding name.”

“Bouillabaisse,” Jesse clarifies. “It’s a fish soup. It doesn’t always have shellfish in it, but hers apparently did.”

You groan.

“Oh, I am such a dumbass.”

“Please explain to me exactly how you were being a dumbass in this situation.”

“You literally just said that I was a dummy!”

“That was Jesse of the past. I’m a much more mature man now in my old age.”

You attempt to smack his arm, but he’s saved by the many coils of IVs attached to you, pulling your hand back.

As he playfully rebukes you for attempted physical abuse, another person enters the room. A kind-looking nurse walks in with a clipboard in hand. Wearing dark blue scrubs, a low ponytail, and a surgical mask, she greets you with a friendly wave. She approaches your bedside opposite Jesse, and her glasses-covered eyes indicate a friendly smile.

“Hi there,” She nods. “My name is Yoojin. I’m your nurse today. I’m so sorry for not being here when you woke up. I had to step out for a few seconds, but your brother here assured me that you were in capable hands.”

You turn to Jesse and mouth in amusement, “Brother?”

He suppresses a laugh.

“Later.” He whispers through his mask.

You turn to Yoojin with a small grin.

“No worries. I only just woke up now.” You assure.

She gives you, what you assume, is another smile under her mask.

“So how are you feeling?”

Jesse remained by your side the entire time, only leaving briefly when he needed to use the bathroom or take a call. He sympathized with your gripes about being bedridden, making lighthearted jokes about your catheter, messing around with the IPC devices off your legs over and over until a nurse came in and kindly asked him to stop.

The TV in your room wasn’t working, so he kept you entertained, cracking his usual dad jokes and telling some old stories of Jackson you hadn’t heard yet. You pretended not to notice that the anecdotes he’d recall always excluded an essential person in his childhood, and you tried your best not to remark on it.

After a couple of hours, Dina finally came around to visit. She walks in as you’re berating Jesse for stealing a fruit cup you knew you weren’t going to eat. The sight of her immediately warms your heart.

“Dina!” You exclaim. “Oh, I missed you.”

Dina sets her bag down next to Jesse, lowers her face mask for a moment to give him a quick peck on the cheek, and pulls up a chair next to him. She takes your hand and beams at you graciously. You notice that her eyes are slightly glassy.

“Oh, babe,” She sighs. “I missed you too. Sorry that I’m just getting here. Had to deal with a few things before I came over.”

“Don’t apologize, D. I’m just glad to see you.”

She squeezes your hand softly.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” She gulps. “You worried us so much.”

“Sorry about that,” You grin sheepishly. “I was being a bit of a dummy.”

Dina blinks for a moment before giving Jesse a smack on the back of his head at this.

“Oy vey. You asshole.” She chides knowingly.

“Hey! No need to abuse me! I’m delicate.”

He caresses the spot where she hit him as you laugh heartily.

The couple recounts the events of last night for you, explaining in detail as much as they know. You listen without interruption until they reach the topic of your EpiPen.

“But how’d you guys get to my EpiPen so quickly? Did you pass by my apartment?” You ask them curiously. “I don’t mind if you guys did! It’s just not that close to the restaurant. Wouldn’t have made much sense to book it back to my apartment, honestly.”

Dina and Jesse share a look you don’t understand. Your eyebrows furrow, confused by their hesitation. Eventually, Dina responds.

“Uh, well…” She begins slowly. “Jesse actually happened to have a spare EpiPen at his place. Thank god, right?”

“You did?” You turn your head towards Jesse. “I didn’t even know you had one, Jesse.”

“Y-yeah,” Dina continues cautiously as you notice Jesse’s expression shift to a poker face. “He used to have an, uh, egg allergy growing up.”

“What?” You ask incredulously.

“Yup,” Jesse chimes in. “I grew out of it when I was in high school. But my mom still insists that I have an EpiPen on me. Just in case.”

You continue to look completely discombobulated. You don’t fully buy their story, especially since neither were looking you directly in the face. But you’ve always trusted Dina as a sister and Jesse like a brother, so you half-heartedly accept the tale they’ve decided to present you with.

“Oh, okay,” You say, slightly unconvinced. “Well, thank god for that, I guess. Is it okay that you used it on me, though? What if you suddenly need it again?”

“No worries,” Jesse assures you. “I’ll call my mom and ask her to send me a new one.”

His poker face improves, so you concede for now.

The couple continue to recount the previous day’s events until they eventually catch up to the present.

“Only family is technically allowed to visit you in the ICU,” Dina confesses at one point. “Jesse had to say he’s your brother to get past the nurses' station. The nurse manning the desk at the time could definitely tell we were lying, but she was really nice and allowed it anyway.”

“Oh, gotcha,” You say. “Well, you’re basically my brother, anyway.”

“You should feel so lucky to share the same genes as me.” He boasts, stealthily avoiding yet another smack from Dina.

“What about you, D?” You ask, turning towards her. “What did you say you were? My sister?”

“Nah, I didn’t wanna be siblings with Jesse, even just as pretend.” She grimaces.

“Okay, yeah, didn’t think of that,” You realize, scrunching up your nose in total disgust at the thought. “Gross.”

“Wouldn’t be able to get that image out of my head.” Dina shudders. “Anyway, I told them that I’m your life partner.”

“My what?” You giggle.

“Hey, it counts!” Dina defends. “Well, kind of. The nurse had to list me as your ‘spouse’ instead, which feels like a hate crime.”

“Oh, shut up.” You laugh as Jesse chuckles.

“What? You don’t wanna be married to me?” Dina asks in mocking shock and offense.

“I am absolutely honoured to be married to you,” You assure her. “I’m just worried about poor Jesse. How in the world are we supposed to break it to him that we’ve actually been married for over ten years?”

“Oh, please, Jesse’s known from the start that he’s always just been a side piece.”

“Hey!” Jesse interjects in indignance. “I’m right here.”

“Be quiet, side piece. The wife and I are speaking.” Dina waves him off.

You burst out into laughter at Jesse’s playfully hurt expression.

The three of you discuss what the doctors have told you, and you eventually bring up the conditions required of you to be discharged.

“I know that the doctors and nurses saved my life and whatever. And of course, I’m very grateful. And I truly do not mean any disrespect,” You say. “But I want to get the fuck out of here, uhh, right fucking now.”

Dina smiles and Jesse chuckles.

“I know, babe.” Dina sympathizes.

“You’ll be out sooner than you know, bud,” Jesse adds. “Don’t stress over it. We’ll get you out as soon as possible.”

“Oh!” Dina suddenly pipes up and reaches into her bag. “I can’t believe I forgot. I brought your phone. I was able to grab your purse for you before the paramedics took you away. I turned it off and charged it at home, so it should have some juice.”

She places your phone in your hand, and you flash her a grateful smile.

“D, you need to be canonized for your good deeds, I swear. With a statue and everything.”

“Oh, I know,” Dina smirks. “Brought your wallet too. Not sure if you wanna keep it here or bring it back to your apartment, though.”

“I’ll ask them if I can keep it here with me.”

A thought suddenly hits you.

“I’ll… I’ll have to figure out how to pay for all this when I get out.” You sigh.

“Oh, babe,” Dina says reassuringly. “Don’t worry about any of that right now. Just focus on resting, okay?”

“Your insurance will hopefully take care of a huge chunk of it,” Jesse contemplates. “It’s through your dad, right?”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” You say as your hands begin to fidget anxiously. “Something as big as this, they’ll probably contact my parents. I… I can’t let them know I’m in here. I know it’ll start shit and… I just know it won’t be good.”

The couple give you identical, concerned looks.

“D-do they know? Th-that I’m in here?” You ask timidly.

“Not that we know,” Jesse replies. “Neither of them is on your emergency contact list. And you know that Dina and I would never speak to either of them. Unless it’s to tell them to shove a stick up their respective asses.”

You and Dina giggle.

“Speaking of which,” Dina adds. “You can ask your uncle. I called him yesterday while you were still out. I hope that’s alright.”

“Oh, that was so thoughtful of you,” You say gratefully. “What did he say? I hope he didn’t worry too much.”

“Honey, you almost died. Of course, he’s worried. He loves you.” She checks the time on her phone. “He should be arriving sometime later today, actually.”

“Shit,” You groan. “He didn’t have to do that. He gets so busy with work during this time of the year. This must have been so inconvenient—”

Jesse suddenly takes his thumb and middle finger and flicks you on the forehead.

“What the fuck!” You exclaim in indignance, rubbing the spot you were hit, as Dina gives him another hard smack on the head. Jesse ignores you both.

“You are more important than any goddamn job that exists in the world, in the whole motherfucking galaxy. Your uncle loves you, just as we do. So no more complaining about it, dumbass.”

You give him a pouty look, but his words fill your heart.

Your best friends stay the rest of the time until your uncle arrives around midday. Relief and affection overwhelm you when he enters the room. You squeeze him with the tightest embrace you can possibly give for someone essentially strapped to their hospital bed. You ignore the loud beeping resulting from the tangling of your many IV wires.

After your friends help you unravel all the cords, they gather their things and get up from their chairs.

“We’ll let you guys talk.” Jesse says, offering his seat to your uncle.

“Oh, you don’t have to leave.” Your uncle graciously assures them.

“It’s alright; have some family time,” Jesse insists kindly. “I’m pretty sure she can only have two visitors at a time, anyway.”

The couple make their way towards the sliding glass door.

“I cannot express how grateful I am for you two,” Your uncle says before they exit. “Thank you for saving her life. And thank you for keeping me in the loop.”

“Please, no need to thank us, really.” Dina nods kindly. “She’s family. We would do absolutely anything for her.”

“That means you’re both family to me too.” Your uncle concludes. “Thank you.”

You hold back tears of vast emotion from three of the most important people in your life exchanging such caring sentiments. You’ve never felt luckier.

“We’ll be in the waiting room,” Jesse promises. “Let us know if either of you needs anything, okay?”

Jesse and Dina take their leave, and your uncle subsequently takes a seat next to you.

“Oh, Uncle,” You start before he can speak. “I’m so, so sorry. You shouldn’t have flown all this way. I can’t believe I was so stupid to have—”

“Hey, hey,” Your uncle interjects. “None of that. You have no reason to be sorry. You needed me, so I’m here. I’m not mad, and this is not your fault.”

Tears form in the corners of your eyes.

“I just feel like I’ve inconvenienced so many people. If I could have just paid attention…” You lament. “And now I’ve totally made you drop everything to be here. I know you’ve still got work—”

“You are a thousand times more important than my job, sweetheart.” He shakes his head and squeezes your hand, echoing Jesse’s previous words.

“But…”

“You are my family. Nothing is more important than that.”

You smile at his adamancy.

“And especially since losing Rafael,” He continues. “I think of you as my own.”

“I know, Uncle.”

You squeeze his hand back in affection.

“D-did…” You suddenly say. “Did you tell—”

“No, your mother and father don’t know a thing about this.” He answers insightfully.

“Thank god.”

“Did you want me to tell them?”

You grimace. Your uncle chuckles.

“I figured as much.” He surmises.

“I just don’t know how to keep this from them forever, though,” You continue. “They’ll see it through the insurance company. I…”

“Don’t worry about that. I can talk to the nurses later today before I leave, see if I can pay it in full myself without needing to use your father’s insurance.”

“Uncle, please. Please don’t do that. This is going to be so costly, and you’ve still got your mortgage and Raf’s leftover student debt—”

“I just want you to focus on getting better, alright? I don’t want anything else on your plate right now.”

“Uncle, promise me. Please. Please promise me. Do not spend a single cent on this. I want to do this on my own. I’ll figure it out. Please promise me.”

He gives you nothing more than a smile in response.

Your friends and uncle take turns rotating as your company for the rest of the day. They’d only leave your side when the doctors and nurses needed to conduct extensive tests to ensure that you were still stable. You were never on your own for more than a few seconds, your loved ones determined that you not feel alone.

You’d turned your phone on almost immediately after Dina’d handed it to you. But as a small, gracious gesture of appreciation, you had set it aside to give your visitors your undivided attention for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t until the evening, when your friends and uncle waved you goodbye as visiting hours ended, that you allowed yourself to finally glance at your notifications.

Anxiously picking your phone up, the first thought you have is to call Abby. Jesse and Dina had mentioned she was with them in the waiting room the night before. But, like your friends, she was informed that she wasn’t permitted to see you in the ICU as she wasn’t family. Dina and Jesse sent her home with the promise to let her know as soon as possible when you finally woke up and that you were alright.

You notice that she’d messaged you earlier in the day. But much too embarrassed to face her just yet, you decide instead to first call your old freshman roommate.

Tara picks up after only two rings, almost as if she’d been waiting by the phone for your call. She greets you with a happy shriek of your full name, an amused giggle escaping your lips as a response to her sudden enthusiasm.

“Thank fucking god!!! I’ve been waiting all fucking day to hear the sound of your voice!”

“Umm, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” You reply, smirking. “This is actually Satan, here to leave a message. I’m calling to let you know that I will be collecting your mortal soul sometime during the next 24 hours.”

“Oh nooooo,” Tara plays along. “What on earth have I done to warrant eternal damnation, Miss Satan?”

“Not sure if you know, but homosexuality is actually a cardinal sin. And unfortunately, you seem to be a notorious, flaming homosexual. I know, I know; it’s quite disappointing. But alas, I do not make the rules.”

“But Miss Satan, are you not a homosexual too?”

“Well, that’s exactly how I know it’s a sin.”

The two of you crackle at each other’s banter, and you make plans in your head to spend more time with Tara and the rest of the girls after you’re released from the hospital.

You and Tara chat for a little while about the most mundane things, like her classes the day before and her plans for the weekend. She apologizes for not having more to say and for “being so boring,” but you’re genuinely happy to just hear her prattle off about anything.

At some point, she hands her phone over to Astrid, who greets you with a similarly delighted shriek that her girlfriend had received you with prior. She gushes over you with love and concern, insisting that she and all the Wilson girls come to visit you as soon as you’re out and adjusted.

“Tara just about broke down when I told her about it.” She reveals. “She was about to leave for her shift at Ruston’s when Dina called, and I’m pretty sure the whole dorm could hear her sobbing.”

“What?! I did not!” You hear Tara shout from a short distance.

“You had so much snot running down from your nose that I just about hosed your face down before you left!” Astrid yells back.

“Stop telling her that! She doesn’t need to hear all that!!”

You giggle at the couple’s repartee.

“Anyway,” Astrid continues. “Kris, Sid, and I tried to come down for a visit, but they apparently only let family in. Jesse and Dina seemed to have monopolized the fake roles of being your family already.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, Addy.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” She brushes off. “I’m just glad that you haven’t been alone there. Those two really care about you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Dina started to make a whole fuss when they wouldn’t let us past,” Astrid continues. “Threatened to sue the nurses, all the doctors, the entire hospital. The receptionist nurse didn’t even get a chance to kick her out ‘cause Jesse himself forced her to go leave and take a walk to calm down. I don’t think she came back until a couple of hours later.”

“Yeah, that sounds like our Dina.” You snort.

The two of you discuss what you’d like to do whenever you finally get released, Astrid swearing to get you out of your apartment nearly every day after your discharge.

“I don’t think I have all the stamina for all that, babe.” You chuckle.

“Then you better get yourself to the gym with Jesse, and build that stamina the fuck up! I want your sexy self at parties and clubs, living your best 20s life with us!”

You chuckle warily at this, simultaneously pushing away the reminder of who Jesse’s daily workout partner is.

After saying your goodbyes to Tara and Astrid, you make brief calls to the rest of the girls of the Wilson Crew. They all answer your calls with an assortment of jubilant greetings, each girl expressing their elation and gratefulness that you’re finally awake and safe.

You send individual texts of love to Dina, Jesse, and your uncle, thanking them extensively for coming to your aid and expressing your excitement to see them again very soon.

Having done your rounds of gratitude, you finally acknowledge that you can no longer ignore the unread texts of the blonde-braided woman you’d had your near-fatal dinner with. You open up your message thread with Abby to see that she’d sent you only three texts earlier in the day.

You stare at her text.

Oh. Huh.

No part of you blamed Abby for the incident; in fact, you’d been feeling a tremendous amount of remorse for putting her through such a traumatizing and jarring ordeal. It had been plaguing you so much since you woke up that you were far too embarrassed to ask Jesse and Dina more about her.

But something about her texts bothers you. There was very little warmth and familiarity in her messages. Her words didn’t seem that of the woman who had been walking you to your classes every day, who showed you off to her friends at the Bow and the Arrow, who treated you to a lavish restaurant on a fancy date. Who kissed you with so much passion on the sidewalk of that same restaurant the evening before.

Is… Is she angry with me?

You continue to stare at her strange messages for several more minutes, unable to process the situation you’re somehow in now. You can’t think of an appropriate response that would lead to something honest, so you decide to put your response off.

A-at least until after they release me… At least until I get home…

The doctors only began to discuss the possibility of your discharge early Sunday morning. Though it hadn’t even been a full two days since your admittance, it took everything in you not to practically beg them to let you go. You’d been insisting to anyone who’d listen that you were completely fine, that you’d walk right out yourself if you weren’t strapped to your bed with a million wires.

It wasn’t until midday, as you were mercilessly beating Jesse’s Shy Guy as Pink Gold Peach in Mario Kart, that Yoojin walked into your room with good news. You don’t notice her at first, too busy taunting Jesse for landing in 7th place while you scored 1st.

“You only won because I got Lakitu’d in the second lap! Fuckin’ Isabelle was sending red shells at me nonstop…” Jesse gripes.

“Sucks. Sounds like a personal problem, man.” You shrug.

“Alright, I want a rematch, but on the Egg course this time.”

“You’re such a sore fucking loser!”

“There’s a shortcut on Yoshi’s circuit close to where the finish line is, by the way,” Yoojin interjects, eyes smiling. “If you use a mushroom and drift to the hidden waterfall on the right, it’ll get you pretty far ahead.”

You and Jesse look up, a bit sheepish at her witnessing your juvenile behaviour. The nurse looks completely unbothered by it, however, and she approaches your bed as you place your controller down.

“Aww, come on, Yoojin,” You whine. “Don’t tell him that! I’m on a winning streak!”

“Shh,” Jesse shushes you, attempting to cover your face with one hand. “Don’t listen to her, Yoojin. She’s delirious from all the drugs you’ve been pumping her with. I must know all your secrets, ‘cause I swear, this one is cheating.”

“Maybe later,” Yoojin laughs as you flick Jesse’s forehead. “Because you might want to hear what your doctor just told me.”

Your ears perk up at this.

“I can go home?”

“Your most recent labs just came back, and everything looks good.” Yoojin nods. “And your vitals have been stable for the last 24 hours. So unless you plan on wolfing down ten pounds of shrimp sometime before leaving, we can get started on getting you released sometime later today.”

Your face breaks out in a huge smile, and you turn to grasp Jesse’s arm.

“Dude! I can go home!” You exclaim.

“Yes, I heard,” Jesse says. You can feel his smirk through his face mask. “Finally.”

You turn back to Yoojin.

“I can go right now?” You ask.

“It’ll take a couple of hours to make sure everything’s set for your discharge,” Yoojin says, chuckling at your eagerness. “But just hang tight, and you’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Why don’t you guys settle things here while I go tell your uncle?” Jesse offers.

Your uncle had stepped out to get some lunch at the hospital’s food court not too long ago. He and Jesse had arrived on the dot when visiting hours began earlier in the day. Dina had accompanied them but left shortly after to take care of other obligations, promising to be right back the second she was done.

“Oh, that’d be great,” You say. “Thanks, Jess.”

“No worries, bud. I’ll be right back.”

He gives you a pat on the head before leaving you alone with the nurse.

“So before you leave, we’ll go over a few things to make sure you don’t suddenly relapse during the next few days,” Yoojin begins. “And we’ll make sure you go home with a couple of new, unexpired EpiPens, just in case.”

You nod as she goes on to explain the plans for your discharge. You listen attentively, determined not to end up back in the hospital like this again. As Yoojin wraps up, you work yourself up to ask her a question that’s been at the tip of your tongue since the beginning of the conversation.

“Hey, umm, before you go,” You mutter nervously. “I wanted to ask about how much all of this will cost me. I-I know it’ll be pricey and all, especially with two brand new EpiPens, so I just want to be prepared.”

“That’s not really something I can help you with,” Yoojin replies apologetically. “That’s the jurisdiction of the hospital’s billing department. But I’m sure you can get it all settled with your insurance after you’ve been released. Depending on what you have, they should cover most of it.”

You give her a tentative smile as you wring your blanket between your fingers.

“A-alright then.” You sigh defeatedly.

It takes about two hours for you to finally be released from all your restraints and another hour until you’re finally walking out of the hospital and into the sunny parking lot. Yoojin allowed you a quick embrace before you left, insisting that you promise to be much more careful from here on out.

You lean against your uncle and Jesse for support as you exit the hospital’s automatic sliding doors, legs still a little shaky after being bedridden for so long. Dina pulls up next to you in her car and gets out to open the passenger door.

“M’lady.” She says with a bow, gesturing to the seat.

“Shut up, D.” You laugh, rolling your eyes.

“You sure you’ve got everything?” Your uncle inquires.

“I think so,” You reply. “Didn’t really bring anything with me.”

“Alright, well, I’ll head to my hotel room first so I can take care of a few things. I’ll meet the three of you at your apartment sometime later today. Sound good?”

You, Jesse, and Dina all nod in unison. Before he walks away, you wrap your arms around him in a tight hug.

“Thank you so much, Uncle,” You murmur. “It means so much to me that you came.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart. Anything at all.”

He gives you a quick squeeze before releasing you, promising he won’t take very long before walking away towards his rental car.

“So,” Dina chimes. “Wanna grab some gross, greasy non-hospital food on the way home?”

When you finally cross the threshold of your apartment, you’d already wolfed down the majority of your fries along with half a chocolate milkshake. You collapse onto your couch with a relieved sigh, your best friends falling next to you on either side. You lean your head onto Dina’s shoulder as you take her hand between both of yours.

“I think I’m about to go into the world’s longest food coma.” You decree.

“I’m right alongside you, dude.” Jesse agrees, having devoured one and a half burgers himself on the way.

“No comas, please, or we’re gonna have to turn right back around and readmit you into that hospital.” Dina says.

“Never again, please,” You beg. “If I have to hear the nonstop beeping of a heart monitor for one more second, I’m going into straight-up fight-or-flight mode.”

Your friends chuckle.

“Alright,” Jesse eventually says as he sits up straighter. “Now that you’ve been freed, what do you want to do first?”

You hum as you ponder his question.

“Get so blackout drunk that I totally forget this entire experience ever even happened in the first place?” You offer.

“Right, well, perhaps we can do something that isn’t completely stupid and detrimental to your health. Especially after you were just in the hospital after almost dying.” Dina retorts.

You boo her as Jesse chuckles.

“Well,” You continue. “I guess I should tell the girls I’m finally out. I promised them I would. Or did you guys say anything to them already?”

“Not yet,” Dina says. “They’ll probably want to hear it from you.”

You groan.

“You’re right. Ugh. I don’t think I can handle the sheer amount of screaming and excitement that’ll come with it, though. Kris sounded like she was going to smother me with so much love that I’d suffocate from it.”

“You can always put it off, at least until tomorrow.” Jesse counters.

“I guess so. You think they’ll be mad?”

“Babe,” Dina says, squeezing your hands and rolling her eyes. “You almost died. I think they’ll survive a day.”

“Alright, alright,” You giggle. “I probably should focus on getting work done before class tomorrow, anyway.”

“Ma’am, I know you are not thinking of going to your classes right after you were just in the hospital all weekend.” Jesse scolds sternly.

“I’m fine!”

“Dear lord.” Jesse sighs, exasperated.

“Like I said,” Dina repeats. “You almost died. School is not a priority right now. You need to be resting, not writing essays and doing homework.”

“I don’t want to fall behind!”

“Didn’t your doctor give you a school note before we left earlier? She said you can give it to your professors to excuse you from your classes this week.”

“Yeah, but it’s not mandatory or anything. I’m fully recovered now, so it just seems totally unnecessary.”

“Like hell it is!” Dina bellows before releasing your hands to stand up from the couch. You fall flat on your face onto her spot when her shoulder disappears from under your head, and you muffle irritated curses into the couch cushion. You look up to see she’s disappeared momentarily into your bedroom.

“D… What are you doing?”

Dina reemerges after a few seconds, your laptop in her hands.

“Babe. What’d you get that for?” You ask suspiciously.

“I’m emailing all of your professors myself to tell them that you will not be attending any of your classes this week. Especially since it seems that you want to be such a stubborn dumbass about it…” Dina says matter-of-factly, shoving your head away from her spot on the couch to sit beside you once more.

“Never should have given you my password.” You grumble as Dina opens up your laptop and easily bypasses your lockscreen.

“Alright, who are all your professors again?” She asks, opening up your browser to access your email.

“I’m not telling you!” You reply stubbornly, crossing your arms.

“Hmm… I know she’s got Olinick’s double class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Mulligan at least on Mondays—” Jesse lists, counting your professors on one hand.

“No, no, no, I don’t!” You turn towards him, shoving your hands in his face.

“—I think Joslin from the English department too, but I can’t remember if that was last year or this year.”

“Jesse!”

By the time your uncle arrives at your apartment, you’d conceded to your best friends and allowed them to draft an excuse email to all of your professors. Dina opens the door for him after he knocks while you make final edits to your letters, and he settles into the ratty, secondhand armchair right next to the couch.

Your uncle chuckles at the scene before him: you with a focused look on your face typing rapidly on your laptop, Jesse leaning back into the couch while gently patting the top of your head as he continued to make suggestions to your email, and DIna taking her seat right back next to you before kicking her feet onto your lap as you lift and place your laptop on top of her legs. It had been a while since your uncle had seen you so relaxed around other people, the last time being right before your freshman year of college. His fondness for your best friends quickly grows by the second.

You look up from your work for a moment to smile warmly at your uncle, and he returns it with one of his own.

“Hi, Uncle! Sorry, I’m just finishing up this email to my professors.”

“No need to apologize, sweetheart. You telling them you won’t be attending any classes this week?”

“Yup,” Jesse answers for you. “Took a lot of bullying on our part to convince her not to overwork herself with school right now.”

“This dummy wanted to go back to classes right away as if nothing happened.” Dina rolls her eyes as she extracts a foot from underneath your laptop to kick you softly, earning her a stern “Hey, hey, hey!” from you.

“Well, thank goodness she has you two to set her straight.” Your uncle chuckles.

“Oh, she’s absolutely lost without us.” Jesse says, continuing to pat the top of your head.

Your uncle smiles. He can tell that Jesse’s joking around, but he knows that the couple have both been selflessly keeping you alive for the past few years.

“So how are you feeling?” Your uncle continues with concern etched on his face.

“Not so bad,” You admit. “Just so glad to be among civilians once again.”

You feel Jesse rub your upper back kindly.

“I’m sure,” Your uncle smiles kindly. “How about we talk about what you’re going to do now that you’re out?”

The four of you discuss what the next, post-hospital visit steps would be. They remind you of the check-up appointment you have later in the week, caution you once more about what foods you need to constantly be looking out for, and double-check that you have your new EpiPens handy and within constant reach.

“I still have my current EpiPen in the bathroom,” You say. “It hasn’t lapsed yet. So maybe I can give you each of the ones they sent me home with, if that isn’t too much of an inconvenience to either of you guys?”

You turn towards Dina then Jesse.

“You sure?” Jesse asks.

“Yeah, I mean, I obviously don’t want something like this to happen again. But if, by some hideous trick of fate, I end up in a repeat situation, it might be smart to just have one in multiple places. Just to cover my bases, I guess.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Dina nods. “As long as you have easy access to one at all times.”

“Yeah, that was my thinking too,” You agree. “Plus, I don’t want to have to use one of yours again, Jess.”

“Mm, I guess.” Jesse hums.

Your eyes meet his and you once again recognize his poker face.

“That sounds like a good plan,” Your uncle agrees. “Let’s try not to rely on just luck next time around.”

You give him an apologetic smile.

The sun had been set for at least an hour when Dina and Jesse finally took their leave. Both offer to stay the night, in case you suddenly need either of them, but you assure them that you’ll survive one night alone just fine. You embrace each of them tightly, putting every ounce of gratitude you have into your hugs.

You settle back onto the couch after you see them both out the door, and you turn towards your uncle still sitting in the armchair.

“I know I’ve said this probably a hundred times the past day or so,” You begin. “But thank you for coming, Uncle.”

“I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t come,” He replies. “Neither would Raf if he was still around.”

You both share a sad smile.

“I miss him, Uncle…” You whisper suddenly.

“I know. I do too.”

You sigh before continuing.

“I wish he was still here. I feel… I feel so incomplete without him around. Like this has all been an awful nightmare that I have yet to wake up from.”

“I know just what you mean,” Your uncle laments. “But our lives still go on, sweetheart. I think it’d make him sad to see us grieving him for the rest of our lives.”

“But… it just feels so wrong. It feels so wrong to stop grieving for him, to move on from him.”

“It’s not exactly moving on from him,” Your uncle ponders. “It’s more like… We make a place for him in our hearts. It’s sort of like he becomes a part of us. He’ll always be in everything we do.”

Your eyes well up as a childhood memory floods your thoughts.

When you were eleven years old, you had your first anaphylactic experience. You and Rafael were hanging out at his house, your uncle at work all day. You were making a mess in the kitchen, developing concoctions with half the contents of the pantry. As you were dumping a bag of marshmallows into a blender full of graham crackers and banana slices, Rafael fished an old bag of chips out of one of the cabinets.

The writing on the bag was all in a language you couldn’t understand, but the superheroes on the front seemed to be enjoying the crunchy snack. Raf was tearing the bag open before your greasy fingers started grabbing at its contents.

It didn’t even take two minutes until Rafael realized something was wrong. You were annoyed and taken aback when he slapped the chips out of your hand. It wasn’t until he was hauling you to the garage and strapping you into the passenger seat that you began to feel dizzy. By the time Rafael had driven to the emergency room, your skin had broken out into hives and your throat felt completely swollen. The last thing that you remembered before blacking out was your faithful cousin scooping you up and sprinting to the emergency room’s entrance.

You didn’t hear the end of it from your parents when you’d woken up from being unconscious after a couple of hours. Your mother spared no shame in relentlessly admonishing you, regardless of who was in the room, for your “stupidity.” The doctors and nurses offered you continuous looks of pity as they had to witness your many verbal lashings, though none stepped in to interfere. You were blamed for inconveniencing the family, for forgetting your EpiPen at home, for “forcing” Rafael to drive a car when he didn’t have his driver’s license yet, for obligating your parents to pay for your medical bills.

From that day on, your fear of your parents’ wrath was far greater than the fear of possibly falling prey to your fatal allergy.

All that gave you hope was your uncle and cousin coming to your defense. Unlike your parents, they showered you with care and love, especially Rafael who felt guilty and responsible for your admission. They nursed you back to health after you were released, Rafael promising you that he’d never let it happen to you again.

“Can I tell you something, Uncle?” You ask. “I didn’t even tell Jesse or Dina this. And I don’t think I ever could.”

“You never even have to ask, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”

“I…” You gulp. “There was a point… while I was in the ICU that I was a little lucid for a few moments…”

You wring your fingers together in uneasiness as you stare down at your lap, unable to meet your uncle’s eyes.

“I… I didn’t know what was happening to me. I didn’t know I was going through anaphylaxis again. But I just knew… I felt that something was wrong with me.”

Your uncle listens to you intently, his chin on his hands folded as if he were praying.

“Something inside me… Somehow, I knew that I was dying,” You continue. “Or I knew that at that moment, I could die. I could keep going… or I could choose to let my body give out completely.”

You finally meet your uncle’s gaze.

“And I wanted to. I wanted to just… go,” You confess. “Not in a s-suicidal way. Not exactly, at least.”

Your eyes fill with thick tears.

“But… I wanted to be with him again. I knew that if I gave in, if I succumbed to whatever was killing me, I would see him again.”

Your bottom lip shakes as you continue.

“I miss him so f-fucking much, Uncle. I don’t know how to go on without him around. I’m so l-lost and confused, and all I want to do is talk to h-him about it. But I can’t. There’s n-nobody else in this world that I’ve ever felt as close to as him. Maybe except—”

You break off before you can finish, shaking off the memory of ocean green eyes and a constellation of freckles. The look on your uncle’s face tells you that he already knows how your sentence was going to end, but he says nothing.

“He told me he’d never let anything happen to me. He was always supposed to be here with me,” You sob. “I know that’s selfish. I know that his life didn’t revolve around me. But so much of mine did. I planned… I built my life to always include him. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”

Your uncle’s sad eyes watch as you roughly wipe your cheeks of the tears uncontrollably streaming down.

“Sweetheart…” Your uncle begins as he stands up from the armchair to sit next to you on the couch. “You are not selfish. I know how much he meant to you. How much he still means to you.”

He takes your hands between his.

“I just…” You sniffle. “It’s been years. I thought I’d healed from it already. I thought I’d moved past all the pain.”

“It’s not a continuous thing, dealing with your grief.” Your uncle smiles softly. “You’ll have moments, hard ones where it’ll all feel raw and fresh again. It doesn’t mean you’re weak or selfish. You just have your own way of handling your sadness.”

You nod in acknowledgement of his words.

“But I think we both owe it to Raf to live our lives, to be happy without him around,” He continues. “His gift to us was time. Time with him and great memories. Even if he’s no longer with us, we’ll continue to carry that gift with us wherever we go.”

Your uncle smiles and you return it, though wistfully.

“I’m very grateful that you trusted me to share this with me,” Your uncle begins. “But don’t be afraid to talk about this with your friends. Especially those two.”

“Jesse and Dina?”

He nods.

“I see just how much they love you,” Your uncle says. “They seem like they would do absolutely anything for you. And I am so grateful that you have people like that in your life.”

“Yeah, they… mean so much to me.”

“I’m glad. So, please. If I’m not around, don’t be afraid to confide in those two. I’m sure if the roles were reversed, you’d do the same for them.”

“I’d do absolutely anything for them.”

“Exactly. So don’t be afraid to embrace the love in your life. You deserve that. And that’s exactly what Rafael would want for you.”

You throw your arms around your uncle and sob into his shoulder.

You and your uncle continue to talk for a while until you realize that it’s nearly midnight. Like your friends, he offers to stay the night in case you need him. But you know his flight home was only in a few short hours, so you insist that he go back to his hotel to get a bit of sleep before he needs to leave for the airport.

It took everything in you not to beg him to stay, but you couldn’t bear troubling him further. And you longed to finally have some time to yourself, so you put on a brave face.

After your many assurances that you would take care of yourself better, you walk him to your front door. When you open it up, you both notice a simple brown box with a thin bow placed on top of your doormat. You pick it up, noticing how light it feels in your hands.

“What is this?” You mutter.

“You got a package?” Your uncle asks, looking at the box.

“No… I didn’t order anything.”

“Strange. Maybe your friends Dina and Jesse left it for you.” He offers.

“I… I guess,” You frown. “Although, I don’t really know why they wouldn’t just give it to me when they were here earlier.”

“Hmm, that’s true,” He hums, squinting his eyes at it. “A secret admirer, perhaps?”

“Ha ha, Uncle. Very funny.”

You give him an amused grimace before untying the bow and removing the lid. You gasp as you recognize what it contains.

“Oh…”

You drop the box and embrace its previous contents.

“My Barbie Bear…”

author's notes:

thank y'all so much for you patience waiting for this new chapter to come out. i literally wrote like, half of this while in the psych ward, and that was all the way in decemeber sldkfjlsdk

tbh i meant this chapter to be a lot shorter than it turned out to be but lskdjfs more content for y'all ig!

reader's first words after waking up is inspired by me saying, "i need to poop so bad" when the doctors were busy working on me in the emergency room lmaoooo

silver lining of me being in the icu back in december is being able to describe it in detail in this chapter hehe. being in the icu suuuuucked but mostly cause it was boring and cold and i wasn't allowed to get up to pee!!!

the nurse yoojin is named after one of my nurses while i was in the hospital. i loveddddd her, she was such a sweetheart and it made me so happy whenever she was assigned to me. i was rewatching arcane while i was in the hospital, and she saw and asked me about it, and then we gabbed about the show and league of legends (cause she religiously plays the game but hasn't watched arcane yet), and i eventually convinced her to actually watch the show heeeheee

reader’s uncle saying he sees reader as his own is what uncle iroh says to zuko in atla, fun little easter egg heehee (you know me and my love for easter eggs)

reader greeting tara on the phone as satan was how i first greeted my best friend when i was finally able to call her through the public phone in the psych ward (hi rhi LOL)

pink gold peach is my main in mario kart lol

reader's professors mentioned are all named after old professors from my former college's theatre department (rip dennis, miss you always ❤️)

reader’s uncle telling her “we make a place for him in our hearts” in regards to rafael is what tara in buffy the vampire slayer says to dawn when their mom dies (can you tell i love btvs)

working on the next chapter asap, lmk what you think of this chapter in the meantime!

also i made an ao3, so if you wanna read on there too, check it out!

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decentwritings · 7 months ago

Text

Chapter 6

Summary: You’re unable to grasp the luck you have. You were raised to run from danger, to go the opposite direction of bad influences. So when you somehow find yourself right in the center of it, you discover that running wasn’t exactly what you were taught. It only took GhostFace and a pretty girl to remember that.

previous part <- -> final part

The slam of the trunk echoes through the night, reminding you of the weight of your decision. Each sound reverberates in the still air, amplifying the finality of what's been set in motion. Your pulse quickens, matching the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your ears. It's too late to turn back now.

Right?

With each passing second, the quiet seems to press down on you, the darkness around offering no comfort. You're alone with your thoughts, the reality of the situation settling in with an unsettling chill.

Your fingers trace the top of the trunk, the rust is there and you swore to yourself you would never let the paint get this bad. Maybe putting the car through a 14 hour trip was a bad idea.

Running did some damage to this car. Running will do some damage to them.

Just when you were getting the hang of it; the plan, you've resorted to your habit. A habit, you now recall, your father taught you to fight against.

The tarp is pulled off and a cloud of dust floats with it. You cough, waving your hand to blow the dust away from your face.

Your dad laughs, and it's then you finally see what the tarp was hiding. His old, beat up Toyota Chaser that he had sold last year. You only know it's the same one because of the sticker you stuck on the front bumper when you were ten. Your dad tried everything but the sticker just wouldn't peel off.

You told him it was sign not to sell it, that it belonged to the family and should stay with the family. He sold it anyway, the need for money bigger than the meaning of the car.

"Bought it back from the guy I sold it to," your dad explains, circling the car to stand in front of you. All you can do is stare at him, unable to find words to describe how you feel.

Your brother learned how to drive with this car. Your sister learned how to drive with this car. When you got the news he was selling the car, you were fourteen and your mom was adamant your father didn't teach you how to drive until you were sixteen. So it really bummed you out when he sold the car.

But here the car is. And you're eighteen and only know how to drive an automatic.

Your dad grins, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. "I promised I'd teach you how to drive a stick, didn't I?"

You catch the keys, staring down at them in your hand. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, like a responsibility you're ready for. And there's a look in your dad's eyes–pride, determination–it pushes you to nod.

When you hop in the car, you grip the steering wheel. While it's just an average, worn out steering wheel, you feel like it's brand new. You remember watching the car drive away after it was sold, the blinking brake light in the distance flashing in your mind. It was like it was teasing you, laughing at you for never sitting in the driver's seat.

But here you are, keys in hand and foot on one of three pedals. You put the keys in the ignition and recall the trick your father taught you to turn the car on. He chuckles when you successfully turn the vehicle on. It roars to life, shaking the car before finally settling.

"I thought you sold it for good," you voice softly, still in disbelief. You are holding the steering wheel, feel it under your fingertips yet it still feels unreal.

Your dad shrugs. "I thought so too," he admits, hand palming the dash. He pats it a few times. "We were going through a rough patch financially when I sold the car. We almost lost the house," he informs you.

You whip your head, looking at him, disbelief all over your face. "We almost lost the house?"

He nods quietly. "Yeah," he shrugs. "And believe me, it would have been easy to just...leave and start somewhere new, cheaper. But this place is home, the neighbors are our friends, family."

You arch a brow. "We've never shared a word with the neighbors," you retort.

"We wave at each other when we get the mail or take the trash out," your dad counters, waving a hand dismissively. "My point is, things got hard, and running sounded great but...it also would have hurt you and your brother and sister."

You look out the windshield, giving the streets a real look. While you grew up here, you never really thought much of it, the neighborhood. The streets always seemed the same, the houses all blending together. But now, sitting in the driver's seat of your dad's old car, it feels different—like there's a story behind every corner, every mailbox.

"Things aren't always easy," your dad continues, his voice pulling you back. "But we don't just quit when they get hard. We stick it out, we fight for what matters." He pauses, looking at you. "And that's something you need to remember, especially now."

You glance over at him, the weight of his words sinking in. This isn't just about learning to drive a stick; it's about life. About not giving up when the road gets bumpy, about pushing through when everything feels like it's falling apart. You had the tendency of giving up, even at the simplest things like learning how to play guitar, or piano. Hell, you wanted to drop out of high school your sophomore year.

"I get it," you say, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. "Thanks for bringing the car back."

Your dad smiles, a soft, proud expression crossing his face. "You're ready for this. More than you think."

"What if..." you hesitate, unsure to continue. But he encourages you with a nod. "What if I mess up?" you finally ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

Your dad's smile doesn't waver. He leans back, crossing his arms, and lets out a small chuckle. "You're gonna mess up. That's part of the deal. You think I didn't stall this car a hundred times when I first learned?" He raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to believe otherwise. "The important thing isn't if you mess up—it's that you keep going."

You chew the inside of your cheek, thinking it over. It's always been like that with you—one mistake or it gets tough and you'd want to quit, walk away before it got too hard. But now, sitting here, hearing your dad's words, you feel something shift. Maybe it's the car, maybe it's the moment, or maybe it's just time you start believing you can handle more than you think.

"You'll get it," your dad continues, patting your shoulder. "Just take it one step at a time."

You swallow thickly, feeling emotional suddenly. "You'll stay here...with me until I get it?" You ask, and a look of disbelief crosses his face. It's like he can't believe you would ask that. "You won't give up on me?"

"I'll be here it until you no longer need me," he answers, caressing your head gently. He brushes your hair down, soothingly and carefully.

You stare at the dashboard, a light is on signaling something is wrong with the car and you haven't learned what it meant yet. It dawns on you, "I'm always gonna need you."

Your dad's expression softens at your admission, and he pulls you in for a brief, reassuring hug. "You might think that now, but trust me, there will come a time when you'll be able to drive on your own. Just like I had to learn," he says, releasing you but keeping a warm gaze fixed on your face.

Feeling a swell of emotion, you nod, trying to push back the lump in your throat. "I just... I don't want to mess up and disappoint you."

He shakes his head firmly. "You could never disappoint me. It's okay to make mistakes; that's how we learn. I just want you to fight for what you want, even when it gets tough." Then he shrugs. "And hey, if you want to give up and run, that's fine too. But I just want you to try first; do everything you can. Don't give up just as you're starting to get the hang of it."

You take a deep breath, letting his words wash over you. For so long, you had let the fear of failure dictate your actions, but now, in this moment, with the keys in your hand and your dad beside you, you can feel a flicker of hope sparking within.

"Okay, I promise," you say, a bit of determination creeping into your voice. "Let's do this."

With that, you put the key in the ignition once more, turning it. The engine roars to life again, and you feel a rush of adrenaline. Your dad nods approvingly, a proud grin spreading across his face.

That's how you wanted to remember your dad—not as a pale, bedridden man struggling to take a breath, but as the vibrant, larger-than-life figure who taught you to fight through adversity. He once told you he didn't want to be remembered that way, not as a dying, ugly, pale old man–his words. A part of you resents yourself for honoring that wish, because deep down, you want him to know that you, your mother, your sister, and your brother will be okay.

Even though you all still need him, he has taught you enough to navigate life without him. His lessons echo in your mind—the resilience, the determination, the unwavering belief that giving up is never an option. You recall those moments shared in the old Toyota Chaser, each lesson woven into the fabric of who you are.

You throw your head back, groaning loudly. Once again, it echoes throughout the night. You lock your car before trudging back to your dorm.

As Deadpool would say, "I'm no hero. But when you find out your worst enemy is after the best girl, the time has come to be a fucking superhero."

"I'm in my Deadpool era," you chuckle, cracking your neck. The current plan right now is to find weapons. God only knows what these weird college students hide away in their dorms for protection.

"Maximum effort," you say, cracking your knuckles and grunting before kicking in the first door.

\\\\\

Danny stares at the building, hating this gnawing feeling in his gut. Each minute without a sign of life from anyone just makes the feeling grow more intense.

Sam told him to stay out here. She said since it's obvious they shouldn't have trusted you, they shouldn't trust him. It hurt, but Danny couldn't argue with her. After everything that's happened, trust is fragile, and with you gone—disappeared without a trace—he's left with no defense.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes fixed on the building's dark windows. The silence feels suffocating, like the calm before the storm. Every second that passes without a sound, without a signal from inside, makes his heart race faster.

Then, he hears fast footsteps running. They sound like they're getting closer and closer, so he turns and prepares himself for a fight. His fists raise and he keeps his eyes wandering, ready for a surprise attack as well.

But his fists lower when you come into his view, out of breath and running right into him. You failed to estimate how fast you were.

Danny steadies you, eyes narrowed. "Where the hell have you been?" He practically shouts, his words echoing in the quiet streets.

A look of regret is written all over your face. "I'm sorry, Danny," you say first, head down, ashamed. You shake yourself out of it. "But I'm here now. They're in there?" You ask, glancing behind him.

He stops you before you can get past him. You groan at the tightness of his grip, pulling your arm out of his hold.

Danny doesn't back down. His eyes are fierce, a mixture of worry and anger swirling in them as he blocks your path. "You think you can just show up out of nowhere and everything's fine? What the hell happened to you? We thought—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. "They don't trust you. Hell, I'm not even sure if I trust you."

"I get it, I know, I'm sorry," you repeat, breath still coming in quick, shallow bursts. "I messed up, okay? But I'm here now. I can still help."

He shakes his head, frustration bubbling over. "You disappeared. Sam and Tara are inside right now, thinking the worst. We were supposed to trust you."

"Just Sam and Tara?" You ask, suddenly uneasy. "What happened to Chad, Mindy, Anika and Ethan?"

"Chad is with them," Danny reassures, but what he says next makes your blood go cold. "Mindy, Anika and Ethan have been MIA. They were suppose to meet us here."

Your heart skips a beat. "I need to make this right, Danny," you breathe out. "I messed up. I was in and when I was finally getting the hang of it, I ran. But I'm back now and I need to help–I want to help," you correct.

Danny stares at you, scrutinizing every word you just said. He had faith in you, that for once you were actually going to stick around. And it backfired. It made the woman he loves distrust him.

He thinks about it, long and hard, his gaze unwavering. The only thing that remains now is, you're his family. There were plenty of times you and your family could have just stopped giving him chances yet you didn't. Time and time again, your parents took him in when his parents kicked him out. He owes you at least one more chance.

"Fine," he relents, and you smile, practically beaming. "But I'm coming with you."

Your smile drops. "No." You deadpan, shaking your head firmly. "I'm not letting anyone else get hurt. You stay here. Call for backup if we need it."

Danny groans, huffing. That's exactly what Sam said. "Fine," he says again, angry but understanding. He points to the side of the building. "Kirby let them in through there. Maybe they left the door propped open for Ghostface to get in."

You start but then stop, giving him a weird look.

He raises his hands, unsure and a little exasperated. "I don't know, Y/N. Just go!" He shouts and you do.

But as you get closer, you come to a slow stop when you see a body on the ground. You recognize the head of hair instantly, so you're quick to kneel down and aid her.

Gently, you shake her, hoping to get some reaction, a sign that she's alive. She gasps for air, waking up then with a groan.

"Kirby, are you okay?" You ask, stupidly, but it's also something you learned working at the hospital. Ask them a question, see if they are capable of answering it.

Kirby sits up slowly, you help her rest against the closest wall. She has a cut on her head and blood is close to fall into her left eye. You look around for something to use to keep pressure on her wound but come up empty. You stare down at your jacket, and hold back a whine before shrugging it off.

You wipe the blood before you roll your jacket then press it against her wound.

Kirby helps keep it place, then looks at you. "It's Bailey," she manages to say, voice hoarse.

You lean forward slightly, unsure if you heard her correctly.

"It's Bailey," Kirby repeats, louder this time.

The need to say you had a suspicion is there but you hold back. It does anger you to know the guy who was helping the Carpenters and lost a daughter in the process of helping is behind this. A part of you can't understand how he just allowed whoever was helping him kill his daughter.

Kirby winces, struggling to sit up straighter against the wall, her hand still pressed to the makeshift bandage. "He's been playing us this whole time. He's Ghostface."

You shake your head, scoffing. "His daughter died. He was at the station when I was attacked at my house. He has someone helping him."

Kirby grits her teeth, her frustration evident. "He's been two steps ahead, making sure we don't see it coming. He's probably the reason why Mindy, Anika, and Ethan are missing."

You glance at the open door. "So he's in there? With Tara...and Sam?" You look back at Kirby.

She can see it all over your face. She sits up some more, taking over pressure on her wound. "Go. I'll be fine. Just... be careful."

You hesitate for a moment, torn between staying with her and going in to help. She shakes her head and you make the decision then. You stand and glance back at her. "Don't die, you're my favorite character."

Kirby laughs, a slightly tinge of pain in it. "Just don't let the bastard win."

You nod once more then rush into the theater. Upon entering, you find Chad on the floor, blood covering his entire body. You bend over, your hands going to your knees as you feel something coming up.

"Oh god," you cover your mouth, shaking your head. For a second you stare at him, then you see the rise of his chest. It's barely noticeable but you see it. "Holy shit, he's alive." You mutter, kneeling to get a closer look.

You look around and find a piece of wood close by. You reach for it and use it to poke at Chad's side.

"Dude," you whisper, poking him again. "Dude, wake up. I read the script, you don't die." You jab the stick into his side.

He reacts with a groan, and you let out a sigh of relief. For a second, you started doubting yourself.

Chad lift his head, weak and slow. He finally locks eyes with you and he appears relieved. "Oh thank god," his voice is strained, dropping his head back down.

"Where are the others?" You asks quietly, poking him again to avoid him from knocking back out. He doesn't respond verbally, but instead, lifts a weak finger in a direction.

Behind the red curtains, you assume he wants to say. You exhale a breath and look back at him.

"Stay alive, there's only thirty minutes left in the movie," you pat his leg, earning a groan from him. You grimace, then apologize before standing.

Due to the students in your dorm building lacking any kind of weapon for protection, you only had a knife you found when you snuck into the dining room's kitchen. You're positive the cameras caught your face but that's something to worry about later.

You take the knife out of your waistband, grateful for whoever bought this fancy knife with a sort of sheath. You rip the sheath off and tread carefully as you peek behind the curtains.

Your jaw drops when you see Ethan standing there, in a black robe, next to another GhostFace. He holds the mask up to show Tara and Sam.

"This was your grandmother's, Sam. Nancy Loomis," he taps the mask with the knife in his hand. "Really runs in your fucking family, doesn't it?"

Bailey keeps the gun held towards the sisters.

"Speaking of family," Ethan glances at Bailey, a wicked smile on his face. "My name's not Ethan Landry, is it, dad?"

"Dad?" You mouth just as Tara asks it out loud.

Bailey smiles at his son, proud. You roll your eyes, unable to believe how sadistic this is. Clearly this family needs therapy. Bailey got his son to kill his daughter.

Now that you think of it, was Quinn really Bailey's daughter? They don't look anything alike.

"But if you're Ethan," Sam's voice breaks you away from your thoughts. "That only leaves...Mindy?" She sounds betrayed.

The second GhostFace takes their mask off, and you cover your mouth to muffle your gasp.

"Hey, roomies," Quinn grins, laughing at their reactions. "Didn't see that one coming, did you?"

Your head spins, you had no idea horror fans were this creative. You really did not expect a plot twist...in real life. You need to sit down, you feel like your world is spinning in its axis.

"You...died," Tara's voice is unsure, staring at her roommate as tears fall freely down her cheeks.

"Yeah, but not really," Quinn scrunches her nose, shaking her head. "It was a good way to get off of Mindy's suspect list. Then we had the issue of..."

Ethan rolls his eyes. "Y/N, geez," he huffs, annoyed. "They almost ruined everything. We gave them the opportunity to leave..." he looks at his sister.

"They did put up a good fight," Quinn continues, and you can't help the scoff that escapes your lips. You clasps your hand over your mouth, not expecting it to echo throughout the theater.

There's a long moment of silence and you assume your cover is blown. But then Quinn continues...

"Luckily, they ended up being a coward," Quinn sighs, feigning sadness. "Sorry your crush is such a pussy, Tara."

A dark look crosses Tara's face, along with a head tilt. It looks like she's plotting her revenge at Quinn right there for speaking those words. You frown, both at the revelation and insult. It drives you to finally stop listening and come up with a plan. You pinch the bridge of your nose, reprimanding yourself for not thinking of a plan before actually trying to help.

Then, a thought crosses your mind. You're in your Deadpool era. He's no hero. You sure as hell aren't either.

When in doubt, annoyance was his best weapon.

"Either way, I die," you mutter to yourself, shrugging. You tuck the knife carefully back into your waistband and lift your shirt to cover it. "Let finish fucking them the fuck up." You murmur.

You glance around and come to find a lever. You decide it's better than nothing. So, you saunter over and pull it, smiling at the spotlight that appears center stage. It shines on Billy Loomis' wardrobe, and distracts all of them.

Bailey's aim falters as he looks around, along with his children.

"I had a Deadpool quote," you say as you step out from behind the curtains, walking towards the spotlight. "But I don't think Paramount has any kind of rights to his character."

You don't miss the way Bailey shifts his aim to you, the snarl on Ethan's face and the annoyed look on Quinn's.

You lift your arms and take a bow then lift a hand up to your ear. "I'm gonna need you to repeat what you said about me earlier, Quinn," you feign confusion. "You called me a...a what was it again?"

"You should've ran when you had the chance," Quinn says instead, huffing.

You glance at Tara and Sam, your eyes telling them to prepare themselves.

"And miss out on all the fun?" You shake your head. "Boy, do I have a lot to say? For starters, have you guys tried therapy? It's clear you need it."

Bailey grits his teeth. "Enough games, get down from there. You're outnumbered." He points to the spot next to Tara.

You put your foot down, dramatic and almost childishly. "No." You respond then move on. "Look, you guys have this whole plan to set up Sam as the villain and you guys are the heroes and blah blah blah...I don't know how people watch Stab movies if this is the basis of the movie." You roll your eyes, annoyed and bored.

"My son loved those movies," Bailey's hand trembles as he points his gun at you.

"Your son is Ethan," you retort, deadpan.

"He's talking about his other son, our dead brother," Quinn speaks up, snarling.

You roll your eyes. "Can't you mourn like normal people?"

Ethan narrows his eyes. "This coming from someone who lost their father not even a month ago?"

You grin, because when it comes to that, you're bulletproof. Humor is a defensive mechanism, for everyone in your family, so at the funeral, there were laughs. Crying yes, but more crying laughter than sadness crying.

You imitate a buzzer sound. "Try again. More feeling this time," you form a fake camera with your hands. "And action!" You shout.

Ethan grabs ahold of Tara and you drop your act, watching his knife get closer to her neck. Sam attempts to reach for her sister but Quinn steps in front of her, holding the knife out towards her.

You falter, dropping the annoying act for a second.

"You know," Ethan slides the knife against Tara's neck carefully, teasingly even. "I always wanted to see what you felt like..."

Tara grimaces as his mouth gets closer to her ear.

"The whole mommy issues really caught my attention," Ethan continues, and you can't control the look of disgust that crosses your face. "I mean, with ours..." he looks at Quinn, who laughs at his words.

"Ethan took care of her," Quinn says, looking between you and Sam. When realization crosses your faces, she laughs. "What kind of mother doesn't want to avenge her dead son?"

The words "A mentally stable one," is on the tip of your tongue but you control yourself.

Quinn meets Sam's eyes. "I bet you wish you could've killed yours," she taunts. Sam narrows her eyes with a glare that could kill. "There she is! There's that fucking killer!"

Tara glances at Bailey. "Great job with the parenting..."

Ethan tightens his hold on Tara, pressing the tip of the knife against her skin.

"Shut your whore mouth!" Quinn turns to Tara, almost cutting her arm.

With Tara in Ethan's hold and you and Sam unable to fight due to the need of keeping Tara safe, Bailey finally lowers his gun.

You clench your fists, doing your best to listen to Bailey as he talks about his son. You really try but you can't because you're focused on Ethan's knife being so close to Tara's neck. You never felt this amount of anger before, an anger that drives you to...kill.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside you. The anger is overwhelming, but you know that giving in to it will only make things worse. You can't let Ethan see how affected you are; you have to think strategically.

You lift your hands, giving in after the revelation of Richie being his son. "Alright," you say, making your way to the stairs. "You win. Let her go," you make your way down the steps carefully, avoiding Sam's eyes.

Ethan pushes Tara right into you and you manage to catch her before she falls over. Concern is written all over your face, your eyes traveling to her to be sure she didn't have any kind of injury. Your eyes connect with hers and she nods reassuringly, then she gives you a look that tells you that she forgives you.

All you can do is smile, relieved.

"And they say horror movies is just for the scares," Bailey wanders over, smirking between you and Tara. "You were right, Quinn. Bringing in the unwitting loner did come to work in our favor."

You gently and carefully move Tara behind you, Sam taking the advantage and grabbing her sister. “Thought it was hero?” You mutter under your breath.

Ethan laughs at the look on your face. "Hero? You think you weren't part of our plan?" He taunts, inching closer to you little by little. "God, do you know how annoying it was to hear Tara whine to Anika for you to join you guys on a game night or to a party? Jesus, she was desperate. But she would always punk out at the last second, avoiding you like a plague." His grin widens as he sees the gears turning in your head. "All those times she begged Anika to invite you, and then either never showed or she either bailed? Classic Tara. Classic you. Too scared to make a move, always running, and too scared to admit she wanted you there."

You're flattered. You had no idea someone saw you. You've been told you're so quiet, people tend to forget you're in the room. It had its advantage, you've heard a bunch of gossip.

He stops just inches away, his eyes narrowing. "But now? Now you're part of this, like it or not. And she's not the only one who's been keeping an eye on you. But then you had to actually attempt to be a hero," Ethan rolls his eyes. "You were suppose die that night, at the apartment. Who knew you had some fight in you?"

You shrug. "I watch anime, have an older brother and love superhero movies." You explain, aware he didn't ask.

Your patience was wearing thin, exactly how long do the villains monologue in horror movies? You're positive it shouldn't go on this long.

You groan, lifting your shirt slightly for the sisters to see the knife in your waistband, placing your hands on your hips. "Can we just get to you guys killing me already? Honestly, death is better than having to listen to your suppose tragedy. Boo-hoo, your brother's dead. It's the circle of life; move on."

Quinn isn't happy with your words and she steps forward, slashing her knife at you. You groan, failing to dodge it and feeling the blade slice your side.

You hold your side and step back, allowing the sisters closer access to the knife. You glance back, to make sure they're okay even though you were the target, but to also check if they got the message.

Sam nods, eyes giving you a message.

"He was pathetic," Sam speaks up while you check your wound. You grimace at the blood but don't waste time worrying about it.

Bailey raises his gun again. "That's not true–"

Sam's face changes, taunting them now. "He was man-baby who made his girlfriend do all the killings–"

"He was a strong virile young man!" Bailey shouts, gun in hand, shaking with rage.

"Ouch, guess your brother was the pussy," you're not going to get over the insult. Quinn snarls but doesn't move, knowing her father will do it for her.

"He was a weak little bitch," Sam spits, the words a slap to the face to the whole family. "Who cried before I cut his fucking throat."

Quinn lets her rage win, lunging at Sam with a scream loud enough to break glass. You feel the knife slide out of your waistband just before something connects with Quinn's face.

Throughout the chaos, Bailey drops his gun and your plan to grab it. What do you know about guns? Nothing. Do you know how to shoot or aim? Hell no, but just having the gun gives you an advantage, no?

You see Quinn stir in the corner of your eye and you turn to grab Tara, hearing Sam order her to run. You hurry her to the scaffolding and urge her to go but she shakes her head, determined.

"Sam! Come on!" Tara shouts, pausing midway up. You glance back at Sam, who, on her way over, grabs Bailey's fallen gun.

You let Sam go first, keeping your eyes trained on the happy family. Your eyes widen in realization when you see Bailey reach down, grabbing his spare gun in his ankle.

"Hurry!" You shout, ducking when you hear a shoot fire. You had pulled your hand away from the ladder to avoid being hit. "Jackass. You almost shot me!" You shout, narrowing your eyes.

"That was the point!" Bailey retorts, keeping his gun aimed at you. He looks up and you see him smirk at an open shot at Tara.

You run towards him but fail to make it in time to stop him from shooting. You hear Tara shout in pain but you keep going forward, tackling Bailey to the ground.

You don't hear the sisters struggle as you fight Bailey, or struggle to fight Bailey is better said. He is a cop after all, and all you know is defense with some cool final knockout moves from video games and anime.

Ethan's laugh roars. "I always wanted to stick something in you, Tara!" Your defense falls at his words, glancing towards him to see him waiting for Tara to fall.

It kicks in some adrenaline, helping you find some strength to kick Bailey off you. He grunts, surprised by your strength and topples over. You jump to your feet, kicking his gun away before you run over to help Tara.

But you stop in your tracks when you see she can handle herself. Ethan practically eating the knife in her hands, digging it deeper as she whispers something you can't hear to him.

His body falls limp and you hurry over to Tara, noticing her stagger a little. You hold her waist, keeping her upright.

"You okay?" You ask, searching her for any injuries. You notice the blood seeping from a wound in her abdomen then another in her arm. Bailey's shot only grazed her arm but still managed to do some damage.

"You came back," Tara states, a small smile on her lips.

"Yeah," you chuckle softly, then look around to be sure you were in the clear. "I promise to make it up to you later. Let's go before one of these psychos gets–"

You hear a gun go off, then Bailey's scream follows. You look up along with Tara, confused by Bailey's appearance up in scaffolding with Sam.

You attempt to climb the stairs to help but stop when you see Sam has it perfectly handled. Bailey falls over, eyes falling shut as he does.

Out of breath, Sam leans over to look at you and Tara. "Welcome back," the older Carpenter greets you, tired.

You send her a small smile, saluting in her direction. You look around, Ethan's body close by before you look between the sisters.

"I...I don't really know what's next," you say. "Is it over? Please say it's over." You ask, hopeful.

Tara shares a look with Sam. You understand well when they look back at you, that it isn't.

"There's one more act," Sam says, laughing gently at your frown. "Think you can handle it?"

You look at Tara, and she looks hopeful. You're reeled in again by her eyes, as always. So you look back at Sam, sighing tiredly, but with a determined look on your face.

"What part do I play?"

#tara carpenter x reader #jenna ortega #scream 6 #scream vi #tara carpenter #jenna ortega x reader #sam carpenter #the unwitting hero

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