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glamorizethechaos · 9 hours ago

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Lonely No More | Jack Abbot x Single Mother Reader

Chapter One: Transformer

Summary: A struggling single mother with the world on her shoulders leans on those closest to her for help. Jack stepping up and making sure you down drown above water.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: single mother, age gap, dead beat dad, fluff, angst

"Mama, I dont wanna go." your son whimpered from the backseat as you drove to the hospital for your night shift. Working nightshift as a single mother wasn't ideal, but when a senior resident spot opened up you had to jump at the opportunity. It's for Daniel you justified. The nights away from him were hard, and the little sleep you'd get during the day were even harder. Each day when you walked into the Pitt your smile said one thing, but your eyes said another.

"You'll have so much fun, Danny, I promise." you glanced at his teary eyes through the rearview mirror. As you walked into PTMC with Daniel in tow and his bag slung over your shoulder, his grip on you got tighter. You tried your best to keep him out of the hospital, even during pick up and drop offs with your sister. It was normally her who watched your son on the nights you worked, but with a gnarly case of the flu, you were left stranded. You burned through all your sick and vacation time for the nights your sister was out of town, or Daniel just needed you.

As you sat him on the counter of the nurses station you introduced him to Dana, who happened to be your saving grace for the night.

"Are you sure about this, Dana? It's asking a lot."

"It's not asking when I offered." she assured in the midst of saying hello to Danny. "My oldest is ecstatic, I'm still convinced that 14 years later she’s still pissed I gave her a younger sister instead of brother."

"Daniel, can you say hello to Miss. Dana? She has two girls who are so excited to play with you tonight! Doesn't that sound fun?"

Daniel buried his face into the crook of your neck as Dana ruffled his red hair.

"Who's this?" Jack asked as he walked in for his shift, Danny peaking at the other unfamiliar voice.

"This is my son, Daniel." you smiled at him. "Daniel say hello to Dr. Abbot."

"Jack is fine. Hey bud, I used to have cool hair like you, ya know?"

"You were a red head?" you cocked a brow, only knowing his salt and pepper curls.

"Believe it or not." he glanced at the admissions board while signing in on the computer. He noticed your sons damp cheeks and the way you swayed side to side trying to sooth him. You knew the second it was time to leave he'd be a mess, it was still 6 months away but you were already racked with anxiety over him starting pre school.

“Alright baby.” You handed Daniel over to Dana, to which he started screaming and gripping onto your scrubs. It was enough to make your heart break.

“No mama! I wanna stay with you!” He started to kick his way from Dana’s grasp.

“Hey bud,” Jack spoke up after seeing the tears well in your eyes. “Your mom said you like transformers, is that right?”

Your son nodded, wiping his snotty nose on your pant leg.

“You know I’m part transformer myself?” Jack said, pulling up his scrub pants to expose his metal prosthesis. As Daniel’s eyes widened with excitement, yours softened at his kind gesture.

“Where is the rest of the armor?” He asked immediately reaching out with his nimble fingers to touch it.

"Megatron stole it, but listen buddy-- let’s make a deal, okay?" Jack said holding out his hand for your son to shake on it. "You go have a sleepover with our friend Dana, and tomorrow if you're good, I can show you the rest of my transformer collection, how does that sound?"

Daniel could hardly control his excitement as he jumped up and down eagerly.

"Can we mama?"

"As long as its okay with Dr. Abbot." you smiled, planting a sloppy wet kiss on his cheek and inhaling the sweet smell of his shampoo one last time until morning. "You can call me before bed and first thing in the morning, okay? Mommy packed your monster spray for Dana to spray all the closets and under all the beds. Mr. Kitty (who happened to be his favorite stuffed dog) is in your bag too."

There was a bit of hesitation from the both of you before your son reluctantly took Dana’s hand. Internally you were a wreck, waiting for the inevitable call from Dana that he was inconsolable and you’d have to pick him up.

“He’ll be fine.” Jack assured you with a brief shoulder squeeze. And the call never came. In fact you got lots of photos throughout the evening of your son playing with Dana’s girls— they baked cookies with him and ate far too many in the fort they all built. The final photo of him tucked into her bed fast asleep with the message:

“Husband is on the couch tonight”

You smiled at your phone. When the chaos of the night began to settle down, and the sun began to peek over the horizon, you found Jack to thank him. He was on the roof of course, it had become a ritual for him at this point. You handed him a cup of stale coffee and stuffed your hands in your pockets as the wind whipped between the buildings.

“Really Dr. Abbot, thank you. That was quick thinking earlier today. I can’t believe you remembered he liked Transformers. Not even his dad knows that.”

Jack grimaced slightly about the remark regarding his father. No one knew who he was, no one ever met him, no one even knew his name. Albeit your bubbly and inquisitive nature, your personal life was a mystery to lots of people in the ER. On occasion you’d mention something that helped solve your mystery. Or rather your sons… you really only talked about Daniel, your eyes lighting up each time. About him starting soccer, the woes of potty training, or his love for Transformers.

“You mentioned something awhile back to Dana about his birthday. Just so happened to overhear.”

“So you were eavesdropping…”

“No… ‘observing’” he chuckled as you smacked his arm playfully.

“I just hate leaving him like that, ya know?” You began to unravel, voice cracked ever so slightly that most wouldn’t notice, of course Jack did. His head jerked towards you quickly at the sound of your unwavering voice, his stomach churning at how beautiful you looked despite the 12 hour shift.

“Yeah I’m sure it’s tough…” he offered support.

“But this is my dream, ya know? I’m growing a future for him, for us. I just—“ you paused trying to find the right words, a single tear escaping from your eye. “Ya know, I try and give 100% at work, I mean you’ve got to, I hold people’s lives in my hands every day…” another tear, “but then I go home and try to give 100% for my son. At the end of the day, I can’t do both. One always is gonna fall short. And I worry that it’s my son I’m not giving my all for.” Soon the floodgates opened.

Jack wrapped his arm around you with a sigh, kissing your temple before resting his chin on the top of your head.

“Enough of that… you’re a great doctor and a great mom. Daniel worships you. You wanna know how I know you’re a good mom?”

“How?”

“Because bad parents aren’t worried about being a good mom or dad. They’re aren’t worried about giving their all, or not spending enough time. Listen, we see our fair share of shitty parents in our line of work, you certainly don’t fall in line with any of them. Not even close.”

You didn’t say anything, just looked down at your feet. The tip of your nose began to grow pink, a tell tale sign it was time to go back down. He walked you back down as you waited for Daniel and Dana to arrive back at work.

“Mama!” You heard the familiar voice flooding in from the ambulance bay. He ran over and leapt into your arms, knocking you backwards in Dr Abbot.

“Did you have fun, baby? I saw all your pictures!”

“Mhm” Daniel nodded “Dana snores.”

The whole nursing station erupted in laughter as Dana’s mouth fell open.

“I do not! You sound like my husband little man.”

“How about breakfast?” Jack asked grabbing Daniel’s backpack from your hands. “I think the big boy deserves some pancakes.”

“Oh Jack you d-“

“Yes please! Yes please!” He squealed, more so coming out at yes pwease, yes pwease. “Then can I see your transformer legs?”

“A promise is a promise.”

————

After a breakfast of maple syrup and a side of pancakes, Daniel was itching to get to Jacks. He clung to you, hands around your neck as Jack ushered you into his front door. His house was spotless, like he was back in his army barracks waiting for his morning inspection. You had to beg your toddler to keep his hands to himself.

When you followed Jack into his bedroom you blushed. It felt so intimate, and that you shouldn’t be there. His bed was crispy made. Your eyes began to wander as you fought to keep focused. He peaked at his dresser and saw he wore a Tom Ford cologne that smelled of vanilla and sandalwood.

“Okay bud, here is the collection.” He opened his closet, your son’s eyes widening as he plopped down on his knees. First Jack pulled out his running prosthesis. “This one here looks pretty funny huh? It helps me run from the bad guys quickly. It kinda looks like a J for ‘Jack’” he traced his finger along the outside of the blade. Jack set it aside and picked up another one.

“This was my first transformer leg, so it’s pretty old and doesn’t fit as good as it used to. And this is my back up in case something happens to the one I’m wearing. You can pick them up and look at them, buddy.”

“Can you put this one on?” Daniel asked, trying to awkwardly pick up his running prosthesis, which Jack was quick to oblige. He removed the socket and liner and exposed his stump so Daniel could see. It was the first time he’d ever seen something like that before. Jack was eager to answer all this questions.

“What’s that line?”

“That’s my scar.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Nope can’t feel a thing. You can touch it if you want.”

Daniel ran his fingers, still sticky from breakfast, along his leg in amazement. Squeaking and poking around the rounded limb.

“What did they do with your other foot? Throw it in the trash?”

“They blew it up.”

“The bad guys did?”

“Yep. In a place called Kandahar.”

“Is that on planet Cybertron?”

“Close. Afghanistan.”

Jack attached the new prosthetic and showed your son how he could run and jump. The two of them took turns seeing who could jump the highest.

You rubbed your eyes, the night shift finally catching up to you. Knowing your son had all the energy in the world and you wouldn’t have time to rest made your head throb. The days you survived on pure will and coffee, and during the nights you survived on red bull and adrenaline. The last time you got a full nights sleep was before your son was born. You had no family in Pittsburgh aside from your sister, and friends were had to come by when your schedule didn’t allow for socialization.

When you opened your eyes, Jack was staring at you, Daniel on the floor trying to put on one of Jacks legs.

“You okay?” He whispered.

“Mhm, just tired.” You crossed your arms, catching a chill. Jack glanced down and looked at your son, chuckling at his sheer determination.

“Are you able to rest before your shift tonight?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Jack shook his head, and without a word started digging through his drawers and plopped some sweats and a t-shirt at the end of the bed, before ripping back the sheets.

“Just change out of those scrubs before getting into bed.”

“Huh?” You were confused.

“Danny, bud. Wanna help me with some yard work? Mommy is gonna sleep a bit, okay?”

“Wait Jack… you can’t— I can’t—I mean— what?”

“I’m off tonight. I can sleep later. You can’t take care of him after working a 12 hour shift only to do it again tonight and tomorrow. I have some stuff to do outside, he can help. Just again, make you change out of those scrubs first. Tell Mommy good night.”

Jack scooped up Daniel and the two wished you good night before softly shutting the door. Leaving you stunned in the middle of Jacks bedroom.

#the pitt #shawn hatosy #dr abbott #dr abbot #fanfic #jack abbot #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot x reader #dr abbott x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbott #dr abbot x you

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allsnellthatendsnell · 17 hours ago

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I don't shake (hold) hands

Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that Doctor Spencer Reid does not shake (or hold) hands. The BAU knows you must be special to him when you do (6 small drabbles)

A/N: These aren’t really linear time wise. Just some little drabbles.

Hotch

Hotch had known Reid for a long time. Since he joined the FBI with his large glasses and ‘Reid Effect’ on animals and small kids. Hotch had never, ever seen Spencer shake hands with someone, let alone hold their hand. He would hold Jack and Henry, show them magic tricks and get down on their level. God, he had seen Reid hug children more than he had shake hands.

So when he saw you take his hand during a visit to the park with the team (Mostly for Jack and Henry) he flinched, expecting the worst. He knew that Reid could be a little awkward but it wouldn’t do your relationship any good if he flinched away from your hand, or dropped it.

Spencer didn’t. He helped you lace your fingers together and squeezed once, not even stopping the slow walk you guys were doing towards the playground. Hotch didn’t tear up, he didn’t. It was just the wind.

Garcia

Penelope was furious with Spencer for putting his stupidly smart self in danger. She’d told him as much as had called him and demanded to know what he needed for an overnight stay in the hospital. He’d apologised tiredly and told her that a friend was bringing his bag. He’d be fine.

Penelope Garcia was not going to let him be hospitalized with no visit though so she stormed through the hospital only to pause at the entrance to his room, a box of his favourite pastries in her arms.

There was a person at his bedside that she did not recognise. At first she was reminded of the time a nurse tried to attack him and was almost prepared to launch the baked goods at you but then she saw it. Your linked hands resting on the bedside. You were talking quietly with your heads close together like you were sharing a secret. Your other hand was fussing with his hair, trying to get it out of his eyes. Spencer is looking at you fondly. Its so soft, she thinks. All of the anger is draining out of her as she watches you press a kiss to his jaw. Garcia tries to get her phone out to take a photo but she forgets about the pastry box in her arms and almost drops it. She squeals as she fumbles to catch it and you both look up at her.

“I brought baked goods?” she says in explanation.

JJ was surprised to spot Spencer at a little cafe on a Sunday. She had recommended it to him, but she didn’t think they’d run into one another. Spencer didn’t really get out as much nowadays. Since Emily. He’s standing in line to order when she comes in next to you and she immediately notices that his hand is linked with someone else's. What’s more is swinging between you as you talk. She recognises his laugh. It had been a while since she heard it.

Reid had suffered when Emily left. Died. Same thing. He’d sobbed in JJ’s arms and slept on his couch more times than he had since they met. She hadn’t realised that he had stopped laughing until right this second. She liked you right away, if you made him laugh like that again. If you took him to cafes on Sunday mornings and he held your hand. She didn’t let him see her, slipping out with her order and using ‘Jennifer’ rather than “JJ” at the counter but she felt better than she had all week. All month.

Rossi

Rossi actually did a double take when he heard Spencer at a local book store event. The kid had a very distinct way of speaking and it stood out. Rossi had gotten so used to it that it took him almost two minutes to realise that he hadn’t known Spencer was there. He looked up from the little signing table in the shop to find Spencer walking with a friend. He was chatting away happily, a book open in one hand and the other gesturing around wildly. His eyes were fixed on the book and Rossi almost called out when he realised that Spencer was about to walk into a display. You beat him to it, slipping your hand into his and pulling him a little to the left. Spencer didn’t even stop talking.

Rossi went back to signing the books he was there to promote but kept an eye out for you both. Fifteen minutes later you both stood in line. Your hands were still linked together, a basket of books hanging over your arm and Spencer was leaning into you as he gestured to some of the books, rattling off titles he wished you’d found and why. When you both got to the counter, Spencer paid for your books and you bounced in place, pressing a kiss to his cheek in thanks.

Well, Rossi thought. The kid had game after all.

Prentiss

Emily knew that Spencer was furious with him when she got back. Of course he was. He’d made that clear. She felt guilty, of course she did, lying to her friends. Her family. That was why, after the tentative peace they’d drawn, when Reid asked if she wanted to watch a foreign movie in one of their shared languages she had agreed where she might not have before. It wasn’t really her thing, not something she did in her down time. Another reason she might have accepted the invitation quickly is that Spencer offered to have her over. She had never seen his apartment and she was so curious.

She arrived on time with a bottle of red and some of those sour candy that Reid seemed to love and knocked. She expected Spencer to open the door, but didn’t expect him to be holding hands with someone. He had flinched once when she tried to hug him, but she went in for one anyway at the sight of him as he was. Comfortable, Relaxed.

He was still awkward, giving her a pat on the shoulder and stiffening but he didn’t flinch away and he kept hold of your hand. He smiled more brightly at her than he had since she got back. They’d be okay, she thought. Even if he didn’t forgive her

(He did.)

Morgan

Derek had been so excited to meet Reid’s new partner all day that Hotch had actually separated him and Reid. For everyone’s safety, he said. And maybe Derek was a little bit over the top with his teasing today but Reid had a partner and he was filled with a weird sense of pride. He wanted to know everything but Reid had been surprisingly tight lipped.

He was the first to the bar you were all meeting in that afternoon, a beer in his hand and phone in the other, but he was watching the door. You both came in after what felt like a lifetime. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it shocked him that your hands were linked. Not just linked but fingers intertwined, shoulders brushing as you walked to the bar.

Couples held hands, sure, but this was Reid. He didn’t shake hands with Hotch. Or Gideon. He moved away from Derek’s arm pats and had refused fist bumps because of germs. He was so proud of Spencer.

He was still going to tease the shit out of him all evening though. It was basically his job.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid

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fan-a-saurus-rex · 12 hours ago

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Just imagine Joaquin looking after his kid like 🫦🥹

Its so heartwarming because he's such a family man and constantly let's the reader do her own thing and rest

This is too cute! Enjoy!

Bundle of Joy

(Gif by @annscollections )

Plot: Having a new baby is no joke, but it’s really helpful when you have such an amazing husband.

Pairing: Dad!Joaquin Torres x Mom!Reader

Requested: Yes, and my requests are always open🖤

Warnings: None really, it’s just super cute! Some suggestive stuff at the end, but no smut.

Masterlist

Life had changed so much since the day you say that plus sign on the pregnancy test you took. You’d only been married to Joaquin for a little over 8 months at the time.

Now you were the proud parents of baby girl.

Amelia Lynn Torres. Mia for short.

She was 6 months old now and both of you were exhausted. For the first 2 months, she had her days and nights mixed up, typical for newborn babies, but it was definitely taking its toll. However, Joaquin was so helpful. You two worked as a team, as any couple should. With you, it was always 50/50, but some days it was more like 70/30.

Today was one of those days.

You woke up to sunshine flooding through the window and an empty space beside you in bed. You sat up and checked the clock.

10am. You overslept.

“Shit” you exclaimed softly as you got up out of bed, changing into clean clothes and putting your hair in a ponytail. You rushed down the hall to the nursery to find Mia’s crib empty.

With your heart pounding, you went downstairs to find Joaquin sitting on the couch, feeding Mia her late morning bottle. She was cradled in his arms, staring up at him with the big brown eyes she inherited from him. He was cooing at her as she contently drank her milk. It made your heart flutter in your chest. God you loved this man so much.

You walked over and sat beside in the couch, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Good morning mami” he said kissing the top of your head. You loved the way he called you that. He started when he found out you were expecting Mia.

“Why did you let me sleep in late?” You asked smiling

“I thought you could use a little break” he said as Mia finished her bottle. He lifted her gently and patted her back to burp her. She hiccuped a few times and rested her little head on his shoulder. He rubbed her back softly before putting her into her bouncy seat for her post-bottle nap. He was so good with her, like he was always meant to be a dad.

You smiled and watched her little eyes close as she dozed off.

“I made us breakfast” he said smiling, leading you into the kitchen. “Your favorite, waffles and hash browns”

“Thank you” you said, kissing his cheek. You sat down at the table when he insisted on bringing your plate over. “Have you eaten yet?”

“I made enough for both of us” he said smiling, handing you a fork.

You smiled as the two of you began eating breakfast, enjoying the quiet moment together. At some point, Joaquin started to hand feed you strawberries. The gesture was as sweet as the berries he fed you and it fueled the love you had for him. You moved from your chair and climbed into his lap, kissing him softly.

He chuckled “I missed being with you like this” he mumbled against your lips.

“I missed your lips” you said before kissing him again.

It was soft and sweet. But a few minutes later you heard Mia whimpering in the other room. You pulled away from the kiss and smiled “Looks like put little bean is awake”

“Go get bean and I’ll clean up the kitchen. Then we’ll go on our afternoon park walk” he said smiling. You nodded and kissed his cheek as you walked into the living area.

“Hello Mia” you said picking her up “did somebody have a good nap” you cooed at her, carrying her into the kitchen. When she saw Joaquin she smiled and reached her chubby hands out to him “somebody loves her daddy, huh?” You said kissing her cheek before Joaquin came over tickled her belly.

“She’s quite the daddy’s girl” he said smiling. “Wanna go a walk little bean?” He cooed at her.

You handed her to him and went to go get her stroller and diaper bag. You two had made a habit of walking Mia to the park after her afternoon nap. It was your favorite part of the day.

Once everything was prepared the two of you walked side by side to the park. You pushed Mia’s stroller, Joaquin’s arm around your waist. You loved watching baby Mia’s face as she took in everything going on around her as you walked. Watching her learn was something you were looking forward to as she grew up.

When you finally arrived at the park, you laid down a blanket on the grass like always. You took Mia out of her stroller and let her lay on the blanket. Joaquin lay next to her and let her hold his finger as he played with her. You sat beside him playing with his hair.

You watched as a butterfly flew by, catching Mia’s attention. She reached up for it as it fluttered around the three of you. You hoped that she would grow up to love and appreciate nature as much as you did.

You stayed in the park for about an hour before bundling up Mia and putting her back in her stroller. You walked back home knowing it was almost time for Mia’s afternoon bottle. “You want me to feed her when we get home?” Joaquin asked.

You smiled “I can do it” you said “but it would be nice if you were still with me”

“Of course” he said kissing your temple

After arriving home you warmed up Mia’s bottle and took it into the living room where Joaquin was holding her. You picked her up and cradled her as you leaned into Joaquin’s chest.

He held you close as you fed Mia.

You loved being with Joaquin like this. Holding you and Mia in silence, making you feel safe, loved, wanted. He was an amazing husband and father and you weren’t sure what you’d do without him.

You thought back to the day you met him. You had no idea then that you’d end up falling for him, going on your first date, moving in with him after 6 months, getting married to him, or having a baby with him. You always thought he’d just be a friend, but after getting to know him you knew being ‘just friends’ wasn’t going to be an option.

Sitting here now, in his arms feeding the baby the two of you made, you were glad that everything worked out.

The rest of the evening went by like normal. You and Joaquin made dinner while Mia sat in her bouncy seat with her pacifier in her mouth and her favorite stuffy clenched in her chubby little hands. She was always so content this time of night, watching you and Joaquin cooking.

You and Joaquin ate dinner while you were feeding Mia her nighttime bottle.

After dinner, Joaquin helped you give Mia a bath then changed her into her bedtime onesie.

It was adorable watching him do her bedtime routine. He’d dance around the nursery, cradling her in his arms, humming a random lullaby. She’d slowly drift off to sleep against his chest and he’d place her in her crib. You both kissed the top of her head before covering her with her favorite blanket and turning on the baby monitor.

The two of you went back downstairs as you usually did. You thought you were going to watch a movie, but instead he turned on some slow music and pulled you close to him “dance with me” he whispered said softly.

You smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying with him to the music. It has been a while since you’d done anything romantic with him and the feeling of him being close to you made your heart skip beats.

“I love you” you whispered

“I love you too” he whispered back before kissing you softly.

You kissed back slowly, your fingers tangling into his soft curls. You felt his hands gripping your hips as the kiss got deeper.

After a few minutes, you heard him grown into your mouth and he hoisted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Joaquin…” you gasped, a familiar heat pooling in your stomach.

“I missed you like this, I miss it so much” he whispered.

“I miss it too”

“Come on mami, it’s bedtime” he said smirking.

He carried you upstairs, but you knew you wouldn’t be sleeping just yet.

#fanfiction #fanfic #blurb #joaquin torres #danny ramirez

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crazzzycomet · 1 day ago

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Dried Roses

joel miller x fem!reader

Chapter 6: My Condolences, Here's Dinner

Coming up on two years of your parents' tragic passing, you decide to make the move to Austin, Texas, in hopes of a fresh start for you and your three younger siblings. After few months of settling in, a lapse in judgement and a one night stand ends with Joel Miller in your bed.

Tags: 18+, MDNI, au no outbreak, age gap, one night stand, smut, sassy!joel, mentions of death and grief, loss of parents, porn + plot, joel is clearly pining for you lol, angst, lots n lots of tension, flashbacks of drunk sex, he loves pushing it, teasing, praise kink, oral sex, denial of feelings, admitting feelings?, soft!, joel teaches you to chop wood hehe

chapter summary: Joel invites you over for a last minute dinner after finding out about your situation. It doesn't take long before you figure out it wasn't so last minute after all.

this is chapter 6 of dried roses - there are currently 7 chapters uploaded on ao3 <3

a/n: the tags here are included for all chapters in this series. at this point in the story, i recommend maybe going back and reading past chapters for lots of context leading up to this point - but feel free to read however you like💫

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5

“What’re we having for dinner?”

“Leftovers,” you answer, a symphony of groans following suit.

“Oh! We could get pizza!” Bear suggests, sprawled out on the couch, looking up from his book on whatever animal he’s fixated on for the day.

“Leftovers,” you repeat, half-paying attention as you line up a nail and begin hammering it into the wall, the reverberating thud drowning out their disheartened sighs.

You’d been putting up pictures all day after lugging in the dust-riddled box from the garage - decorating bare walls and shelves with the past memories you were so afraid to meet with again.

The Universe flexes its cruel, poetic muscle when you reach the bottom of the box and pull out the last frame.

A picture of your parents at their courthouse wedding. You stand between them - no more than two - squinting from the sun and squeezing the stems of pale pink peonies and sprigs of baby’s breath that match your little white sandals.

“Oh, fuck you,” you breathe out to whoever listens.

You bring the tarnished gold frame to the very masterfully—no attempt at finding wall studs—hammered nail in the wall, when you hear a muffled buzz coming from one of the couch cushions.

“RoRo,” you say, focused on your attempt at leveling the frame with your naked eye.

“Got it.” She picks up your phone and holds it to her ear. “Hello?”

“I meant bring it to me,” you rasp.

“What? No - it’s me, Mr. Miller. Yeah. Hi.”

Your stomach twists into what feels like a barrage of shoddily tied fisherman’s knots.

“Give it,” you say through gritted teeth, the picture frame sagging when you snap your head and reach your hand out in her direction. “Pssst! Ro!”

“I can’t hear,” she shushes you. “Dinner? Sure, we can come!”

“We’re having leftovers tonight!” you whisper sharply.

She sticks a finger in her mouth, fake gagging in response.

“Okay. Yeah, uh-huh. Yep.” She tucks the phone in her shoulder and checks her nails. “Sure, I’ll tell her. We’ll see ya soon. Bye, Mr. Miller!”

“What the hell, Romy?”

“He said he made too much food or something - I don’t know, you were yelling at me while he was explaining.” She shrugs, handing over your phone. “And sorry, but I did not want leftovers.”

It wasn’t about the stupid fucking leftovers. Who the hell wants day three lasagna?

It was about the fact that your palms were sweating over the mere mention of Joel’s name.

That, only two days ago, you were folded in his arms, bawling your eyes out, gagging on hacked sobs, and dripping snot all over his shirt.

The embarrassment had finally set in later that morning, and it took everything inside you not to start looking for listings on Zillow. Find a new neighborhood. One without any Joels around the corner who’d witnessed you break down over your dead parents.

He’d held you the whole time, though, didn’t he? Stayed with you. Comforted you. Made you feel safe. Called you his sweet girl when he thought you couldn’t hear.

And you hated that you needed it. That you liked having it. The comfort. The safety. The lull of his drawl in your ear.

My sweet girl my sweet girl my sweet girl my sweet girl my sweet girl—

“Hello?” Romy waves a hand in your face.

“Huh?”

“Joel’s? We can go, right?”

“Fine,” you concede, Joel’s words dissipating like morning fog, “we can go.”

“He told me to tell you, ‘no later than six-thirty, so it ain’t dark out when you’re walkin’ over’,” she mocks his southern drawl, really selling it with a serious, Joel-coded scowl.

“How thoughtful,” you say dully.

A cryptic, last minute dinner invite. Oh, and it’s already a quarter past six.

How. Fucking. Thoughtful.

You look down at your oversized Rangers t-shirt, stained with this morning’s breakfast - its hem kissing the faded yellow bruises that remain on your knee-caps.

“You should change,” Romy suggests, her face scrunched with judgment. “And do something about your hair—"

“Stop while you’re ahead,” you grumble, shoving her back onto the couch on your way to your room to find your favorite pair of jeans and that henley with the thin, lace-trimmed neckline you bought last week.

“C’monnn,” Romy yells from down the hall, “he said six-thirty!”

“I’m almost ready!”

Technically, you are ready - you’d brushed out all of your knots, spritzed on perfume, slid on your favorite rings, even put on a little bit of make-up.

All you needed to do was find some shoes.

“It’s just dinner,” you repeat to yourself for the thousandth time, trying to still the heartbeat in your ears. “It’s just Joel.”

God, you’re pacing now. Get a fucking grip.

“You miss him anyways, you dumb idiot,” you mutter to yourself. “You wanna see him, you’re just a fucking scared little—”

“You look ready to me—"

“Ah!” You whirl around to find Romy, leaning against your doorframe with crossed arms. “Shit, Ro! You scared me.”

“Sorry, jeez. What the hell are you so jumpy for? You nervous to see Joel?”

Fucking, DUH. But how does she know that? Did she hear you whispering to yourself like a maniac?

“What?”

“Y’know…after the other night. Didn’t you kick him out after I told him about Mom and Dad?”

Sure, let’s go with that.

“Uh, yeah. I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

“Well, don’t be. I know you don’t know him super well, but he’s actually a nice guy when you get past the whole grumpy old man bit.”

“Mm.” You try to find a facial expression that doesn’t reveal the fact that you know him a little better than she'd appreciate. “Not really a bit, I don’t think, but whatever,” you mumble to yourself.

You present her with two different pairs of shoes you'd rummaged for in your closet. She points to the ones you were hoping she’d pick.

“And it’s good he’s inviting us to dinner,” she adds. “Must mean he didn’t take it too personal.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” you sigh, sliding a heel in your shoe with a thunk.

“I know. I’m always right. And besides, I already told him we’d go, so…are you ready now?” She pushes off your doorframe with her heel. Points behind her with her thumb. “No backing out, I already got Thing One and Thing Two in their shoes.”

No backing out. Not when everyone's got shoes on.

“Yeah,” you answer, swallowing the apprehension rising in your throat. “I think I’m ready.”

————

Burnt orange and mustard yellow leaves line the sidewalks with colors of the 70’s that crunch beneath your feet with each step closer to Joel’s.

Woolly bear caterpillars wriggle through the autumn debris, and you have to tug on Bear’s hand about twelve times to draw his focus away from the fuzzy little things.

“What’s the first thing you do when we get there?”

“Take our shoes off!” Lulu answers with an enthusiastic skip, the yellow rain boots she insisted on wearing - despite a cloudless sky - skidding on the sidewalk in front of you, hand clasped in Romy's.

You’d been quizzing them on manners the whole way, hoping the last two years of instilling the importance pleases and thank you’s and chewing with your mouth closed until you were blue in the face had paid off in the slightest.

“Mhm, good. And what if Mr. Miller makes something you don’t like?”

“Spit it in his face!” Romy shouts, Lulu and Bear whooping in agreement.

“Romy!” you stifle a laugh.

“You eat as much as you can, and then say you’re full!” Bear says enthusiastically beside you, squeezing your hand.

Romy waves a hand up. “Guess that works too.”

“And what do we have to mindful about saying?” You tug on Bear’s hand, steering him away from the caterpillar crawling up a mailbox that reads ‘Miller’.

“Please and thank you!” They all chirp like little bluebird hatchlings, striding up the porch steps.

Your shoulders relax. Maybe you’re not doing too bad when it comes to their manners, at least.

You knock on the front door, trying to ignore the snare drum beating in your chest where your heart used to be.

“And we shouldn’t say ‘fuck’ around Mr. Miller.” Lulu taps on your thigh - like she’s only saying it to remind you.

“Right,” you say flatly. “No saying ‘fuck’. You know what, let’s just say no swearing in general, hm? Everyone got that?”

“Do you got that?” Romy snickers.

You shoot her a glare right before the front door opens.

Joel greets you all with a nauseatingly sweet smile and eyes that soften when they meet yours.

“Perfect timin’,” he says, the sound of a kitchen timer ringing in the background.

“I got it!” Sarah shouts before the ringing ceases.

“Come on in.”

He guides you inside with a hand on the small of your back. The warmth of his palm could burn a hole through the fabric of your shirt.

“Thank you!” your siblings all sing in unison.

“A little less robotic, guys,” you say out of Joel’s earshot.

It smells good, whatever it is he’s cooked for you. Better than day three lasagna, anyways.

Romy approaches him the second her shoes are off, and your ears perk up, straining to listen in on their hushed conversation while you help Bear undo the double knots on his laces.

“Sorry about the other night,” she murmurs.

When the hell did she get so goddamn mature?

“Nothin’ to be sorry for, kid.” Joel wraps an arm around her. Squeezes tight. “You feelin’ better?”

“I’m okay." She rests her head on his shoulder. “Got to stay home from school the next morning, so that was nice. My sister and I watched Blue Planet for, like, eight hours straight.”

Yeah, and you’d spent the whole episode on arctic seas trying to convince yourself that when you’d reached out for him that morning, you weren’t reaching for anything more than heat. You were just cold.

After a few more hushed exchanges, Romy breaks off to help Lulu line up the shoes in a neat row next to Sarah’s Vans.

Your eyes settle back on Joel then - on the faded white paint splatters on his jeans and the worn-in fabric of the band tee he’s wearing. You trail your gaze up past his wide frame that held you so tightly just a few nights ago, and find brown eyes waiting patiently to lock with yours.

And when they do, he smiles gently - the look in his eyes, disarming the anxiety and unease reflected in yours.

Who the hell are you kidding? You weren’t that cold. You knew exactly what you were reaching for that morning.

“Thank you for having us,” you finally say.

His shoulders visibly relax at the sound of your voice, however sheepish it may be.

“Thank y’all for comin’ on such short notice.”

“She didn’t want to,” Lulu interjects, dragging you back to reality. “She said we were s’posed to have leftovers, and got alllll mad when Romy said we were coming over here instead.”

Joel looks at you, the corners of his mouth twitching upward at the way you rub at your forehead with an exasperated sigh.

It’s gonna be a long fucking night.

“Ro, why don’t you show everyone to the dinin’ room. M’sure Sarah could use some help settin’ the table.”

Romy offers an enthusiastic nod, and you all fall into step behind her when a rough hand grips you on the wrist.

“Not you, sweetheart. You’re comin’ with me.”

He leads you toward the kitchen, and fast. You don’t even have time to take in your surroundings. The pictures and paintings on the walls blur together as you stumble past them. You think you spotted a guitar leaning against arm of the couch in the living room.

Your pulse thrums in his palm, and before you can ask him what he wants - or just to slow the fuck down - he lands you right in front of pan of string beans sautéing in butter, oil, and garlic.

“How d’you know when these are done?”

“Before they get all floppy,” you answer, grabbing the pair of tongs next to the stove and lifting a limp green bean. “So, like, five minutes ago.”

“Goddamnit,” he grits, shoving you aside to dump the droopy vegetables onto a platter.

You choke back your laughter, feigning a tickle in your throat when he glowers in your direction.

“Where's the plates? I’ll help you dish up.”

“Left cabinet above the sink,” Joel grumbles, picking through the string beans, trying to salvage the slightly crunchy ones.

You make your way toward the cabinet, distracted by the little, beat-up photo tucked into the wooden moulding - sepia toned children wearing cowboy hats, arms wrapped around one another, grinning toothless grins.

You’d recognize one of those grins anywhere - that little dimple on his right cheek. It makes your heart swell.

“Is this you?”

“Huh?”

You point at the picture. “This is you? And the one with the freckles - that’s your brother?”

He nods. “Lifetime ago.”

“You were cute. Wonder what happened.”

You pretend not to notice the indent of his dimple that appears under his scruff as you set the stack of six plates on the counter next to him. He pulls a tray of baked chicken from the oven, and uncovers a giant pot of mashed potatoes.

“So,” Joel starts, scooping a Lulu-sized dollop of potatoes onto a plate, “how’re you feelin’ - y’know, after…how’re you feelin’?”

Fuck. You knew he didn’t just pull you in here for cooking advice.

He takes a piece of chicken and slices it into bits small enough for a five-year old, waiting for your answer.

“I can do that for her,” you offer, sliding in next to him.

“Uh-uh.” He bats your hand away. “Got it covered.”

You’re thinking of another way to dodge the question when it all clicks, your eyes narrowing at the amount of food laid out in front of you.

This wasn’t some last minute thing. He planned this.

“Oh, I get it.”

“Get what?”

“This is your condolence dinner.”

“The hell’re you on about, darlin’?” He makes sure to look at you sideways before he sets aside Lulu’s plate to cool and gets started on Bear-sized portions.

“Do you know how many casseroles I got after people found out? The moms at Lulu’s old dance studio went crazy. Had to start throwing them out ‘cause the freezer wouldn’t shut anymore.”

“This look like a shitty, frozen casserole t’you?”

“People don’t know what to do when someone dies, so they cook. ‘Dead parents? My condolences, here’s dinner’. That’s what you’re doing, right?”

You’re getting defensive. You actively recognize that as each word falls out of your mouth. But for some reason, even if he means well - and you know he does - the thought of Joel cooking you dinner out of pity has your ears stinging with heat.

“Y’know, you got a real history of assumin’ things, sweetheart, ‘n you know what they say about assumin’.”

“So it’s just a coincidence you find out about my parents, and a few days later you invite us over - last minute, might I add - after ‘makin’ too much food’. And now you’re asking how I’m feeling—”

“Oh, god forbid I ask how you’re feelin’ after you were curled up, cryin’ on my lap two damn days ago,” Joel cuts you off in tone thick with sarcasm, “s’cuuuse me.”

Your cheeks display a warm shade of regret. Why do you always start with him? It never fucking ends well.

“Look,” he sets down utensils to cross his arms and face you, leaning a hip against the counter, “this ain’t what you think it is, babygirl. Sarah’s uncle usually comes for dinner on Saturdays, but he bailed last minute. Called you as an afterthought - otherwise all this goddamn food goes to waste.”

Afterthought.

Weird how one word can make your chest so tight. You’d rather be here for a stupid fucking pity dinner than be a shitty little afterthought rattling around in Joel Miller’s brain.

“And I’m startin’ to get real sick ‘a you dodgin’ my questions,” he continues. “Now, you tell me how you’re doin’ after all that the other day, and then we’re gonna sit down at the damn table and have a nice dinner.”

Fuck, fine.

It’s not that you don’t wanna answer him, you do. You just don’t know how the fuck you’re feeling after everything. There was too much to feel, and you didn’t wanna get into it in the middle of 'Mr. Miller’s' kitchen while he cuts up your baby brother’s chicken.

But instead of just telling him that, you ball your fists at your sides and squeak out, “Better.”

“Good. Now go on ahead into the dinin’ room. I’ll meet ya out there soon.”

“Great,” you say, jaw tight.

So much for thinking he’d treat you any different.

Same old Joel - toying with you, the exact same as he’s always done.

Making your fists clench and your shoulders tense. Calling you babygirl just to see the color change in your cheeks - just like that first morning when he’d sat on the edge of your bed with that smug fucking look on his face while you stammered like an idiot.

You pause at the threshold, grin forming when it registers.

Same old Joel. Treating you the exact same he always has.

“Somethin’ else?” he asks.

You look over your shoulder - he’s still watching you, arms crossed, the sleeves of his shirt tight around his biceps.

“Just that you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, you too, pretty girl,” he drawls with a knowing smile. “Go on now. Save me a seat next t’you.”

————

You find a spot in the dining room, Lulu on your left - a full plate leaving trails of savory steam in front you. You look across the table at Bear, who grabs his fork and heads straight for his mashed potatoes.

Romy swats his wrist, mumbling something about waiting for Mr. Miller.

“Ouch!” Bear drops his fork. “Sissy! Romy just—"

“Knock it off,” you scold through clenched teeth.

Joel walks in, plate in one hand, cold beer in the other. He takes a seat at the head of the table next to you—per his request—opposite Sarah, who’s pouring everyone their choice of sweet tea or water from pitchers she’d brought out.

“Go ahead ‘n eat - ‘fore it gets cold,” Joel says.

Bear looks at you for permission, despite Joel’s, and you answer with a nod. He stares daggers at Romy while he scoops a bite of mashed potatoes again and shoves it in his mouth.

You stab a piece of chicken and take a bite. It’s partially dry, but dammit, the flavor's delicious. Comforting, even.

“We still got stuff for s’mores, Sarah?”

“I think so.”

“How ‘bout I build a fire out back after dinner, then? Roast some marshmallows for dessert.”

Collective declarations of joy make their way around the table, each kid's eyes lighting up at the thought.

“That sound good?” Joel asks you beneath their muttered arguments over whether or not golden marshmallows are better than burnt ones.

“Sounds nice.” You smile.

And it does. You hadn’t sat in front of a fire since the last family camping trip your dad had planned after you’d graduated high school. Only, he timed it so poorly that your pregnant mom ended up in labor before you could break out the marshmallows.

“Sorry, kid,” your dad said, breaking down the tent as quickly as he could, “looks like instead’a s’mores, you’re gettin’ a brother.”

Lulu picks up a wobbly string bean with her fork, pleading eyes looking up at you, silently begging you not to make her eat it.

“Try it, Lu Bug,” you whisper.

She does, shivering with a hard swallow.

“I’m full,” she says quietly, her mouth puckered in disgust.

You giggle, picking up a piece of her chicken with your fork and bringing it to her mouth.

“Here. Chase it down.”

“Y’know, Lulu,” Joel starts, having watched the whole exchange without your knowledge, “I tried to take those green beans off the stove, but your sister wouldn’t let me. Said they ain’t done till they’re all gross ’n floppy.”

“No she didn’t,” Lulu says, her nose all crinkled with laughter.

“Swear,” Joel says, raising a hand in promise.

“Don’t listen to him, Lu.” Sarah points her fork at Joel from across the table. “I had no idea he even knew how to work the stove till today.”

“Sarah,” Joel tsks.

“What? Y'only know how to cook if it involves a barbecue.” She chews on a piece of chicken. “And even then, it’s iffy.”

“Alright, kid—"

“Watch, you’re just gonna order a whole bunch ‘a pizzas tomorrow, like you do every Sunday when Uncle Tom—"

“Why don’t you focus chewin’ with your mouth closed, hm?” Joel cuts her off hastily.

You look over at Sarah. “Your uncle comes for dinner on Sundays?”

“Yep,” Sarah replies, impaling a limp green bean.

“Not Saturday? As in, like…today?”

Joel mumbles something to your right.

“Nope. Every Sunday,” Sarah confirms.

“That so?” You offer Joel a calculated grin. Caught.

Joel Miller cooked you a condolence dinner.

Afterthought my ass.

“Just eat your damn food,” he grumbles, washing down his shame with a sip of Budweiser.

“Sarah,” Romy rasps through a forced smile, “did you forget what we talked about?” She chokes down a bite of slimy green beans. “I think you did a great job with dinner, Mr. Miller.”

“Yeah, Dad.” Sarah straightens her posture. “I was just kiddin’ before. Y’really know your way around a kitchen, lemme tell ya.”

“Love the chicken,” Romy adds, mouth full. “What is that? Rosemary?”

“Uh oh,” you say, locking suspicious eyes with Joel's.

“The hell is it you two monsters want?” Joel asks, trying to hide his amusement.

“Yeah, and why is nobody sucking up to me?” you pout, shoveling another bite of green beans into Lulu’s mouth.

Sarah says your name with a smile, “Have I mentioned how much I love those jeans on you?”

"They make your ass look great,” Romy emphasizes.

Joel chokes on his bite of food.

“Romy, you’re not supposed t’say ass,” Bear pipes up.

“Yeah!” Lulu points over her plate to Romy. “Sissy said ‘no swearing at all’ after I said 'no saying fuck’ - then Mr. Miller came to the door, ‘member?”

Bear nods in agreement while you place your head in one hand and reach for Joel’s beer with the other, taking a long pull to the sound of Sarah and Romy’s stifled giggles.

“Let’s getcha one ‘a those, sweetheart. Think ya might need it,” Joel drawls, pushing out his chair, clearing his throat from his own suppressed laughs.

He returns with a cold beer, and you gesture at him to keep it since his is already halfway empty, thanks to you.

“That shirt looks great on you, Dad. Y’know how much I love band tees.”

“Pearl Jam.” Romy matches Sarah’s synthetic smile. “Great taste. My dad loved Pearl Jam.”

“Jesus, Ro. Dial it back a touch,” you mutter. “Dad didn’t even really listen to—"

Romy clears her throat with that wide-eyed help me out here look.

You look at Joel. Smile. “Dad used to be obsessed with Pearl Jam.”

Joel shakes his head at the two of you, scooting his chair in with a vexed sigh. “Enough, girls. S'get to it now.”

“Before you say no,” Sarah starts, “jus’ listen to the whole thing, please.”

“Not off to a great start.” He scowls.

“Dad.”

“Go ahead. I’m listenin’.”

“There’s this Halloween party—"

“No.”

“But—"

“No.”

“Y’said you’d listen—"

“Heard enough. I said no. S’move on.”

“Ah, c’mon, Joel. Let’s hear their pitch at least.” You tap his forearm, and he tightens the death grip he has around his beer bottle, condensation dripping down his knuckles.

Any tighter, and it’d shatter.

“Don’t need to,” he grumbles. “It’s a no.”

“Well, I wanna hear it.” You look at Romy and Sarah. “Go ahead, ladies. Mr. Grumpy can cover his ears if he doesn’t wanna listen.”

Joel scoffs to your right.

“It’s a small party,” Romy assures.

“And the parents will be there the whole time.”

“I’m sure,” Joel chides.

“Whose party?” you ask.

“Our friend, Bailey.”

“Who else is going?”

They give a list of names, and you recognize enough.

“And it’s on Halloween?” You raise a brow.

“Yes,” Romy answers meekly, scrunching into herself.

“But you’re supposed to go trick-or-treating with us!” Bear cries. “We’re all supposed to be bugs together, remember? You said you’d be a bumblebee!”

You tip the neck of your beer bottle in her direction. “You did say that.”

“I can still dress up like a bumblebee! We can take pictures together!” Romy looks at you with pleading eyes. “Please, can I go?”

“Did you pull your grade up in history?”

“Yes.”

“By how much.”

“Two letters. It’s an A, ask Sarah. Or check - you can check!”

You owe her big, and letting her skip school to lounge around and listen to David Attenborough all day didn’t exactly make up for the look in her eyes when she’d realized you’d lied to Joel about your parents and had to tell him herself. She had asked if you regretted signing for guardianship, and the fact that the thought had even crossed her mind made you want to curl into a ball.

You should’ve told Joel, but every time the opportunity presented itself, you choked. Too busy flirting or fucking to bring up reality.

And you’re not even supposed to be fucking him, are you?

God, you suck.

“Fine,” you say cooly, wiping sweaty, guilt-ridden palms on your jeans. “You can go.”

Romy celebrates, thanking you profusely, despite the melancholic objections from Bear and Lulu.

“Dad?” Sarah looks at Joel, eyes glimmering.

“Kid, this ain’t up for debate. We’ll talk more about it when we don’t have company—"

“Please, Dad. Please. Romy gets to go!”

Joel looks at you through furrowed brows, the crease between them deep.

Thanks a lot.

You shrug in response, finishing your last bite of mashed potatoes.

Sorry.

“What about Fall Festival?” Joel’s chair creaks as he leans his back, crossing his arms. “Spent every Halloween there since before y’could talk.”

Sarah’s face lights up, the wheels in her head turning at a rapid rate. “Bear and Lulu would love Fall Festival!” She points at you. “You could take her and the kids with you!”

“Wait, what?” you ask - in vain, apparently, because no one seems to hear.

“That is a GREAT idea,” Romy says all animated. “I bet they’ll have cotton candy! Lu? Huh? Cotton candy? Doesn’t that sound yummy?”

“I wanna go!” Lulu blurts.

“Me too!” Bear shoots his hand up.

“What about trick-or-treating? You’ve been talking about it for weeks, Bear.”

And he has. You even let him pick costumes for everybody this year - hence, bugs.

He looks at Joel. “Do they have rides?”

Joel nods.

“I don’t care about trick-or-treating anymore.”

“See,” Sarah insists, “they’d love it. You can go with them, ‘n I can go to the party. Everyone’ll be happy.”

“Sweetie—"

“I really, really wanna go.” Sarah looks at Joel with those big, round, twinkly hazel eyes. “Please, Daddy.”

You see it then - the way this little girl has her dad wrapped around her finger - the way his scowl softens and the stern look in his eyes melts into something more gentle. Doting.

It’s the same way your dad used to look at you.

“You’ll text me every few hours?” Joel asks in a drawl laced with defeat.

“Yes.”

“Homework needs to be done first.”

“Okay.”

“And your curfew—"

“No later than 11:30.”

“Not one second later.”

“So I can go?” Sarah squeezes Romy’s hand.

“Yes,” Joel sighs, “reckon y’can go.”

Sarah and Romy erupt in squeals of excitement, both of them leaping out of their chairs to sandwich Joel in a hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Sarah gushes between kisses on her dad’s whiskery cheeks.

“Thank you, Mr. Miller!” Romy beams with her cheek smushed against his shoulder. “I’ll make sure she checks in with you the whole time.”

“Christ, okay, girls,” Joel chuckles, prying them off to push out his chair and start gathering empty dishes. “This ain’t gonna become a regular thing, got it?”

“Got it,” Sarah chirps, triumphant smile still spread across her face.

You help Joel, stacking dishes and cups, about to follow him into the kitchen when Romy mutters something to Sarah a little too loudly.

“Tell Bailey your dad’s letting you go. Oh my god, he’s gonna freak.”

Joel’s boots squeak on the wood floors when he hears it, turning on his heel to face the girls.

“Romy!” Sarah hisses.

“Bailey’s a boy?” he bites, voice rough.

Romy and Sarah freeze, eyes wide and glinting with fear. Bear and Lulu cover their mouths with small hands.

“Wow, so many dishes to do,” you sing, linking your arm in Joel’s. “Better get started—"

“Now, how come ya’ll left that lil’ detail out, hm?” his voice is pricklier than brambles. “There gonna be other boys there?”

“Run," you mouth to the girls. “C’mon Joel, let’s go. Dishes to do, people to, um - whatever, just c’mon.”

You have to pull him with all your strength before he budges, the girls bounding off like spooked doe after a gun-shot.

You both set your stacks of dishes in the sink. Joel turns on the faucet, the stream of water hitting the ceramic and filling the silence between you. His jaw tics while he squirts dish soap onto a sponge.

“Joel—"

“Thanks for your help back there,” he grits.

“Oh, lighten up, ‘Daddy’. You’re overreacting.”

He flicks off the water, knuckles white as he grabs at the lip of the counter with wet, soapy hands.

“Don’t call me - y’know just how to push…” He pauses, takes a breath, his tone changing before he says evenly, “I ain’t overreactin’.”

“So what if there’s gonna be boys? You never went to parties with girls in high school?”

“I did. S’why I don’t want my little girl goin’ to one.”

“She’s fifteen, Joel. She’s at that age, ya know? Parties and boys and—"

“Your daddy let you go to parties at fifteen?” he cuts in, drying his hands with a rag before he turns to face you.

“Well, no. But—"

“S’it. She ain’t goin’.”

You snatch him as he attempts to walk past.

“Wait.” Your fingers tighten around his arm, his muscles jerking in your palm. “Just - hold on. Think it over. She’s a good kid - she asked permission first. Sure, she left some details out, but she obviously knows you well enough to pick and choose what to tell you.”

“Hell’s that s’posed to mean.”

“You know what it means.” You run your thumb over the swell of his bicep, and you have to pretend it doesn’t make your stomach swirl when his muscles relax into your touch. “I’ll get these dishes done - you go out back and get a fire going. If you’re still hellbent on Sarah not going after that, then whatever. Just take a second to think first.”

“Okay,” he concedes in a register lower than a whisper.

And with that, he makes his way out to the backyard.

————

The dishes take forever, not that it was your fault. No, it was his kitchen window’s fault for offering you a perfect, four-paned view into the backyard.

Dusk had set in, and crimson leaves were making their end-of-life journey from the neighbor's yard and into Joel’s pool. And just to the right of the twilight reflecting off the leaf-littered ripples of the water, Joel was taking his anger out with an axe and some innocent logs next to a little wooden shed in the corner of the yard.

You'd let the water run, filling pots and pans to the rim while you gaped at the way his muscles swelled with each swing of the axe. The way he’d pinch his brows and clench his jaw tight when he’d drive the axe into the wood. The sweat pooled on his forehead and the neckline of his t-shirt.

Fuck it - you’re obsessed with Pearl Jam now, too.

Eventually, though, you’d set the last dish on the rack to dry. You even wiped down the top of the stove and the counters for good measure, stopping in front of the fridge to admire the all the pictures trapped with silly magnets.

You decide your favorite is the one of Sarah around Lulu’s age - her hair bound in two braids - sitting on Joel’s lap while he plucks a guitar. The same guitar you’d caught a glimpse of on your way in.

You flinch at another crack of an axe reverberating from the back yard, and figure it’s time to see what a little fresh air has done for Joel’s rationale.

And as you sneak by the kids playing a round of Mario Kart in the living room to gather your shoes, you’re not even fantasizing about what it’d be like to see him chopping wood up close - to hear his grunts or see the sweat dripping down the slope of his nose.

“Aw! Who hit me with a red shell?” Bear whines.

You slink out, shutting the door that leads to the backyard to the sound of Sarah’s sinister giggle, and begin trudging through dewed grass and maple keys to get to Joel.

You stop in front of him, the toes of your shoes wet - the string patio lights surrounding you in their soft, hazy glow.

“Are you done being mad at me now?”

“Ain’t mad at you.” A sliver of skin shows above his belt before he slams the axe down with a grunt, the crack of the wood pinging in your eardrums.

You could get on your knees for him right now. That’d make him feel better, wouldn’t it?

Christ, get ahold of yourself.

“Then why are you angry-chopping wood out here like a psycho?”

“You wanna warm fire?”

He doesn’t bother to look when you cross your arms at his tone.

He tosses the axe into the grass and picks up the smaller one that’s leaned against the chopping block, carefully placing a freshly chopped log before whacking the hatchet down to split off smaller pieces of wood.

“I know she’s fifteen,” he says, between the snap of wood. “I know I should let her go out ’n experience shit that I - things I don’t necessarily…want her to.”

He buries the heel of the axe into the chopping block, pausing to look up at you for the first time.

Are his eyes…glossy?

“S’just - I dunno. She was Lu’s age yesterday - beggin’ me for cotton candy ’n all that.” He rubs at his jaw. “Jus’ thought I had a little more time before all this. ’S goin’ too fast.”

Oh.

Your heart sinks at the thought of that picture on his fridge - at the way he had to clear his throat when his voice faltered. She was Lulu’s age yesterday, sitting on his lap while he strummed his guitar to the sound of her giggles.

Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his body in an embrace that he returns immediately - his big arms swallowing you whole. The scent of fresh wood and sweat wraps you in tight.

“Goes by really fast,” you agree. “Everyone says it does, but you don’t really think about it till it’s happening in front’a you.”

“Worried she’s gonna start pullin’ away from me,” he admits quietly.

“She adores you,” you say into his chest. “Talks about you all the time when she’s over.”

“She does?”

“Yeah. ‘My dad does this, my dad says that, my dad thinks this’ - it gets real fuckin’ annoying, actually. Can’t escape you, no matter how hard I try.”

He chuckles at that. His hand - damn near the width of your back - rubbing languid circles between your shoulder blades.

“I wouldn’t worry about her pulling away, either.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“‘Cause I see the way she talks to you - looks at you with those eyes.”

“She knows what she’s doin’ with those big fuckin’ eyes. Been makin’ fold since she was a damn toddler.”

“I noticed,” you giggle.

“Y’ain’t worried about this party?”

“No,” you crane your neck, met with brown eyes peering back at you. “They’re good kids. They both work hard in school. They stay outta trouble. They deserve a night of fun, I think.”

You pluck the shavings and splinters of wood from his shirt, and he picks out pieces caught in your hair.

“It’ll be fine,” you continue, “Sarah’s curfew sounds, like, freakishly rigid. And besides, you’ll be busy with me and the kids at that festival thing, right?”

“Y’really wanna go?”

“Sure. I mean, now that the kids know about it, I don’t really think I have a choice.”

You do have a choice, actually. And he knows that too. It’s obvious in the smile he’s trying so hard to hide.

He nestles your head back into the warmth of his chest, and you have to stop yourself from audibly sighing when you feel him press a kiss onto the crown of your head.

“Dinner was nice,” you say, muffled into his shirt. “Good condolence chicken.”

“Shut it.”

You wriggle free from his arms. “You learn how to cook for ‘afterthoughts’ a lot?”

“You’re treadin’ on some mighty thin ice tonight, pretty girl.” He turns back to the pile of logs and kindling.

“Can I try? My dad never let me.”

“What, your daddy didn’t teach you to chop wood?”

You shrug. “He taught me, just never let me actually try it. Said that the idea of me holding an axe gave him the same uneasy feeling Jack Nicholson did in The Shining.”

It’s the first time you hear Joel really laugh. So unrestrained and deep and genuine - wrinkles around his scrunched eyes, head thrown back, throat bobbing and shoulders bouncing.

You wish it wasn’t at your expense, sure, but you smile at the sound anyway - laugh a little yourself when he places his hand on his stomach, clutching his abs while he tries to breathe.

“Think me 'n your daddy woulda gotten along real well,” he finally says, blowing out an uneven breath. “That is too damn accurate.”

Your dad and Joel Miller - Jesus. You don’t even wanna think about what your dad would do if he knew about all this, and some twisted part of you is thankful you don’t have to find out.

Besides, if the category was teasing you until you wanna scream, they’d be the best of friends. And if Joel thinks they’d get along, who are you to burst his giant, fatuitous bubble?

“Okay, great. Can we be done making fun of me now?”

“Jack Nicholson,” he mutters, still giggling to himself. “S’fuckin’ funny.”

He yanks the hatchet free from the splitting block.

“Alright, sweetheart. Luckily, this ain’t an axe, it’s a hatchet. Works better for splittin’ kindling - which is what I’m tryin’ to get here.”

“I know what a hatchet is, Joel.”

“Alright, Miss Know-it-all, show me how to use one then. Go ahead an’ split some wood f’me.”

“‘Kay, fine.” You yank the hatchet from his hand and stomp into place. “I will.”

“So goddamn stubborn,” he mumbles behind you.

You squeeze the wooden handle, lifting it above the small vertical hunk of wood, lips pressed in a tight, thin line.

“Bad angle,” Joel says through a smile you know is there without having to look.

“I wasn’t gonna do it yet,” you lie. You were about .5 seconds away from smacking the damn thing with all your might.

You raise it again. Scrunch your eyes shut, and—

“Open your damn eyes, girl! You’ll lose a fuckin’ finger!”

“I was gonna open them!” you lie again. You didn’t even realize you’d closed them in the first place.

You hear Joel’s quiet scoff over the katydids’ boring autumn songs.

You raise the hatchet for an ever-so-charming third time - eyes open.

“Don’t swing too hard. Ain’t about force, it’s about aim. You hit the right spot ‘n it’ll just—”

“Joel—"

“Sorry.” He lifts hands and takes a half-step back. “All you, baby. Ain’t even gonna tell ya that your feet are too close together.”

You widen your stance.

“Or that your grip should be lower on that handle.”

“I know that,” you say, lowering your grip.

“Know ya do, angel. Jus’ thought I’d remind you.”

He hasn’t stopped grinning, has he?

You lift the hatchet again and pick out a spot that looks…choppable?

You don’t fucking know, you’ve never done this before.

You connect the head of the hatchet with the wood and - by the fucking grace of god - it splits.

“I did it!” You whip around excitedly, Joel’s smile even wider than yours. “I mean…See? Told you I could do it.”

He shakes his head, another laugh tumbling from his lips - this one sweeter, mellisonant.

“You did it.” His hands rest on his hips. “My headstrong girl.”

Your heart stutters, your fist clenching tighter around the wooden handle of the hatchet.

“Can I do another one?”

“Reckon we could use a few more.” He nods towards the quartered logs waiting by the chopping block.

You smile eagerly and get back to work.

If you could’ve told yourself two days ago that in a few days you'd be chopping wood in Joel Miller's backyard with a belly full of dinner he'd cooked for you, you would've keeled over.

Joel carries bundles of logs and kindling over to the fire pit near the patio, and when you decide you’ve had your fun, you set the hatchet down and work on gathering the freshly chopped pieces of wood yourself.

“Ow!” You abandon pieces of kindling to inspect the stinging splinter on the tip of your forefinger. “Shit.”

Joel’s already across the yard and grabbing your hand to examine the damage before you can fully assess it yourself.

“Christ...” He sucks at his teeth, trying to get a better look, angling your finger in the dull gleam of the string patio lights. “Gotta be a half-inch stuck in there, at least.”

“Well, get it out!” you whine.

“Don’t yell at me, sweetheart. You’re the one who was jus’ dyin’ to split wood.” He grabs your hand, tugging you toward the work shed next to the wood pile. “You split wood, you get splinters. S’how it works—”

“I don’t need a lecture right now, Joel. And why aren’t we going inside?”

You try to peek through one of the windows on either side of the door. Nothing to see but milky darkness.

“Don’t need to.” He unlatches the silver lock on the door. “Got everything we need in here.”

You’re overwhelmed with the scent of him the second he pushes that door open. Cedar fills your nose, almost overpowering the sweet bitterness of coffee and whiskey that lingers somewhere in the air.

He tugs the pull chain in the middle of the room, and you have to clench your jaw to keep it from dropping at what’s revealed in the warmth of light.

There’s a wooden desk to your right, covered in blueprints, and a mug half-full of old coffee, lost in the clutter - along with an empty glass, still sticky with whiskey. A work bench takes up the back wall with chipped away blocks of wood and a framed picture of Sarah as a toddler standing in a pair of men's cowboy boots, hidden behind moutains wood shavings and carving tools.

Carved wooden figurines - bear, rabbits, deer, wolves, horses, ducks you name it - litter the shelves to the left of you, along with more tools and metal boxes. Joel grabs the one with ‘first-aid' written across a rusted lid.

“Did you - did you build this?” you ask, still taking it all in. The floors. The walls. The tools hanging on the walls.

“Build what?” he drawls, digging through the metal box.

“Everything,” you say, fingers running along the detailed legs of the cherry wood desk.

“Yes,” he answers, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s just a fact.

“The desk?”

“Mhm.”

“The chairs?”

“Yep.”

“The shelves?” You point to wear he’s knelt, as if he can see with his back turned to you.

“Yes.”

“The - this shed?”

“Sweetheart—” He cranes his neck to meet your gaze “—lemme save ya some trouble - whatever you’re seein’ s’made outta wood, I built. The shed, the chairs, the shelves, the workbench, all of it.”

You knew he ran a contracting business but, fuck, this was…something else.

“You didn’t tell me you could do this.” You run a hand along the intricately carved horseshoe design on the desk chair’s backrest.

“Y’never asked,” Joel says casually, walking toward you. He sets down a pair of tweezers, a tube of Neosporin, and a bandaid on top of the clutter, and drags over the stool from the workbench across the way.

“Joel,” you say, admiring the wooden owl carving on his desk, “do you realize you’re, like, insanely talented?”

“Jus’ know how to work with tools is all. Let’s get you taken care of, huh?” He leans over, turning on the green banker’s lamp above the blueprints, adjusting it before sits down and pats the seat of the stool next to him. “C’mon, darlin’. Lemme see what I can do.”

You listen, perching on the stool, scooting closer to the desk light when he asks.

“I mean it, Joel. This is all…it’s, like, crazy in here. You did the wood carvings too? All the animals, I mean?”

“You ask too many damn questions,” he grumbles, gently tilting your finger in the light, gaging the best way to go about this.

“Ow! Stop - quit poking at it!”

“Quit movin’.” He squeezes your hand. “Gotta see ‘f it’s stickin’ out enough to grab with tweezers.”

You look down at the tweezers in question, and by the rust lining the metal, you’d venture to guess that they’re probably older than you.

“Aren’t you s’posed to disinfect those? I could get tetanus or something.”

His eyes raise to yours.

“Or somethin’?” he echoes, raising a brow.

“Yeah, like - I dunno - a staph infection. Or cellulitis. My mom had that once.”

He just stares at you. Blinks. Shakes his head and mutters something like, “Uptight as the day I met you,” under his breath. You wince when he presses the pad of his finger onto the tender spot again.

He mumbles an expletive, reaching for something behind his forgotten mug full of cold coffee while you try to decode the jargon written on the blueprints in front of you. He fiddles with whatever it is he’s found, reaching for your hand once more.

“Reckon I can get it out,” he says after a beat.

“Good,” you sigh with relief.

He grabs the tweezers and you look back at him, all geared up to warn him about being gentle when you finally see what he was rummaging around for.

Glasses. Rectangular brown frames, sitting on the curve of his nose.

A smirk tugs at your lips - and when you part them, about to say something, Joel puts a stop to it fast.

“Save it, smartass. ‘Less you want me to leave the damn thing in there.”

“But—”

“It’ll fester. Get all infected ‘n gross. Get cellulitis, like you said.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

You were, actually. Of course you were. How could you not? The old man jokes were writing themselves at this point.

“Bad liar,” he reminds you, your finger pinched between two of his own, held up in front of his nose as he squints behind the lenses.

“I think - ah!” you cringe at his first attempt to get the splinter out. “Careful, please.”

“Sorry, angel girl,” he coos. “Try stayin’ still f’me, hm? It’ll hurt less.”

You nod once.

“I think they look nice on you,” you continue. “I like you in glasses.”

He pauses to meet your eye-line, brown eyes peering over his frames. “Think you’re just stallin’ now.”

“Mm-mm,” you hum with a charmed smile. “Not stalling. Just think you look handsome.”

Half-true. You are stalling - who wouldn’t be when there’s a piece of wood imbedded in your finger, and nothing but a pair of rusty tweezers and Joel Miller to dig it out?

But he does look handsome.

Handsome enough stir something in your core. Something that’s been nagging since you two had been alone in your laundry room - before that whole disaster of a night.

“You know exactly what you’re doin’,” he mumbles softly, letting a grin slip - his cheeks turning a quiet shade of pink before he gets back to work.

Your stomach jumps, realizing that for the first time, you just made the ever-stoic Joel Miller blush - but, like he can see you getting too cocky, he clips your skin between the metal prongs of the tweezers.

“Ow, Joel!” you yelp, losing your attempt at retracting your hand to the grip he has on it.

“Shit, sweetheart. M’sorry.”

He pulls your hand closer - presses a soft kiss into your palm while you watch, mouth slightly agape. He kisses at your fingers gently, your pinched features softening with each one.

The throb in your finger starts to fade into oblivion while the one between your legs becomes your more pressing ailment.

“Gonna get this out for ya, darlin’. Matter ‘a fact…” he trails off, taking your pointer finger and pushing the flesh down around the splinter, eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

He slowly guides your finger up to his mouth, pushing the tip of it between his parted lips. His spit is warm on the pad of your finger as he sucks at it gently, his teeth nibbling at tender skin.

You’re practically slack-jawed - you might as well be drooling - completely silent, despite the pain, watching him sit there and suck on your finger.

His brows are furrowed with focus, trying to find the head of the splinter with the tip of his tongue.

God.

You squeeze your thighs together, attempting to quell the growing ache with zero fucking results.

His jaw feathers with a delicate bite down, sucking softly and pulling back slowly, revealing a half-inch splinter trapped between his teeth. He spits the sliver of wood on the floor and inspects your finger once more.

“There,” he says, putting a dot of Neosporin where a pinprick of velvety blood rises from your fingertip. He wraps it up in a Hello Kitty band-aid. “All fixed, sweet girl.”

You don’t realize you’re still gawking at him until his eyes finally lift to yours.

“Guess I haven’t switched out the bandages since Sarah was little.”

Your eyes lower down to your finger. Hello Kitty riding a scooter.

You start scanning everything around you. The owl carving, then the rings of coffee stains over scroll of papers in front of you, the list of measurements written out on a sticky note - anywhere but Joel and his mouth.

When’s the last time you said something? Say something. He’s looking at you, idiot. Say something, anything—

“What?” he asks.

You swallow, hoping the cotton in your mouth will dissolve.

“Nothing,” you say shyly, shifting slightly before crossing your legs. “Thanks for, um—thanks for getting that out.”

He chuckles quietly to himself. You know that chuckle - the one he gives when he’s caught you in something.

“What?” you hiss, finally locking eyes - and he’s fucking smiling.

Of course he’s fucking smiling.

“Don’t tell me that got you all hot ’n bothered.” He points to your bandaged finger.

“It didn’t,” you lie, hiding the hot pink band-aid with your thumb - your gaze settling back on whatever the hell isn’t him.

You fidget in your chair again, your panties already slick as you uncross your legs, just to cross them again, trying to find a comfortable enough position to ignore the soaked fabric.

“It didn't, huh?” He lifts your chin with a finger, forcing you to make eye contact. “Look me in the eye ’n lie again, squirmy.”

“M’not squirming,” you mumble, grabbing his wrist, resisting the urge to readjust in your seat.

“Oh, you’re achin’ aren’t ya, sweetheart?” he teases. “That all takes? Suckin’ a damn splinter outta your finger?”

And how would this asshole fucking feel if you had his finger in your mouth?

You wanna ask him. You almost do. You even part your lips to say the words - but instead, you find yourself closing your lips around the thickness of his pointer finger that you shove into your mouth - cheeks hollowing as push it to the back of your throat and suck.

You watch his brown eyes grow dark behind the frames of his glasses as you swirl your tongue and swallow the salty taste his skin leaves on your tastebuds.

“Fuck.” He leans forward. Places his free hand on your thigh. “Open.”

You listen. He rewards you with a second finger, your mouth full as you run your tongue around both, gagging slightly as he pushes them further in.

He backs off, and you hum a disapproving note, tightening your grip on his wrist.

“Easy, babygirl. Easy,” he says, voice rough as you take his fingers deeper until you reach the base of his knuckles. “Goddamn.”

His drawl is low and honeyed, and you have to stop yourself from letting a moan slip just at the sound.

A string of saliva stretches and breaks from your lower lip as you pull back, leaving his fingers wet and glistening while your eyes remain trained on his.

You can see the quickened pulse in his neck. His uneven breathing as clenches his spit-soaked fingers into a tight fist.

Your eyes flit down to the thick bulge in his jeans, then back up to his lust-blown gaze.

You raise a brow.

“That all it takes?”

ao3 link: crazycomet 💫

#joel miller fan fiction #joel miller tlou #ao3 #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel x reader #joel the last of us #joel x female reader #sassy joel miller #joel tlou

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loceiswhereyouleastexpectit · 15 hours ago

Text

Soon enough - Chapter 6

Word count - 1.7K

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: Guys idk how some of these writers be putting out like 9k stories a day. This already felt like a lot for me. Sorry for the slow pace. I just like to give my heart to every scene. Hope you like it. LMK IF YOU HAVE IDEAS PLEASE!

Chapter 6

Azzi POV

Once Azzi showered and got herself looking somewhat put together, throwing on one of Paige’s hoodies and jeans, she decided to head back to her room. She always had a habit of taking Paiges clothes, they just fit her better, felt better than her own, but mostly, they smelled like Paige. A thick aroma of vanilla and soap masked the clothes, making the girl feel warmth every time she wore them.

Their rooms were only a few doors away but as she approached her hotel room, there was already an abundance of noise coming from it. She noticed the door was unlocked. As she opened the door the first thing she saw was her agent, pacing up and down, clearly just as stressed out as Azzi.

“Azzi where have you been, I have been calling you,” Azzi realized her phone had been dead for some time now and never got the opportunity to charge it.

“Im so so sorry, I was just in Paiges room Maria, everything is ok. We still have so much time. If Paige isn’t getting ready yet then why should I?” Azzi claimed, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Azzi, you dont understand, there’s so much we have to do, your hair, god thats already gonna take three hours, everyone is waiting for you, come on,” her agent said.

“OK, im here.” Azzi sat down in the chair and immediately was surrounded by three women, already detangling and washing her hair.

A few moments passed and she heard a few knocks on the door, hopefully it was someone to calm her down.

Caroline and KK walked through the door, still in there sweats, clearly not close to being ready for the night.

“HEYYYYYYY, whose ready for the biggest night of our lives!!!!!” KK exclaimed, clearly excited for her best friend.

“Hey guys, why aren’t you getting ready?.” Azzi questioned.

“Girly pop, we aren’t the ones sitting front and center with the star herself, we got more than enough time”. KK said.

“How you feeling?” Caroline asked, already feeling Azzi’s nerves.

“Im ok, I meann, look at me, clearly im not ready and idk if Paige is even back yet. I just feel uneasy.” Azzi finished almost feeling out of breath.

“Azzi, you are gonna look beautiful as always. Don’t stress” Carol said.

“Its not about that, its about Paige I guess” Azzi admitted, already feeling watched by the two girls.

“OK real talk” KK said, both girl sitting down on Azzi’s bed, “Your girl, she’s leaving, we all know it, are we all sad to see her go, ofc we are, she’s our star. But just enjoy it, enjoy her, because I know once she gets on that plane, there are gonna be some things you will regret not doing or saying, so just live these next few days with zero regrets, that’s all you can do for yourself.”

“And, imagine how Paige feels, she’s going to a new city, with people she doesn’t know, building a new life with a new organization. All she wants is comfort from her best friend, so thats all she needs from you.” Caroline finished.

Azzi thought for a second, “best friend…, do you think thats all I mean to her?” Azzi asked both girls, trying to share some of what she had been feeling these last few months.

KK and Caroline immediately stared at each other, knowing where this was going, however, they decided to play dumb.

“Girl what do you mean?” KK asked.

“It’s just idk, sometimes, recently, Paige she just gives me different feelings. Like when we cuddle sometimes, I just feel different. It’s not how it used to be. At least not always. I mean yes she’s still my best friend, but I can’t help but notice how undeniably beautiful she is, especially fresh in the morning. I mean it's hard sometimes, the lines between friendship and more get a little blurry when I think too much about it. About her”. Azzi had been so lost in thought she didn’t even realize how her friends were looking at her. Even the women, brushing her hair, had stopped for a second.

Caroline broke the silence.“Azzi, you guys clearly aren't just ‘best friends’. I mean look at it this way, who asks there best friend to be at there table. Literally no one, she had so many people to ask but she choose you. YOU. Not her dad, or drew or her mom. You. So, what does that say about your bond, its clearly more than a friendship”.

“Carol, but how do you think she feels.”

“Azzi, no one can know how she feels for sure besides her, but the real question is how do you feel?”

And just as those last words left Caroline’s mouth the blonde walked in. Grey hoodie swallowing her thin frame and grey sweats. She had two bags of food in her hand, the scent filling up the room, making Azzi’s stomach grumble.

“Oh, Hey guys, didn’t know you all would be here, would have brought more food,” Paige said looking at KK and Caroline. The her attention turned to Azzi. “I texted you but you didn't respond but I brought you a salad, I know you get nervous before big things like this, but if you want something heavier you can have some of my Canes.”

All eyes were now on Paige. Everyone could see her kindness for the younger girl.

“Thanks Paige” Azzi said softly. But just as she was about to say something else, her agent walked back into the room.

“Paige don’t you have to get ready? It’s your big day.”

“Nah, I got time, ill chill with Azzi for a bit.” Paige said, knowing she actually didn’t have time and her own agent would be hunting her down soon enough.

“Well” said Carol, “we'll get out of your hair, literally”, pointing at the tangled mess of Azzi’s curls. “See you guys later ok” said said pulling KK away from Paige’s food, already attempting to steal a fry. “UH fine, have fun guys, you gonna kill it Paige” KK said, but just before Caroline and KK left the room Caroline whispered to Azzi, “not all best friends do all this, just saying”.

Azzi cheeks were a little flushed out of embarrassment. As the two left the room, it was just Piage and Azzi, Paige giving Azzi a confused look as she sat down in a chair.

“What carol say?” The blonde asked.

“Nothing nothing, she’s just being a smartass.”

“Right, sure. How’d you sleep, you were knocked when I left.”

Azzi gulped, “Fine.”

Paige got up from her seat and gave her her food, “Here eat”. She’s always taking care of me.

“Im not that hungry, maybe later.”

“You sure, I know you get cranky.”

“Paige, im fine.” Azzi said maybe a little to sharply.

“Ok, sorry im just making sure your ok.” Paige said.

“Paige, im sorry, just a little out of it right now, shouldn’t you go get ready.” The curly haired girl said, eye already sad.

“Yea, I wanted to soak up some time with you first, but if your not in the mood, ill leave”, Paige said already packing up her food, only taking a few bites from her chicken.

Azzi suddenly remembered what KK and Caroline said, “no stay, please.” Azzi said, knowing that she would only get a few more moments like this with the blonde.

“You sure, because I can go-”

“STay.” The younger girl said, almost like a plea.

“Okay.”

The two girls quietly stared at one another which felt like hours but was merely minutes. Eventually Paige finished up eating her food, and by that time the women working on Azzi’s hair had it all washed and untangled.

They decided to let her pick her dress before they blow-dried her hair, knowing it would get a little frizzy in the process.

Paige was staring at her phone but as soon as Azzi tried on her first dress all her attention shifted towards her.

Azzi tried on four different dresses, each one feeling more and more uncomfortable until she found “the one.”

At least that’s what Paige had called it.

As she slipped on the low v neck, almost see through black dress, everyone in the room stilled.

She turned and looked at herself in the mirror and felt almost beautiful. It felt right and when she turned around to ask Paige what she thought, already vetoing the other options, the older girl looked starstrucked.

“Thats the one Azzi.”

“Really, you think so.”

“Yes” Paige said as she slowly approached Azzi, gently as if she was approaching a real diamond. “You look wow, amazing, spectacular, all the words in the dictionary.”

Azzi giggled, feeling under pressure at all the eyes on her. But mostly the piercing blue eyes that belonged to the blonde.

“Thank you, I think its the one, but im still gonna try on the others.” her indecisiveness getting in the way.

“No Azzi, im telling you this is the one, I feel it.”

“Your right” she said as she turned around to look at herself once again. This time though, the blonde peeped through and threaded her fingers around Azzi’s waist.

She whispered in her ear, “You look beautiful,” and at those words, Azzi was weak in her knees, knowing that if Paige wasn’t right behind her, steadying her, she would have fallen.

Azzi slowly turned her head towards Paige, making eye contact with her blue eyes. Please don’t leave. Thats all she was thinking. If you weren’t leaving soon I would kiss you right now and we would figure it out. The two girls were so lost in each other that neither realized Paige’s Agent had barged in.

“PAIGE, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN. YOU HAVE TO LEAVE IN TWO HOURS.” Paiges agent yelled as the two girls quickly separated from one another.

“Im sorry, truly, lost track of time. Don’t worry, we still have plenty of time” she said to her agent, then she turned to Azzi “I gotta go, but you look like a princess, ill see you in a bit okay” she said so softly only Azzi could hear.

“Ok.”

Then Paige left, but before she disappeared through the door, she turned her head and gave Azzi a wink. Assuring her that everything would be ok.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #pazzi #pazzi fics #azzi35 #love #slow burn

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 3 days ago

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Chapter 6 - Reunion

[Available on AO3]

Masterlist

Captain John Price x fem!OC (Rory Sinclair) - 3rd person POV, Alternating

Summary: After the events at Arklov, Rory feels the burden of stress weighing down on her when it's revealed the missiles were little more than a distraction from another attack by Makarov. Later, the 141 is made privy to the attack and the return of Shepherd leaves them in a conflicted situation that results in Rory making a decision that could put her in Makarov's line of fire

A/N: The next fic in the timeline for Lieutenant Rory Sinclair (OC), this is the writer's rendition of COD:MWIII with a heavy dose of canon rewriting

*Another long chapter that includes in-game dialog as well as references to Rory's PTSD and mentions of events from previous fics "All Along the Watchtower" and "Evening of Score"

Word count: 7K

Tags/Warnings: Minors DNI, Swearing, Character with Trauma, PTSD, Established Relationship, Military Inaccuracies, Original Characters, Price POV, OC POV, smoking, references to previous fics, brief moment of Price manipulation

November 17, 2023 - Chimera Base, Russia

Scrubbing her skin to the point it's shade is that of a boiled lobster, sudsy water circles the drain and she can only hope by now that she's removed every trace of the nerve agent from her skin and hair. It's the third shower she's had since they returned and an anxious feedback loop keeps her head plunging under the water again and again.

In the white noise drone of water upon tile, her only company is her head, and Rory is left staggered by the sounds she thought had been tuned out during the escape. Creeping out from her subconscious like the gas through vents — the screaming, the cries, the desperate pleading for help — they crash down in a flash flood as the walls of the already cramped shower cubicle begin to squeeze in around her. A shiver slides down her back and prickles the nerves as goosebumps raise up from the flesh of her arms. Even with the water turned up to what anyone would consider near scalding, the cold finds its way into that crack in the armor. Pressing her forehead to the shower wall, her chest heaves against the burn of a torch held to it. It's a searing ache that spreads from the epicenter of her breast bone and travels through every rib until it reaches her spine and tries to fuse the bone together. Tears blur her vision and she tries to blink them away. Hands tremble as they rake through her soaked tresses, the joints seizing into gnarled claws. Her lungs clench around the breath inside them and keep it prisoner until she gasps like she's suffocating.

She knows what this is. That doesn't mean she can stop it.

It's been months since her last episode. The sertraline, the therapy, they had been doing their job. However, colliding with the heft of a lorry behind them, the memories resurface. Old and new, they blur together. Pounding bloody fists on windows the bassline to a wailing chorus of children's fear, and it all bleeds into one pained cacophony of horror that fills every inch of her gray matter.

It's a flashback. I'm safe.

This is a stress reaction. It's over.

She tries to force herself out of the spiral on her own. John is still miles away, and she can't rely on anyone else the way she can with him. That shitty little patch of grass she calls a garden, the one she buries her toes in, is back in London, and she's left trying to find a way to ground herself without her usual methods.

Glancing around the room, her eyes peek out from under her arm, and she begins to make little lists in her head. Five things she can see: shampoo, body wash, sink, toilet, bar of soap. With a deep breath, she finds her hands starting to loosen, her fingers stretching out within the bunched hair that twines around them. Four things she can touch: hair, skin, water, tile. Another deep breath, closing her eyes, the strain on her chest starts to give. Three things she can hear: the fan, her heartbeat, water going down the drain…

Minutes feel like hours as time passes, and eventually, her heart rate slows to normal and the heat of the shower digs into her tender muscles. A bone-deep sense of weariness catches up with her, something that's been in hot pursuit for weeks has finally snapped at her heels.

Fucking knackered. There's no two ways about it, but she can't stop. Not now.

Sinuses burning, blocked to the point it feels like cement has set within the narrow passageways that rest between her nose and the backs of her eyes, she inhales sharply when a loud knock on the bathroom door causes it to shudder on its hinges. Groaning under the flowing stream of water that runs down her back, her hand grips at the wall for support while the pressure flares between her eyes.

"Laswell needs you," Nik rumbles through the door, making himself heard over the pounding of water and the buzzing of the fan in the ceiling desperately trying to suck up the steam that's been billowing from the stall for the last hour.

With a heavy sigh, she rubs her thumb and pointer finger along the lines of her lashes. Pulling herself back together once more, she calls out in a hoarse croak, "Almost done."

Her hand slides down the wall and the drops that linger there melt away under her touch forming one long rivulet. Wrapping her hand around the faucet, it turns and the spray of water shrinks away to nothing except a steady drop of the last dregs from the shower head.

Stepping out of the cramped little corner stall, it's clouded glass doors and the slick floor puddled with water are further proof of the time elapsed since she had first climbed inside. She grabs the towel that's been waiting for her, waiting until she felt safe to consider herself clean enough to use it. The clothing and shoes she had arrived in earlier are folded neatly on the counter, just as she had left them, and with a quick change, she looks almost human again. Almost passable. Almost able to carry around the lie that she's perfectly alright. A few more touches and no one will ever know the difference. Soon, that handy smile of hers will be firmly affixed once more.

"How're you feeling?"

Laswell sips on a coffee in the little kitchenette of the base as Rory enters, running a damp towel through her soggy tresses. The older woman's blonde hair, still drying, is tucked neatly back into it's usual bun, no hair seemingly left out of place. A bitter pang of jealousy lances through Rory as she sees how well put together the CIA Station Chief appears to be, even after their harrowing escape.

"Like a drowned rat," she says with a smirk, "but my throat hasn't closed up, so I'm considering the pruned skin I'm left with a win."

That's right, Rory. Hold onto that grin. Tell a joke.

Nodding, a faint smile curls the corner of Laswell's mouth. "I haven't fared much better," she says, holding up her free hand, the pads of her fingers wrinkled. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her trousers, Kate rests back against the counter and places her mug down on the laminate with a light clink. "Could have been worse though, and you stopped that from happening."

Rory's smile falters for just a moment, not quite meeting her eyes before she redoubles her efforts, straining to at least let her dimples emerge. "Glad you're not too bothered I made us go the full Monty in front of one another to do it." Placing her towel over the back of one of the chairs at the little round table, she moves to the kettle on the stove to prepare herself a proper brew. A little bit of comfort. After all, there was no problem a good cuppa couldn't fix. "I'm sure my wife will forgive you." Chuckling, she brings the kettle over to the sink. "You're going to tell Sam about it?" Brow lifting as she glances back at Laswell from over her shoulder, her fingers twist the tap until the water comes streaming out at full blast.

Take a deep breath. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. "Probably not." Looking down into her mug, Kate shifts her weight on her feet. "Not sure I need to be worrying her about things like that."

She hums, turning on the stove burner. "One of the many things I'm glad I don't have to contend with quite so much being with someone who's not a civvy." Rory ponders quietly for a moment. "How does Sam usually handle the secrecy? I can't imagine that's easy on either of you."

"She's learned to stop asking, in most cases. I don't think she likes burdening me with having to cut down the things I know to only the sliver she's allowed to hear." Taking a sip of her drink, Laswell brushes a hand through her bangs, pushing them aside.

With a heavy swallow, Rory reaches up into the cupboard and grabs the nearest box of tea bags and a mug. "That was always the hardest part of being with someone out of the loop, having to filter things down for them." She tosses a tea bag inside the mug and pulls out a spoon from a nearby drawer. "Didn't want to scare them," she says with a shrug. "Ended up just feeling like a liar."

"It's not lying, it's keeping them from the truth. It's different."

"Spoken like a true member of the CIA, Kate."

"Sam knew what she was getting into marrying me," Laswell concedes. "I never hid that part from her."

The whistle of the kettle breaks the string of conversation, likely for the best as it verges into territory neither woman seems to be entirely comfortable with. Secrets and lies were a part of their work, and what worked for some didn't work for others.

I don't think I'd ever be okay being lied to like that, Rory thinks. It led to the detriment of so many of her past relationships. Only telling half a story, and if and when the truth did come out — or at least as much of it as she could tell — everything crumbled to ruin. Hell, it still affected things between her and her father. Only allowed any knowledge of the things she's done after the fact, having to hear about it in the the news (if it even came to light), put a strain on the level of trust one could build with another. And living a double life, on top of the act that she wasn't broken beyond measure, was an Oscar worthy performance she didn't always have the heart or mind to give. Bringing the steaming mug up to her lips, she purses her lips and blows over the surface of the murky brown beverage. A part of her is unsettled by the fact she can't catch the usual earthy, floral aroma. Her olfactory senses failing with the lingering effects of the gas. It's only half as relieving when she takes a sip, burning her tongue slightly before warming her throat.

All the more reason for her to hate the very bones of Makarov — he'd managed to ruin tea for her too.

"Now that you're settled…" Kate takes a last sip of her coffee and then immediately dons the mantle of severity she so often wears in the field. There's nothing good coming, Rory knows that much based off the look Laswell's giving her. "Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Farah got in touch while you were indisposed."

"Farah?" Rory stiffened, standing up ramrod straight while holding the mug between her hands in a white-knuckled grip. "What happened?"

A sense of dread fills her as Kate takes out her laptop, and as the news report plays she's only half able to process it. A plane crash, a bomber, hundreds of innocent lives lost. She takes a sip of tea, something that would usually settle her nerves, but it does little for her in this case.

"Makarov, I assume," Rory murmurs, exhausted with him always being the root of their problems. "He's killing his own people now? What happened to being an ultranationalist?"

"It's not the first time a nation's own people have been used as pawns to start a war."

The weight on her shoulders becomes almost too much to bear, a physical sensation she's finding difficult to hold. Slumping forward, she leans over the counter, both hands wrapped around the mug of tea as she lets out a shuddering sigh. "He's a fucking madman."

"He is," Kate agrees, voice low, her own fatigue slipping into her tone. "Worst part is, the so-called bomber was a former soldier in the ULF. But, Farah and Alex got to the black box before that could get out."

She rubs at her forehead, feeling the pulsing beat grow louder behind her eyes, unable to be ignored. "Doesn't do much to change the story though, does it? American missiles originating from Urzikstan still struck a Russian military outpost, timed along with a terrorist attack like this… They won't go without blame."

"No, they won't." Kate's hand swiftly shuts the laptop, silencing the newscaster's narration. "We'll sort something out once John gets here. Figure out the next steps."

Yet it all feels too little, too late. The ticking clock in the back of her head is ready to chime. The impending fate of the world hangs in the balance.

World War Three knocks on their door.

John's heart thuds as he steps off the helo, the blades whirring above his head, boonie hat fluttering about his ears. Focus driven, his heavy boots march one foot in front of the other. No hesitation. Purposeful. Tunnel vision sets in, everything else blurred, blanked out until all he sees is her standing there, waiting for him.

Unkempt waves flutter around her chin in the breeze stirred up by the chopper, a soft grin curling her lips meant just for him. Her blood shot eyes sparkle in the waning light of the evening, surrounded by the shade of the rocky crags of mountain tops.

Alive.

His mouth, drawn in a grim line, parts to let out a long, slow breath of relief. Warmth, the likes of which he only ever seems to feel in her presence, floods his system. The raw ache that had overtaken him earlier is swept away by the sight of her peeling away from the hangar and coming to meet him halfway.

Sliding his rifle strap along his chest, he put his weapon aside, letting the weight hang from his back — he doesn't want a single thing getting between them. Paved ground is devoured by the length of his strides. In an instant, with one arm clamped around the span of her lower back, he lifts her up off her feet and tucks her safely against his chest. Holding her in the protective circle of his embrace, one she fits perfectly into. Always has.

His first instinct isn't to kiss her during this quiet reunion, as much as his lips already tremble at the mere thought of crashing against hers, of tasting her sweetness once more. Instead, he nuzzles into her neck. Breathing her in, filling his lungs with her. Lungs that starved for oxygen at the thought she might have been gone, that his hands might never hold her again. Crushing her against him, he buries his face in her hair, into the crook of sensitive flesh that curves into her shoulder.

Her body heat seeps into him, sinking into his bones, warming the marrow, the blood, chasing away the icy tendrils that chilled him to his core. She's soft, so fucking soft. But most of all, she's real — her heartbeat melding with his is all the proof of that he needs.

"Don't you ever fuckin' do that t' me again," he rumbles against her in a low, husky rasp. "Y' hear me?"

Arms coiling tightly around his neck, her hands cradle the back of his head, fingers delving into the hair at his nape as she massages the tension away from him. Like fucking magic, she is. She's not a specter, a distant dream of hope that he clung to on the journey over. She's here. His Rory. A little worse for wear and smelling like Nik's shampoo and body wash, but she's no figment of the imagination.

"I hear you," she says, nestling her cheek against him, lavishing herself in the rasp of his beard against her.

He knows he's drawing the looks of his men, of Kate, and of Nik. People who all have only ever seen him under control, the man with all the answers, capable and unbreakable. Yet he's been brought to his knees with the force of his own terror and the only safety net is the one currently held in his arms. Caught. Ensnared by her. Lowering her to the ground, his large hands cup her face, engulfing that angel-like appearance in his grip before he finally gives his mouth the gift it has been craving. Their lips meet in what starts as something gentle, a brush of longing, before it quickly grows, evolving into gripping hands and breathless motions of flesh upon flesh.

When they part, he meets her gaze. In his stormy depths lies a hint of the remaining fear, the haunting thought of being without her still clinging on. A lasting reminder of how tenuous things were when their lives were on the line.

Thumbs stroke over the peaks of her cheekbones, brushing against them repeatedly in a motion he's not sure whether meant to calm her or himself, and a hard lump of anguish sits lodged in his throat like a cyst. "Thought I'd lost you," he says, voice hoarse, thick with emotion.

"Not so easy to get rid of me," she murmurs. "You know that." Her hazel depths are glassy, reddened from her contact with the gas and the tears that well there. A half-hearted little smirk forming at the corners of her lips as she tries to smile to break the tension. A quiet chuckle breaks his stoic resolve and he pulls her in to his arms, hugging her tightly — as tightly as his tac vest will allow — and resting his chin on the top of her head, his hands roam up and down the length of her spine. "You're a bloody treasure, y'know tha'?" he mumbles against her hair as he presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

Looking down, he is met by her big, beautiful doe eyes blinking back up at him, her head tipped back to meet his gaze. Perfect. It's the only word that seems to suffice when it comes to an apt description of her. No matter how dark things were bound to get, no matter what Makarov had up his sleeve for them, in this moment, he felt no fear, blinded by the beauty of the woman in his arms.

Pressing his forehead against hers, John closes his eyes and brushes his hand through her hair, tucking the loose tendrils behind her ear. "As soon as this mission's over, we're gettin' hitched, yeah?" "We'll talk about this later," she says, lowering her voice, jabbing a fingertip into the soft part of him between his tac vest and his belt. "For now, we've got a briefing."

A change of plans, one that leaves a haunted look lingering in Rory's gaze has his brows furrowing instantly. Jaw clenching, a tendon in his neck tightens and stands in relief against tanned skin. "Thought it was a debrief."

"It was. Until Farah got in touch."

He can see the tension radiating off her, and he's half sure she's started sprouting more grays since the last time he saw her too. A sinking feeling wriggles its way into his gut, and he begins to wonder if those tears reddening her eyes aren't born from something other than the distance that had encroached between them and the gas she narrowly escaped.

His fists haven't stopped clenching from the moment the briefing started.

Fingers spread and then curl back up into a tight knot of skin and bone, a quiet hiss slipping past gritted teeth as John shifts from side to side just enough to let everyone know he's ready to be on the move once more.

A boxer weaving to keep his opponent guessing.

A lion pacing in it's cage.

Displayed on the wall of the hangar is a grainy airport CCTV still of Makarov. Pixilated to hell, but there's no doubt it's him. Beady eyes, a look of contempt for the world… fuck, she hates his bloody mug. Hates him more for the fear he put in John. In them both.

Even in the dark of the room, the hangar bay door shut behind them, the bite in John's piercing eyes is visible. There's a change in the way the lights reflects in them, a certain bleakness resides there, a desolation. He's an entirely different person when he gets like this, when he has an enemy to contend with. Despite all the turmoil, the only part of him that currently remains is the "The Captain".

Knowing what Vladimir's done, creating his own terrorist event, planting a bomb on an innocent individual who had once fought for her nation's sovereignty, it's sickening. The lives stolen. The lives ruined because of it. It only drives Rory to stop him, to take care of him. Permanently.

"Sick bastard's topping American missiles with chemical weapons and killing his own people." Soap stands in front of the image, snarling as he speaks. "He's killing civilians."

"Pinning the blame on Farah," Gaz adds, his voice quiet and contemplative. Remaining calm even as more trouble ensues.

"And the United States."

Rory surveys the group, noting the defensive fold of Laswell's arms over her chest. This is no longer a never-ending war between Russia and Urzikstan, America had already stepped its foot in the ring when Shepherd had sent unsanctioned missiles to Farah the first time, and that deal was still happening under everyone's noses. “It's the same tactic he used in Verdansk," she pipes up. "Bait and Switch. It's all sleight of hand, and he reckons himself to be a proper bloody magician. Distract with one target, so he can deal with another. Had us so worked up about missiles, he was able to carry out something else entirely."

Nikolai comes to stand at her side, his dark eyes narrowed at the image before them. "He's playing with fire."

"False flag operations." It's the first time she's heard John speak in some time. He's livid, his voice rough with the anger that brews behind a clenched jaw. "He wants a war."

It's the lowest form of tactic. Stoking fires that have no reason to burn except for the acts of a terrorist whose only loyalty seems to be with some form of his motherland he has in his head.

"East vs West. The title fight," Ghost rasps.

"It's been his M.O. from the start, hasn't it?" Rory tips her head to the side, the gears turning frantically inside a mind that won't quiet for a moment. She thinks of Botha, thinks of the deals made with Iran. Thinks of the danger that had been brought to the doorstep of a powerful ally. "I mean, hell, even locked up, Konni was still playing his games with Urzikstan and stolen American missiles. We have him to thank — at least partially — for what happened with Shadow last year."

"Is the world falling for this, Kate?" Gaz asks quietly, voicing the fear they all harbor.

"We're on the brink, boys."

"How?" Rory asks, breaking the sudden tension in the room. "He's an escaped convict, there's proof of that. He's a known terrorist who has attacked on foreign soil, there's proof of that." She jabs her hand out towards the screen, conviction apparent in every line that marks her furrowed brow. "Why are we keeping this quiet, Kate? We are one bloody task force, we can't have our eyes everywhere. Why not extend our reach?"

All eyes suddenly land on her, and she stiffens. Taking a deep breath, Rory rakes her fingers through the swoop of her bangs in her eyes. "I understand footage of him in an airport might not be damning enough to blame him for the bombing of that airplane, but we can damn well pin his own jailbreak on him. If he's the great puppet master we think he is, wouldn't it be smarter to use our own connections to widen the umbrella of our search for him? We could have the world's attention on this instead of the narrative he wants."

"Because we're not sure who we can trust, you know that."

She scoffs, shaking her head, tired of playing this game by Makarov's rules. "So we just let him run amuck instead?"

"He's got us on the defense —"

"And if he keeps acting on the offense, it only proves what he thinks — that he is one step ahead of us at all times, that he is smarter than us. Doing nothing makes us look incompetent."

"It's not doing nothing, it's being strategic," Kate says, somehow still remaining calm despite the predicament the world's population found itself in.

"Fucking hell, Kate…" Rory snarls under her breath. Pacing, her hands resting on her lower back, she cracks her neck from side to side, grinding her teeth. She needs a cigarette right now, or three in rapid succession. Kate has the experience, the seniority, she knows that. She trusts her. But right now, her gut, her every instinct is screaming at her that standing idly by is not the correct route to take in this matter.

"Maybe Lamb's right. Look at what "strategy" did for us last time." Soap turns to Price, spitting out his words, "Had 'im right in our fuckin' hands…"

"I shoulda killed him when we had the chance. I shouldn't have stopped you." It's almost an apology from Price. Not quite, but the intent is there. A rare thing from him.

Their eyes meet, her and Price, sharing a momentary look. It's an apology directed towards her as well. If he had killed Makarov before, they wouldn't be in this situation now. She wouldn't have been hunted by Konni last year while trying to get intel from Botha. She would never have had to run for her life from Arklov.

"Was the right thing at the time, Cap'n," Soap replies stiffly, giving Price little more than a sideways glance.

"At the time…" Ghost mutters.

It is an uncommon occurrence for John's orders to actively come under question, especially to be vocalized, and certainly by Simon of all people. Like her, Ghost follows when and where he is directed, to the letter of Price's command. Like her, Ghost is willing to cross lines he wouldn't for any other. There is an allegiance to John, a bond near unbreakable once forged, a tether firmly affixed to them of unquestionable loyalty. One that extends to any of those John manages to entrap, to add into his fold.

One that included believing a terrorist like Makarov would never go free — but even John can be wrong sometimes, even if he doesn't always believe it.

A beep from Laswell's laptop breaks through the unease that plants itself inside the hangar, coiling itself around each body within like a choking vine. The attention of each soldier is drawn towards the table Laswell leans over as she checks the notification.

"Secure transmission, Pentagon ID."

Shepherd. She knows it has to be him. Rory rolls her eyes at the glorified scum dressed in medals deciding to come out of hiding now. It's no surprise, really. Makarov is a threat, and, like the cockroach he is, Shepherd wants to save his own neck by whatever means necessary — including reaching out to those who he stabbed in the back a year prior.

"I don't have a clearance," Nik says, standing up as his chair scrapes the floor behind him. "I'll go."

"No, Nik. Stay," Price says, holding out a steadying hand. Giving the Russian a little thumbs up as he sits down once more.

With the press of a button, the extreme close up of General Herschel Shepherd's face is displayed where Makarov's once was. The view is no better.

"Kate. Let's talk."

It's the familiarity, the ease with which he addresses Laswell that really gets in her craw. Inserting himself into their lives once more as if he didn't order a hit on Ghost and Soap, as if he wasn't willing to let Kate fall to the hands of AQ. As if he hasn't been the orchestrator of backdoor dealings that have gotten them stuck where they are now.

Price steps into view of the camera, his hands on his hips. The threat is evident as he speaks, "I've been lookin' f' you."

"John…" That momentary pause — a swallow, a moment to catch his breath — is enough to tell Rory everything. Price scares him (as he should) but he's putting on a brave face. "It's a family affair. Even better."

"What d'you want?" he asks curtly, steely eyes focused on Shepherd's wrinkled face.

"Vladimir Makarov, same as you. I got a lead on Makarov's bankroll —"

Rory stiffens at that news, that's a bit of intel she's been following some time now. Bread crumbs that still managed to elude her when the prison escape occurred. She's seen the accounts, but was unable to trace it back to anyone in particular with too many branching subsidiaries covering the tracks.

"We're not lookin' for money," Soap snaps.

With a lift of his hand, Price settles the situation. The unspoken order in the movement is one they've all had directed at them at one time or another. It's a move that makes her stomach twist, a natural reaction to snap the wrist causing Rory's teeth to grit.

"Soap, you find the money, you find the man," Shepherd drawls.

"Where're you gettin' intel?" Gaz says, gripping the shoulders of his tac vest. "Without an army, you got nothin'."

From the shadows in the background behind Shepherd, Phillip Graves — a man they all thought dead — appears, slowly stalking into frame like the fucking coyote he is.

"Wrong again, boys."

That smug, stupid grin was something she thought she had seen the last of. How Soap and Ghost had managed to exist in his company in Mexico without wanting to smack him in the gob is beyond her. The reaction Graves instills in her is, quite frankly, a visceral one. One that sets her eyes rolling and she sighs heavily, muttering "Oh, Christ" under her breath.

"Un-fuckin'-believable."

"Soap! You miss me?" Graves smirks and Rory notices the way Soap's fists curl atop the table, ready to start swinging. "Well, technically you did, didn't you?"

"Laswell," Ghost interrupts, "if you're tracking this, let's call an airstrike."

"Ghost, that is not nice."

"What're you up to?" Soap seethes, his face in the screen of the laptop, swallowing up the camera.

"I'm up to doing my fuckin' job, kid. You should try it sometime."

"My fuckin' job is to kill the enemy… Guess what you are?"

Bloody hell. Deja fucking vu. Rory rubs at the space between her brows, the pressure residing there wasn't making this any easier to sit through. Alpha male bullshit all over again, someone really must teach these lads the art of tact. Not that she expects any different being surrounded by a bunch of soldiers, but still — it does tend to get tiresome. "I really don't think antagonization is the best course of action right now," she says with a sneer, pressing her palms on the table, looking between the puffed up members of the 141. "Let's everyone calm down a bit, yeah?"

With a gentle hand from Laswell placed on Soap's shoulder, she pries him back from the laptop so they can return to the original conversation.

"Cap'n, let me paint you the bigger picture…" Shepherd says, looking far too confident for a man in his position. "You need Makarov in a pine box and I've got the nails."

"In exchange for what?" Laswell asks.

"A way back."

And there it is. The disgraced general crawling out of the woodwork wanting to go out as some sort of hero. There's not an ounce of shock when she sees John immediately withdraw, denying the devil's bargain being delivered to him. "I'm not going out like this. I want my name on a win. Check your inbox, Kate. I'll be in touch."

When the call ends, Kate jumps on the message. Intel is king in her profession, even if the source isn't necessarily credible. "I got a name and location."

"I am not sending my men on a mission from him," Price growls, biting down on every syllable.

"This isn't a mission, John. This is intel."

"No way," he interrupts her, shaking his head. "He is a fucking liar, Kate."

"I'm CIA, John. I know all about lies. So do you."

His head moves sharply, rougher in his movements, denying the claim. Firm in his stance, his lower lip juts out, insolent in his reaction.

John's eyes dart towards Rory, snapping into focus on her, trying to get a read on her reaction to the situation. She makes no moves to hide that she's against whatever Shepherd wants to bring to the table. A moment passes, conversing with their eyes, little glances flitting between them that say a whole hell of a lot more than words ever will.

"Captain, we do deals for intel all the time." Gaz isn't wrong, it was one of the first things she needed to learn to get over while working with Price on their first mission together. It remains one of the less than savory parts of the job, but a necessary one. "This is no different."

"He's right," Soap agrees. "Road to hell or not, Garrick's right."

When the dust settles, when Soap and Ghost are ready to take on a mission presented to them by the very man who tried to have them killed, the Chimera base they are currently holed up in grows quiet. Ghost and Soap are packing for their ride out to "meet" with Milena, Makarov's financier — another Russian oligarch causing problems and bank rolling monsters.

John and Rory, meanwhile, find themselves perched up on a gangway for a smoke break. It's the bird's eye view they both crave while looking out on a battlefield. The perfect angle to see everything around them, nothing escaping their observation. The king and queen regarding their domain.

She rests her folded arms over the metal railing, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, the smoke drifting in a haze around them. Brushing a hand through her hair, she glances over at John as he hisses while slipping off his glove.

Finally taking the time to look over the swollen and bruised appendage, his hand is a patchwork of blues, purples, and greens, sprinkled with the red of caked and dried blood along his knuckles. The skin is split in several places, bisecting old scars that had already lived there for years. He stretches out his fingers and they start to tremble, struggling against curling back in on themselves.

“Oh god, John. Your hand,” she murmurs, glancing up at him with worry. Concern floods her and she gently brushes her thumb under the site of his broken skin.

“Looks worse than it is," he mumbles around the cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth, turning his hand one way and then the other as he surveys the damage. "I'd do this and more, again… For you,” he admits, smoke curling past his lips. “‘S not so bad, love.” A placating half-truth he grits out as he clenches his hand into a fist once more, stretching the stinging flesh.

Tutting her tongue, she rests her head against the soft, worn cotton sleeve of his tee that pulls taut around his bicep and shoulder, the heat of his bare skin warming hers. "At least tell me you did that using some Konni operative's face as a punching bag."

"Somethin' like tha', yeah." He smirks as his arm wraps around her, squeezing her against him. Removing the cigar from his lips, he blows the smoke away from her direction. "How're you feelin'?"

"Like I'm having the worst sinus cold of my life." Rory worries her bottom lip and snuggles in tighter to him. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Sure 'bout tha'?"

She slips the cigarette into her mouth before she can give him a full-fledged answer, opting to give a little shrug instead as she takes a drag. Exhaling a curling plume, she taps a little beat on the metal railing with her fingers and wets her lips.

"I know everyone seems gung-ho to work with Shepherd's intel, but are we sure this a move we want to be making? You know as well as I do that Makarov isn't going to let Milena leave with her life if we manage to get her to talk. And if she's removed, there's going to be a rapid influx of cash and favors from other interested parties — that's dangerous territory to be in." She takes another drag of her cigarette, letting the smoke hold in her lungs for longer than usual before releasing it. "We saw how rapidly things shifted and changed when you dispatched of Zorokov,” she warns, her voice firm. Sure. "As much as I still appreciate that gesture of yours, it did leave the door wide open for Milena to slip in, to take his place. And now its going to happen all over again. We'll lose whatever footing we have, and there's no telling who might take over."

"You wanna leave the lead unverified instead?"

"I just think putting our trust into anything Shepherd says or does is a fool's errand. It's only going to lead to more trouble for everyone involved. Maybe you were right not wanting to work with him."

He clenches his jaw and cocks his brow, resting his chin against the top of her head. "Too late for second guessin' that now, eh?"

"Putting our trust in the wrong places, not being willing to try other channels… " She sighs and stubs out her cigarette on the railing, grinding it down until its naught but crushed paper and ash. "Doesn't sit right with me, is all."

"What're you thinkin', love?" He slips away only to rest back against the railing, tapping the ash off his cigar before folding his arms over his chest.

"I think it's foolish not branching out. We're going to lose allies before we use the ones we even have. You don't win a war by being a solitary force. I mean, fuck, wasn't that why my intelligence task force was created in the first place? SRR, SAS — they can only get so much intel. Pairing with SIS, working in tandem with the CIA, it made sense. This… this doesn't, John."

"Never known your instincts to be off."

"So?"

His piercing stare locks on and narrows. The cold, steely spark of "The Captain" flaring to life in the quiet solitude they shared. "I think it's easier to ask for forgiveness than it is for permission."

Rory snickers and rolls her eyes. "Of course you'd say that."

"Not wrong though, am I?" Gripping her chin, thumb pressed into the indent under her lip, a finger curled beneath, he holds her in place. "Listen to me, Ror." His voice a low, rumbling purr that echoes off the walls to surround her. "Do what you think is right, 'specially if you think 's worth doin'."

"I could be putting a target on my back," she says softly.

"Seems you've already got one bein' tied up with me."

Swallowing thickly, her decisiveness falters. "You know, earlier, you denied being a liar when Kate said you were."

He stiffens, eyes darkening as he looks at her sharply. "And?"

"Well, that's a bit of a lie right there, isn't it?"

She doesn't take her eyes off him, looking at him dead on. Always aware of what Price is capable of, she still stands by his side in all affairs. Another dangerous place to be, but one she's maintained for the last six years — the lines marked on her ring finger is proof of that.

"I don't lie," his gruff tone clipped and curt as he pulls his hand from her face. "I keep things need to know."

It's ridiculous to even entertain the notion that she can somehow sway him, John has always been what he is and she fell for him. Leaning back, she comes to stand at his side, resting her elbows back against the railing. "Another way of saying you're a manipulative bastard. I'm well aware."

"I don't ask for permission, and I don't apologize either," he says, taking a drag of his cigar, puffing on it as little clouds of smoke release towards the ceiling. "It's gotten me this far in life." He turns his head, looking past her, hard lines settling in his face. "What's the point you're gettin' at, darlin'?"

Lingering on the answer, she glances down at her boot as she scuffs at the floor with her toe. "I'm going to have to start acting like that to make it through this, aren't I?"

John's brow lifts, his finger curling a little tighter over the Villa Clara in his hand, and his shoulders tense. "You were the one who told me not to turn you into me, remember?"

She hums and tucks her hair behind her ears. The memory of the first big argument they ever had resurfaces. The horror of realizing what she was capable of, who she had tied herself to, who she was becoming and who she loved. "I remember."

"Might not be such a bad thing embracin' tha' wolf behind the lamb a li'l more, eh?" He kisses her cheek, the bristles of his beard grating against her before brushing his thumb over the place his lips had touched. "I'll leave ya to it."

Watching him walk away, descending the steps to the floor below, leaving her alone to trust her gut. She knows in some way this is just another of his tests, or maybe that's just what she would prefer to tell herself as she battles her conscience and her instincts.

Slipping the phone from her pocket, she scrolls through her contacts and lands on Andrew Owen. Her thumb hovers, knowing that when she makes this move, she will only have herself to blame if things go awry. The dial tone, the ringing in her ears, it sets her on edge. Her thumb nail finds its way between her teeth and she starts to chew.

When he answers, she doesn't bother with pleasantries. She just commands.

"There's footage of Makarov at the airport before the attack; I want it released — a full BBC report."

tagging @taciturntraveller

#cod fanfic #cod mw3 #call of duty #john price #captain john price #john price x oc #kate laswell #tf 141 #oc: rory sinclair #skelly writes #fic: my head is bloodied but unbowed

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