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irndad · 9 months ago

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here I lay me down - s.r.

a/n: ex!spencer gets shot, and you show up at the hospital to see if he's okay. spencer is still desperately in love with you. based on this post wc: 2.3k (she is LONG)

Spencer wakes to a cacophony of sounds, others breathing and various beeps and hums from a variety of medical machines. He hates the noise of the hospital, as he knows what always follows. It’s pain, and ever since he kicked dilaudid, he doesn’t get the relief that people are always pushing on him here.

The last thing Spencer remembers, he was in front of Morgan, who was about to get shot- it was a piercing memory, one that even the anesthetic wearing off slowly couldn’t numb. He’d jumped in front of it, and the pieces of Morgan pacing around his room and the whole being in a hospital thing click into place.

When he blinks his eyes open, he sees Hotch speaking to the doctor with his endearingly concerned eyebrow scrunch and it’s then that he notices a familiar scent in the air.

It’s perfume- he knows because he’d bought it- a mixture of jasmine and lilies, and the memory of the night he gave it to her bursts into technicolor when he closes his eyes. It had been her birthday, and he’d gone with Penelope and Emily to pick out a gift for her.

He remembers how she’d lit up, her warm doe eyes brightening with fondness that he’d earned, and the way his heart had flipped in his chest- the memory is in crisp detail. He remembers the way she’d kissed him, equal measure in thanks and in adoration, and it’s comforting to remember right now. He tries to think of her often, especially when waves of pain crash over him like an unruly ocean that threatens to drown him. There was someone who loved him at one point, he tries to remember.

He wants to compliment the nurse wearing it, but even as limited as his social skills are in this state, he knows that telling the nurse you like her perfume because your ex wore it is probably inappropriate.

A roar of desire presents itself in his chest- he has no desire to want her here, but Spencer can’t help but fantasize about her presence. Her nimble fingers running through his hair, her soft voice cooing at his injuries. It was always nice to come home to her after a rough day- her disposition warm and kind and good. It’s his fault he doesn’t have it- his fault that she doesn’t love him anymore.

It’s as if he conjured her, when she walks in the door.

He literally cannot believe that she is here, in his hospital room- he drinks in the sight of her like a man starved. She’s beautiful- he’d never forget this but it’s been so long since he’s seen her. The curve of her cheek, her cupid’s bow, the slope of her neck- the details he spent the best year of his life memorizing under careful touch.

Her body language is protective, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other at her mouth, her delicate fingers holding a tissue. Had she been crying?

Before he can think of what to say to her, she speaks to him.

“How are you feeling?”

He’d forgotten just how her voice sounded. Or rather, how it sounded when she was concerned for him. It’s addicting, hedonistic in the ways of wine and drugs and everything else you should have in moderation but had to give up. It’s just so comforting, her lovely doe eyes looking at him with warmth and concern.

“Hey,” he replies, not answering her question. He might be imagining her. They might have given him drugs. There’s no way she came and see him of her own volition.

She pauses for a moment, biting her lip in an incredibly endearing way (and god, he’d missed looking at her) before she makes the decision to walk over to the side of his bed. He tries to crane his neck to look at her and she scolds him, and this doesn’t make any sense.

“You got shot,” she says, voice warm and concerned, and if he squinted he could hear love in her voice.

“I’m okay,” he tries to reply.

“You got shot,” she says, eyes flaring with emotion. She always hated that he minimized his pain.

“You came,” he says, after a beat of silence. Her fingers are running through his hair and he tries to commit this to memory. It doesn’t mean she loves him. She’s the kind of person who stops on the street to give someone the last dollar in her wallet, of course she would visit her ex-boyfriend in the hospital after he got shot.

It doesn’t mean anything.

“Of course I came, Spence,” she says, intentionality in her tone, “You got hurt.”

It’s selfish to lean into her touch, but she smells like home and he doesn’t know if he will ever be held like this again by her. And he doesn’t care to be held by anyone else.

Hotch comes in, and if he’s surprised to see the two of them together, it doesn’t show on his face. He tells Spencer that the. Bullet had been clean through, and that he’d been lucky. He’d avoided internal bleeding and would need to stay at home for a week.

When Hotch leaves to ‘give him some space to process’, the silence lingers.

“Thank you for coming.”

It’s kind of worse, actually. The reality where she’s still his girlfriend is superimposed on top of this one, and he can feel the ghost of the kisses she’d pepper his cheeks with. If she still loved him, then she’d hug him and tell him that she loves him, tell him how angry she is for jumping in front of a stray bullet.

It’s my fault, he thinks to himself, eyes raking over her. She’d definitely been crying, he realizes. Her makeup had run and he think she might have slept here. How had he ever gotten someone like her to fall in love with him?

It’s his fault she doesn’t love him anymore.

When the doctor tells him that he needs someone to stay with him for the next few days, and she volunteers, he agrees.

It’s a nice kind of pain, he thinks. Any piece of her is more than he wants of anything else.

_______________________________________

It turns out that she is a wonderful caregiver.

Penelope had been incredibly supportive of this idea, somehow convinced that the proximity would bring them back together. This is a hope that Spencer does not engage in, but still- it’s nice to have her around.

She knows her way around his apartment- knows how he organizes her things. Half her things used to be there too.

Memory is a funny thing. The worst part by far of eidetic memory is the lack of forgetting, and up until now, this was best seen in the horrors of his work. Now, it’s all her.

Taking care of him when he got shot is not the same thing as loving him.

When she makes them dinner (which is so kind of her- he offered to buy takeout and she’d insisted on recreating his mother’s soup recipe. She’d kept a copy of it in her phone. Spencer had almost died of flattery), she sits next to him on his couch

It’s funny how the best memories of his life are so colored now- their trip to Europe, their first kiss, the first time he’d cooked her dinner and she’d watched Doctor Who with him. Ghosts of memory linger through the place, and it hurts to see her sit next to him on the couch with a foot between them.

“Thank you for being here,” he says after a beat of silence. She looks beautiful, and he always thinks this. She’s wearing his t-shirt which is just an awfully tempting view.

It’s his fault he can’t have what he wants.

“I told you I still wanted us to be friends,” she says, looking down at her bowl, “You’re my friend. I’m happy to do this.”

He can tell she means it as an olive branch but it cuts like a knife. Because he never wanted to be her friend. She was the first thing he even wanted enough to ask for it. He still remembers when he’d asked her out the first time, the stuttering and the way she’d looked, how impossible her liking him back had felt.

And then he’d managed to make her fall in love with him. It didn’t even take much- he just had to be himself, the way she says it, and he’d give anything to have that back.

“You’re a good friend,” he replies, instead of everything he’s thinking.

“Hotch thinks so,” she muses, not looking at him, “He was surprised I’d come here after you broke up with me.”

It’s a slight lash out, and it’s fair. It’s not fair that she’s here, wearing his fucking t-shirt, her collarbones exposed under the fabric. He know what her skin feels like under his lips, and now she make veiled comment on his couch.

“Why did you?”

He can’t figure it out. They’d broken up two months ago. He’d done it to protect her- after the anthrax case he’d been fucking fixated on her getting hurt. Because this is the stuff he can’t protect her from. Can’t help if biomedical hazards end up on his clothes, and if he comes home shot.

He got shot. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t get forever with the woman he loves, because he can’t keep her safe. Even if he quit just then- enough people have made an enemy of him. She’d never be safe.

So he made a choice to cut his ties and let her go, and yes, every fucking night since he’s had at least one nightmare about what she looks like crying and asking him to stay. He never, ever wanted to see her like that, but he also never ever wanted her to be a widow.

She’d find someone else. She’s so easy to love- he doesn’t like to think about someone else loving her, but he’s sure she won’t be alone.

His voice catches in his throat.

“It is nice of you,” Spencer chokes out, “I never wanted you to have to do that.”

“Let’s not talk about this now,” she says, getting up to get him another serving, and he grabs her wrist.

“Ba- Hey, please. Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” she says at him, but she doesn’t pull her wrist back.

“I just-“ he stammers, but it’s heavy and something he can’t give up, the combination of her gaze under his and her soft skin in his grasp, “I can’t have you here and hate me. I just can’t take you hating me. I know- I know what I did. I know it’s not fair to ask and I know that we’re not together and I know it’s my fault but god, you can’t hate me. I can’t take it.”

“You think I hate you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“You think I came to the hospital in the middle of the night, slept in a waiting room, cooked you soup and slept on your couch because I hate you?”

He doesn’t know what to say. How could she still love him?

“It’s you,” he replies. “You’d always do that for me.”

She’s closer now, moving into his space more and more and he can smell his own body soap on her because she showered here, and he’s overcome with a desire to hold her.

“Why do you think that is?”

She’s almost in his lap now, and there’s a greed to this now, the way he pulls her a little bit closer. She tips her head back in a bitter, tinny laugh that he doesn’t like the sound of.

“I mean, Spencer- I love you so much that I don’t even care if you love me back.”

“You still love me?”

“I’m working on it,” she says, a bitter smile on her face, “You’re hard to get over.”

“Don’t get over me.”

It’s not the smoothest thing he could’ve sid, and he kind of regrets the implication on her face, sees her gorgeous features crumple.

“That’s mean, Spence.”

“No! No. Don’t. Don’t-don’t do that. Don’t move on with your life and find someone else because this is the lightest I’ve felt in fucking weeks.”

Her eyes widen into saucers, and her grip tightens on his hands, and Spencer feels like he could fly.

“I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have made you go and I should’ve let you be the person who picks me up at the hospital and I know, I know how lucky I am that you’re still here, that you cared enough. Please, please don’t get over me. I know it’s not far to ask.”

She blinks a few times at him before opening her arms for a hug, of which he flies into at breakneck speed. His ribs hurt but he’d forgotten what it was like to hold her. And yes, maybe wanting this makes himself selfish, but he wants this. Maybe this can the one thing he lets himself have.

“I do love you. ” he speaks into her collarbone, and she shushes him.

“No, no,” he says, looking up at her, her gorgeous doe eyes shaky with uncertainty he knows is his fault, “If you’ll still have me, I’d like to-I’d like to try again. And I know that you probably can’t trust me and I have so much to make up for and-“

“Spencer,” she says warmly, twining their fingers, “I’d like to kiss you now. Okay?”

He nods a bit fervently, shaking as he does, but when she kisses him-

It’s just as he remembers. She leans into him, her delicate fingers cupping his jaw and he wraps his spindles arms around the curve of her waist, pinning her to him like she might float away if untethered.

When Spencer gets back to the office, he it’s not just his wounds that have healed.

#spencer reid #spencer Reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfic

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cupidkenji · 8 months ago

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killshot, baby

Pairing: Aaron Hotch x Doctor!Fem!reader Cw: Fluff (for real this time), LONGING (this is literally 9k words of pure yearning idek how I did that), mentions of blood, Hotch gets shot, Jack being adorable, Jack gets injured too :(, no explicit age gap, this is just rlly cute idk it's sweet I love Hotch so much I need him Summary: When you get hired as the BAU's stand-by medic, the team leader ends up being the hardest part of your job. Disclaimer: Reader is chubby! She's always fat coded, but like usual she's not described here. Just know a chubby person was imagined when writing this <3 WC: 9k (Hotch is the love of my life I could go on about him forever) This is definitely not medically accurate, please just enjoy for the sake of the story. I LOVE HOTCH I WANNA SMOOCH HIM

As weird as it was, band aids were the thing you remembered most from your childhood. You grew up as a canvas for any sort of scrape, cut, or bruise. Any wound that made your parents feel mildly worried to utterly terrified were ones that decorated your body frequently. You never tried to assign any meaning to why you became a doctor, simply crediting it as your call to the profession - to people. If you had to, though, your consistently bruised adolescent body is the best root cause you could think of. It seemed only right that the kid who couldn’t keep her skin in tact would grow to love helping others. You liked to think that’s how you kept your head an average size. Your bosses and co-workers had raved about your abilities no matter the job you took, and after a while you had to start prioritizing keeping your humility. You had started as just a kid with bruises.

You tended to ground yourself with those same memories in times like this. For as long as you’d worked in the hospital, you held some disdain for agents. You saw many federal ones, being so close to the HQ for divisions like Behavioral Analysis, but some locals swung by too. You’d had far too many experiences of them being snappy, demanding, and usually inconsiderate to the team of people trying to save someone. You understood the individuals you were committed to helping often got there by doing monstrous things, but demanding to talk to someone when they were bleeding out and half-conscious always forced your tongue between your teeth in an effort to stay respectful. Especially now, pushing a stretcher with 3 other workers while trying to shake off the feds trailing after him. You recognized them, Agents Rossi and Hotchner, if you remembered correctly.

“We’ll need to talk to him immediately.” The man - Rossi, you assumed, seeing as he was going gray and had less of a charge fueling his steps - spoke quickly as the two men followed your team.

“Be here when he’s out of surgery.” You didn’t bother to look back, trying to convey your annoyance and praying they got the hint.

“He’s killed three women and has another one hostage. We don’t have time.” The other one piped up, easily keeping pace with you.

Abandoning your previous strategy, you let your team push the man into the operating room, shutting the door behind them and whipping around to face the duo. “I understand that, sir, believe me.” You were more elevated than you would have liked, years of unease unfortunately slipping through your efforts to withhold them. “But whatever happened when you found him left him barely breathing. You can’t speak to a corpse. You’ll have your time when he’s stable. Go do your job and let me do mine.” You tensed your calves planning to turn around, but quickly felt the guilt catch up to you. “I’ll call you if he wakes up.”

“If?”

You sighed. You hated profilers. “I’ll call you.”

“Call the headquarters.” He was scribbling down a number on the back of a hospital business card. “Ask for Agent Hotch. We’ll be waiting.” You nodded your head once, taking the card from his hands. He started walking away as he thanked you. “We appreciate it.” Sure.

–

The surgery to save the man had been a trip and half. One of the bullets had internally ricocheted, and the other two were lodged next to crucial arteries. You praised your mother for giving you steady hands as you inched them out of him. It took you and your team six hours and fifteen minutes to get his heartbeat steady, you estimated he’d be knocked out all night. You should call, you thought. You had no idea how late these people worked but they were more than likely expecting to talk tonight and you didn’t know if that’d be possible. You fished the card out of your pocket, his handwriting was impressively neat for how fast he’d written the number. You heard the line ring twice before someone picked up.

“This is Penelope Garcia with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, who am I speaking to?”

“Uh- I’m Dr. L/n down at Quantico Med. I’m looking for Agent Hotch?” Your words tilted up at the end of your sentence. The casual nature of his shortened name left a weird feeling in your mouth after you said it. “I have an update on a patient he was asking after.”

“Is this about an unsub?”

“A what?” She lacked professionalism. You wondered briefly if he had just given you the phone number of an employee.

“I’m sorry-” she laughed slightly. “Is this about a suspect? Hotch told me someone might be calling.”

“Um - yeah it’s about a suspect. He was brought in earlier. Is Agent Hotch there? I’m sorry ma’am but I've been in an operating room for the past 6 hours and I want to go home.” You hoped she’d respect your honesty, you really didn’t have the patience to explain yourself to someone new.

She chuckled. “I got you honey, I’ll page you over.” The line went dead for a second before the ringing resumed. Please be quick, you prayed, get me out of this fucking hospital.

“Hotchner.” His voice was rougher over the phone. You guessed the long hours started to weigh on him by this time of night. You always felt it the most around this time, too.

“Hi, sir. This is Dr. L/n from the hospital. We managed to stabilize your guy, but it’s unlikely he’ll be up before tomorrow. I know it was assumed he’d be awake tonight but it took longer to operate than expected.” Your guys put 3 bullets in him, so sorry for the inconvenience. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow. You can come by at any time and I’ll let you in.”

“Are you positive we can’t talk to him tonight? I understand the situation is difficult but this case is extremely time sensitive. I’m sure that’s not lost on you.” You cursed the man for not being more condescending in his delivery. Thinking of the poor person either trapped or dead right now due to the guy you just saved made you sick.

“I know.” Fucking hell. “I can wake him up.” A quarter dose of adrenaline works wonders. “Be here in fifteen minutes. You won’t have much time to talk to him.”

“Thank you.” He hung up. You put your head in your hands. Just a little kid with bruises.

–

The layout of the BAU made you envious of the workers here. You’re sure they’d dealt with atrocities beyond what the average person could stomach, but you also worked within the belly of the beast and man were those hospital hallways claustrophobic. The daylight shone beautifully through the large windows, and you asked yourself if you’d be able to cope with all the paperwork in exchange for a feel like this. There weren’t any front desks, nowhere to sign in, so you sat in one of the chairs by the door and waited to see if something would happen. You had been specifically requested to visit the building , a note signed ‘Strauss’ being left with the hospital secretary. You didn’t like being called on by a stranger, it made you nervous beyond belief. You’re sure anyone walking by assumed you were being charged with something. Sweating like a sinner in church.

“Dr. L/n?” A woman was standing near you, having completely avoided your eyesight until now. “I’m the board supervisor, Erin Strauss. Thank you for coming.” The woman was nice enough, but she seemed rigid, clearly confident in her authority. She led you to her office and gestured to the chair facing her desk.

“I’ll cut right to the chase.” She smoothed her pencil skirt as she sat down. “The BAU is seeking a stand-by medic and I’d like to offer you the position. You’re revered highly by your previous places of employment and your current boss has only good things to say. Along with a personal reference by an employee of mine, you’re certainly a person of interest. You’d be working interchangeably with three other individuals, however you would be the first one called when needed.”

That is definitely not what you were expecting. You were almost immediately ready to turn down the offer. You didn’t work well with cops. You worked well in a hospital, going into the field to patch the wounds of both good and evil was a less than appealing deal to you.

“You’d be on call while you worked your current position at Quantico Medical, when you’re at home you can remain there, but you’ll be flying with the rest of the team when they leave. You will be entered into a federal database, and employed as a stand-in for hospitals near you when working abroad.” She went on to explain you’d be paid salary, and when you heard just how much you could add to your monthly income by doing this, you took it. You were doing fine, you definitely didn’t need the financial boost, but you had family that could use it. Your niece had been close to turning down college because of the cost, so some extra money could really set her up.

“Excellent. You’ll start your field training next Monday.” She was shuffling papers into a hefty stack as she talked. “Come back when you’ve finished this and I’ll arrange a team meeting.” The stack was even heavier than you expected when you picked it up. It was far too early to be regretting your decision.

–

The first day of training had been easy enough. You weren’t an agent, so you avoided having to learn weapons or combat. It generally consisted of learning efficiency, along with how to work properly with agents and the expected etiquette when dealing with an unsub. You had met the team only once by now. Everyone had been nice - Garcia especially - but aside from her nobody had been particularly welcoming. The conditions of your job were a bit strange, basically capitalizing on the what ifs that came with the FBI title, and that created a bit of distance between you and the rest of the team. They questioned the necessity of you, they’d survived this long without a stand-by medic with them, why did they need one now?

Above any disregard for those in law enforcement sat your stubbornness. You knew they were on the fence about you, the most logical thing for you to do now would be attend every session required of you and prove yourself through pure accomplishment. Easy in theory, much harder to execute when Aaron Hotch is the one you’re learning from. He was a good teacher - you’d give him that - he had a confidence to him that easily dominated a room, attracted eyes in a way other men couldn’t manage. You’d ignored the initial stir in your stomach when meeting him in favor of attempting to scold him and his partner. Now, it was much harder to quell the slight pound in your head or the sweat on your palms. He was just standing up front, lecturing on the importance of a team, but his attire was the only thing able to break through the haze in your mind. Every time he’d shown up at the hospital, he’d donned a suit, a slightly baggy blazer worked incredibly well as a shield to your curiosity. That had clearly changed, as he shed the overcoat when talking to the class, having just a white button up adorn his torso. You took notice of the rolled up sleeves, clearing your throat quietly to snap yourself back into focus. You had the intention of snuffing out this little thing of yours but were a living contradiction at this point, setting on the goal of avoidance while barely ignoring the sight of the veins on his arms. You pondered the thought of sleeping with some man at a bar just to get this out of your system, but remembered how little projecting attraction onto someone else helps a situation. In other words, you were probably fucked.

–

The first mission you worked with the team had you flying to a tiny Georgia town to investigate a string of bodies being found in ransacked homes. It seemed to be a simple motive, robbery turned to murder, but the team was called down to help once the kill count hit five. You had been expecting a long commercial flight, figuring you’d need to invest in a good neck pillow and some aspirin. Nobody had bothered to inform you the Bureau utilized private air travel, or that you’d be flying in one with people you’d known for two weeks. You’re sure you looked a little out of place, looking around the plane without being obvious you were doing it and adjusting to the sight of couches on planes. The others, having had this privilege for years now, took their respective seats. You had been nervous about that, unfortunately. The unsure feeling of where to sit reminding you painfully of high school cafeterias and inferior reputations. The only open seat happened to be right next to the man you’d been ducking away from the past two weeks. Lovely. He took a moment to look at you when you sat. You were prepared to talk to him, but for now you busied yourself with rummaging through your bag looking for nothing and pretending not to see him in your peripherals.

“Do you get sick on planes?” He seemed to have a deeper motive when he asked, like you saying yes would solve a puzzle in his head.

“Not really.” You’d only been on a plane a handful of times. “Turbulence can make me nervous, but I think that’s fairly normal.” You thought momentarily that perhaps he would blame your obvious anxiety on that instead of his proximity to you. He was a profiler, you’re sure he picked up on tells for nerves you weren’t even aware you had, but maybe he’d write it off. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem…” He trailed off for a moment, looking over your face to try and categorize your expression. “I don’t know, lost?” He smiled, light and easy, and you realized he was trying to reach out to you. The comfortability in the gesture made your head spin. It was like a shot of morphine, enveloping your body in a dull elation - an escape. You wanted that comfortability, wanted him to feel weightless around you. There had been a certain tension between the two of you since you started. He was warmer than the rest, but also more awkward. Your first real interaction had been an outburst, and it left you hesitant to talk to him.

You chuckled at his remark. “No I -” You shook your head as you spoke, as if shaking off his accusation. “Nobody told me about the jet. You’d think exclusive aircraft would be in the job predecessor.”

He nodded in agreement, holding a slight upturn on his lips. “Yes, you would.” He glances away to check the time, looking back to you quickly like you were his homebase. “Strauss has a habit of getting ahead of herself. Plus, we’re all pretty used to it by now. I have to remind her sometimes that normal provisions don’t have a TI.”

“I’m sure.” It was clear she’d worked with the unit for a while. “Even if they did, though, they’d never find another Garcia.” You thought of the woman, bright and sparkly and incredibly good at her job. “You guys are lucky to have her.”

He stared at you, losing a hint of the lightheartedness and letting a wave of genuinity intertwine with it. “You have her too, Y/n.” His eyes were like a trap, rich pools of honey just begging to tug you down in. “You’re a member of this team. Don’t think your newness makes you inferior to anyone else on it. We’re lucky to have you too.”

Fuck, you were whipped. “I really appreciate that, sir.”

He smiled, shaking his head and waving you off. “Don’t with the sir, please. It’s bad enough when Garcia does it. You can call me Aaron.” Not even the other team members called him that, a thought that seemed to strike you both simultaneously. “Or Hotch, whatever you prefer.”

You just looked at him, letting a smile rouse your lips and trying your hardest not to let the effect he had on you reach your face. “Ok.”

–

The first case had been good training wheels, simply tending to a vic who needed stitches and getting a feel for the life of a field agent. You’d been adjusting nicely to it, quickly getting used to working random hospitals and waiting to be needed on an active crime scene. The others had warmed up to you tremendously after getting back, opening their circle for one more, and you couldn’t be more grateful. A team like this was something you’d wanted for a while, growing more and more unsatisfied with the callous ER workspace by the day. Ironically, there was much more life in jobs dealing with murder. He had also been warming up to you. The two of you hit the status of work-place friends nearly instantly. The endearing encounter on the plane simmered inside you for a while. The memory of it prompting you to keep talking to him, always searching for a fix of the painkiller you’d felt that day.

You weren’t a profiler, but you were unfathomably infatuated, leading you to never miss his tone getting softer with you, or any one of his touches that lingered for just a second too long. It just barely bypassed the line of friendship, but you never lost sight of that linear barrier, so it was incredibly prevalent to you when he breached it. You scoffed at the idea of any reciprocity, brushing off every remark made by a coworker or the one horrific time you heard JJ refer to the two of you as ‘mom and dad.’ This wasn’t a plausible thing. This was a stupid workplace crush that was more of a hindrance than anything. The growing closeness between you and him would have it’s effects properly restrained to the confines of your head, only permitted to express themselves once you were away from the man. It was an odd dynamic, but Aaron wasn’t an obvious guy, so trying to define the edges of you two would only draw attention to the fact you had been looking at all. No thank you.

“Shit.” The team was sitting around the table going over their files. You were mainly there for support, as you were never a part of the lead up to the catch, the chase. You heard Hotch mumble the exclamation under his breath and looked over to see the trouble. He was looking down at his phone, jaw resting between his thumb and pointer finger. You got up and moved to sit next to him, the motion virtually ignored by everyone else as they continued searching for connections.

“Everything ok?” You mumbled to him, trying not to disturb your friends who were nearly nose-deep in their files.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Jack’s sitter canceled. I wanted to stay here to go over the latest crime scene but I guess I’ll have to raincheck.” The killings of your latest unsub had been increasing. You knew the collective stress that was starting to boil within the team. Him going home would only slow them down, a horrible addition to a killer that was speeding up.

You volunteered your night away before you even got a chance to think about it.

“I can watch him.”

Surprise was apparent in the raise of his eyebrows. “I appreciate it, but I couldn’t ask that of you.

You’re fairly certain you would do anything he asked of you, but the nobility of the man in this case almost made you roll your eyes. “No, please. I offered and I would love to. I’m not helping anyone just sitting here, and you leaving would slow them down. You know what to look for here, I don’t. I don’t want another girl going missing just cause your sitter flaked. I can do it.”

He seemed mildly speechless. “I -” He paused, trying to find the wording he wanted. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll send you the address, if you’re sure.” He looked at you with more adoration than you’d ever had directed at you, so intense your eyes instinctively ducked down. “Thank you, Y/n.” He was so touched by the action it made you slightly sad to think about. Had no one ever helped him? Maybe you were raised weird, this seemed hardly beyond common decency to you.

“What are friends for?” He exhaled a slight laugh in gratuitous agreement, but you saw the glimmer of his eyes dull slightly. The notion surely reflected in your own eyes as the words burned your tongue. Friends.

–

Jack was a delight. A well mannered, clearly well raised kid. Parts of his dad shined so vibrantly in him that you’re sure you’d be able to pick him out of a crowd based on mannerisms alone. Hotch had called Jack’s daycare, verifying your identity and giving you the ok to go pick him up. He seemed quiet on the way home, but rushed to give you a tour of the house, and excitedly led you to his line up of toy trains once you’d entered the place. There was a shift between you and Hotch that happened when you gave the offer. A shift that was now only just settling in you. This was his house. His space, his stuff, his place of security. He’d invited you into it, gave you permission to enter it, to exist within it, and it was strangely intoxicating. He was intoxicating, and you realized quickly how much you ached for the permanence of it. You’d made Jack dinner, played for a bit, went out for ice cream per his pleading, and wished him a peaceful goodnight when his bedtime rolled around. He’d dubbed you his ‘best babysitter ever’ and you knew as soon as the words hit your ears that you’d be watching him again. You’re sure situations like today popped up frequently for Hotch, you could be a valuable asset to him when you had free time. He would be saving money too. No need to pay a sitter when you were being paid by the Bureau every second you were there. Aaron had gotten home a few minutes past one, utterly exhausted and uncharacteristically apologetic. He was sorry for being gone so long, making you stay so late, everything and anything the man could apologize for was pouring out of his mouth. He’d welcomed you to stay, but his hair was messy from messing with it all night, and he’d ditched the suit jacket for a gray long sleeve. You’d wanted to take the opportunity, wanted to bask in the safety of him for as long as he’d allow it, but those restrained thoughts were clawing the walls of your skull with a vigor unlike anything you’d felt before. It would be abhorrent to dream about the man while in the confines of his home. You couldn’t do that - you wouldn’t. You brushed off any apology he could conjure and let him escort you out the door. His hand was on your lower back, and his voice was low from the siphoning nature of the day.

“Thank you, again.” He looked at you. “You’re a lifesaver.” You’d expected to hear some humor in his voice. The start of banter between friends, a casual appreciation for a job well done, but there wasn’t any. He sounded rough, slightly beat down, his eyes filled with a sincerity all aimed at you. A blend of pure adoration and a deeper level of dedication. Was this a commitment? What kind?

Heat bubbled in your stomach as you made eye contact. “Please.” You shook your head slightly. “Jack’s an angel. You’re clearly as good at this as you are profiling.” You nodded in the vague direction of Jack’s bedroom as you referenced the kid. “It was my pleasure. I’d love to do it again, if you’ll let me.”

He sighed out a small laugh and broke your gaze for a moment, looking back to you as he spoke. “I’d like that.”

–

You’d seen Jack a multitude of times after that. Aaron was never particularly fond of asking you, claiming that he appreciated the gesture but it was mainly Jack’s begging that made him cave. That, and your persistence. You liked Jack a lot, and more selfishly, you liked being around Aaron’s stuff. It was a little creepy, yes, but you felt better acquainted with him after being around his things. An energetic type of understanding, the type that deepened a connection without words. He was needed late tonight, and as much as you hated denying an offer to see Jack, you had priorities at the hospital. The previous sitter wasn’t able to watch him, so she gave a personal recommendation, and Jack got stuck with a stranger. You thought about him while working, probing and patching people half-focused with the desire to be elsewhere. You’d felt mildly guilty about it, but it’s not like it altered your work, so you figured it was harmless.

You wondered slightly if you manifested the event you were watching play out. You watched in pure disbelief as a sobbing Jack was being carried into the ER by a flustered blonde woman. There was blood staining the right sleeve of his shirt, pouring out of his skin in a surplus and completely soaking through the material. A jagged piece of glass was standing at attention in his wrist, having sliced through the fabric like butter. He was marked ‘urgent,’ who knows if the shard had hit an artery or where the glass had come from.

Most other doctors were busy, either operating or tending to patients. You’d walked to the front desk, remaining as calm as your racing heart would let you, and told the secretary to assign the case to you. “I know this one. Let me take him.” She just nodded, marking your name down as the primary doctor and allowing you to take him back.

Walking up to the blonde woman, you assumed this had been the new babysitter. She was a wreck, trying to explain what happened through her own hysteria while simultaneously having her words drowned out by the crying child. “It’s ok, ma’am.” You’d reassured her, obviously she hadn’t intended the injury. “Let me take him, I’m a friend of his father.” You saw the calmness dilate her eyes, making itself apparent in the relaxation of her tense shoulders. You removed the bleeding boy from her arms, holding him against you and cooing at him the way you would a baby. You took him to a stretcher a few feet away and laid him down, ensuring his wounded arm stayed flat in an attempt to slow the blood. He was on the brink of passing out, his body not having nearly enough energy for the sobbing on top of losing vital fluid. “Jack.” You addressed him directly, two more doctors aiding your transfer to an examination room. “I need you to stay with me, buddy. Just a little longer, I promise. You’re gonna be just fine.” You pushed with one hand, caressing his non-injured arm to emphasize your affection. “Just a little longer.” You looked at him in between looking forward to keep the stretcher straight, seeing that same adoration from his father’s eyes mirrored in his. You felt protective, realizing you cared for the Hotchners much more than you let yourself believe. Little kid with bruises, you skimmed through your origins in your mind in an attempt to center your focus. Just a little kid with bruises.

Two hours later, Jack was stitched up and sleeping soundly. You knew his sitter had called Hotch, probably as soon as something happened, and were not surprised to find him idle in a waiting room chair. He was leaned forward, head in his hands and knee bouncing violently. He heard footsteps getting closer, a feeling within him recognizing them as yours, and he looked up. His eyes were teary, tired. The look of a concerned father.

“How is he?” You’d never witnessed this type of worry in him, heard the amount of desperation in his voice.

You smiled lightly as a predecessor to Jack’s wellbeing. “He’s fine. Glass missed his arteries. We had him patched up in around an hour and a half. Gave him a lollipop and a light sedative to get him to rest. He should be all set to go in the morning.”

He sighed, and the amount of stress that audibly left his body made you feel a little lighter from where you stood. “Thank God.”

“Hey man, give us a little credit.” You joked, relieved when you heard the slight laugh come from his downturned head. Pity laugh, probably, but it was a cherished sound nonetheless.

“You have full credit, Y/n.” He shook his head, raising it to look at you. “Quite the hero.”

You almost physically recoiled from the term, rushing to correct him while maintaining the lighthearted nature. “Definitely not.” You rejected the praise. “Just doing my job. I’m glad I could help him.”

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing for a second before he planned to stand up. “Noble.” He chuckled. “But you helped my son. That’s about as heroic as it gets to me, doc.”

Blood rushed to your ears at your professional title being used so affectionately. “Go check on your kid, Hotch.” You waved back towards the direction of Jack, knowing that even though he was asleep, he’d want to see him anyway. You also hoped the slight distraction would draw his attention away from your increasingly flustered state. “You’ll have plenty of time to praise me.” You weren’t entirely sure you’d wanted the sentence to exit your mouth, but it was too late to bite your tongue.

He raised his eyebrows so slightly that you scolded yourself for having noticed. Such a minuscule action that seemed to move mountains within your brain. “Oh?”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes at your own remark. “I’m walking away. You know what I meant.”

“Mhm.” He smiled, nodding his head dramatically and rising from his seat. “Just name a time and place, doc. I’ll do good on that promise.”

You went momentarily braindead, hoping your eyes weren’t giving away the less than work appropriate feeling pumping through your veins. You stared baffled at him for what was definitely a millisecond too long before giving a half-shocked, half-flattered laugh and gesturing him away. “Say that when you’re not obviously sleep deprived and delirious and maybe we can arrange it.” The last thing you heard was him, laughing the way you do when you’re very serious but desperately trying to pass it off as a joke. You knew it well, having done it almost every time you were around him since you started. Comfortable, witty retorts between friends. “Have a good night, Aaron.”

Aaron, he thought. He’d remember that.

–

That had been the second shift between the two of you. Felt immediately by both parties and tossing you both into the deep end of whatever you’d been building with him. He’d been much more touchy, seemingly subconscious on his part but noticed by every part of your body, mind, and soul. You thought about what it could mean, then sunk even further into your incoherent mind when realizing just how subconscious the actions really were. He was just drawn to you. You had viscerally fought that conclusion as it came to you but it genuinely could not be anything else. He was touching you more because - whether on the surface or deeper down - he just wanted to, and that fact was wrecking you. You were so fucking into him that it hurt. Hurt to look at him or be in his home watching Jack or have his knee pressed against yours in the back of car during a team outing. It all hurt because he wasn’t yours. He seemed into you, too. Of course, you didn’t know to what extent. You worried maybe he hadn’t said anything yet because he simply didn’t like you enough, and that hurt more than any other factor. It was a foolish notion - one you would have abandoned instantly had you peeked inside his head - but alas, no such luck.

He’d been more relaxed, too. The two of you reaching a point in your relationship you hadn’t ever let yourself dream about. He was funny, achieving that lightness around you that you’d wanted from the start. He’d gotten riskier, amping up the dial on his remarks a bit. Starting with those like the hospital, ending with ones that made you have to take a breather in the room where they kept the coffee. It hadn’t gone unnoticed, per say, but the others were certainly ignorant to the true depth of the change. You simply couldn’t measure it by witnessing, you had to feel it. And fuck were you feeling it.

A week or so after Jack’s ER visit, you’d asked after him. You didn’t know if the regret was immediate, but it flooded through you quickly. Aaron got nervous, shifty, like you’d touched a live wire of his and he now had to patch it up before it blew. You got concerned, asking if something happened with his stitches or if Jack was now showing some sort of trauma response to the event. Was that even plausible? You weren’t sure, PTSD wasn’t exactly your strong suit. However, he quickly stated that wasn’t the case, noting that Jack was actually in perfect health and had been relentless about wanting you over for dinner.

“He’s grateful.” Hotch was smiling with paternal reluctance, proud of his son for having such good morals but also uncomfortable with the possibility of rejection he was facing. “He wants to see you, say thank you for “saving his life.” He emphasized the last bit in a sarcastic tone, both of you knowing his life hadn’t been in danger but also knowing that fact wouldn’t deter the boy from considering you some type of guardian angel. “Would you be up for it?” If you hadn’t been so focused on snuffing out the heat rushing to your face, you would have seen that same heat reflected in a slight pink across his cheeks.

“Definitely.” You smiled at the thought of the boy bugging his dad about getting you to the house. “When were you thinking?”

“Saturday night?” Both of you were scheduled to be off that day, and you found yourself begging whatever merciful being would listen to not have some lead to chase that day. “He’ll want the day to prepare.” He chuckled.

“Oh no.” You joked. Prepare? You couldn’t even begin to imagine what that meant. “Well, I am extremely curious to find out what an eight year old boy has to prepare for. How about seven? Would that be good?”

Aaron felt his palms start to sweat. He’d never actually been around his house when you’d been there, only seeing you on your way out. “That’s perfect.”

“Great.” You smiled, checking the time and realizing you needed to get going to the hospital. “I’m looking forward to it.” You nodded slightly as one last confirmation and headed out, suppressing a giddy smile while trying to force yourself into a headspace you could work in.

In the meantime, Aaron watched you walk off from where he’d been perched on your desk, entirely oblivious to the man watching the scene.

“As I live and breathe.” Rossi had crept up on him, not spooking him but rather suspending him in a state of immeasurable embarrassment. “Aaron Hotcher has a crush.” The man held his shoulder, patting him there like a father witnessing his son get his first girlfriend. “She’s a good one. Quite the eye you got, Aaron.” Then he was gone, walking away with Aaron’s dignity clasped in his hands. Closing his eyes in pure mortification, Hotch simply thanked God that nobody else was around for that and walked away with the intention of fusing to his office chair to avoid ever looking at Rossi again. At least you’d said yes, he thought. He didn’t know how he’d cope with his friend watching him swing and miss.

–

The daylight seemed to be anticipating this more than you were, hours passing by like minutes until eventually the sun woke you up on Saturday morning. It was blazing through the cracks in your blinds, settling in slim lines across your floor, as light and gentle as snow. You’d been rehearsing your poker face in preparation for tonight. Writing safety manuals for any ungodly situation that could happen, everything from a fire to Aaron gaining the ability to read your mind and unearthing what you really thought about him. You were so happy that Jack held you in such high esteem, but your hands were shaking at the thought of sitting down with him and his father and acting like it wasn’t the dynamic you fucking dreamt about. You knew it was a good sign of compatibility if someone’s cat liked you - did their child liking you mean the same thing? You hoped Jack’s seemingly innate approval of you gave you at least a couple brownie points. Aaron had called you a hero. Swiftly ignoring the memory of what he’d said after he called you a hero, you pulled out your phone. You and him didn’t really speak outside of work and babysitting schedules, but you were pacing around your room and needed something to give you a semblance of structure, a reassurance - even if it was just for the time. You texted, asking if you were still on for tonight, then went to go make breakfast and inevitably pace some more. He’d gotten back to you about twenty minutes later, confirming the time and giving details of how excited Jack was about it. You smiled at that, praying tonight would be as smooth as humanly possible and you could walk away with an ounce of emotional control. You set an intention, this wouldn’t deepen your feelings for Aaron. Was it a pointless goal? Yes. Was it also highly unlikely to prove true? Yes. But the loose plan you worked around the resolution almost completely extinguished the anxiety that had been blazing for hours now. It would be fine, you thought. Completely and utterly fine.

The same words were looping through your thoughts when you got to his front door. Casual - but still minorly more dressed up than he’d seen you. You’d put a little extra effort into your appearance, mainly to pass the time if you were honest, and you walked in with mild confidence fueling your steps. You did your best not to ogle him, he was in an attire that was already threatening to unravel the safety net of the goal you set. You were used to the suits hidden beneath blazers you cursed the existence of, maybe a snippet of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves late at night. Now, though, he sported a simple black tee, more comfortable than you’d ever seen him. Domesticity was practically oozing from the entire situation. You felt the pieces slip into place as Jack ran up behind him, and you almost cried with how badly you wanted this feeling to be your normal.

“Hey, buddy.” You laughed as he hugged you, reciprocating the act as well as you could from the multiple feet you had on his height. “How’s the arm?”

He raised up his wrist, now gauze free and proudly showed off the scar there. You played up the genuine admiration you felt for him. “That’s a pretty gnarly scar.” He nodded in response, probably feeling cool for the evidence he handled such an injury. “I don’t want to see you back in my operating room, you hear me? Scared the life out of us.” The scolding was playful, and he giggled at your words.

Aaron huffed in agreement, cocking his head to the side slightly. “You can say that again.” Jack looked between you two, smiling and seemingly thinking something neither of you could decipher. To break the moment of silence, Aaron patted his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell her what’s on the menu, buddy?”

He told you, and you hummed along to his words, commenting that it sounded delicious and actually meaning it. He ran away a second later - presumably back to whatever he’d been doing before you got there - and left you and Aaron alone. Venturing into the kitchen, you saw multiple pans and pots sitting neatly on the stove, table set and ready to be utilized. Everything was being kept warm, and you finally gained an appetite after having wrestled with nerves all day.

“Do you want a drink?” He asked it while entering the kitchen, pausing to look at you.

“Please.” You were desperate to calm yourself, eager to subdue the shaking of your hands. “Do you have any wine?” You weren’t the biggest fan, but you couldn’t think of a drink more fitting for the evening.

He nodded slightly. “Red or white?”

“White.”

He chuckled. “Thought so.” It was quiet, more to himself than you as he was already walking away from you when he said it. He’d thought about what kind of wine you liked, you thought. He’d thought about you. He pulled two wine glasses down from the cupboard, then walked over to the fridge. He reached above it, barely having to stretch, and pulled an uncorked bottle from the storage up there. You felt your legs tense looking at how tall he was, how sure he was of his actions. Jesus. It’s been five minutes and you were crumbling. You watched his hands as he uncorked the bottle, reading the label and realizing the brand.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Seems a little fancy for a dinner.”

He laughed under his breath as he finished pouring the glasses, walking back over to sit next to you on the island stools. “You’re a guest of honor.” He placed yours in front of you. “I thought it was fitting.”

You searched, but couldn’t find the humor in his tone. You raised your eyebrows slightly. “Am I?” It was sarcastic, you needed to stop the heat in your stomach from spreading. “I didn’t know doing your job earned such a title.”

He was drinking as you spoke, finishing his sip before joking back. “You’re a doctor.” He said. “I thought you knew that better than anyone.”

You sucked air through your teeth as if wounded by his words. “Touche.” You took a sip of your drink, relishing the taste. Damn, he didn’t come to play. He laughed, and you set your glass back down. “Ok, I have to know.” He drew his attention to you. “What the hell did Jack need the day to prepare for?” The question had been on your mind since he asked you.

He took a drink, chuckling with a mouthful then swallowing so he could reply. “He actually helped cook most of this.” He nodded towards the stove full of different dishes. “That was what he needed the day for. Time for trial and error.”

You grinned at the thought of Jack and Aaron spending the day in aprons, making sure everything turned out perfect. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He looked back towards Jack, coloring in the living room, close enough to see but far enough to miss your discussions. “He gets nervous around you.”

That surprised you. “Why on Earth would he be nervous around me?” You took your turn looking at the boy, an idea hitting you and making you feel sick. “Wait, I didn’t do something did I?”

He looked back at you, smiling. “No, no. Nothing like that. He gets nervous because he likes you. He knows who you are to me, too, so he wants to make a good impression.”

Your mind latched onto that sentence and played it like a broken record, bouncing between your ears over and over. “Oh?” Your lips were curling up at the corners, eyebrows furrowing as you got ready to hold him to that statement. “And who might I be to you, Aaron?”

Fuck. He’d let that slip past his lips without even thinking about it. So used to being in the confidential company of his son. Good thing he used to be a lawyer and could lie his ass off. “Most of his sitters aren’t also my coworkers.” He delivered it the smoothest way he could, smiling and drinking to hopefully exude a false comfortability that he certainly wasn’t feeling.

“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to look sarcastic but in truth downplaying the sting you felt. What if this had been one-sided all along? You hadn’t prepped a safety guide for that.

Luckily, Jack came sprinting into the kitchen a second later, pleading with his father to eat now. Clinging to his leg and declaring how hunger was killing him by the second, dramatically threatening to wither away before your very eyes. You both shared a look, agreeing silently to put the kid out of his misery. The instinctual nature of the act hit you like a bolt of lightning. Both of you so in tune it was comical. The dinner had been lovely, and you reminded yourself to encourage Jack to keep up his cooking hobby. Maybe you could foster a professional chef. You’d talked with them both, light and the happiest you’d felt in a while. There it was, you realized. That weightless feeling you wanted to give him. You felt it in yourself too, and you could only pray it was because he felt it first. When dinner concluded, you’d help clean up while Jack resumed his coloring. His bedtime was soon, and you didn’t want him to spend his last hour washing pans. He was nearly delirious by the time 9:00 graced the clock, tired from the preparation of the day and needing to get to sleep. He’d given you a hug goodnight, thanked you for coming like the gentleman he was, and that was the last you saw of him. The rest of your time there was spent on the couch with Aaron, you both held a second glass of wine, and you noticed it manifest in the blush on his face. He was gorgeous, and you were staring. You know your eyes went to his lips a couple times as he spoke, low and rougher as the time ushered more light out of the sky. You saw his eyes slip down a few times too, this sort of unspoken, agonizing rule of look don’t touch. He’d walked you to the door, thanked you for your attendance, and then you were leaving. Sitting in your car, warm on the inside from both his presence and the anger you felt at yourself for not just kissing him. You were so incredibly needy for this - for him, and that fact just sat with you, like a raincloud constantly in a state of downpour, never letting you forget the pure fucking craving you had for him.

–

You think the start of your blackout was Morgan’s panicked voice over the speaker. You’d been stationed in your typical hut, equipped with medical gear and waiting on someone to need you. It was almost never your team in need of service, typically you were tending to an injured hostage or sometimes the unsub themselves, but never your friends. Your breath had been baited since you’d heard the gun go off. You knew the case was dealing with an aggressive attacker, you’d been expecting a fight, but nothing is ever more excruciating than waiting to hear who the shot was meant for. Derek crying out your name followed by a “get in here. Hotch is down, we need you in here.” had you ready to run the soles of your shoes down to dust just to make it in time. In time. God, in time for what? You’d ran past Emily and Rossi hauling out the unsub, anger evident in their treatment of him. How bad was it? How bad had he got him to have them acting like that?

The scene was bloody. Your brain switching off and forcing you into autopilot as you registered the pool of Hotch’s blood that Morgan was kneeling in. He was putting pressure on the wound, an attempt to stop the bleeding but it was flowing like a river. He wouldn’t make it to the hospital like this, you realized. He wouldn’t make it to the fucking hospital. You were holding his life in between your hands right now, the slightest tremor could sever that chord and you were feeling the pressure hard. Aaron was leaned against the wall, slumping down slightly which was only making the bleeding increase under the internal pressure.

You looked at Morgan, putting on the bravest face you could muster and effectively seizing control of the situation. “Morgan.” You got his attention quickly. “On three I need you to lift him away from the wall. I need to check for an exit wound.” He just nodded, doing exactly as you’d told him when you reached three. You checked the area, finding an exit wound in nearly the same spot. It’d been a straight line. You sighed in relief. Thank fucking God. “Ok, Morgan, I need you to put pressure on the wound on his back. I’m going to stitch the front to give us the time we need for the hospital drive but I need you to hold it. You got me?”

He nodded once. “I got it.” He moved his hand from the front to the back, Aaron wincing at the switch.

You took out the numbing cream from your pack, knowing it wouldn’t do much for a gushing bullet wound but hoping it would at least quell the sting of a needle. You took out the needle, threading it with hands frighteningly stagnant as the adrenaline gave you tunnel vision. You had to save him. “Aaron.” You looked at him as you prepped his skin for the procedure. “I’m gonna need to double stitch this, and it’s gonna hurt like hell. I need you to stay with me.”

The man just nodded, exhaling in exhaustion. “Do it.”

You worked as quickly as possible, gaining hope as you listened to the ambulance approach. “There you go.” You said under your breath, at this point you couldn’t tell if you were reassuring him or yourself. You looked to Morgan, who was still sealing the other injury. “Help me get him up. Keep your hand on there. These stitches are gonna give us twenty minutes tops. Hold his shoulders straight and walk quickly.” You counted again, both of you rising when you hit three, taking the man with you. The walk to the ambulance was the longest of your life. Aaron was clinging to his consciousness but you knew he was losing grip. Finally getting him to the stretcher and slamming the doors was a relief like nothing else. There was no time to debate anyone else going, you rushed him in and sat right down beside him, taking off almost immediately after. The bleeding had slowed, and your hand took the place of Morgan’s on his back. Since he was laying down, his full weight was on it, and you felt the circulation lessen more and more as it remained there. You couldn’t care less, you’d let the blood drain from your entire arm if it meant Aaron’s survival. He hadn’t passed out, which you thought was miraculous, simply walked the line of decently delirious. Groaning under his breath at every slight bump in the road.

“Why am I always having to save you Hotchner men?” You knew now wasn’t the time to be humorous, but you would have done anything to deviate from the tears in your eyes, the ball in your throat. You finally understood why it was frowned upon to date coworkers - it should be illegal to care this much.

“I don’t know, honey.” The pet name was the kicker, allowing a tear to break the dam and roll down your cheek as he chuckled. “You seem to be pretty damn good at it, though.” You laughed too, fighting the devastation you felt at the sight of him with the fact that he was clearly well enough to still be joking. “I should have kissed you when you came for dinner.”

Fuck. “Aaron, now is not the time.” You chuckled slightly as more tears fell. This is absurd.

“I know but-” He flinched as the ambulance hit another bump. Almost there. “I might as well say it now.” You wondered if there was genuinely something wrong with him. “You’ve been all I can think about since the moment-'' He paused to breathe slightly in exertion, you giving a disapproving look as his confession took it’s toll. “since the moment you started, you know that?”

“You are dying! Please, for the love of God, Aaron. Use this energy to prevent that from happening.” Your scolding was dramatic, but your actual concern shone brightly through your ruse of sarcasm.

“Exactly.” He was being equally as sarcastic. How on Earth did he manage this with a rapidly declining life force. “Give a dying man a chance. How unfortunate would it be if the last thing I hear before I go out is the woman of my dreams rejecting me?”

“Jesus Christ.” You shook your head in pure amazement. This was by far the most goal oriented man you’d ever met. “I’ll let you take me out if you shut the hell up and save your energy.” He smiled, letting his head hit the reclined back of the stretcher. “After you get better.” You added, reminding him that his recovery took priority. “Deal?”

“Deal.” This was probably the most insufferable man you’d ever met. “Such a good motivator.”

Scratch that. Most insufferable man ever.

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insanescriptist · 7 months ago

Text

Cremation is just another fun(erl) service

So blaming random 4am thoughts that have been plaguing me all day for this

----

Jason woke to a bright room, thin sheets and the smell of a hospital embedded in his body.

First as always, assess. Hospital. No affiliation printed on the walls or anywhere. Private room, but small. That door looked like it led to a private bathroom. Generic flower picture, a mounted screen turned off. Really fucking bright sunlight from the windows.

There was no fucking way he was in Gotham then. Everything was too nice. Normal by standards outside of Gotham. There were blinds, not metal shutters. The walls were cleaner than Gotham allowed outside of Downtown and he could see greenery through the window.

Okay. So what had he been doing? Jason remembered and then wished he had his Jerichos to shoot himself with. Mystic Shit™. Okay. Okay. That was not one of his better ideas, but if he's recovering in a hospital, it worked. World saved.

So recovery. How fucked was he?

His skin looked so fucked. Which meant he had been worse. He's had time to recover and lose muscle tone in, going by how twiggy his arms were. His hands looked good. Clearly someone knew he cared about those if they went through the effort of restoring those.

Hmm, that was odd. No matter how much Jason hated the Lazarus Pits and all its by-products, it would have been a faster and more simple way to recover from near-death than the long incarceration in a hospital for a John Doe.

Jason wasn't sure if he'd been abandoned yet again by those who called themselves his family because he could, "take care of himself," or if he had been written off dead. Again.

Hospital beat the coffin by a long shot.

And it was with that cheery thought, a nurse -obvious meta human nurse- came in and burst into excited Japanese, because that was of course, his luck.

It's after the nurse and doctors leave that Jason loses his shit.

It looks like he's sulking in bed, but mentally everything in his head is exploding. Imploding.

Three. Fucking. Years. Coma.

Burn victim so bad they not only expected him to die in the first couple of days, but still expect it because of the infection risk his fucked up skin represents.

Still the conversation with the medical staff -of varying degrees of bizarre- was enlightening.

No, he has no idea who he is. Did he ever get anyone visit? How did he get here?

Of course some amnesia is to be expected. No, some of the nurses visited. No one knows how he got here.

Does he know what his quirk is? Uh?

Trauma blocked amnesia, the doctor mutters.

What's the last date he remembered?

Saturday. Maybe? The last year? No, I'm pretty sure my memory is shit and I'm trying hard not to freak out over not knowing anything. So could I get the year number?

And then there's the fucking year number. Once he got it translated into more normal terms.

Mystic Shit™ said fuck you to the future.

Except Jason knows this is not his future. Again, if it was, this would have been treated as a fucking inconvenience. Effective skin restoration goop -the proper name escaped him- was easily available to those with the right connections. A normal baseline human with 2nd and 3rd degree burns would be fine in less than two weeks with it, with nary a trace to show for it.

Thanks to the three year coma, his muscles were all atrophied as fuck, despite their best attempts at physical therapy. Because of all the burns and later burn scars and infections making it basically impossible to actually do fuck all about maintaining muscle tone until he was basically burnt skin and bones anyway.

He was so fucking weak now. It wouldn't last forever. He'd escape this hospital before he was discharged, before whatever "benefactor" showed up for whatever "purpose," he was suppose to serve now, as they had the medical debt over his head or was threatening his loved ones or whatever. If one didn't show up in the next week, he was losing his genre-savviness, because shitheads always wanted to claim shit, if it looked useful.

And Jason was used to looking useful, until he was no longer useful and they just didn't care. The amnesia made him less shiny, but Jason couldn't pull off the brain dead zombie imitation without actually being a brain dead zombie crawling up out of his grave.

So under the thin hospital sheets, Jason twitched his muscles.

Two weeks of emotional freak outs, watching the news, physical therapy and drugs Jason had had enough.

And he broke out.

----

Yeah, he regretted it almost immediately. Hard not to in the stupid paper gown, barefoot and bare ass.

Thankfully people were people, even with the plethora of meta humans he had seen, so it actually wasn't hard to find clothes. Someone left a hoodie in their car and Jason broke into said car. Put on the hoodie. Hotwired the car and drove off.

Somehow for being in the fucking future by two centuries and change, cars really hadn't changed. More evidence of Mystic Shit™ slamming him sideways.

He drove to the next town over, picked another direction, drove some more. Parked the car near what looked like a chop shop, negotiated the car for some money. He probably got ripped off, but better than nothing.

He walked to a corner store, bought some flip-flops after bullshitting an excuse that his had broken. First aid stuff. You know, for his feet. Hair dye in three different colors, because Rose Wilson could pick out a bad dye job at a hundred meters and so Jason learned how to dye his own hair properly so as to avoid her mockery, only to get mockery (affectionate) anyway.

It was a mix of instinct and lifelong observation that let him find an empty apartment quickly. He stole some sweatpants and passed out on the bed.

----

The thing is, Jason doesn't regret his crimes like Bruce thinks he ought to do, with a massive pity party and flaming self-hatred and punching criminals instead of shooting them. He hates the necessity of doing crimes, even if that crime is a net gain to society, but that's why all his serious crimes are premeditated. He's homicidal, not a psychopath.

Not Pit-mad either, no matter what the rest of them might have thought.

Again, he's homicidal, not a psychopath. And when he doesn't have to be some sort of costume soldier to be discarded by family for the disgrace of disfiguring the memory of a dead boy? He's actually chill and boring.

That is to say, he crashed at that apartment for three days, felt progressively more like himself, especially after the dye job -white hair all over, now a solid and boring black- but it still didn't change all the other issues the Mystic Shit™ inflicted on him.

This body isn't actually his. Too young, scars not right where the burns didn't fuck him over. Thankfully his existing coping mechanisms for dysphoria work and it's shoved to the side.

It's also a shit body. Not even a month out of a three year coma with inadequate -by his standards- of medical care. It's weak and building muscle to do everyday civilian shit, is going to take months to do. Pushing as hard as he did during the escape wrecked him the next three days. Jason may not know what's going to happen, but with his luck, it's going to suck and training is preparing to make it suck less. The only certainty he's got is that his skin or lack thereof is going to kill him from infection if he doesn't fix it.

He's got no legal identity here. Which basically puts him back onto familiar ground of legally dead.

Beyond the lack of paperwork, he's got a lack of funds. He also has no easy target to steal funds and equipment from, even just for fun.

For more disadvantages, he's in a different country, with different laws and a whole different culture. He would be climbing on board a fucking plane to Gotham, if it existed in this world, for some familiar ground.

He really is the unluckiest Robin. It also means he is also the most prepared Robin.

---

The first six months after waking up in this mockery world of heroics were the absolute worst.

He started at one foot in the grave and crawled out of it before the casket could really eat him alive. Jason had experience in casket busting. He didn't wanna repeat it.

He still didn't know who he was -in who was he inhabiting- but it wasn't like Jason had a lot to go on. 'His' quirk was thermo-manipulation, most obviously in the blue fire he could call to his hands but he could do some ice too; it was thanks to Duke's light and shadow manipulation that he had even tried for the duality. He had white hair. Presumably Japanese heritage but quirks had really erased or blurred a lot of racial lines. Also presumed dead and young.

Access to the Quirk Registry took some doing, but again, not everyone followed basic computer security, much less what it took to keep someone bat-trained out of their systems. Again, for nearly two centuries in the future, a lot of the technological development had stagnated. Searching through the Quirk Registry hadn't yielded any result but none of his other methods had struck anything either. And he had looked at the recently dead and/or presumed dead. Sure, he had some leads that looked viable, but he wasn't going to follow those up yet.

He had fixed a few of his most pressing issues the past six months. His ignorance of the local area, the local and national politics and so on. This world supported and had an entire industry catering to making child soldiers and sell their image and reputation to make money and more child soldiers that called themselves Heroes.

His weak ass body no long cried doing daily tasks and only hated him after working out. Yes, Jason was pushing it but he was well aware of how months of preparation could mean shit in the face of seconds.

His infection risk was severely reduced after quick research bender let him make the most generic knock-off brand of the skin restoration goop in a shitty homemade lab. Did it fix his skin being patchwork fucked in places? Some. He wasn't going to get feeling back properly, but at least he looked more normal. Maybe with enough moisturizing he might look a little less Frankenstien's monster.

He also had a cash inflow. It wasn't great, but it supported his apartment. And the second set of papers. And the 2nd apartment.

Which meant in grand old tradition for Jason, time for him to bounce to the next apartment and come up with a new name.

#time for Izzy to slep #Izzy does fic #jason todd #dabi

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beetlesau · 1 year ago

Text

Bus Ride, Drabble Dabble, Bakugo/Reader

I'm obsessed with the idea that Bakugo would go feral for a woman that's as normie as his dad just because his mom CHASED his dad DOWN because she wanted him, And Bakugo is his moms twin. ANYWAY. Just messing around with a tame version of that idea. Being bored. Zero Edits, I don't even know if I spelt names correctly lol K Baaiiiii

"Why does your hair look like that?" Mineta peaked over the bus seat down at you. You instinctually pulled the collar of your shirt up to cover any cleavage that could have been showing from that view.

You sighed, it was a common question back in school before UA. You'd been made fun of for it for as long as you could remember, but you never cared. It was your second year at UA, you'd thought someone would have said something sooner than now, but here you were. You made an obvious glance up at Mineta's purple grapelike head before bringing your attention back to his face.

"Same reason yours looks like that, I guess. Our quirk just made us different." You looked back down to a Heroes Weekly Tabloid magazine you'd been busying yourself with prior.

Your hair was normal, bland even, save for the bands of white that flowed down from your temples. The doctors said that when your quirk manifested, it must have put such a strain on you that your body responded in the odd way it did. The same thing happened to your eye color. You had such intense grey eyes after your quirk appeared you hardly remember the color they were before that day.

"No I mean your haircut!" he chided. Your eye twitched before you looked up again at the pervert menace. You noticed that comment also grabbed the attention of the others on the bus.

In the seat across from Mineta sat Ashido and Uraraka. Uraraka, who sat by the window, glowered at the boy as best as her round sweet face could. Ashido sneered and shot a glance over to Mineta's seatmate, Kaminari. A look that said, "if you don't do something, I will."

Kaminari, not wanting to have his face melted off as collateral damage, stood in his chair and turned back to face you as well. He put on his best flirty smile and propped his cheek on his fist. "I don't know, I think it looks pretty good. Edgy. Mysterious."

"Yeah, it's a mystery why she has that haircut. It's so unflattering on you! You could be an absolute ten if you'd just--"

Mina flung her leg across the aisle, shoving her boot into Mineta AND Kaminari's sides.

"You dimwitted jerks! You're lucky she doesn't have Uraraka float your two asses and hog tie you to the bus like a couple of balloons!"

"Say the word and I'll do it, girl!" Uraraka looked at you with her dusted pink cheeks. She may have been a softy but she was a ride-or-die.

You laughed at your two best friends and shook your head no. It was alright. It wasn't anything you weren't used to.

"She cuts it herself." a gravelly voice across from you catches your attention. "Didn't you say that, like, first day of school? Do you not pay attention, idiots?" Bakugo takes one of his earphones out as he readjusts against his school bag. All the noise must have bothered him enough to chime in.

All four members of the conversation lean out into the aisle and look back at the blonde. Did he just say he remembered some random thing someone said about themselves?

"Oh. Right, yeah I kind of do remember that." Kaminari pulls out his phone and starts typing away like a madman. Not seconds later a couple of simultaneous dings are heard a bit further up the bus. "Uh, do you know why she cuts it herself though?"

"What's it to you dumbass? She's right there, ask her yourself." he sucks his teeth annoyed, but looks over to you. "Don't tell this shithead anything you don't want to." You smiled at him, your cheeks finding a bit of color before you turned back to Kaminari. You raised your eyebrows at him as though to say, "You heard the man."

Kaminari groans before trying a new tactic. "I mean, I already know the answer. I remember, I was just trying to see if YOU remembered. In fact, I think I probably know more about her than anyone else on this bus." he stated matter-of-factly. You looked at him with an incredulous expression before the hothead across from you spoke out again.

"You're full of shit." he turns to you again, "You cut it that way so it doesn't get in your way! That's why it doesn't matter what the hell it looks like. You're not trying to win fuckin beauty pageants, you're trying to kick villain ass."

"What's going on, what did I miss? What was that text about?" Kirishima crouched in the aisle, looking to Kaminari for answers.

"Kirishima, thank god! Mineta move, let Kirishima sit there, you've been a menace long enough today." Mineta checked the seat Kirishima had just come from and saw it was across from Yaoyorozu and agreed without too much fuss.

"Oh, man, you just missed Bakugo say that the lil lady back here isn't winning any beauty pageants." Kaminari slowly shook his head in mock disappointment.

"WHAT THE HELL? DID I FUCKING SAY THAT??? YOU WANNA KEEP PUTTING WORDS IN MY MOUTH?" Bakugo shot up from his seat, sparks popping off his hands that gripped the back of Ashido and Uraraka's chair, the smell of scorched plastic permeated before Uraraka opened her window.

"It's okay Bakugo, he's just trying to mess with you. You're right though, I just hate having my hair in my eyes so I cut my bangs myself." you blow air up from your mouth and watch as the short choppy fringe fluttered about just a bit. "One of these days I'm gonna have tech support just make me a built-in headband so I can grow them out. The grow-out stage is a bitch, is all. " you laugh.

"So that's why Bakugo called you Fringe for the first year of school!" Kirishima nodded in understanding.

"Hey, Kirishima, do you know her favorite color, by the way?" Kaminari ponders dramatically.

"Uh, It'd be a guess, but no I don't think I've ever asked--What is your favorite color?" Kirishima politely and enthusiastically requested the information from you now.

"Oh! Well now hold on a minute, maybe we SHOULD guess it." Kaminari's words were laced with a layer of sticky entrapment but you were curious to see where he was going with all this nonsense.

"Sure, go ahead." you shrugged.

"Let's take turns guessing. Is it teal?" he looked at you expectantly, and you gave him a cocked side-eye.

"No-"

"OH darn. Okay Bakugo, your turn. What's her favorite color?"

"This is stupid." he huffed

"Well if you don't know, just say so--"

"It's the same as her birthstone, jackass."

Your blush told Kaminari he was correct, or at least close enough.

"What makes you so sure? Did she tell you?"

"Obviously it's the same as her birthstone, she has a bracelet she wears that's that color, so why wouldn't it be? It's not that hard to figure out if you weren't an idiot."

"--you know her birthdate?" Uraraka's eyes were wide and she was blushing profusely, knowing full well what was happening.

"What's her favorite food?" Mina piped up, ignoring the subtlety that Kaminari was attempting, seeing exactly what he was trying to get from the angry blonde.

"How the hell should I know." Bakugo sunk back down in his seat, attempting to put his dead earphones back on, conveying he was done with the interrogation.

"Well that's a tough one anyway, I'll eat just about anything. I'm not picky." you shrugged, trying to save Bakugo from any more annoyance.

"Psh. Yeah, but you have such an annoying sweet tooth. I swear I came down to the common area one time and you were practically scarfing down a cupcake. I thought you'd end up eating the wrapper." Bakugo interjected.

"Oh, that's ... That's true actually!" you grinned. "Well, the sweets part. I was not going to eat the wrapper! Sato had made some for the class. Maybe if you didn't go to bed so early you could of known how amazing it was." you pouted.

"I don't eat sweets before bed, are you nuts? How's anyone supposed to sleep hopped up on sugar? I don't know how you do it." he mumbled, crossing his arms and spreading to take up more room in his seat.

"Ah, well I suppose I do have trouble falling asleep sometimes." you considered, "I should try out your schedule for a week and see if it helps!"

"WHY ARE YOU ALL STARING? What the fuck could you all have to look at? Fucking annoying." Bakugo stopped to yell when he noticed the small group of onlookers were, well, still looking at the two of you.

"Kaminari, he's right, you should mind your own business." Mina said as she and Uraraka turned back around to go back to their own thing. Mina turned to send you a glance and pointed at her phone, indicating you should check your phone.

Looking at your recent messages you see one from the pinkette,

So are you going to pretend it's normal for THAT guy to know everything about you??

You bit your lip as you glanced over at the annoyed guy staring into the back of the seat in front of him. His leg was bouncing in boredom and probably irritation if you had to guess.

Mina was your best friend, but she could be a bit dramatic.

You weren't sure you were ready to tell her that Bakugo had made it known to you that he was interested. Like, VERY interested.

And you were, less obviously, interested back. You knew his favorite food. His favorite color. He even told you things that made him feel insecure and confided his feelings about being a hero to you.

It happened suddenly one day. You noticed him looking at you, like actually looking. He held you back after class and said your actual name and not just fringe. That was when you realized you had feelings for him. You didn't hate the nickname, and you considered yourself on good terms with him. He acknowledged your strength and treated you as an equal. But something about the way he said your name made your mind go fuzzy. It felt like you'd just woken from a dream and saw him for the first time. Were his eyes always that intense?

"I talked to my old man the other day, and he told me some gross shit about how when he and my mom met- she pursued him relentlessly. Borderline insane is what it sounded like to me. My pop apparently doesn't have a spine and he just gave in. Whatever." Bakugo rolled his eyes before waiting for you to say something.

"Oh! Um, I don't know, I guess I can see how that's romantic. Uh, why are you telling me this though?" you shuffled your weight from one foot to the other, noticing there was a bit too much heat bouncing off the two of you.

Bakugo bit the inside of his cheek, taking a moment to find the wording. "I'm not crazy like that. I'm not some clone of my old Hag I just wanted to say." he lifted his arm to stretch his back, his actions nonchalant for such an odd topic of conversation. "Anyway, I waited a year is all I wanted to say, so I think I'm going to persue you now."

"Wh-what? You waited. Ah what?" you stammered, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. "W-what if I don't want you to pursue m-me?" you laughed. You were nervous. And nervous you always say something to deflect the awkward feelings.

"I'm not very good at not getting what I want, but like I said-I'm not crazy like that old hag, I'll let you have your own say. Anyway. I'll see you later." and then he left you standing there dazed and confused.

You looked over to him now, sitting alone in his seat. Why else would you have been sitting in the back if not because you knew he'd be back here? You smile to yourself. While this could be your secret for a little while longer you really couldn't resist after seeing his commitment to knowing you in front of the others.

You pull out your earphones, put one ear in, and hold out the other to Bakugo, who accepts without hesitation. He shoots you a nod and pushes his bag to the floor making room for you to sit by him.

And you do. You probably will for the rest of your life if he has his way, and you're happy with that.

#bakugo katuski #bakugou x reader

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dragonagitator · 10 months ago

Text

House MD fans: You wake up in the PPTH ER in summer 2004. What you doing?

Scenario parameters:

All your memories of the show and the past 20 years are intact.

You are stuck there/then and cannot return to our universe/year.

You have nothing but the hospital gown on your back.

Questions:

So, what do you do?

How much would you tell House?

How would you get him to believe you?

Who else would you tell?

How much would you tell them?

Inspiration:

The author self-insert isekai fanfic "Intervention" by VivatRex (aka @acrownforaking). They've been writing it for the past 11+ years and are still updating. It's already nearly 300k words long despite only being up to the events of S02E15. I AM IN AWE.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about this scenario ever since I read that fanfic a month ago. I'd love to discuss it with other House MD fans and hear what you would do.

(Apologies to the mutuals for the abrupt blog topic change. A new brainrot has taken hold.)

My short answer:

My long answers are below the cut.

So, what do you do?

My primary objective would be to enlist House in averting the pandemic.

My reasoning: If anyone can nip it in the bud before it gets out of Wuhan, I figure that a world-renowned genius doctor who is an infectious diseases specialist, speaks Mandarin, and now has a 15-year head start would have the best chance.

Difficulty level: Babysitting a narcissistic manchild with the self-preservation instincts of a toddler until the year 2020 so that he makes it there then alive, out of prison, and with his sanity, medical license, and professional reputation intact. To quote Quantum Leap, "Ohhhhhh boooooooy."

Strategy: I'm in the "I could fix him, but whatever's wrong with him is way funnier" camp, so I wouldn't try to change him (that always backfires anyway). Instead, I'd try to change his circumstances:

A stable romantic relationship would help, so I'd seduce him if I can (I'm not his type but a gal's gotta shoot her shot), try to get him together with Dominika earlier if I can't, and tell him how horribly his relationship with Cuddy ended so he knows better than to even start it.

Avert the shooting. Moriaty was a patient so his info is in the PPTH files. I AM THE ONE WHO KNOCKS. Or for a less murdery approach, try to get him arrested in April 2006 for violating New Jersey's strict gun laws.

Warn House about Tritter so he can switch patients with another clinic doctor.

Warn House to never get on a bus with Amber.

Tell Kutner I'm from the future and he's the only one who can prevent something horrible from happening (he's a Trekkie so he'll want to believe), then unfurl my big timeline poster and point at the "Kutner suicide early 2009" stickynote and ask him "so what's up with that, dude?"

Tell Wilson everything I can remember about his cancer -- he's an oncologist and thus can work backwards from there to figure out when to start checking for it so he can cut the tumor out while it's still just a tiny baby.

I would take a harm reduction approach to House's drug use, e.g., suggest that he try microdosing psilocybin and extend his liver's lifespan by substituting cannabis for some of his Vicodin and alcohol consumption.

Methods: Even though he doesn't have one for most of the show, House mentions a few times that he's entitled to hire an assistant, and I happen to be excellent at administrative work.

I think he'd be willing to hire me because working as his executive assistant / department secretary would position me to recognize patients as they come in so that I can discreetly pass along anything I remember, e.g., the kindergarten teacher has pork worms in her brain, ask the scientist in Antarctica to show you her feet, etc.

Meanwhile, I could lurk around the hospital preventing miscellaneous shit, e.g., get the gift shop volunteer from S01E04 to go home sick, ensure that the gunman from S05E09 is promptly admitted, diagnosed, and treated before he snaps and takes hostages, etc.

Possible sidequests:

Use my foreknowlege to get rich by milking online poker bonuses until the passage of the UIGEA in 2006, use my poker money to start flipping houses until 2007, get in on the "Big Short" in 2008, and set a Google Alert for "Bitcoin" so I can start mining/buying it from day one. Unfortunately, I haven't paid enough attention to individual stocks to play the market other than knowing that Amazon would be a good long-term buy & hold.

Use my riches to change the outcome of the 2016 election and try to steer the development of the internet and society in general in a slightly less stupid direction.

Send Pete Carroll a letter postdated just before the 2013 Superbowl telling him the outcome, then suggest for the final play of the 2014 Superbowl that the Seahawks try handing the ball off to Marshawn Lynch instead of throwing it because that throw will be intercepted. PRIORITIES.

How much would you tell House? How would you get him to believe you?

Your story about being from the future of an alternate universe in which House and everyone he knows are characters on a fictional TV show is already too batshit crazy to believe even without his kneejerk "everybody lies" skepticism. How would you differentiate yourself from all the patients who pull crazy stunts to try to get him to take their case?

My answer: For the "from the future" part, I'm hoping there's some sort of test that House could run to confirm that I was indeed vaccinated with a mRNA vaccine against the COVID-19/SARS-COV-2 virus. Given that neither of those things existed in 2004, that would be physical evidence that I'm not from around here now.

If producing physical evidence isn't possible, then I know that Vegetative State Guy from S03E15 is already a patient at PPTH because he'd been there for 10 years, so I'd find him and tell House about his son. I could also tell House enough about the cases from the first few episodes that I'm pretty sure he'd believe me by Christmas. I want in on Chinese food with Wilson.

I would wait until House accepted the "from the future" part before broaching the "fictional TV show" issue. Until then, "I watched a TV show about your life and cases" is a 100% true statement and it's not my fault if he assumes that show was a documentary. :)

Once he believed me, I'd tell him everything.

Who else would you tell? How much would you tell them?

There are people out there who would literally kill for your knowledge of the future, so going public or being too open about it seems highly risky.

My answer: I'd tell House, Wilson, and Chase right away. Kutner but not before Jan 2009. Maybe eventually Cuddy and the rest of the Diagnostics team if keeping my foreknowledge of the future from them proves too difficult.

House is the only one who gets to know everything. Everyone else is on a "need to know" basis.

I might also bring Bill Arnello (the brother/lawyer of the mob informant in S01E15 "Mob Rules") into the circle of trust because he could be a very useful resource for some of my sidequests, e.g., changing the outcome of the 2016 election far far far in advance and in the most direct way possible. (Hi, Secret Service! This is a purely hypothetical discussion about time travel and not at all indicative of any real criminal intent, pls do not pay me a visit, kthxbai.)

I think the only people I would tell the "fictional TV show" part to would be House, Wilson, and Chase, because there are things I need to warn them about that definitely wouldn't have been in a documentary. Like Chase needs to know that killing Diballa is 100% the right thing to do but he seriously needs to work on his OpSec. Everyone else gets the implied documentary lie of omission.

If I get caught knowing too much by random patients, I'll just claim to be psychic. Way more people believe in that than would believe in time travel.

What would you do?

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matan4il · 10 months ago

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Daily update post:

Today, Israel is voting in its local elections (for mayors and city councils). ALMOST all of Israel. The original date was at the end of October 2023, for obvious reasons, the elections were postponed. There were also a lot of mayor nominees, who were summoned for reserves service due to the war, and one of the reasons why the elections were postponed more than once, was to give as many of them as possible a chance to finish their service, and participate in their own election campaign. But even so, there are still hundreds of thousands of people from evacuated communities (displaced people, internal refugees, however you wanna call them), and therefore not everyone will be voting today. For the evacuated cities and towns, the elections were postponed until November. Looking at things, it's not sure they'll be back in their homes by then either, so IDK what their elections will look like. And then of course there are the hostages. Save for two, 4 years old Ariel Bibas and his 1 years old baby brother Kfir, they all had the right to vote, and none will get to. We remember them and hurt over their absence and everything being continuously being stolen from them on this day, too. On a side note, the national supervisor of these local electional is Rayan Ghanem. And if you know Jewish last names, you know Ghanem is not one of them. I'm trying to remember a time in apartheid South Africa when a non-white was a national supervisor of elections.

Despite still pointing out that the International Court of Justice has no right to judge the case brought to it by South Africa (becaue of SA's false claims to bring this case to court), Israel has filed a report in accordance with one of the ICJ's provisional measures, showing that its actions are in compliance with all of them (like providing humanitarian aid to Gaza, and doing all it can to protect civilians).

Meanwhile, at Harvard, just 6 weeks after she was appointed to lead the task force meant to combat Jew hatred, the university's antisemitism tsar has quit her position, with reports saying that she's frustrated over her inability to implement practical measures.

Remember when I wrote about Idan Amedi, the Israeli singer and actor that most people outside our country know from his role on Fauda? He gave a really moving speech when he was released from the hospital. I've wanted to share it for a while, but couldn't find it translated well. I found this bit:

But it really doesn't cover how moving the whole speech is (it's 9 minutes long). Among other things, he also thanked medical teams, assured Israelis we have the best ones, and apologized to his soldiers who died in the same incident in which he was injured. He also mentioned that he was unrecognizable when he was rushed into the hospital, and that doctors only identified him by the note that was attacked to his hand. It turns out, he really wanted people to see what he was talking about, and to understand that by the time he gave this public speech, he was already looking much better than on the day of he was wounded. So here is the image he shared himself on his IG (just scroll quickly past it, if you feel like it is too much for you, which is an understandbale reaction):

This is 68 years old David Edri.

On October 7, he was held hostage with his wife by Hamas for hours. At a certain point, he even covered his wife Rachel with his own body, in order to protect her from the terrorists' shots. They both survived. Yesterday, we got the news that he has passed away. His family said the trauma and stress from the massacre, and the news of its scale, had aggravated his medical problems for the last couple of months, until he could no longer go on.

This is 23 years old Raz Mizrachi.

In May 2021, she was injured in a vehicular terrorist attack in Jerusalem, but survived. On Oct 7, she was attending the Nova music festival. Her last phone call was to the police, to help instruct them on where she and dozens of others were hiding from Hamas terrorists, inside a public bomb shelter. Raz was murdered shortly after that. When her mom got a copy of the call's recording, she said it was a great source of comfort to the family, to know that Raz was a fighter till the last moment.

May their memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack

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aruanimess · 7 days ago

Note

any aruani fic recs that you are your favorite?

Hello, anon!

So I've made a couple of posts in the past about this, but perhaps it's time to make a more comprehensive list. Sadly, the list of my favorites hasn't been expanded that much in the past year bc life has been kicking my ass since I haven't had much time for reading while also working on my own writing. But here goes.

Starting with the one-shots because they often get ignored:

Silhouettes by Jelly

Reincarnation AU. Armin spirals into madness as he tries to remember his past life, with Annie at the center of it all. Beautiful and concise, it'll have you sobbing on the floor.

Graffiti Love by brandymallory

Reincarnation AU. Armin and Annie are graffiti artists communicating with each other via murals. The understated, shimmering longing paired with the coolness of the street art scene is something else.

A Fistful of Latent Images by @aquietjune

Post-Canon Fort Salta fic. Armin and Annie navigate their relationship amidst the chaos of a post-apocalyptic world. Extremely well-written with great pacing, it captures the dissonance of normality after absolute devastation perfectly.

Look! by @lucaaazd

Modern AU. Kid Annie, still reeling from the loss of her father and subsequent adoption into her best friend's family, rescues Armin from his bullies. Grief and trauma mixed with the innocence of youth, its haunting carefreeness will fill you with an odd sense of optimism.

a crash course in curve lifts by @corner-stories

Modern AU, ice-skating. Armin and Annie, athletes who usually compete individually, train to perform a Pair routine for a gala (hopefully I got the lingo right). The commitment these two show to each other and their craft is absolutely heartwarming.

Now the multichapter fics:

A warrior in name, A traitor in game by @diam-etrical

Inspired by The Hunger Games. EMA in Marley. Set in a universe where the Warrior candidates have to fight to the death in an arena to get their titans. This will have you at the edge of your seat for sure. Also the character dynamics are expertly crafted.

Cigarette Duet by @darcycrow

Modern AU, set in Istanbul. Armin is a transfer student and new in town, he and Annie share a smoking spot in the schoolyard and bond over their existential dread, love of cats and weird relationship to intimacy. I'm here for the dry wit, the psychoanalysis and the sharp commentary about dating in the modern world.

Tater Tots & Heavy Thoughts by Anonymous

Modern AU. Armin is a social worker with a traumatic past, Annie asks him to help her brother who's a recovering drug addict (and then asks him out). This fic handles some extremely sensitive issues with care and compassion, it's a story about healing and not letting your past define you. Absolutely captivating and at times heartbreaking.

My Yellow Light in Your Soft Whispers by @annawayne

Post-Canon fic. Set roughly ten years after the Rumbling, Armin and Annie try to rebuild their trust in themselves and each other after a traumatic event. One of the most romantic entries on this list, steeped in rich symbolism and metaphor, the love Armin and Annie share is carved in every word, phrase and sentence.

See You Again by @dudewhy3

Modern AU. Estranged childhood friends, Armin and Annie, meet again after years apart, only Annie is sick and Armin is her doctor. It's a beautiful story about enduring love, compassion, second chances and vulnerability.

Love Letters from the Skies to the West Coast by @midnightraine131

Modern AU. Pastor's son Armin befriends Annie, a Californian girl who's new in town and also a bit of a wildcard. This is a sweet and funny story about the batshit shenanigans kids get up to, but also about the stifling confines of small religious communities.

Abandoned but worth a read regardless:

These City Lights by Katsy0c0

1920s AU. Armin is an up-and-coming Hollywood director and chooses Annie as his leading lady. An oldie but a goodie, the setting is exciting and glamorous and the relationship between the two is sweet and thrilling.

I Shall Slay by GoldenDoodleLover

Modern AU. Crack fic. Armin is recruited by his lit teacher Levi into a team of students who shall be participating in underground rap-battles. Absolutely hilarious and the verses are kinda fire.

#there's a ton of great fic out there #these are just a few faves #also I may have forgotten some and for this I apologize #aruani fics #fic recs #asks #aruani

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covid-safer-hotties · 4 months ago

Note

with covid vaccines set to be available soon, do you have advice as to which particular vaccine is best to get this fall?

As someone who feels they can afford to wait by taking more stringent precautions (as I already have been doing), I'm hoping that the FDA finally approves Novavax before October. It provides the broadest, strongest lasting protection as per multiple studies, and you see the best benefits of this with each new novavax booster. Many people cannot wait, but I would wait until you're sure that your pharmacist or doctor or wherever you get your injections has the updated formula, and Pfizer and Moderna are about the same in their rates of protection and lenght of protection, so it's really a supply thing if you go the mRNA route. If you're hoping for best protection for what should be the peak of the winter wave in January, you may want to wait until October since we can only get two shots a year (unless you lie) and it takes between 1 and 3 months for the shots to reach full immune efficacy. It's also important to remember that the vaccine is a life vest: You should be masking, testing, cleaning your air, and many other mitigation methods to keep you from having to use your vaccine. It does not stop spread nor does it substantially reduce rates of long covid. This is also something to discuss with a healthcare professional. I just collect news and studies.

#asks #anon

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sgt-tombstone · 3 months ago

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If You Ever Forget That You Love Me

Ghost x Soap || Gen

tags: major character injury, amnesia, amnesiac Soap, canon typical violence, emotional hurt/comfort, they’re in love your honor

————

Soap gets shot, but he survives. it’s a close call, but he makes it out of the tunnel and to the nearest hospital, leaking too much blood for Ghost’s comfort, and the front desk nurse gets the fright of her life when three frantic soldiers march in with a breathing corpse held up between them, blood coating them all from head to toe. thankfully, scaring the shit out of other patients is a sure fire way to get treated quickly, so Soap is immediately swept away. Price and Gaz have to hold Ghost back, to keep him from following, his heart in his throat as Soap disappears from sight.

when he gets stabilized in the hospital, two brain surgeries and multiple cardiac arrests later, the doctors warn the 141 that he could have severe brain damage when he wakes up. that he might not be able to continue serving. that he might not even know who they are, or who he is. it’s a possibility that they all prepare themselves for, during the long weeks waiting for Soap to shake off his coma, to come back home.

Ghost worries the most out of all of them. Gaz and Price beat themselves up, even though they couldn’t have done anything differently and they all know it. they both throw themselves into work, spending well over twelve hours every day holed up in Price’s office, poring over every piece of intelligence on Makarov that Laswell manages to scrounge up, and they visit Soap whenever they can in between, but Ghost doesn’t move. he planted himself next to Soap’s bed the moment his sergeant got out of surgery and he hasn’t moved since, to the nurses’ clear displeasure. he doesn’t care.

he never got the chance, never plucked up the courage, to tell Soap how he felt, and he almost lost him entirely. he’s not going to make the same mistake again. he just needs Johnny to wake up, to remember him.

when Soap finally blinks his hazy blue eyes open, squinting in the harsh fluorescent light, head falling to the side and face splitting in a grin when he spots Ghost staring back, Ghost knows that worrying was pointless. Johnny’s the strongest man he’s ever met; if anyone could pull themselves back from a bullet to the brain, it’s him. and he did.

Ghost wants to confess right then and there. the air is thick with anticipation, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t. he needs to get the doctors, needs to tell Price, needs to let Johnny heal in peace without the burden of Ghost’s feelings heavy on his mind. he presses the call button and slips out of the room in the resulting chaos, resolving to stay as far away from the medical building as possible. a return to normal.

he makes it all of three days before Gaz nearly drags his ass back, complaining loudly and at length about Soap’s incessant whining at the absence of his favorite lieutenant at his side, and the way Johnny perks up, his eyes glowing with excitement and something like relief, breaks his resolve in an instant. he could he deny his sergeant anything, after everything?

he confesses that night, and if the ensuing make out session sends Johnny’s heart monitor into a tailspin and the nurses into a frenzy, well… Price doesn’t have to know that part. (evidently, he does anyway, if the half-exasperated, half-fond look he gives Ghost the next day is anything to go by.)

Johnny recovers quickly, all things considered. bullet to the brain and all that. within weeks, he’s up and walking around, all but begging to be released. he’s passed every milestone and test they’ve thrown at him with flying colors. he’s alert and aware. he’s mobile and quickly regaining his dexterity. he’s restless, more restless than Ghost has ever seen him, but he can’t exactly blame him, either. none of them are made to be cooped up.

which is why, six months later, when Soap’s memory starts to fail, they do their best to hide it.

it scared the shit out of Soap the first time. it was something simple, a word on the tip of his tongue that he couldn’t quite reach, and Ghost had watched in quiet horror as Soap floundered for several long seconds in the middle of the rec room, eyes welling with panicked tears. he’d quickly pulled them both back to Ghost’s room, unwilling to let his sergeant fall apart in public, and they spent hours curled around each other, assuaging their fears. one instance of a faulty memory was to be expected, right?

but it kept happening. nothing major, just enough to be concerning. words he couldn’t find, objects misplaced, details about the rookies under his command. Ghost took to trailing him like a lost puppy, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice should Soap’s mind betray him. he earned some odd looks for it, and Price was obviously itching to ask, but he refrained, and Ghost was infinitely grateful. if they were anyone else, doing anything else, he might’ve told him, but they were soldiers, and they needed to find Makarov. everything else could wait. men like Soap aren’t made to be cooped up.

they find Makarov, and that’s all that any of them are legally allowed to say. what happens to him afterwards is a story that even Laswell never gets to hear. the first (and only) time she asked, Price muttered, “revenge,” and she decides that some things are really none of her business; some things are better off staying unknown.

after Makarov’s death, though, Johnny gets worse. noticeably worse. it’s not just the occasional small detail that slips through his fingers like sand; the day he blanks on Gaz’s name when trying to get his attention is the beginning of the end, and the day he glances towards Ghost across an active firefight, wide-eyed and panicked, unsure of where he is or what they’re doing, is the end of it all.

the honorable discharge is nice, but none of them are in the mood to celebrate it, especially not when Soap clings to Ghost like a child while the 141 mingles. the circumstances of his discharge are strictly confidential, and most people assume it has something to do with his leg, considering the slight limp he walks with, and he lets them think it. he can’t exactly reveal the truth; the upper brass never like to hear exactly how their cannon fodder fare outside of the gilded halls of ceremony and awards. he’s the talk of the party and everyone wants to shake his hand and reminisce about the god old days. Soap doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he doesn’t remember their names, much less any good old days they might’ve shared together. he relies on Ghost muttering almost silently behind his mask to get through the conversations with even a shred of dignity, and they last less than an hour before Ghost decides to call it a night. he can’t stand the anguished look in Soap’s eyes when he racks his brain for someone’s call sign or the name of their spouse.

it only gets worse outside, though; Soap turns to Ghost with tear-brightened eyes, and Ghost has never seen him so scared. they manage to make it back to the flat they co-signed for, back home, before Johnny falls apart, and Ghost retires the next day.

civilian life is… hard. for both of them. some days are better than others; some days, Johnny wakes up completely cognizant, and he spends those days curled in on himself, plagued by a fear of his own mind. other days, he wakes up lost and confused, his military training kicking in to defend himself against a stranger in a strange place, convinced that he’s been kidnapped.

Simon isn’t sure which days are worse. the former are spent trying to get Johnny to eat and get out of the house before his own mind paralyzes him and the latter are spent trying to convince Johnny that he’s not going to kill him in his own home.

there are good days, too, and those outweigh the bad in both number and quality. those are the days when Johnny wakes up and remembers Simon’s name, remembers his sister’s birthday, remembers that life is worth living. Simon hoards those days like treasure.

over the years, Johnny declines, slowly but surely. they both knew it would happen; it was only a matter of time, but it’s scary watching it happen in real time. Simon has lost count of the number of times that he’s been attacked standing in his own kitchen, making his morning cuppa, because Johnny woke up alone and terrified. he’s lost count of the number of times that he’s held Johnny in his arms, fingers threading through the overgrown strands of Johnny’s hair, reminding Johnny of their shared history. he’s lost count of the number of times that he’s had to remind Johnny what his name is.

the upside—because there are always upsides, Johnny was the one to teach him that—is that Johnny gets to experience a lot of things for the first time again. their Lord of the Rings marathon was a particular delight, especially when Simon got to wow his boyfriend with the Viggo Mortensen broken toe fact for the second (and third) time. his favorite, though, is when Johnny looks at his face like it’s the first time he’s ever seen it, all wide eyes and parted lips, like he’s caught a glimpse at the face of god. Simon always tells him that he’s seen it before, and Johnny never believes him, or at least pretends not to. it’s odd, having a running joke with an amnesiac, but neither of them have ever been normal, so Simon supposes it makes sense.

together, they come up with systems that help. it takes a lot of trial and error, and one too many awkward hospital trips where Simon has to convince the nurses not to call the authorities because his boyfriend stabbed him in the middle of the night, but they develop some routines.

Simon never gets out of bed before Johnny; he’ll wait hours for his partner to wake up, because he always wakes up better in Simon’s arms than in an empty bed. he leaves notes all over the house, little sayings and doodles that Johnny always gets excited to find, but the most important ones get put on the bathroom mirror, because he knows Johnny will reliably see it, vain creature that he is. their kitchen table is covered in a giant sheet of paper, which doubles as a drawing space and a living history; every detail of their lives, past and present, gets recorded on paper for Johnny to read whenever he gets lost.

it’s not perfect, but Simon wouldn’t give it up for anything. he adores Johnny, adores that he got a second chance to love Johnny the way he deserves, and it’s the one detail he’ll never let Johnny forget: that he is loved, unconditionally.

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ab121500 · 6 months ago

Text

FO4 Companions React to a Blind!Sole

Sole being blind Pre-war (TW for Ableism)

I've never written one of these before, but my most recent Sole is blind so I thought I'd put my idea of how I think the companions would react.

Cait: Doesn't believe that Sole is blind at first. They're too good of a shot, too aware of what's going on to be blind. But she notices that Sole does struggle with things those with sight wouldn't even bat an eye at. They often face the wrong way when being told to read something, they also are terrible at keeping watch. She at first is mad that she has to "pick up the slack" but she quickly gets over it after Sole treats her with kindness and understanding. Doesn't take long for her to stand up for Sole in every situation.

Codsworth: Sole's blindness was something that he got used to not long after being purchased. As a Mr. Handy, he has software that allows him to assist those who are disabled. It never affected how Sole treated him, nor his perception of them. In the post war setting, with the world being so different from what Sole remembers, he tries to assist in even more ways than he used to. Going with Sole to Concord for example, or at least wanting to when they denied his request. He doesn't treat Sole any differently from before, and tries not to handle them with kid gloves knowing how much they hate that.

Curie: Sees Sole as a curiosity. At first she often tries to run little tests to figure out the severity of their blindness and the extent of their capabilities. She's a doctor, she wants to know the extent of their blindness and what she can do to potentially assist. That being said, after being called out she knocks it off and switches her focus on listening to Sole and what they want. She wants to be helpful, unaware of how condescending she can be at times.

Deacon: Thinks Sole is extremely interesting from the moment he sees them the first time. Their ability to get around without much trouble and handle the wasteland without sight is fascinating. He appreciates that Sole can't see him following them around, and when Sole comes around to get the courser chip decoded he still vouches for them. Still, due to the nature of the Railroad and the fact they use road signs and need to keep an eye out he worries Sole won't be a good agent. He doesn't want to risk any synth getting caught or hurt because Sole didn't notice the danger. Overall he respects Sole, but thinks Sole is best on Railroad jobs with him or Glory by their side. He does get annoyed that their PipBoy has voice to text on, as it gives them away when sneaking but he can look past that.

Danse: The fact that a citizen came in guns blazing to save him and his squad got his respect, but once he noticed their blindness he instantly feels like Sole is a liability. People being blind wasn't the most uncommon thing in the brotherhood, but those who were blind often weren't allowed on the field anymore. More often than not they were asked to more or less retire to not put their teammates at risk. He tries to tactfully get Sole to leave, but he knows he needs the extra firepower to get the transmitter. He appreciates the help but is wary about sponsoring them even if they proved their capabilities. After becoming his newest charge, he acts like they are the same as any recruit. That being said, it takes him a long time to not handle Sole like a helpless child. He knows Sole can handle themselves, but he can't help but treat them a little differently. It takes being pulled aside and called out before he realizes he's even doing that, and he apologizes and tries his hardest to knock it off.

Dogmeat: Confused at first but he's a good smart boy. Happy to be Sole's eyes instead.

Hancock: At first, he thought Sole was just a cold, badass bitch. No reaction to a man being stabbed in front of them, AND no reaction to him being a ghoul? But the realization hit him quickly after, and he didn't know how to feel. Sole was clearly street smart enough to not be taken advantage of, but that didn't mean people didn't suck. Honestly, if anyone belonged in the town full of misfits who look out for each other, it was Sole. He treats them like they treat him, like a person that is just like everyone else. He is guilty of subtly moving things out of Sole's way or tapping them so they face the right direction, but it's never really noticeable. It's similar to moving something out of someone's way when they are distracted or tapping someone's shoulder to get their attention.

Maccready: He assumed that he was being hired to be a bodyguard. After all, being blind in the wastes was not easy and they'd need protection. Didn't take long for him to realize Sole is a damn good shot and is able to take care of themself. He deduces that Sole hired him not as a bodyguard, but as a companion, someone who was company on the road so they had someone to talk to. And if he just so happened to notice if someone was trying to rip Sole off he'd be able to call them out. He doesn't treat Sole any differently, before or after his quest. Before, they're his employer he's not saying shit and after they're his friend and he's not going to risk that relationship.

Nick: He knew something was up the moment Sole didn't even slightly react to his appearance. Didn't panic seeing him, nor asked what his deal was. The fact they were able to get him out without being able to see, using a terminal and all got his respect. But he was still nervous that a blind person was using a gun, or he was until by some miracle Sole landed at least 6 head-shots in a row. Once being free, the interview to try and find Shaun was difficult. No physical characteristics to go on, the guess that it was Kellogg was honestly just lucky. Regardless, Sole treated Nick like a person from the moment they met, and he'd be lying that it wasn't nice to just be seen as normal. It's only fair he returns the favor.

Piper: Sole was already extremely interesting to Piper, but add on the fact they can't see and she's instantly more interested. What's life in the Commonwealth like if you can't see it? What was life like before the bombs? How do you use your weapon so effectively? She overcompensates for Sole's lack of sight by being reckless, especially when they first travel together. She probably forgets often that Sole is blind, often being like "Hey did you see that Blue?" And then remembering and apologizing. She does get better with time, and definitely publishes papers calling out people/businesses who try to take advantage of Sole. Any papers in the Publick that Sole is in she reads out loud to them.

Preston: He's just relieved that someone came to help them in the Museum. He couldn’t give a shit that Sole is blind, he cares that they're willing to help. The only hiccup is getting the fusion core in the basement since Sturges can't get it and Sole can't get it either. They offer to try and are lucky enough to get it first try and grab the fusion core. After meeting back at Sanctuary he opts to not mention it as it's none of his business. By the time he feels comfortable enough around Sole to ask about it, they're friends and he doesn't want them to be uncomfortable so he never brings it up. He's the type to gently point Sole in the right direction if they're looking the wrong way in conversions or moving stuff out of the way if they might trip on them. He also makes sure that Sanctuary and the Castle are as consistent as possible so that Sole has an easier time navigating them.

Strong: does not appreciate the puny human not being able to see. How can they help him find the milk of human kindness if they can't even see it? He sees Soul as a weakling and refuses to travel with them.

X6: Doesn't care that Sole is Father's parent, Sole is a liability and cannot handle themself as well as a person with sight can. He doesn't like being paired with Sole.

Old Longfellow: Honestly he kind of envies them. They never have to see the horrors of the fog like he has. But he's aware that one day he might lose his sight too. Besides, the thickness of the fog even having sight isn't much of an advantage. He helps Sole the same way he helps all travelers to Acadia, with the added bonus that Sole can defend themselves.

Gage: Helps sole at first because he can't tell they can't see, instantly turns on them after they become overboss due to blindness being a weakness.

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live-laugh-lenney · 7 months ago

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Arthur tv one shot were yn does some kind of martial art (defo not specific to me 🤭) and they get injured in a comp and he takes care of them?

thank you! xoxoxo

loving and caring, worried, boyfriend!arthur has me swooning.

arthur remembered it vividly.

the way yn unexpectedly cried out loud once her foot laid flat on the mat beneath her feet, the way she fell to the floor clutching her knee in pain, the way her opponent stepped back out of shock and the way the room fell silent apart from the sobs that came from deep within her chest that bounced off the walls and echoed around the room.

he stood from his seat beside her coach, worry coursing through his veins, his stomach knotting with fear because he'd never seen her in such a vulnerable position before. and as he took timid steps toward where she was curled up on the floor, worming his way through the gaps of those who had rushed to her aid, he could hear her muttering soft profanities and they tried to stretch her leg out.

"i'm her boyfriend, can i sit with her?"

he didn't really know why he had asked that question; he was going to sit with her, and hold her hand, whether they allowed him to or not. he dropped to his knees beside her head, one hand cupping the back of her head whilst his other reached to hold onto one of her hands, a shiver running through her once she felt the familiar touch.

"this hurts so bad," she cries softly, eyes squeezed shut because she couldn't bear the look at those who were creating a fuss around her, "i don't know what happened. i went for a kick, it felt fine, but-"

"let's not worry right now, okay?" arthur says softly, using his thumb to wipe away the tears that were soaking her cheek, tendrils of her hair sticking to her skin from the moisture, "we'll get you checked out at the hospital, yeah? i think someone's called an ambulance."

"no," she frantically shakes her head and it's the first time she opens her eyes, full of tears and panic and arthur's sure he felt his own eyes collecting moisture because he hated seeing her in such a way, "i'm fine, it's just a sprain, i'm sure of it. i didn't do anything harsh to make it break or twist it. i've done that move thousands of times, arthur!"

"i know, i know," he says, watching as a first-aider stretched out and bent up her knee to see any damage that had been done, her winces and groans of pain enough for them to realise she'd done something major enough to require a doctor's opinion, "it's best to get checked, lovie. i'll be with you the whole time, i promise."

"the whole time?"

he nods quickly and she lets out a deep breath through her mouth, a gulp being swallowed back as she looked at where the source of her pain was coming from, no redness or bruising to make her worry but she knew it was something that would keep her from competing for a while.

once the ambulance had arrived and she'd been taken to the nearest hospital to get checked out, pumped full of antibiotics to keep the pain from worsening and to help keep her swelling at bay, she felt a little more at ease. relaxing a little more when she was attached to all the monitors in her own ward, awaiting for her x-ray results, feeling a little drowsy but wanting nothing more than to go home to her own bed and her own home comforts.

arthur stayed by her side, the entire time.

even though she insisted he went home for a little bit, because she didn't know how long she was going to be waiting for, he insisted on staying with her. he didn't want to leave her alone, no when she was so vulnerable and scared and unknowing of what was happening to her knee.

"remember the night george cracked his fat head open?" arthur asks, filling the silent room with something other than the whirring of the machinery and the beeping of her heart monitor, "and we sat with him the entire night whilst he had his head stitched up."

"when chris went for a spin on the wheelchair he found and he nearly ended up in the hospital himself?" yn snickers and arthur laughs out loud, shaking his head at the memory of halloween the previous year, adjusting his seated position in the chair beside her bed, "the man's eyebrow grew back bushier than ever."

he leans forward in his chair and reaches for her hand, squeezing it softly, eyes focused on the pillow that was keeping her knee bent at a more comfier angle than laid flat out, the way she kept wiggling her toes to make sure she still had movement.

"i'm sorry for this," she mutters and he shakes his head, "seriously, i am. you could be back home right now, streaming or doing a video, not sat in the hospital with me and my stupid knee."

"i don't mind," he insists, "at least i know you aren't by yourself. you're my girlfriend, i'd drop everything for you, lovie."

she scrunches her features up and smiles at him, and she squeezes his hand back in response, letting her head drop back against the pillow behind her head.

"it can't be much longer, surely," she wonders and arthur looks at the watch on his wrist, "how long have we been here?"

"a couple of hours, at least," he informs her, "shall i go and find out?"

a sprain.

she was certain it was more than just a simple sprain, given the pain she felt when she first set her foot back on the ground in the gym, but she couldn't have been happier to know it wasn't a break or a fracture or a twist in her knee that required extensive surgery and a lot of physiotherapy to get her walking again. yn was sent back home with antibiotics to treat the swelling and the pain as well as with the strict rule of staying off of her feet for a couple of weeks...

... and arthur insisted she stayed with him.

half of her belongings were at his house, anyway; pants and socks to keep fresh, she could wear his tees to bed, and he had fresh stock of her shampoo and conditioner as well as her favourite body scrubs and washes so it wasn't necessary to stop off at her house. the only thing that felt daunting was the steps that were needed to get to his front door.

"i'll just carry you in the foyer," arthur says as the uber stops outside of his apartment complex and she rolls her eyes, "i'm not having you walk on it. not so soon after it's happened."

"arthur-"

"no," he holds a finger to her lips and she frowns in his direction, "i'll leave your crutches in the reception area and i'll come back and get them when you're settled upstairs. let me look after you, please."

"fine," she huffs and he exits the car, running round the back to help her out of the other side, letting her lean all of her weight on him, "i'm not an invalid though, arthur."

"i know," he smiles, closing the door behind them as the uber drives away back down the road, "i just want to look after you, okay? let me take care of you." xx

#arthurtv #arthurtv imagines #arthurtv fics #arthurtv blurbs #arthurtv headcannons #arthur frederick #arthur frederick imagines #arthur frederick fics #arthur frederick blurbs #arthur frederick headcannons

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earthshine-moon · 2 months ago

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Why I love AMC’s Lt Graham Gore: an essay

Full essay under the cut but here’s the intro to (hopefully) get you interested

In my humble (and completely non-obsessed 😉) opinion, AMC’s Lieutenant Graham Gore is one of the best cold boys. He is not only kind and considerate, but well-respected and liked among the other men (especially Goodsir and while that is reason enough, I wrote this anyway bc why not?). In this essay, I will exhibit why Lt Gore deserves all the love and appreciation that is possible to receive from a single fandom.

A list of special mentions are at the end of this post as well if you’re interested 💙

This is long so buckle up and hold on to your Welsh wigs, we’re going for a ride.

The first scene where we witness Gore��s personality is the boat hauling scene in episode 2. When the scene begins, it’s clear that Mr Goodsir has been talking for a little while and at first, it seems as though none of the party are really listening to him until he speaks directly to Gore. As soon as Goodsir says his name, the Lieutenant looks up at him and responds immediately despite how much effort and concentration he is clearly putting in to hauling the boat. Gore’s instant and genuine reply of “I do not, Mr Goodsir” implies that he has been listening (maybe not intently, he’s not superhuman) and knows exactly who Goodsir is talking about. On top of that, the tone of his answer gives the impression that he wasn’t giving it for the purpose of not having to converse further with Goodsir, but rather that he honestly couldn’t remember the Inuk man’s name, which shows his kindness.

Just a few seconds later in that scene, Gore stops the men as soon as Goodsir offers to take over from one of them in hauling the boat. This second immediate action indicates that he doesn’t mind taking the time to swap Hartnell with Goodsir and instruct him on how to pull the weight. (He could just be thankful for the excuse to take a little break and I love that too, so I’m cool with it being a bit of both). The fact that he has no problem with taking this time just adds to the kindness that we have already seen from him.

This leads me onto his instructions to Goodsir. He explains the technique clearly and calmly, which shows exactly how considerate and attentive he is because he gives Goodsir all the advice he needs to keep in step with the others (“watch Morfin here in front, and me with the corner of your eye”). Gore’s tone is warm and friendly throughout with a touch of reassurance seeping in as he says “you’ll take to it, I know you will”, which conveys his trust and belief in Goodsir’s ability to haul. While he’s talking, Gore’s whole body is turned towards Goodsir and he gives him a couple of little shoulder pats. (Tartnell and Peglar also give him a shoulder pat each but that’s different. I mention that again later).

(Just a little side note that has nothing to do with this but there’s a little detail in one of his lines in this scene that I love. He tells Hartnell to let Goodsir “spell [him]”. We don’t use this phrase in the UK and as far as I can tell, it’s North American. I just think it’s a lovely nod to the fact that he comes from a line of Naval officers (one of which might have picked up the phrase). Anyway, back to me rambling about how wonderful this guy is).

And now, my current favourite thing to talk about and watch: the cairn scene. Gore’s second line in this scene (“does this place make you uneasy, doctor?”) is said almost like a joke but he doesn’t walk away like you’d expect him to if it was meant in that way. Instead, he stays where he is and turns towards Goodsir as if he is waiting for an answer. At first I thought he might have stayed to hand Goodsir his ice pick (or whatever it’s called. I can’t find them anywhere) but it looks like he doesn’t go to pass it to him until he actually does. And, in case you need any more evidence, if you look closely when it cuts to the wider shot, the end of the handle is visible by the side of his leg and there’s a 2 second long pause before Goodsir speaks where he could have tried to hand the ice pick over or at least lifted it up, but he didn’t.

Gore’s response to Goodsir explaining why he shouldn’t call him Doctor is to say “that’s a doctor in my book” which signifies that he respects the work Goodsir has put in to his career so much more than most other characters (minus Dr. McDonald, of course). This response clearly shows he doesn’t believe that Goodsir is any less worthy of the title just because he hasn’t got the same training as the other ships’ doctors. Just to add to that, by giving him the title of doctor, it raises Goodsir to a higher level; one, in the eyes of other people, more deserving of respect than his actual station.

Sticking with the cairn scene (last one, I promise), Gore says “thank you” twice; one to Goodsir and the other to Des Voeux. Both are said in response to very small gestures but actually sound so genuine like they had done something more significant for him than taking his ice pick or handing him the folder-type thing (if anyone knows what this is, please let me know). As far as I can remember, there aren’t many thank yous thrown around in the show, especially not any as genuine as these.

I’ve been watching his 7 minutes of screen time so much recently and on about the 10th time, I noticed that he’s quite gentle when he touches other people. He gives friendly little pats on the shoulder or arm to Goodsir three times and to Des Voeux and Morfin once each but none of them are the sharp, quick ones you see from other characters (like Tartnell and Peglar earlier in ep2). I saw someone say on here that a lot of the cold boys subvert the stereotypes of traditional masculinity and I think this is a subtle but really sweet example of that.

And finally, on to how respected and liked he is. We only ever hear Sir John call him Graham, which is interesting because in Victorian England, Christian names weren’t something to be used lightly as they symbolised close friendship or intimacy. Crozier saying “amongst everything else, I know you mourn a friend” to Sir John after Gore’s death reinforces that. All of this is then furthered by how much Sir John clearly grieves Gore’s death along with the implied grieving of the other Erebus officers. It’s such a credit to his character to see (however brief) the pain and loss his death created among the men.

Sorry to end this on a sad note but here have a cookie 🍪 for making it to the end

And now for some special mentions (including some things about the real Lt Gore)

• the little pompom on his hat

• him helping Morfin up onto the ice ridge

• him shouting with the other men when they find the shore

• “I pray it’s English tea merchants coming from Kenton that look upon that message next”

• asking Goodsir if he’s seen something when he sees he’s looking away from the cairn (idk I just think it’s kinda sweet)

• his smile (that’s it)

And for the real Lt Gore:

• he was an accomplished artist

• Fitzjames described him as having “the sweetest of tempers”

• a gun exploded in his hand when he was shooting cockatoos in Australia for food. Ended up laid flat and all he could do was quietly say “killed the bird” (his hand was fine btw. Only a small injury)

• He was promoted to Captain in absentia by the Admiralty (before the official proclamation of the deaths of Franklin’s men)

#thank you tom weston-jones for such a beautiful portrayal of this man #amc the terror #the terror #graham gore #essay #my essays #harry goodsir #tom hartnell #henry peglar #charles des voeux #john morfin #sir john franklin #francis crozier #james fitzjames #alexander mcdonald #franklin expedition #arctic exploration

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beyondthesefourwalls · 2 years ago

Text

Remember You Even When I Don't (8)

Summary: A training accident, the doctor had told him. A nasty one that led him here, laying in a hospital bed with a splitting headache and an inability to remember the woman sitting beside him. What he did know, though, was that you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and you felt important to him. That, as it turns out, would become an understatement.

Words: 5.5K

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw/Reader (no use of y/n, so can be read as unnamed oc)

Warnings: angst, hospitals, memory loss, language, suggestive themes, smut

Notes: Please note the updated warnings. These next few chapters are a new stage of Bradley and Pumpkin growing back together, and while I'm very excited about it, I know it may not be for everyone. For everyone who sticks around, please continue to comment and reblog, and my inbox is always open! I love to talk about these two :)

This was inspired by a one shot by the lovely @roosterforme and would not exist without her assistance. If you haven't read any of her stuff, please check out her masterlist - you won't be disappointed! All of the thanks to her and @mak-32 for being the best cheerleaders and friends I could ask for!

-------

You’re working today. You hadn’t wanted to, but a local congresswoman you had requested an interview with months ago finally agreed to a conversation in her office, and Bradley wouldn’t let you pass it up. It was only for a few hours, but he finds himself missing you while you’re gone.

This is the first time he had really been alone in the house for a long period of time since he got back from the hospital a month ago, and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He had tried to read a book, or get lost in a movie, but nothing had really kept his attention. He was laying on the couch, the news on the tv in the background, aimlessly scrolling through his phone. He hadn’t fully dove into all that it contained, and he figured now was the time to do it, even if you weren’t here to answer any questions that he might have.

It’s interesting, seeing himself this way. Groupchats where he was an active participant, talking about parties or plans he has no recollection of, or discussing flight schedules for the week. He swaps Star Wars and Harry Potter trivia with Fanboy and gym regimes with Hangman and sends music back and forth with Coyote.

When he opens the text thread he has with you, the only one pinned to the top of his messages, his breath catches at the last message received.

I love you so much. Please don’t leave me.

It was sent the day of his accident, and he knew by the time stamp that it was sent after the crash. You must have texted that to him while you were waiting for news on his condition, and not for the first time, he feels both guilt and gratitude go through him; he’s so sorry that he’s hurt you like this, but he’s so glad he’s here now.

He scrolls for a while, reading you rambling to him about your work day and bouncing ideas for articles off of him, jumping from one topic to the next while you know he’s in the air or teaching a class so he doesn’t have his phone on him. Based on his responses that come later on, he knows he never minded the almost nonsensical messages. Even now, he finds it adorable and enjoys reading through them. There are conversations about dinner and what true crime documentary the two of you were going to watch that weekend.

There’s a little bit of everything in these messages between the two of you, but his brow furrows when he gets to a point about a week before his accident.

I’m on my way home, he had texted you, You better be ready for me, Pumpkin.

He scrolls further up, trying to find the beginning of the conversation that led to that, and he almost wishes he wouldn’t have.

You had texted him earlier that morning, when he barely must have left the house to go to base, a picture of you. There was a playful smirk on your lips, and you had what looked to be the cap from his formal dress whites perched crooked on your head. That in and of itself wasn’t what made his breath hitch, though. It was the fact that you were still in bed, your arm draped over your chest where he could see everything but everything, you hanging onto only a single shred of decency.

Fly well today, Lieutenant Commander.

It had descended into a day full of teasing from there, each message dirtier than the one before. Descriptions of what you wanted him to do to you and him warning you of what he would do when he got his hands on you. He feels flushed all over, but he keeps scrolling up. He bypasses recipes you wanted his opinion on and a reminder of what the Hulu password was, and eventually finds more pictures. Some are more risque than others, but all of them make him feel like the temperature in the room rose by multiple degrees.

There’s a tickle in his brain again, and he finds himself closing the messaging app and going to his photo albums. There’s a locked album there, and he knows, he just knows what it’s going to contain.

He shouldn’t. He knows that he shouldn’t. It feels like a strange invasion of privacy. But he’s wracking his mind to try and remember what the code would be to get into it anyway, and he curses when he gets it wrong first once, then a second time. He enters your birthday on the third attempt and groans out loud when he’s immediately met with the filthiest images he’s ever seen.

It’s a whole gallery of you, or the two of you together, and Bradley can’t stop himself from looking. He bites his lip as he takes in the photos, his mind so overrun with thoughts of how fucking stunning you are that he can barely think straight at all.

He stops at one in particular, clicking to enlarge it, and loses all thoughts entirely. Neither of your faces are in it, but he doesn’t need to guess that it’s the two of you. You’re sitting back against his chest, his ankles hooked over your legs, forcing them wide for him. He can see your nails biting into his thighs, but it’s his own hand that draws his attention. With the hand that’s not taking the selfie style photo, his fingers are gliding through the wetness gathered between your legs. You shine against the dark wedding band on his left land, one that’s noticeably absent from his finger now. He’s practically panting as he stares.

He’s so hypnotized by the way the two of you look together that he doesn’t hear the garage door open or the sound of you walking into the house.

“Baby?”

Your voice makes him jump so high that his phone goes flying out of his hand, a curse leaving his lips. He scrambles to pick it up when he sees you reaching for it as well, and your eyebrows are raised high as you look at him in surprise.

“Hey,” his voice cracks, higher pitched than normal, and he blushes. Your eyebrows raise a little bit higher. “Hi, sorry. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yup,” he nods, faking a cough so he could try to clear his throat, his face flushed. “Totally fine.”

It’s not difficult to see how skeptical you are, and it’s hard for him to maintain eye contact with you and not let his eyes flicker down your body now that he has an idea of what rests underneath the smart dress you wore.

You eye him suspiciously, “Are you sure?”

He contemplates for a moment, trying to figure out a way to get himself out of this conversation, because the longer you looked at him like that the hotter he became under the collar. He took a deep breath, nodding again.

“I was looking at messages and pictures,” he says all in one breath, not liking the idea of completely lying to you. He rationalized that a different version of the truth was okay, even as the pictures flashed in his mind again. “Trying to see if anything jogged my memory.”

You search his eyes, and he tries his best to appear innocent, willing the hardening in his jeans to go down before you took notice. He suspected you already might have from the hint of a blush on your cheeks. “Did it?”

If he thought hard enough he swore he could almost feel you. Your back against his chest, how soft your inner thighs left. How warm your wetness felt against his fingers as he took you to the edge.

“No,” he stutters out after a moment, shaking his head, his face burning, “nothing yet.”

________

He finds himself rubbing his thumb against the fading tan line on his left ring finger, something he had seen you do time and time again. He hadn’t really wondered up until this point where his ring was, but ever since he saw the picture with it so clearly against your skin, he couldn’t get it out of his head.

He’s helping you in the kitchen a few days later, mesmerized as always by how efficient and easy you made everything look. You roll your eyes when he comments on it.

“It’s cookies, Bradley. Nothing fancy.”

“But they’re from scratch. The dough isn’t pre-made. That’s fancy!”

You laugh at him in response, shaking your head. You take the rings on your left hand off, sitting them beside the sink as you wash your hands before the two of you get started. It raises the subject back to the forefront of his mind. He had been desperate to ask you for the last few days, but hadn’t built up the courage to do it. But he can almost feel it on his finger now, can feel a ghost of your fingers as you slide it into place, and it’s suddenly more of a need to know.

“Can I uh…can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What happened to my wedding ring?”

You pause from where you’re cracking an egg into the mixing bowl, your eyebrows raised high. You set it down gently, turning to face him.

“Does it bother you…that I wear mine, still?”

“No!” he insists, hating even the idea of you taking it off. “It doesn’t bother me at all. I promise. We just have never acknowledged mine? I know that I wear one - I remember wearing one, and I’ve seen it in pictures, too.”

“You love your ring,” you tell him softly, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. But you give him a small smile, though he can see the pain in your eyes, and shake your head.

“You don’t fly with it on,” you explain, “you tried, at first, but you had been flying so long without anything on your hands that you couldn’t get used to it being there when you were operating the controls.”

He thinks for a moment and the words come to him slowly. “You were the one who told me to start taking it off when I fly.”

“I was.”

“Why?”

Your lips quirk and you shrug. “I’m more worried about you flying safely than wearing your ring at all times. You keep it in one of the pockets of your flight suit when you go up in the air now.”

Of course you were more worried for him. He should have expected nothing less from you and the way you effortlessly care for him. He can also picture that, he thinks. It’s easy to imagine not wanting to be separated from the physical reminder that he belongs to you, so even if he couldn’t wear it, he’d at least have it on him, in the inner chest pocket right above his heart.

“So..” He doesn’t quite know how to ask his question, but you must read it on his face.

You twist your own ring on your finger in the way you always seemed to do to center yourself. Pain flashed across your face and Bradley knew you were remembering, too. “They uh..they had to cut your flight suit off, before you went into surgery. You weren’t breathing and were bleeding…” you cut yourself off, squeezing your eyes shut and shaking the visual from your head. “But it was still in your pocket. So. I have it.”

He sets down the bag of chocolate chips he had been holding and walks the few steps to where you’re standing at the counter. When he holds his arms open, you don’t hesitate to step into them. He presses a kiss to the top of your head as he breathes in your scent.

“I’m so sorry I put you through that,” he whispers into the strands of your hair, and he feels the way you squeeze him in response.

“You’re okay now,” you speak into his chest, and he thinks he might feel you press a kiss there, directly over the spot where that inner pocket of his flight suit would be, where he kept you when he had no other choice.

The two of you stand there wrapped up together for a long moment. When you lift your head, your eyes are glassy, but you give him a smile and a small kiss to his lips.

Later, after the cookies have been made and devoured, you join him on the back porch. You had taken to sitting on the swing together and when you sit beside him tonight, he sees you rolling something between your fingers. His breath catches when he sees exactly what it is. You’re staring at it too, your gaze intense and pondering. He doesn’t speak, not quite knowing what to say. Eventually, you break out of your haze and meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to put it back on,” you tell him, holding your hand out to him. His wedding band sits on your palm, shining against your skin. For a moment he sees you in white standing right in front of him, wildflowers in your hair.

His fingertips brush yours when he takes it from you, admiring the piece of jewelry he wasn’t aware that he missed until it was back in his possession.

“But it’s yours. I want - I want you to have it.”

He rolls it between his fingers, contemplating for a moment. He swallows, suddenly overcome with emotion he hadn’t seen coming and that tingling that’s starting to become familiar to him. You had picked it out yourself and he knows when he looks, he’ll see an engraving of your initials beside his. He was always so proud to be able to wear this, knowing that it symbolized being with you, a small way of telling anyone who saw it that he was lucky enough to be your husband.

But he wasn’t him - not yet, not completely. Everyday brought him closer to thinking that he could be, though.

“Pumpkin, I…” he trailed off, not sure what to say.

“Hey,” you murmur, cupping his cheek and turning his head to meet your eyes. You didn’t look mad, or upset, and you’re giving him the gentlest, kindest look anyone ever had. But your eyes didn’t hold pity or sympathy either - just a trust and love that he’s still not sure what he could have ever done to deserve. “Whenever you’re ready. And if you never are-”

“I will be,” he cut you off; he wanted nothing more than to be ready. “I just…I still have something to prove to myself.”

You nod, and Bradley leans forward to kiss you softly. He leaves his forehead pressed against yours when he pulls away, relishing in the calm you brought him.

“I’ll get there,” he says, “I promise.”

—------

He’s spent time alone, but he hasn’t spent time away from you with other people. He’s hesitant to accept the invite from Mav to visit the hanger he had here. But planes and his godfather had been a staple of Bradley’s childhood, an influence on his whole life, really. He had been cleared to drive earlier in the week, so that Saturday, he leaves early. He’s anxious at the thought of being away from you but he knows that the him from before wouldn’t have said no to the invitation and he was so determined to get back to who that was. And he knows that you have a life outside of taking care of him, too. You’re getting brunch with Nat and Coyote’s wife later and he knows you’re excited, even if you hung onto him a little bit longer than a normal hug when he said goodbye. You had made him promise that he would call you if he needed anything and the whole way to the desert, his fingers twitched, wanting to call you just to hear your voice.

Mav greets him with a large smile and a tight hug, “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Me too,” Bradley says. He means it, even if he does miss you already. He looks around the hanger, taking note of the few planes and motorcycles throughout the long stretch. It was a lot more than the collection he had when Bradley was 17. “What are we working on today?”

Mav gives him his signature grin. “I want to show you something.”

He follows him to the end of the hanger, where a large blue tarp is covering what can’t be anything but a plane. His godfather gestures to it. Bradley raises an eyebrow but walks up to it, grabbing hold of the tarp and yanking it back. Like he suspected, he’s greeted by a Cessna. It’s a classic 172 by the looks of it, a smaller four seater. It’s a sleek white in color with subtle burnt orange line work. Bradley whistles. It was beautiful in a way that only planes like this could be.

“When’d you get this one?”

Mav smirks, shaking his head. “I didn’t.”

“What?”

“Take a look at the other side.” He nods his head, urging Bradley forward. Confused and intrigued, he follows the instructions, walking around to the other side of the small plane. He gets what Mav was saying, then, and sucks in a breath. Right there emblazoned on the side, in an elegant script, was Pumpkin.

This wasn’t Mav’s plane; it was his.

“You got her about six months ago,” he says softly when he joins him at his side.

Bradley reaches up and runs his fingers over the name. It’s foggy, but he thinks he can remember now. He had always wanted to own his own plane since the first time his godfather took him up in one at 6 years old. It was always a pipedream, though. He was never in one place for long enough, and while he was generally good with saving money, it was a bigger purchase than he had ever made. But then the two of you got married and a permanent station here in California. Between both of your savings and what he still had of his parents life insurance, the funds were there. It was you who had made the suggestion of finally pulling the trigger, and it was him who had suggested a four seater instead of a two seater so that if the two of you ever had children, you could all fly together. You cried when he showed you the name he had painted on it.

“Still needs some work done before she’s flyable. I thought maybe you’d want to work on it today.”

An eager smile appears on his face and he nods, already peeling his jacket off and heading toward the toolbox. If Mav noticed that he didn’t need to instruct him on where it was, he didn’t comment on it.

The two work in tandem for hours. It had only been six weeks since his accident, but he couldn’t recall a time since flight school that he had gone this long without being near a plane and it felt good doing so again. It’s easy, getting into the rhythm of twisting bolts and tinkering with the engine wires. He thinks it won’t be long until he can get this cleared to go in the air and he knows without a doubt that you’re going to be the first passenger.

His phone buzzes in the early afternoon and he doesn’t hesitate to put down the wrench he was working with and dig it out of his jeans pocket. You had sent him a selfie earlier when you had gotten to brunch, sunglasses on and a bright smile on your face with a mimosa in your hand, and he hoped it was another picture. His eyebrows furrow when he sees it’s Phoenix calling him, instead. He picks up, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Nat?”

“Your wife got stung by a bee. We’re on our way to the hospital.”

He can feel the dread as it settles over him. His heart beats faster in his chest. “What?”

She sighs on the other line, and he can hear commotion in the background. “She’s severely allergic, Rooster. We sat outside at brunch and we didn’t even realize it happened at first. She didn’t have her epipen on her so we had to call an ambulance. She’s going to be fine, but you should get here anyway, okay?”

He feels like he can barely breathe, like the room is closing in on him a little bit. Mav must notice the panic written all over him because he’s quick to come over and take the phone out of his hand, taking over the conversation. He can barely hear him over the roaring in his head. You were hurt. He knew you were extremely allergic to bees. That was something he had remembered. You were supposed to carry an epipen on you at all times. He can’t remember if you’d ever gotten stung when he was there. He can’t remember how bad it got if you ever were. But now you were in the back of an ambulance and on your way to a hospital and he could feel his fear all the way down to his bones.

“Bradley, hey. Look at me.”

Mav is in front of him, hands gripping his shoulders. He meets his eyes and tries to breathe, but all he can see is you, struggling to catch a breath and being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

“I’ll drive, okay? Let’s go.”

He follows him to the car, not really calculating anything other than the fact that he was almost an hour away from you and what if there was traffic and why didn’t you have your epipen on you?

“She’s going to be okay.”

“But-”

“Phoenix said the paramedics administered epi as soon as they arrived, and it didn’t take them long to get to her. She was awake and was already breathing easier when they left for the hospital. Didn’t even need to use the sirens.”

That doesn’t make him feel better. Not really. Knowing that trained professionals weren’t panicking must have meant that you were okay, but he knows how serious anaphylaxis is, too.

He can’t reconcile everything that he’s feeling right now. He has never, ever felt like this before. The thought of something happening to you is scarier than any mission he had ever been on, any enemy he had encountered in the air.

“Mav I can’t - I can’t lose her. I just got her.”

“You aren’t going to.”

Bradley doesn’t say anything, can’t think of a single thing to say, and instead buries his head in his hands from his spot in the passenger seat. You were going to be okay. You had to be okay. Because he may not remember everything about the two of you, but he did know for certain that if something ever happened to you, he would never, ever recover from it.

He doesn’t wait for Mav once they get to the hospital, the older man opting to drop him off at the front before going to find parking. He’s practically sprinting as he goes through the emergency room doors and vaguely, he remembers you telling him about the time this happened before, when you took yourself to the hospital and ended up needing surgery. He can almost feel that panic now, and it makes what he’s already feeling worse.

“Can I help-“

“I’m looking for my wife. She was brought in because of a bee sting-“

“Sir-“

“She’s really allergic and-“

“Sir!” The nurse behind the counter snaps, raising her voice over his to get through to him. “I need your wife’s name if I’m going to find her for you.”

Oh. Yes, he thinks, your name. They need your name.

It’s the first time he’s said your full name, and your first and his last name feel so right coming off his tongue. But he can’t focus on that right now, giving all of his attention to the nurse who is typing so slowly.

Before she can even hit enter, though, he hears his callsign echo behind him. He spins, heart racing with anxiety, and spots Nat making her way over to him. She gives the annoyed nurse a kind, charming smile as she grabs Bradley by the arm

“Sorry about him, ma’am. I got him from here.”

She pulls him away without another word, heading toward the hallway off the packed waiting room.

“Is she okay? Nat, is-“

“She’s fine, Rooster. Coming down from the adrenaline rush that the epinephrine gave her, but she’ll be okay.”

“What about-“

Nat stops in front of a closed door, lowering her voice. “Bradley. She’s okay.”

He’s pushing past her before she even finishes, spotting you on the bed through the glass and half drawn curtain. You look so small amongst the crinkly white sheets, still in the clothes you wore to brunch. Your makeup is a bit smudged and your eyes are red and he hates to think that you were scared enough to start crying. You’re holding an oxygen mask in your hand at your side.

“Hi baby.” Even your voice sounds more pitched. He’s quick to make it to your side.

Your breathing is slightly elevated, and the heart monitor is beating a little bit faster than he thinks is normal. He grabs the hand holding the mask, placing it over your mouth to start providing you with the supplemental air again. You make a small sound of surprise, but take in a deep breath of it anyway before pushing his hand away.

“I’m okay.”

But your hands are shaking and your eyes are wider than normal. The skin that he can see is splotchy with hives.

He looks back at Nat, who is still hovering in the doorway, an eyebrow arched and a small smirk on her face. He ignores the look. “Can you grab a doctor?”

You protest from the bed, but Bradley doesn’t waiver. With a fond roll of her eyes, Nat disappears from view.

“Bradley. Sweetheart.” You grip his wrist, trying to get him to focus on you. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

“You’re in the emergency room because you went into anaphylactic shock. You are not fine.”

“But I am,” you insist, smiling softly at him, even as your body trembles as it works to burn through the adrenaline that was injected into it, “medicine worked just fine.”

The door slides open before he can respond, an attending doctor who looks like he’s been up for longer than is healthy and in wrinkled green scrubs introducing himself as he walks in.

“Is she okay?” Bradley demands immediately, and the tired man looks startled for a moment at how abrupt the question was. Bradley stares at him, his eyes wide and unblinking as he waits for the answer. His heart is still pounding in his chest. He feels you tangle one of your hands with one of his and he squeezes back when he feels the pressure from you. He knows you’re trying to reassure him.

“And you are…?”

“I’m her husband,” he answers easily, the words falling off his tongue like he had said them a thousand times before. You suck in a small breath and tighten your grip on his hand again.

“Ah,” the doctor hums, flipping through the chart he’s holding. Bradley wonders if all non-military hospitals move this slowly or if it was just because of how anxious he is at this moment, but he really, really needs him to answer his question.

“Is she okay?” he repeats.

“Bradley,” you murmur, but he keeps his eyes trained on the man in the scrubs and white coat.

“She responded well to the epinephrine that was administered by the paramedics who brought her in,” he finally says, looking up from the chart and taking a step toward your side. He stops when he sees that Bradley doesn’t move an inch. He sighs, switching direction to go to your other side instead. “How are you feeling Mrs. Bradshaw?”

You answer his questions as they come, Bradley paying rapt attention the whole time. Your throat doesn’t feel tight anymore. You aren’t lightheaded, but you do feel a little shortness of breath. You feel jittery - wired, almost. You’re both assured that it’s completely normal as the drug works its way out of your system. They can give you something to try and calm you down, and they want you to stay for a few hours to make sure you don’t go back into the allergic reaction once the epinephrine has worn off. The thought makes his blood run cold.

“Should she stay overnight?” he asks, but the doctor shakes his head no.

“The standard observation timeslot should be just fine, Mr. Bradshaw. But we’ll make sure you both know what to look out for when you leave.”

He walks out without saying much else. Bradley feels you tug on his hand, his name leaving your lips in a whisper. He meets your gaze and he watches as your eyes soften even more.

“Sit down, honey.”

He listens to you, dragging the chair beside your bed as close as possible. He rests his elbows on the mattress beside you, holding your hand tightly between both of his.

“I’m okay,” you repeat again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your fingers and taking a deep breath. “I…this really scared me.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” you say softly, running your thumb over one of the hands holding yours, soothing the skin and helping his racing heart. Your touch is like magic to him, providing an almost instant calm that he desperately needed. Guilt curled in his stomach, knowing that even now, you’re the one helping him.

“I should be the one comforting you, not the other way around.”

“We comfort each other, baby. That’s how this works.”

“Why didn’t you have your epipen on you, Pumpkin? Don’t you normally carry it?” he asks quietly, a touch of urgency still in his tone. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would have happened if you were alone and this happened, with no one around to call 911. He could have lost you, all over a silly little bee sting, and he can’t wrap his mind around that. He just got you. He had had you, he knew. But he was just getting you back.

“I switched bags this morning and forgot to take it out of the pocket of the old one, I guess. I haven’t had to use one since college. I forget about it, sometimes.”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying to rid himself of the worst case scenarios. He’s the one that normally reminds you to always have it on you, he thinks. He vaguely recalls having a spare in the glove compartment of the Bronco, and in the drawer in the kitchen and maybe one in the bedroom, too.

Not for the first time, he curses his memory and the accident that took it from him.

When he opens his eyes, his look is intense, “Never again, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, but Bradley shakes his head.

“No. Promise me. Please?”

Your lips part and you stare at him for a long moment. His gaze never waivers from yours. He needs you to listen to him. To hear him.

“I promise,” you finally whisper.

He rises from the chair, pressing a kiss to your lips. He keeps his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

“Will you lay with me?” You ask quietly, shy in a way reminiscent of when you asked him to say I love you on the porch all those weeks ago. He hates that you felt you even needed to ask.

With no hesitation, he maneuvered himself into the small bed beside you. He kisses your forehead once, twice, three times, holding you as tightly as he could. Your body still gave the occasional tremble but they had lessened now, your breaths coming a little bit easier, and he felt the tightness in his chest ease.

“Sorry for being a mess,” he whispers into your hair.

“Don’t,” you whisper back, and he feels you shake your head from where it’s tucked into his chest. “It means you care.”

The words are there, right on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t say them, not yet or here. You deserve more than a frantic hospital room confession.

-------

Part Nine :: Series Masterlist :: Main Masterlist

Notes: I hope you liked this one! We're nearing the end, but I think everyone is really going to like the next chapter. Would love to hear any thoughts you may have :)

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