#i get carried away with spencer's inner monologue...a lot

[eidetic187]

          There was a brief moment, in the seconds between twin shots ringing in his ears && the knowledge of who was hit where, in which fear seized his heart. Death was ever looming over the entire team any time they confronted an unsub, && no matter how much Spencer tried to prepare himself for it’s perceived inevitability, he still held his breath every time one of his family was injured. && when Derek was the one injured, he always seemed to hold his breath a few moments longer. The older agent was in no danger this time; he’s suffered only a mere graze against his shoulder. This does not stop Spencer from retreating into his thoughts — he’s ever cursed with too much knowledge, the exact locations of every artery in the human arm, the exact amount of millimeters in either direction that would’ve put Derek in critical condition. If the entire team were in slightly different positions, if the unsub had slightly better aim — he’s cursed with thoughts of just how close he was constantly coming to losing someone he cared for so dearly. So, he retreats into analysis; what did he miss?? What could he change next time to keep himself && his family safer?? Learning is what he does best && he’d take every opportunity he could to adjust his knowledge of body language && behavior if it meant next time, their adversary wouldn’t have a chance to shoot.

          He hardly stirs when Derek settles in next to him, gaze fixed on the sprawling landscape many miles beneath them. Though, with the rather distracting warmth from Derek’s body radiating next to him, his thoughts start to wander from analysis to the many things he’s left unsaid over the years. If Derek had died today, there were far too many things that would remain unsaid, a thought which makes his chest itch. A decade ago, Spencer would never even entertain the idea of voicing anything he felt for the older man, hiding behind a fear of tainting a blossoming bond && of the fallout interfering with their responsibilities. Now, with more confidence than he had a decade ago && a bond with Morgan he’s not sure anything short of committing a murder could ever sever, he’d been entertaining the thought for quite some time now. There were so many things Derek did that made him wonder if he ever had anything to fear — such as knowing how Spencer takes his coffee, he thinks as he takes a sip from said mug. It was perfect, as it always was, && his thoughts begin to drift into uncertainty again. He himself knew how every member of the team took their coffee; acts of service was his love language && his eidetic memory made it as easy as breathing to memorize their orders — but Derek didn’t have his memory, && Spencer wonders if he knows anyone else’s order besides his && Penelope’s.

          His thoughts are beginning to swirl around in his mind at an almost dizzying pace, thoughts of their unsub, Derek getting shot, Derek making coffee for him && knowing exactly how he wants it, Derek getting shot, the way he feels when Derek slings an arm around his shoulders, Derek getting shot — he squeezes his eyes shut && shakes his head. He didn’t die this time, didn’t have anything more than a graze — but what about next time??

       ❛❛ Are you busy tomorrow?? ❜❜ A question blurted out just as his thoughts became a bit too loud. There’s a part of him that wants to insist he’s just curious, just finding a reason to talk, to distract himself from the dizzying tornado of thoughts && feelings && analysis, but perhaps he shouldn’t waste this chance when he’d been convincing himself to do something, anything, for months. ❛❛ There’s a really nice Korean place that just opened up by my apartment, and I haven’t gotten a chance to try it. I was wondering if, um, if — if you’d want to come with me?? Tomorrow night?? If you’re not busy?? It’s fine if you are, just, um…yeah. ❜❜ Maybe not as eloquent as he’d like, but perhaps the older man would find some charm in how it was so distinctly a Spencer way of inviting someone to dinner.

❛         company.         silently      sit      with      my      muse      to      comfort      them   :   𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐤   and   @eidetic187

    𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞   𝐚𝐫𝐞   𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬   𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭   𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧   𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡   𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥   always   be   out   of   their   control.   this   was   true   for   life   itself,   not   just   their   work,   and   their   everlong   days   of   profiling.   their   need   to   rescue   people.   sometimes,   things   just   happen.   for   instance,   underestimating   an   unsub   who   appears   to   be   letting   down   their   guard.   giving   in,   with   every   muscle   relaxing,   with   the   pistol   in   their   hand   falling.   until   it   doesn’t,   until   it’s   back   up   again   and   two   shots   go   off.   one   from   jennifer’s   side   and   the   other,   from   the   unsub.   it   is   not   a   fatal   shot,   no.   not   for   either   of   them.   the   bullet   in   the   unsub’s   arm   might   have   shattered   bone,   but   he’ll   live.   and   as   for   derek   morgan,   he   will   live   with   a   simple   graze   to   the   shoulder.   a   searing   graze   which   had   pained   him   in   the   second,   but   was   becoming   more   bearable   now.   

    bandaged   and   even   eager   to   return   garcia’s   call,   derek   is   maneuvering   through   the   beige   tunnel   of   the   jet.   he   brew   a   fresh   cup   of   coffee   and   dipped   in   a   generous   amount   of   creamer   for   himself,   doused   the   other   one   with   packets   of   sugar   for   the   boy   genius.   he   returns   to   their   seats,   brick   phone   pressed   against   his   cheek   and   hands   setting   down   their   piping   mugs   onto   the   table.   “   alright,   babygirl.   i’ll   see   you   when   we   get   back,   ”   said   with   the   same   jest   as   is   typical   for   morgan   and   face   lit   up   by   a   pearly   smile.   he   hangs   the   phone   up   and   turns   to   reid,   only   to   find   him   thousands   of   miles   away.   back   where   they’d   left   the   case,   it   seams.   for   derek,   spencer   was   the   easiest   one   out   of   all   of   them   to   read.   he   understood   him   and   he   knew,   the   kid   did   not   often   like   talking   about   those   jumbled   thoughts   in   that   brain   of   his   (   how   he   never   loses   track   of   them   is   still   a   mystery   to   derek   ).   so,   aside   from   his   clothes   shifting   against   his   seat,   derek   remains   quiet.   though,   he   taps   a   finger   against   the   mug   he’s   brought   for   spencer,   a   reminder   to   ‘   drink   up   ’.   because   it’s   not   all   over;   there’s   papers   to   be   filed.

[icarryitin]

Episode 38: Feels Like Fire

spencer reid/gn!reader

you didn’t think i was going to put spencer through all the canon awfulness and not stick reader in the hospital at least once did you???

series masterlist

word count: 1.6k // warnings: reader gets shot, hospital scenes, blood, Anxiety™️ from just about everyone but mostly Reid, an awful lot of inner monologuing that i refuse to apologise for, does the L bomb count if nobody says it out loud?

summary: Spencer’s worst fear comes to life, and he can’t do anything but watch.

Nobody expects a crime scene, taped off and crawling with cops, to be a hostile situation. The latest dump site is only about an hour old, its crowd of onlookers only growing. Even so, he’s not looking at you when it happens - Spencer doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He tells himself it is, that he’s graciously been spared the visual of your body hitting the ground. That’s the first lie.

Because, if he had been watching, he’d have been able to pinpoint exactly where the bullet came from.

The sound, though - that unmistakable crack through the air, flesh tearing, the thud of skin on concrete. Your gargling, gasps for breath against the blood filling your lungs will haunt his nightmares.

He isn’t the first to get to you, it’s Tara who’s on her knees in the street beside you with her hands pressing down on your ribcage to staunch the bleeding. Tara, who has known you just inside of one week, holds your life in her hands whilst Spencer can only stand by the hood of the SUV - reeling.

Is this how you’ve felt, every time it’s been him on the wrong end of a bullet?

No, he knows that’s not true. Every time he’s been the one to go down, you’ve jumped into action. Or gotten mad at him, one of the two. And yet, for all the complicated feelings he has for you, he’s paralysed. Because it’s you. Unshakeable, indestructible, you. This isn’t supposed to happen. It’s an EMT bustling past him that finally kicks his brain into gear, medpack knocking into his shoulder.

Oh god, this must be terrifying for you.

It’s only now that he remembers your fear of medical procedures, or even anything adjacent. Hell, you’ve made Spencer go to the dentist with you for moral support more than once. A request he’s happy to fulfill. Dentist, doctor, everything. But right now, EMTs are sticking you with needles and he’s not there. All the times you’ve swallowed that fear to be beside him on his worst days, and he’s not beside you on yours. That’s what gets his feet moving, what wakes up his legs and carries him over to kneel by your head as an oxygen mask is pulled over your face.

Your blood soaks into the knees of his trousers, but he barely notices the sudden warmth of it.

“You’ll be okay, you have to let them do their job. You have to let them save you. You won’t be alone,” He hopes he sounds more confident than he feels, as your eyes search his face from behind the mask - you’re looking for something, he isn’t sure what it is, so he gives you the only thing he can think of, “I promise.”

You seem satisfied enough, for a moment. And then your eyes roll back into your head, and he hears the word crashing, and a pair of hands shove him away from where you’re convulsing on the ground. One of the paramedics straddles you, his compressions so aggressive that Spencer is sure your ribs are breaking. Another, gentler, set of hands finds his shoulders, helps him up. It’s JJ. She’s saying something, something reassuring probably, but he can’t hear her for the blood rushing through his eardrums. Stuck in panic mode in this dump site turned crime scene - someone could shoot him right now and he isn’t sure he’d notice.

You’re back, for now, CPR paused long enough to slide the neon orange backboard beneath you and move you onto the gurney. You might be having the worst day of your life, but you still have a heartbeat. Though, they’re not slowing down. The chances of this day becoming your last are still sky high, surgery is the only thing that can save you now. He can only hope you stay out of it long enough for them to get you there - lest they have to drag you, kicking and screaming, into the OR.

“Reid,” Hotch’s voice pulls his attention from the paramedics bundling you into the back of the ambulance, pulls him back to planet earth, “Can you work?”

“Yes.”

There it is, the second lie.

No, no he cannot work. Oh, there’s a part of him that wants to. But, then again, there’s a part of him that was loaded into an ambulance on blue lights and sirens. He barely makes it an hour before somebody has to speak up.

“Spencer, no offence, but you’re useless right now. Why don’t you go to the hospital, keep us updated?”

It’s true, but it hurts his pride a little to know that he’s not as subtle as he thinks. The supportive hand that Dave settles on his shoulder is enough to have his eyes stinging - Spencer wiggles out of the fatherly grip. He’ll go, it makes sense to have a presence when one of their own is down. That’s what he says. Everybody knows what he means.

“I should be listed as the emergency contact, Doctor Spencer Reid?” He’s muttering as he pulls out his wallet, dumping every form of identification he has on the desk. Driving license, credit card, FBI credentials, his goddamn library card. The receptionist picks out his driving license with a sympathetic little smile, it’s clear she’s trying to calm at least some of his anxiety with her even tone as she confirms someone will be through to speak to him soon. It doesn’t help.

You looked dead, lying on the wet concrete, blood turning the puddle beside you a murky brown. Somebody would have told him if that were true. No, you must be alive. The reason nobody’s out here to speak to him means that they’re still all in the OR saving your life. Right? Hoping is dangerous, but hope he does.

Spencer has been shot, more than once. He understands the pain - the sudden ripping, tearing, excruciating sensation that sweeps over you. It doesn’t matter where the bullet hits, your whole body gets consumed by fire. He could have lived his whole life without you knowing what it feels like.

But for now, he just exists in this horrible limbo - a place where you are both alive and dead and he feels like he’s the one bleeding out on the cold concrete. He hates it, hates it. And it doesn’t matter, ultimately, that he knows you’re more than likely not making it off the table; because until somebody tells him as much, that flickering glimmer of hope that you’ll be okay will simply not go out.

There was just so much blood.

Spencer doesn’t often pray. He understands the need some might feel, the idea of faith in a higher power and a bigger plan to avoid going completely insane in an unbound universe. But he has never really felt the need. A man of science and infallible knowledge, he knows that things will work out however they please and that neither he nor anyone else - deity or otherwise - can do anything to change it. But he prays now. The same request, over and over again, in his mind. Shaky elbows resting on shaky knees, shaky hands clasped together.

Please be okay.

Please be okay.

I love you. I’m so afraid of it.

Please be okay.

He doesn’t stop praying for hours. Not when the surgeons come out to speak with him. Not when he calls Morgan to update the team, not when he stumbles blindly after a nurse down the hallways. Not when he slumps in the chair beside your bed, and not when he grasps your cold hand in both of his.

“Lousy shot.” Your voice is hoarse, but it’s there. You’re there.

“What was that?” Spencer heard you, he always does, but the anxiety still coursing through his veins needs to hear you speak again - if only to make sure he isn’t hallucinating.

“I said he was a lousy shot,” You repeat, clearing your throat as you crack your eyes open against the bright white of the hospital room, “If you’re gonna kill me, kill me, don’t half ass it.”

You argue with him when the nurse comes in, the request to withdraw all narcotic medication raises every set of eyebrows in the room - except yours. You’re adamant about keeping a promise to a friend, you know it’ll hurt, you’re ready. And the look you give Spencer, when he suggests that your friend might let this one slide, could turn anybody to stone. Stubborn as a mule. It’s one of his favourite things about you. Well, it is when you’re not wincing with every breath you take.

“Don’t get shot again.” It’s been quiet for a little while, his hands still cradling yours. He squeezes your fingers as much as he dares with his whispered words.

“Can’t promise that, sweetheart, bit of an occupational hazard.”

It’s the first smile to crack his lips since the drive out to the dump site this morning. Or maybe it was yesterday morning now; he’s not sure. A callback to a dumb joke he once made, the first time he was the one laid up in a hospital bed with a bullet wound.

There’s a moment, where there’s something else to say. You both know what it is, but neither of you can let it break containment. So you let it hang there in the air between you. The way it has for years, maybe the way it always will. Until one of you, at least, gets brave enough.

And then Penelope appears in the doorway, misty eyed and flanked by the others in a swarm of Get Well balloons, and it’s gone. Floated out of the window on a cool breeze. Not forever, just until you’re both ready. But you know, and he knows, and so does everybody else.

every time i have to change my work password i just use the long form date that i changed it and now i have to write the day my fav f1 driver got sacked every morning for the next 6 months this is so much fun

[zigtheeortega]

calm before the storm

✿ pairing: bryce x mc

✿ word count: 2.5k

✿ warnings: loss, death, funeral – angst.

✿ author’s note: i didn’t necessarily think that bryce was written ooc, but the whole post-funeral sequence was pretty weird to me. i’m someone who copes very similarly to bryce, so i could see myself reflected in him a lot. and i thought the s*x scene was very oddly placed so, here’s me warping canon again bc i’m dissatisfied! lmao hope u enjoy <3 also this fic is very close to me emotionally – i experienced two close deaths in april and june. 

•─────────✦✿✦────────•

Since the moment his hands trembled amidst one of the most important surgeries of his life, Bryce was holding on by a thread.

With each half-assed joke he cracked, each wavering smile, each time he tried convincing others – including himself – that he was coping, he fell apart more and more.

The first night he went home after Spencer was quarantined, he trudged through the halls of Edenbrook, like he was dragging his legs through wet concrete. He was nearly magnetized to her bedside, not wanting to leave, but he needed to rest – he’d been awake for nearly a day and a half by the time he clocked out.

He blinked and he was back home. Couldn't remember how he got there. He was on autopilot and didn’t have a clue until he’d already wasted so much time. When night came, he couldn’t recall what he’d done that day.

The days between the diagnostics team finding a cure were torturous, the mere thought of not knowing what the future held – for the first time in his life – shaking him to his core.

He found himself paying close attention to Keiki. Each sarcastic quip, rude comment, or joke at his expense, he listened, soaking it up, no thoughts about the problem back in Hawaii. He whole-heartedly enjoyed her. Through one of the hardest times in his life, he was rekindling a relationship that never should’ve fallen apart.

The night he spent with Spencer, cuddled up next to her in his starchy hazmat suit, was the most daunting of them all. He was smiling and flirting with her, a little bit of his normal self shining through, but the crushing weight of his reality was distracting him.

This could be the last time that you see her smile.

God, he knew he had a killer smile of his own, but hers put the whole damn sun to shame. Her grin lit up her whole body, like every atom in her body was in it. And despite her sunken in eyes, her pale, sickly appearance, she still emitted those same infectious rays that he was eager to soak up.

This could be the last time that you hold her.

He curled himself around her, spooning her like he’d done a handful of times before. What he wouldn’t give to have a faceful of her hair again, the tropical scent so familiar to him that he couldn’t help but associate the scent of coconut with her.

This could be the last time that you feel her.

He stroked her face with a gloved hand, wishing for nothing more than to feel her smooth skin beneath his fingertips again. He pressed into her, hoping she could feel his warmth through the thin layer of fabric.

When her eyelids finally fluttered shut, overcome with exhaustion, his mind wandered to the possibility of it all being over.

And he couldn’t cope with that.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to.

When the treatment worked, and both she and Rafael were cured, it was the first time in months he’d experienced genuine joy. He didn’t know what higher power out there was looking out for him, but he silently thanked the universe for looking out for her. And for putting her in his life, and decidedly keeping her there.

The funeral was too much for him.

Seeing the two caskets, sealed tight, the endless arrangements of flowers, the sea of black clothing… it was overwhelming. Foreign. Like he was intruding on something so intimate that wasn’t meant for him to see.

And the sounds. He’d never forget it. Choked sobs from every angle, constant sniffling, a sporadic wail. The atmosphere made him antsy. His suit was itchy, his shoes were uncomfortable, and he was surrounded by grief.

Both Danny and Bobby meant a lot to Edenbrook, but it was nothing compared to what Spencer meant to him.

He must’ve slipped into auto-pilot (again), because before he knew it, the funeral was over, and he was outside of her apartment.

Wordlessly, he wrapped her in his arms, burying his face in her shoulder, the smell of her shampoo enough to bring him to tears. He was so fucking close to losing that forever. His free will to kiss her, to touch her, to hold her.

She invited him in, and every step to her room felt like each string that held him together was snapping, his sutures buckling under the weight he carried.

He was digging deep, trying to pull any kind of genuine quip from within him, to maybe – just maybe – convince Spencer he was okay.

But did he want to keep her in the dark?

Opening up was so fucking hard for him. Either he was a burden or he was let down by the people he confided in.

Trustworthiness was hard to come by, and Bryce knew that. That’s why Spencer was the first to know about Keiki, about his parents, about him. Not entirely, since he wasn’t ready for that just yet, but he was getting there.

It was a slow process, and he revered Spencer’s patience. Not once did she get upset with him for not sharing every detail.

And he almost fucking lost that.

His torturous inner monologue that he worked so hard to bury showed up when Keiki did. Guilt ate him alive, anxiety gnawed his insides, and regret feasted on whatever was left.

His mind was a hurricane, angry waves crashing painfully against his subconscious, the storm surge from his repeated trauma more than he could handle alone.

The one person he should’ve let in was almost taken from him, ripped from him like a surfboard after a wipeout.

He was drowning, and he flicked away the only hand that was outstretched for him.

And he almost fucking lost her.

The moment Spencer’s brows furrowed at whatever unconvincing mask he had plastered on his features, he broke.

His throat ached and flexed as he tried to choke back the tears, but he just… couldn’t.

Fuck, you’re so weak. He cursed at himself as the tears started flowing, warm streaks trailing down his bronzed skin, vision blurred like his head was under water. This isn’t about you.

The one time deflection was warranted, he broke down into a blubbering heap at her feet.

Like the angel she was, Spencer coaxed his body towards the bed, settling him against the down comforter before his legs buckled beneath him.

She gathered him in her arms, holding him exactly like he needed (like he wanted, but he didn’t want to admit it out loud).

She held him like he held her – like it was the last time.

The revelation tore him up inside, knowing she’d never take a second of their time together for granted again.

He pulled back, running a shaky hand through his hair, loose strands clinging to his damp forehead.

“I normally can hold it together better.” “You don’t have to do that around me, Bryce. You know that,” she encouraged, eyes still red-rimmed from the funeral.

“You’re the one that almost died, and I’m sitting here crying letting you comfort me,” he laughed through a sob, bouncing his leg on the ground nervously.

“You watched me almost die,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

His chin wobbled, and he rolled his lips to mask it. He took a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “Spencer, I – have you ever…” He trailed off. Why was this so fucking hard?

“Have I been through this before?”

“Yeah,” was all he could manage.

She nodded. “Have you?”

“No.”

She nodded again.

“It’s making me think about my life… and the people in it. And things I could’ve done differently… better.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I saw you in that room, after the gas started affecting you, and your face… it –” he bit his lip to hold back a soft sob. “It got me thinking about everything that we didn’t do.”

“Bryce…” she laced her fingers in his, rubbing her thumb methodically over his skin.

“We’ve barely seen each other this year, Spencer. I got caught up with Keiki, and trying to figure shit out, and –” he searched her eyes, tears welling up again. “When I saw you in that room, nothing else mattered.”

“More than one thing can be important to you –”

“You’re important to me, Spence. You deserve better than what I’ve given you this year,” he shook his head, tears spilling over. “I can’t lose you.”

“You aren’t losing me, Bryce. I’m right here,” she practically cooed, trying her best to soothe him.

“I shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. Please,” he whispered.

She pulled back, scooting backward onto the bed to cross her legs, as he stood up, pacing.

“It’s like I’m fucking up left and right with the people who matter to me,” he fisted his pockets, avoiding her eyes as he strode across the room.

“You of all people should know that you can’t take the blame for things that are out of your control,” she murmured softly, tugging at a loose string at the hem of her dress.

“I know I can’t control it and that’s why it makes me want to tear my fucking hair out,” he said through gritted teeth, biting back tears. He didn’t want to cry anymore, but his body had other ideas.

“Bryce, you couldn’t have stopped a bursting gas canister. Nobody could’ve stopped it.”

“That’s not what I’m frustrated over. I’m… I don’t know how to say it without sounding like a dick and making this about me. There’s a lot going through my head right now,” he laughed humorlessly, stopping in the middle of the room directly across from the bed.

“Talk it out with me. I’ve got time,” she smiled encouragingly, folding her hands in her laps politely, like the angel she was.

God, sometimes he was thankful for his parent’s demonic behavior, because if not for the bad karma the Lahela’s accumulated, there’s no way in hell the universe would’ve balanced itself out by placing an angel like her in his path.

“On the one hand I’m angry at myself for not spending time with you like I should’ve,” he chewed his lip for a second, trying to gather his thoughts, before speaking again slowly. “I could’ve lost you and I was more worried about keeping secrets from everyone and dealing with shit on my own, you know? Which I never should’ve done.”

“But you didn’t and still don’t have to tell me anything. You’re allowed to have boundaries,” she interjected calmly.

“But maybe… maybe I don’t want that anymore,” he shrugged out of his tux jacket, draping it over the back of her desk chair as he spoke. “You still barely know Keiki. I barely know Keiki. And I holed myself up when you were waiting there with open arms. I don’t know. Maybe I just didn’t want to burden anybody? I don’t know.” He repeated, downplaying his own self–realization.

“And I’m frustrated because I don’t… know how to deal with this,” he gestured around the room, then to himself. “How to wrap my brain around all of it. This was the first time I lost anybody like this.”

“I wasn’t even super close to Danny and Bobby,” he continued, shoving his hands in his pockets to calm his shaking hands.

“Losing people is always hard. Doesn’t matter how close or distant you are to somebody,” she said, trying to hold his eyes, but he could barely look at her.

He’d never opened up like this before. He was so vulnerable… so exposed, and he was afraid. Afraid she’d run away. That she’d bolt the second he plopped his thick suitcases filled to the brim, nearly bursting with emotional baggage from the past two decades.

“I’m sad about losing them, definitely, and going to a funeral for the first time in my life really fucked with my head but… fuck, I’m gonna sound like such an asshole,” he willed himself to look up from his shoes, staring intently at her. “None of that even comes close to what I felt when I thought I’d lost you.”

“Kyra was hanging on by a thread while I thought you were –” he choked, pressing his lips in a firm line to stop his sobs, which escaped through his nose in short breaths instead.

“I’ve never felt pressure like that. And my life has been nothing but pressure.” The words were freely flowing from him, like a dam held together by a few twigs, snapping to release a flood that neither of them anticipated.

“You had to run towards your problems, not away from them,” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure if he’d agree. But the moment the words left her lips, it was like the puzzle pieces fell into place for him.

Maui should’ve been his safe haven, but from the moment his parents were exposed in every form of news throughout Hawaii, he was itching to leave. The island fever settled into his bones and never left. It was an ever present anxiety he struggled with despite finding a home in Boston, Edenbrook, and Spencer.

When shit went down back home, he ran. When people found out who he was states away from the fallout, he ran. It was predictable, methodical, like an appendectomy. The same muscle memory that sliced skin and fastened sutures with delicate precision pumped his legs until he was as far away from his problems as he could get.

“Everytime I lost somebody, it was because I chose to. This time it was like something was being ripped away from me, and I couldn’t handle it,” Bryce said, a profound statement that caused a pained whimper to escape his lips.

“Bry…” She breathed, scooting to the edge of the bed, gently tugging at his shirt sleeve to pull him down to sit on the comforter.

“You don’t have to have all the answers right now, alright? And you don’t have to carry all of this alone. I’m here. You’ve got all of us,” she said, motioning towards the walls of the apartment. “Sometimes just letting it out can take the weight off your shoulders. And you’ve got a heavy load, Bryce.”

She rubbed soothing circles on his back, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I’m not leaving you.”

He held her eye, doe-eyed gaze piercing – Spencer could see right through him, and god did he love feeling seen.

There was nothing he could say to thank her properly for putting aside her feelings to listen to him for a few minutes. Those few minutes where he unleashed a small portion of the shit he’d been building up for years.

So instead he did what he’d been craving since the moment he saw her behind the glass.

He pulled her into a frenzied kiss, pouring every part of himself into the embrace, wrapping him in her arms like she belonged there, as if he was saying “I’m not leaving you, either. You’re safe now.”

––––

taglist: @pixeljazzy ; @raleiighcarrera ; @senatorraines ; @felix-hauville ; @violinet ; @empressazura ; @serafinedupont ; @messofakind ; @altairadtaz ; @hudush ; @solarbridge ; @adriansbiss ; @bellarxse ; @havennly ; @writinghereandthere ; @levineseth ; @lahellacute ; @michellesnguyen ; @kelseaaa ; @natesewels ; @lucas-koh ; @rainesenator ; @montjoy ; @bryceslahela ; @crestfallenpixie ; @dudebro-lahela ; @ezekielbhandarivalleros ; @lgbtiangley ; @part-of-the-circus ; @nazariolahela ; @hazel-nguyen ; @la-huerta ; @adamdusmortain ; @thepotatobleh ; @distinguishedsaladoperawinner ; @bobbymckenzie ; @catsomi ; @neptunesascendant ; @pixelsandkink

[if i missed you, i wasn’t able to tag your url! i tagged anybody who interacted w the post so if you want to be removed please let me know]