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joelsrose · 17 days ago

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First Date? Chapter 8

previous chapters (lol if you need a refresh - i sure did)

SURPRISEEEEEE 💌 The long-awaited Chapter 8 is here, finally. If you need a refresh (honestly, same), previous chapters are linked above! Hope this one breaks your heart in the best way. Let me know what you think in the comments, I’m begging 💔📝 xx

⋆˚✿˖°❀

You hadn’t seen Joel since he’d come back—not in passing, not across the street, not even a glimpse of his broad frame disappearing into one of the community buildings like some half-dreamed shadow. But you’d heard the whispers. Low, clipped murmurs passed between residents at the gates, or trailing behind Maria’s bootsteps in the main hall—talk of Tommy and Joel’s return from their overnight patrol, of what they’d found beyond the river bend, closer to the highway, where the ground revealed tracks that shouldn’t have been there. Too many. Too fresh. Not infected this time—people. Strangers. Raiders, maybe. Survivors, possibly. Desperate men with sharp eyes and nothing to lose.

There was concern in their voices, edged and brittle, but you barely heard it. None of it stuck. Not the danger, not the unease rippling through Jackson like a gust of cold wind, not the quiet urgency that had begun to tighten Maria’s shoulders whenever she passed you in the halls. None of it mattered.

Because he was back.

Joel was back.

Here. In Jackson. Breathing the same air as you again.

And the moment you realized it, your breath caught. The kind of catch that lives deep in the ribs, that steals into the lungs and refuses to let go, tight and sharp and aching. You felt it in the marrow of your bones—the tangled knot of relief, unexpected and uninvited, curling around your spine like something both soft and sickening. He was back.

He was okay. He had made it.

⋆˚✿˖°❀

Joel sat hunched in the back corner of the Tipsy Bison, half-hidden in the shadows like he was trying to make himself smaller, like if he curled into himself enough, the ache might let up for a second. The half-drunk glass of whiskey sat untouched in front of him, amber liquid catching the glow from the hanging lights above, warm and golden—but untouched. Forgotten. His knee bounced beneath the table, restless, a steady tremor that betrayed just how tightly wound he was.

In front of him, folded and creased and slightly smudged from the drag of his calloused thumb, lay the letter. Just your name scrawled across the front—nothing more. No embellishment, no fancy words. Just your name, centered like it meant everything. Because it did. And because Joel Miller was not the kind of man who wrote letters, not the kind who spilled his heart on paper, not the kind who said anything he didn’t absolutely have to. But this—this he’d done for you. Only for you.

He dragged a hand down his face, the scrape of his palm rough against the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tight, fingers flexing as he stared at the damn thing like it might bite. The paper was soft now, worn at the corners.

He’d read it too many times. Rewritten parts. Crossed out lines. Added more. Three full pages, front and back. The truth he hadn’t been able to say the night he should have. The words he owed you. Still, it felt too little. Too late.

The booth creaked as Tommy slid into the seat across from him, boots dragging against the wooden floor, shoulders heavy from a long day. He took one look at Joel—the slumped posture, the untouched drink, the storm behind his eyes—and sighed, dropping another glass onto the table with a dull thud.

“Jesus, Joel,” Tommy muttered, frowning. “You look like hell.”

Joel huffed, his voice dry, unbothered to respond with words.

Tommy leaned back, arms crossed, gaze flicking to the letter. “You wrote it. That’s the hard part. All you gotta do now is give it to her.”

Joel shook his head slowly, jaw working. “Don’t know,” he murmured, voice low and gravel-worn. “Still don’t feel like enough.”

Tommy scoffed softly. “Ain’t supposed to be perfect. It’s a damn start—that’s what it is.” He pushed the untouched whiskey toward him. “Drink somethin’ before you pass out from bein’ dramatic.”

Joel let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so hollow. He reached for the glass, fingers curling around it without lifting it yet. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he opened the letter just enough to see the first line. The handwriting was messy, uneven—the kind of penmanship that came from a man who’d never been taught to write pretty things, who didn’t know how to soften his edges even when he wanted to.

The first line read:

“I’m sorry this is comin’ to you on paper. You deserved to hear it with my voice—while you still wanted to listen. But I ain’t ever been good at sayin’ the right thing when it matters most. I’ve been carryin’ you around in my chest for longer than I’ll ever admit out loud, and I figure it’s time you knew that. Ain’t got many things left in this world that make sense—but you always did. You still do.”

Joel stared at it, the words bleeding into his bones like a bruise blooming slow. He read it again, then shut the letter carefully, folding it like it was something sacred. His thumb lingered on the crease, chest heavy.

“She’s gonna read that,” Tommy said, quieter now. “And she’s gonna know.”

Joel looked up, tired eyes meeting his brother’s. “Yeah?” he asked, voice rough. “Know what?”

Tommy shrugged, but there was something certain in the way he said it, “That you still think about her every damn second. That it’s her. It’s always been her.”

Joel didn’t answer—not with words. He didn’t need to. The silence that followed between them wasn’t empty, but thick and full, stretched taut like a wire pulled to its limit. It vibrated with everything he couldn't bring himself to say, and the truth of it sat heavy in his chest, behind his eyes, etched into the fine lines of his face like something long-carved. Tommy had known him a lifetime. He didn’t need the confession spoken aloud to see it.

Joel didn’t notice the shift behind him until Tommy cleared his throat, a short, deliberate sound that lacked any of the casual ease from before. Joel blinked, instinctively following his brother’s gaze as it flicked upward—past him, over his shoulder—and just like that, the air changed.

Footsteps. Light, practiced. Too confident.

Toby.

The younger man approached with the kind of easy swagger that was all for show, the kind of movement made by someone who wanted to be seen, who had never learned the difference between charm and intrusion. His mouth curled into a friendly shape, but his eyes were too sharp, scanning too quickly, landing where they didn’t belong. And though he kept his voice light, Joel could feel the quiet smugness rolling off him before a word was even spoken.

He didn’t speak right away, but Joel saw it—just for a moment. The way Toby’s gaze flicked down to the letter still on the table. Barely a glance. Barely a second. But enough. Enough to clock the paper, the worn edges, the name on the front. Enough to catch the way the fold had loosened just slightly, revealing the first line of Joel’s tight, slanted handwriting. Not long enough to read the whole thing. But just long enough to understand that it mattered.

“You two made it back alright, huh?” Toby said, his tone casual, almost too casual, like he was trying to mask the fact that he was already three steps ahead in whatever game he thought he was playing. “Heard it’s not looking too good out there. Scary times.”

He clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder in that overly familiar way people used when they were trying to pretend friendship. A pat like they were close. Like he had permission. Like he’d earned it.

Joel stiffened immediately, his body coiling tight. His hand moved without thought—swift, almost protective—gripping the letter as if it were something fragile, something precious, and sliding it into the inside pocket of his jacket in one smooth, guarded motion. The gesture was instinctual. A reflex. But even as he tucked the letter away, he knew—Toby saw.

Tommy, who had remained silent until now, looked between the two of them with a wary eye and said, “Yeah. We’ll have to make a few changes around town. Things’re getting messy out there.”

Toby nodded slowly, the gesture loose, almost lazy—too casual to be innocent. His gaze lingered on Joel a beat too long, drifting not toward his eyes, but lower, over the faint bruising at his jaw, the dried cut beneath his temple, the still-healing scrapes that curved along his cheekbone like the aftermath of something feral. A knowing smirk tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth, calculated and cool.

“Right,” he murmured, tone light but laced with something sharper, eyes scanning Joel’s battered face with mock sympathy. “I can see that.”

Joel didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on the rim of his glass, his fingers loosely wrapped around the base like he needed something to hold onto, something to keep him tethered while the earth shifted underneath him. His shoulders were tense. Still. The letter burned like a brand inside his jacket.

“What were you writing?” Toby asked, tilting his head like the question was innocent. Like he hadn’t already seen too much.

Joel’s brows furrowed, slow and cold. “’Scuse me?”

Toby lifted his hands, feigning nonchalance. “Oh. Just saw a letter, is all. Didn’t know you were much of a writer.”

“I ain’t,” Joel said, the words clipped and flat.

Toby smiled at that. A practiced smile. Polished at the edges, but hollow in the middle. “Guess we all surprise ourselves sometimes,” he said. He stepped back, one hand already raised in mock farewell. “I’ll see you two around.”

Joel didn’t look up as Toby finally turned and walked away, the echo of his boots fading into the low hum of bar chatter and the muted clink of glassware. He stayed exactly as he was—shoulders hunched, spine rigid, jaw clenched tight like he was bracing for impact that hadn’t come yet but would, eventually. His hand hovered, then rested flat over the inside pocket of his jacket, the pressure of it instinctive, protective. The letter sat beneath the worn fabric like a secret heartbeat—creased, hidden, fragile. Something living. Something too sacred to be seen.

Tommy didn’t speak for a long moment. He just watched his brother with the kind of patience only years of shared grief could build. Then, slowly, he leaned back against the booth with a dry scoff, not quite a laugh, “Subtle much.”

Joel’s jaw ticked, his hand curling tighter around the base of the glass in front of him, the amber liquid trembling inside from the tension in his grip. He let out a slow breath through his nose, low and gritty, like it scraped its way out of his chest.

“Can’t fuckin’ stand that kid,” he muttered. “Somethin’ about him—just gets under the skin.”

Tommy didn’t argue. Didn’t fan the flame. He only gave a small nod, as if he agreed but wouldn’t give the thought any more air. His hand moved instead, lifting from the table and pressing—slow and deliberate—against the center of his own chest, right over his heart. A steady touch. A reminder.

“Then stop thinkin’ about him,” he said, quiet now. “Focus on what’s important.”

Without realizing, his hand lifted and pressed against his chest, mirroring Tommy’s gesture. A subtle movement, gentle. As if he needed to feel that it was still there—the reason he wrote the letter in the first place. The reason he was still holding on. You.

He gave a single nod, small and quiet, but full of weight. The kind of nod that said I hear you. The kind of nod that said I’m trying.

⋆˚✿˖°❀

The sun was setting low behind the houses across the street, bleeding soft amber light through your windows and turning the walls of your living room a dusky gold, the kind of color that made everything feel a little suspended—like time itself had slowed, like the air had thickened into honey and silence. You weren’t a smoker. Never had been. You didn’t like the smell, the taste, the way it clung to fabric and hair and memories that didn’t belong to you. It had always seemed like something other people did to fill the quiet, something they reached for when they couldn’t reach for the person they really wanted.

And yet there you stood, barefoot on the hardwood floor, staring down at the crumpled cigarette pack in your hands as though it might offer you answers, or at the very least, a distraction. It wasn’t even yours—someone had left it behind after a late dinner a few weeks ago, forgotten at the edge of the windowsill, and you’d meant to throw it out, you really had, but you hadn’t. And now here it was, the only thing between you and the stillness you couldn’t stand anymore.

“Fuck it,” you murmured under your breath, and with a soft flick of your thumb, you pulled one free, pressing it between your lips like it was second nature, like you weren’t already anticipating the regret.

The match struck shakily, the flame small and fleeting, but enough to light the tip before it burned too close to your fingers. You took a breath, tentative, experimental, and the smoke hit your throat like a curse—sharp, acrid, unforgiving.

You coughed immediately, doubling forward with a hand to your chest, your eyes watering as your lungs rejected the intrusion with full-bodied revolt. It was awful. The taste, the feeling, the heat curling up into your sinuses like punishment. Still, you held the cigarette for a second longer, letting the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, letting it fill the room with the scent of something destructive, like a secret you didn’t want but couldn’t let go of.

You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe you wanted to feel something. Maybe you just wanted to see what kind of person it turned you into—one who wasn’t waiting around, one who wasn’t thinking about a man who hadn’t knocked on your door, who hadn’t looked at you, who hadn’t said a word since coming back. A man you loved, despite it all—despite knowing better, despite everything he didn’t say, despite the way he kept you waiting.

And still, when the knock came, your heart leapt.

Two short, clipped taps against the wood. Your breath caught before you could stop it, and you stubbed the cigarette out in the nearest candle, the wick sputtering in protest beneath the weight of the ash as you quickly ran a hand through your hair, your pulse suddenly thunderous in your ears. There was no reason for it to be him. None. But some stupid, soft, traitorous part of you still hoped—still wanted.

You walked to the door with slow, careful steps, half-expecting the silence to stretch long enough that you could pretend you’d imagined it. But it hadn’t been your imagination.

The knock had been real.

And so was the man standing on the other side.

It wasn’t Joel.

It was Toby.

He stood there with his hands shoved into the deep pockets of his coat, his weight tilted just slightly to one side, and a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes—too practiced, too easy, like he’d been rehearsing it on the walk over. You blinked once, the disappointment hitting you so hard and fast you barely had time to mask it.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and friendly, the sound of it scraping against the edge of your nerves.

“Hi,” you replied, your brow furrowing before you could smooth it out, the confusion bleeding through in your tone despite your best efforts. You didn’t bother to pretend you were happy to see him.

“Can I come in?” he asked, and his smile didn’t waver.

You hesitated, one hand still resting on the doorknob, your body angled like a barrier. “I’m… kinda busy,” you said, though even as the words left your mouth, you knew how ridiculous they sounded. Busy. Sure. Busy standing in your living room smoking a cigarette like a teenager who didn’t know what the hell they were doing. Busy being pathetic. Busy missing someone who didn’t miss you back. Busy wallowing.

“I’ll be quick,” Toby said, his tone dipping into something gentler now—measured, coaxing. Like he could feel your hesitation and knew just how to edge around it. “Promise. It’s important.”

You hesitated, eyes scanning his face for something—anything—that might give you reason to turn him away. But the part of you that wanted to say no was too tired to fight with the part that just wanted this over. So you gave him a tight, brittle smile—thin and insincere—and stepped back, wordless, motioning him inside.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Come in.”

But before he crossed the threshold, your gaze drifted past him—out to the street—and that’s when it hit you.

You saw it all.

The echo of all those nights Joel walked you home, one hand hovering at your lower back, protective even in silence. The warm autumn afternoons spent laughing on the porch, his flannel rolled to the elbows as he dropped off split wood and stayed longer than he needed to. The quiet clink of dishes in your kitchen, the way he lingered too long in the doorway after cooking you dinner, like he didn’t want to leave—but always did.

You saw the ghost of a man who never knocked, and yet somehow haunted every corner of this house.

And then Toby stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound, and something in your chest pulled tight—just the faintest, reluctant ache.

⋆˚✿˖°❀

Toby stepped inside your house with the kind of confidence that didn’t belong to him, like he’d been here before, like he thought he might be welcome.

His eyes moved lazily over the room, scanning the space as if it told him something personal, something he wasn’t entitled to, and then—without asking—he dropped himself onto the couch with an ease that turned your stomach, like he owned the place, like he belonged in a way you hadn’t invited.

You didn’t move at first. You just stood there, watching him, arms crossed loosely over your chest, your body tense with something you couldn’t quite name—discomfort, irritation, dread, all of it tangled up tight behind your ribs.

“Place is a little messy,” Toby said with a quiet laugh, glancing around like he was trying to be casual, like that kind of comment was endearing instead of rude. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, and something about the way he said it made your skin crawl.

You blinked slowly. The audacity was almost impressive.

“Yeah,” you said, flatly. “You said something was important?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together like he was winding up to say something hard, something serious. “Yeah,” he said, and his tone dipped lower, more solemn. “Shit. There’s not really a good way to say this.”

Your stomach tightened, and you tilted your head slightly, voice guarded. “What is it?”

He sighed, drawing it out like he didn’t want to be the one to tell you, like it pained him to say it. “I saw Joel today.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Just for a second.

“Oh,” you said, and the word came out too soft, too quick, like it had surprised you. You straightened your posture immediately, trying to smooth over the sharp drop in your gut, trying to regain whatever composure you could before he noticed. “Okay. And?”

Toby’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he’d caught the shift in your voice, the little tremble you hadn’t meant to reveal.

“You two are friends, right?” he asked, feigning curiosity, tilting his head like he didn’t already know the answer.

“Yeah,” you said slowly, wary now. “Why?”

He exhaled again, heavier this time, his shoulders lifting in an exaggerated shrug, his expression tight with manufactured concern.

“Toby,” you said, voice firmer now. “What is it?”

“We were at the Tipsy Bison,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, glancing away like the memory unsettled him—though you suspected it was all part of the act. “He was drinking. Not crazy drunk or anything, but enough that he was… loud.”

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him, carefully.

Toby looked back at you, his expression shifting into something softer—something that almost passed for pity if you didn’t know better. “He was talking,” he said. “Saying things he probably shouldn’t have said.”

Your chest went still.

“What kind of things?” you asked, trying to sound detached, but your voice wavered just slightly at the edges.

“Called you clingy,” he said finally, quietly. “Said you were desperate. Look, I feel awful even repeating it—I didn’t want to say anything, really, I didn’t. I know you two are close. I just thought… you should know. Honestly, I was shocked. Didn’t expect it from him. But he just—he said it like it was nothing. Like he meant it.”

You stared at him, unmoving, every muscle in your body pulled tight beneath your skin like you were holding yourself together by sheer will alone. Your heart thundered in your chest, loud and clumsy, the sound of it crashing into your ears as your breath stalled somewhere between your ribs and your throat, caught on the jagged edge of disbelief.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling—anger, maybe, or embarrassment, or something heavier, something more poisonous. Doubt. Shame. That slow, creeping ache that comes when your worst fears begin to sound a little too much like truth.

You swallowed hard, your voice thin and quiet when it finally slipped out. “Are you sure it was him? You didn’t mishear or—maybe you just… got it wrong?”

“No,” he said, voice steady, almost gentle. “It was him. He was with Tommy—they were drinking. Not, like, wasted or anything, but… buzzed. Maybe he didn’t mean it. I don’t know.” He shrugged, his hands lifting like it pained him to say it, like he was carrying a burden he didn’t want. “He just said it like it was a joke. I guess some people get mean when they’re drunk.”

Your throat burned. You felt the heat rising behind your eyes, tears pressing forward with slow insistence, the way grief sometimes crept up quietly before it broke. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to stay upright, to not fall apart in front of him, to not let Toby see just how deep it had landed.

“Okay,” you said, the word hollow, barely there. “Thanks for telling me. I—” You turned slightly, blinking hard, voice cracking despite your best effort to keep it even. “I really have some stuff to do.”

Toby stood up from the couch slowly, like he knew the conversation was ending but still wasn’t ready to leave. He took a step toward you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, the kind of softness meant to sound comforting. “Come here.”

And before you could stop him, before you could even register what was happening, his arms were around you—tight, too tight, suffocating in a way that made your skin crawl. He hugged you like you belonged to him, like this was his role to play now, like your heartbreak had opened a door that he had every right to walk through. You didn’t hug him back.

“You’re better off, you know,” he murmured, his voice close to your ear, too close, syrupy and sure of itself. “Someone who really sees you—that’s what you deserve.”

⋆˚✿˖°❀

Toby left with the same smug ease he’d carried in, his boots creaking softly against the wooden floorboards as he stepped back out into the dying light, the sound of the front door shutting behind him echoing louder than it should have in the silence he left behind.

The house felt colder now, somehow. Like it had been scrubbed of warmth, of safety, of anything that had ever made it feel like yours.

You stood there for a long moment, rooted to the floor, your arms folded across your stomach like you could physically hold yourself together, like you could stop the pressure building in your chest from leaking out through your ribs.

The first tear slipped free before you could stop it, carving a slow, burning path down your cheek. You brushed it away angrily, as if that could undo it. As if that could erase the way his words had settled deep in your gut, curling like thorns around everything you’d kept soft and hopeful.

You didn’t want to cry over this. Over him. But you were already crying, and that made it worse—that made it feel pathetic, just like Toby had said Joel thought you were. Desperate. Clingy. A joke.

You covered your face with one hand, your breath shaky as you tried to drag air into your lungs, tried to stop the spiral, tried to forget the image of Joel sitting at the bar laughing at you. You wanted it to be a lie. You needed it to be a lie. But it had sunk its claws into you, and now it hurt. Everywhere.

And then, just as you turned to retreat into the kitchen, maybe to pace, maybe to scream, maybe just to disappear for a while—there was a knock at the door.

You froze.

One knock. Then a second. Firm. Measured. Familiar.

Part of you wanted to disappear, to let the knock fade into silence and pretend it had never happened. But the other part—smaller, braver, still trembling—wanted to open the door and scream go away.

What you didn’t see—what you’d never know—was what happened just outside your door, in the breath between one man leaving and another arriving. Two paths crossing like a warning. Two versions of the same moment colliding, quiet and inevitable.

Footsteps moved through the dusk—one pair descending your porch steps with smug, easy rhythm, careless and light, like nothing that had just happened inside meant a thing. The other rose slow, boots heavier, deliberate, as if they carried the weight of something he’d been holding too long. Joel reached the top step just as Toby stepped off it. They stopped. Faced each other. For one long, suspended moment, the air thickened around them, holding its breath like it knew something you didn’t.

Joel’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his features, carved deep by fatigue and years of knowing when something wasn’t right. He stared at the younger man like his presence scraped wrong across the grain of the world, like he couldn’t yet name the reason, but could feel it settling in his chest all the same. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there—silent, steady, and watching.

Toby tilted his head, that familiar smirk ghosting across his lips, smooth and unbothered, the kind of smile meant to provoke. And then—calm as anything—he said it.

“She already knows what you said.”

Joel’s expression shifted instantly, the confusion deepening into alarm, his mouth parting slightly like he was about to ask what the fuck are you talking about?, but before he could get a word out, Toby brushed past him with a satisfied nod, slipping down the steps and into the evening with the kind of ease that made Joel’s jaw tighten on instinct.

Inside, you heard none of that.

You only heard the knock. Again.

And with your eyes still a little red, your cheeks still wet, your throat still aching, you assumed the worst. Of course he’d come back. Of course he wasn’t done yet.

You took a slow, steadying breath, dragging your hand through your hair, trying to calm the trembling in your hands. Your voice caught in your throat as you whispered, mostly to yourself, “Jesus, just go away,” and then you opened the door, shoulders squared, ready to shut him down.

But it wasn’t Toby.

It was Joel.

And his eyes—when they landed on your face, tear-streaked and weary—told you everything you weren’t ready to hear.

⋆˚✿˖°❀

“Joel,” you breathed, his name tumbling from your lips before you had the chance to stop it, quiet and instinctive, like a reflex—like your mouth remembered the shape of it even when your heart had tried to forget.

He stepped forward without hesitation, like hearing his name spoken by you cracked something open in him, like it gave him permission to close the distance that had stretched between you. His hands rose gently, cradling your face with the kind of reverence that made your chest ache, thumbs brushing softly along your cheekbones, calloused palms warm against your skin.

“You cryin’?” he asked, voice low and aching, that familiar rasp catching somewhere deep in his throat. “Look at me.”

You did. God help you—you looked. And it nearly undid you.

His face was so close, so familiar, lined with worry and something deeper, something heavier. His brow furrowed in that way it always did when he didn’t know how to make something better but wanted to anyway, and his eyes—those warm, deep brown eyes—searched yours like they were reading scripture, like you were something holy and breakable and already half-shattered in his hands.

“You alright?” he asked again, softer this time. “He do somethin’?”

And you almost broke. Right there. You almost folded into him, almost let yourself fall forward and let it all out against the chest that had once felt like the safest place on earth. Because he smelled like leather and late evenings, like soap from your sink and wind from the woods, like Joel—like someone you had once memorized by accident and never forgotten on purpose.

Your eyes drifted to his face—drawn there without meaning to, like gravity, like prayer—and they caught on something new. A faint pink line just at his temple, delicate and shallow in the porchlight, but unmistakable.

A scar.

It wasn’t deep. Just a small thing. The kind of mark he probably didn’t even think about anymore. But you saw it. And the second you did, something in your chest pulled tight.

Because it meant he’d been hurt.

Somewhere out there—when you didn’t know where he was, when you were pacing and pretending not to care—he’d bled. He’d been in danger. He’d suffered. And you hadn’t been there to stop it, to help, to even know.

Your fingers twitched at your side with the ache to reach for him. To brush your thumb over it, trace the edge with your mouth like it mattered. Like your kiss could soften what the world had taken from him.

He noticed the way you looked at it—at him. His brow furrowed slightly, gaze flicking to the side as he touched it absently, thumb brushing over the spot like he had to remember it was real.

“I’m fine,” he said softly, voice steady, but low, like he was offering it as comfort. “Barely a scratch.”

Then, quieter—more careful, like the words were glass in his throat—

“Why’re you cryin’, darlin’?”

You blinked, stunned by the way he said it. The softness. The pet name.

The way he looked at you like you were the wound that needed tending.

Because your body wanted to trust him—everything in you did. Your heart ached for it, reached for him like it remembered how he used to feel, how you used to feel when you stood this close to him, with nothing between you but breath and the unspoken.

But your mind—

Clouded with Toby’s voice, wrapped in the sharp coil of his lie, haunted by the way you’d started to believe it—tightened around you like a vice.

So you stepped back.

His hands dropped slowly, like they didn’t quite believe they’d been dismissed, like some part of him still thought he could stay there, holding you just a second longer. They hovered for a beat before falling to his sides, uncertain, almost reluctant, like even they hadn’t expected to be pushed away.

His brow furrowed deeper, that familiar line carving its way between his eyes, but there was something else now—something quieter, something wounded. A flicker of disbelief. A flash of hurt. Like you’d cracked something he didn’t know was fragile.

“I’m fine,” you said stiffly, each word sharper than you meant it to be, but it was the only way to keep your voice from breaking. You crossed your arms over your chest like you could hold yourself in, like you could build a wall high enough to keep him out. “What do you want?”

Joel looked like you’d hit him.

The pain was so fast, so unguarded, that it nearly made you flinch. His mouth opened slightly, his gaze dropping for just a second as he swallowed hard, as if trying to steady himself against the sudden sting of your voice. When he looked back up, his eyes were softer than before—still confused, still unsure—but now with something else sitting behind them. Something unspoken and vulnerable and aching.

“I—” he started, his voice rough and low, like it hurt to speak. “I came to talk to you.

“Right,” you said quickly, bitterness biting at your tongue. “Well, I’m not really in the mood to hear what you have to say right now. I think you’ve said enough.”

His brow creased deeper, his head tilting like he didn’t understand how this had turned so fast, how he’d lost you in the span of a few words. “The hell are you talkin’ about?” he asked, and there was frustration now, yes, but more than that—hurt. He sounded breathless with it, like he was trying to keep from unraveling. “We haven’t said a damn word to each other since I left.”

“Exactly,” you snapped, and there was no stopping it now—the heat rising in your chest, the heartbreak clawing up your throat, all of it spilling over. “And somehow, you still managed to say everything I needed to hear.”

Joel’s mouth parted again, but nothing came. He looked stunned, hands twitching slightly at his sides like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or step back, like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that something was shattering between you.

“The hell are you saying?” he asked, softer now, his voice quieter, almost cautious. “Why was Toby here?”

You let out a short, humorless scoff, shaking your head. “Why do you care?”

Joel blinked, stunned for half a second, like he couldn’t believe you had to ask. “Why do I—?” he echoed, voice catching, like the question alone knocked the air from his chest. “Because I don’t trust him, that’s why.”

His voice sharpened just slightly on the last word, not angry, just desperate, protective, as if he couldn’t understand how you couldn’t see what he saw. He took a step forward again, not close enough to touch you, but closer.

“Because I care about you,” he added, softer now, his voice almost a whisper, like it hurt to say aloud. “You know I care about you.”

And that almost broke you.

It landed in your chest like a stone dropped in water—heavy, undeniable, and rippling out in every direction. You’d known, once. You had. But the doubt had crept in like rot, curling around your ribs and staining all the places he used to feel like home.

You swallowed hard, the back of your throat burning. “Well… I do trust him,” you said, the lie sharp and ugly on your tongue, but it was the only shield you had left. “You’d hope so,” you added, and your voice cracked—so quiet he almost missed it—“since… he’s my patrol partner now.”

The silence that followed hollowed the room.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

For a long moment, his expression didn’t shift—just blank, unreadable, like the words hadn’t registered yet. Then something in his jaw twitched. His brows drew in, slow and disbelieving, the air around him turning colder by the second.

“…What?” he said finally, voice low, like the breath had been knocked clean out of him. “He’s what?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

You stared past him—at the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face—as your arms folded tighter around yourself, your nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

“I asked Maria,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper now. “Before you left. I—” You hesitated, heart pounding in your ears, shame bubbling beneath your skin.

Joel shook his head, once—hard—like he could knock the words loose, like maybe if he moved fast enough, they’d make more sense. But they didn’t. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again like he was searching for something to say—something to hold onto—and came up empty. He let out a breath through his nose, quiet and ragged, jaw flexing like it took every ounce of strength not to break in front of you. Not to fall apart right here.

“Slow down—you did what?” he asked, and the hurt bled through every word. It was immediate. Sharp. Soaked into his voice like rain into cotton, heavy and inescapable. “You asked to stop patrollin’ with me?” His eyes narrowed, not in anger—but disbelief. Pain. “And you didn’t even tell me?”

You nodded. Barely. A small, broken motion that looked more like surrender than confirmation. Like if you moved any more than that, you’d shatter.

Joel stared at you like the world had shifted underneath him and no one had warned him. Like he’d stepped off solid ground and found nothing but air. You could see it—the moment it hit. The way his chest rose and didn’t fall for a second too long. The way his fingers twitched at his sides like they were searching for something to hold onto.

“Why?” he asked again, softer this time—hoarse, like it scraped coming out. It wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t accusing. It was aching. Like he didn’t need an explanation, just a way to survive this. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You looked away. Because if you looked at him, it would destroy you.

But he didn’t let you run from it. Not this time.

“Look at me,” he said, and his voice was different now. Not angry. Just steady. Unshakable. Familiar in the way only he could be—gravel-rough and full of something desperate, something that felt like a command but landed like a plea. “Look at me.”

You did. And it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

“It’s not a big deal,” you said finally, carefully—each word a step across shattered glass. “I just… I need to learn how to handle myself out there. To stand on my own. Build my skills.” You swallowed hard, your throat tight with the weight of what you weren’t saying. “I can’t do that if I’m always relying on you during patrols.”

Joel’s head shook before the last syllable even left your mouth. “Don’t,” he said sharply, and then again, softer, broken at the edges—“Don’t lie to me.”

His voice cracked down the center like something torn open. And God, you felt it.

“You think I don’t know you?” he said, breathless now, like the truth was too heavy to carry but too urgent to keep in. “I know when somethin’s wrong. I know when you’re hurtin’. And I know when you’re lyin’. You ain’t good at it—never have been.”

You hated how easily he unraveled you. Hated how his voice alone could dig into places you didn’t let anyone see. And hearing it from him—the one person who had always known the real you, even when you tried to hide—was too much.

“I’m not lying,” you said, but the words were barely standing. Small. Fragile. Tired. They didn’t sound like truth—they sounded like retreat.

Joel stared at you like he was trying to hold onto something that was already slipping through his fingers. Something in his eyes shifted—something you weren’t sure you could name. The silence that followed pressed in like a weight, like the seconds were trying to crush you both.

And then he said it.

Soft. Quiet. Cracked down the middle.

“I thought you liked our patrols.”

And that undid you.

The words landed like a bruise. So gentle, so hesitant—like he was scared of the answer. Like he couldn’t understand how something that had once felt so right could be something you wanted to escape. There was nothing defensive in his tone. No blame. Just hurt. Honest, quiet, aching hurt.

And he meant it. You could hear it—beneath everything. He’d loved those mornings with you. The silence, the shared glances, the way you used to smile at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. He had memorized every inch of it.

You blinked hard, and the tears came fast—hot, stinging, blurring the edges of everything like your body was finally catching up to what your heart had been trying to bury. You turned away before he could see them fall, before he could witness just how much that one small, quiet line—I thought you liked our patrols—had carved you open. Because the truth was, you had. You did. You loved them. Loved him. Trusted him in a way that felt terrifying in its depth, in how easily it had rooted itself inside you without warning. And now, standing here, you felt like you were mourning something still alive.

Behind you, Joel exhaled sharp and ragged, dragging a calloused hand down his face with a rough rasp that sounded like it hurt. He shook his head, jaw tight, shoulders drawn up with the weight of everything unsaid. His voice came again—lower now, but harder, laced with frustration that felt more like fear.

“What the hell did that kid say to you?” he muttered, mostly to himself, like he was trying to wrestle the puzzle pieces into place and coming up short. “I told you—I don’t fuckin’ trust him.” His voice broke a little there. “And now he’s the one you’re trustin’? Him? The one watchin’ your six out there?”

You shut your eyes.

It hurt. God, it hurt. Because everything he was saying sounded like care—like Joel again, your Joel, the one who always walked just behind you on patrol with that gruff silence that meant I’m watching, who handed you lukewarm coffee with a muttered “don’t complain, it’s hot”, who pulled your hood up when the wind got too sharp without ever saying a word.

Your voice wobbled as it left your throat. “Joel, can you just… just go.”

But he didn’t.

He stepped closer.

And when he spoke again, his voice was sharper, quicker—like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“He can’t shoot for shit,” Joel snapped. “Sloppy on his reload, don’t check his blind spots, runs his mouth too much to notice half the shit creepin’ up on him.” His eyes burned into yours, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might shatter from it. “That’s who you’re riding out with now? That’s who you want beside you when things go to hell?”

You turned to face him then, not because you wanted to, but because you couldn’t not—because he was looking at you like this was life or death, like you were the only thing worth fighting for.

“I can take care of myself,” you said, and it came out too fast, too sharp, bitter with defensiveness. A rehearsed line you didn’t quite believe, sharpened by the fear that he didn’t believe in you anymore either.

“I know you can,” he said, and there was no anger in it now—just quiet devastation, stripped bare. “But if somethin’ happens to you—”

He stopped. His jaw locked so tight it looked like it might break from the strain. His breath stuttered, chest rising like it hurt just to get the words out.

“If you’re out with him and you get hurt,” he finished, softer now—wrecked—his voice barely more than a whisper, “I’ll never forgive myself.”

And you believed him.

Because it was there in the way his hands curled into fists at his sides like he was trying to hold himself together. In the way he stared at you like losing you would ruin him. Because beneath every clipped word, beneath the tension and the bitterness and the guilt, was nothing but terror. Raw, choking terror that something would happen to you and he wouldn't be there to stop it. That you’d let someone else take his place.

Not just on patrol.

In your life.

You turned then, slowly, your chest pulled tight like a wire. Your eyes burned, and the tears clung to your lashes—but you didn’t wipe them away. You let him see. Let him feel it. The way this had gutted you. The way he had.

“Joel.”

You said his name and it cracked the air between you like a whip.

He froze.

Like the sound of it pierced right through his ribs, straight into the place where he still kept you. His body went still, like he already knew what came next and couldn't bear to hear it. You saw it—the twitch of his fingers, the quiet recoil of someone bracing for heartbreak.

“Leave,” you said. Quiet. Measured. Final. The kind of word you only say when you don’t trust your voice to survive saying anything else. “Now. Please.”

And God—it shattered him.

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stood there, staring at you like he could will you to take it back. Like if he looked hard enough, he’d find the version of you that still wanted him to stay. The one who used to reach for him first. The one who smiled in the mornings and held onto his arm when the cold set in.

“You really want me to go?” he asked, voice rough and raw like it had been dragged through gravel. He said it like he already knew the answer—but still needed to hear it. Still needed to make sure this wasn’t some nightmare he’d wake up from. His eyes searched yours like they were clinging to the last thread of hope.

“Yes,” you whispered, and your voice cracked like breaking glass. Another tear slipped down your cheek—hot, trembling, helpless. “Please, Joel.”

His breath caught.

And for a moment—just a moment—he didn’t look like Joel anymore. He looked like a man undone. Like someone watching the only thing that ever made sense walk away from him. You saw it all in the way he blinked—slow, stunned, trying not to fall apart in front of you. His hands twitched at his sides like they wanted to reach for you, like his entire body was screaming to hold you, just once, just one last time.

So he nodded.

Just once.

Then turned to go.

⋆˚✿˖°❀

The door shut behind him with a dull, final click. Joel didn’t move right away. He just stood there for a second, frozen on the porch like he didn’t quite know how to carry the weight of what had just happened.

Inside, you hadn’t moved either.

You were still standing in the center of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together, your breath shallow and uneven. The silence pressed in on both sides of the door—on him, on you—until it felt like something unbearable.

Outside, Joel dragged in a slow breath, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He muttered something under his breath—something rough and quiet, some curse meant for himself—and stepped down onto the top stair of the porch, the wood creaking beneath his boots.

And then, after a beat, he stopped.

He reached into the inside of his coat and pulled it out—the letter.

It looked too small in his hands, folded carefully but slightly worn around the edges, the paper softened from how many times he’d held it, turned it over, rewritten it. His thumb brushed over the front, slow and reverent, over the name scrawled across the top in his shaky handwriting.

Your name.

With one final glance toward the door—a long, lingering look at the place where he had just been asked to leave—Joel crouched down slowly and slipped the letter beneath it, his fingers brushing the wood like it could anchor him, like it could keep him from unraveling. He left only the corner sticking out, a quiet offering, a final unspoken truth he hadn’t been brave enough to say out loud.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured under his breath, the words barely more than air, just loud enough to break if anyone had been close enough to hear. Then he turned, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold as he disappeared into the dark.

What he didn’t see—what he couldn’t have known—was that just beyond the edge of the porch, someone else had been watching. Hidden in the shadows, they had waited in silence, their breath held back like smoke.

The figure stepped forward without hesitation, their boots silent on the wood. Moving toward the door, they crouched exactly where Joel had knelt moments before. Their hand reached out, fingers curling around the edge of the letter that still peeked from beneath the threshold. They pulled it free, turned it over once as if to examine it, then slid it smoothly into the pocket of their coat—calm, deliberate, unbothered.

And just like that, they were gone.

Joel’s words—his only confession, his only truth—had vanished before it could ever reach you.

⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆

You hadn’t slept all night.

The minutes dragged themselves across the dark like they were made of glass, sharp and endless, and every time you closed your eyes, it was like last night played again—scene for scene, word for word, his voice, his face, the look in his eyes when you told him to go.

You rolled over again and again, the sheets twisted around your legs, too hot and too cold all at once, your pillow damp from the sweat at the nape of your neck and the tears you refused to admit had fallen.

Outside, it felt like Jackson had turned from a crisp spring to the heat of high summer overnight—like even the air had shifted, grown heavier, stickier, more unbearable. The kind of heat that made it hard to breathe. The kind that made it impossible to rest.

You were still tangled in the weight of it—heart bruised and body aching with exhaustion—when a sharp knock rattled against the front door, sudden and loud in the hush of morning.

You sat up fast, groggy and annoyed, pushing your hair from your face with the back of your hand.

“What the hell…” you mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep—or lack of it.

You dragged yourself out of bed, every movement slow, joints aching like you were twice your age, and padded barefoot to the door. You cracked it open, squinting into the harsh morning light—

And there stood Maria.

She looked tired. Serious. Worried.

The tight set of her mouth and the way her brows pinched told you this wasn’t a casual visit.

“Maria,” you breathed, blinking the fog from your eyes, pulse quickening. “What’s wrong?”

“We need you at the hall,” she said, voice low, no time for pleasantries. “Now.”

Your stomach turned. Her tone was too clipped. Too sharp. Not just council business—something urgent.

“Is it…?” You hesitated, heart crawling into your throat. “Raiders?”

She nodded once, tight. “Scouts saw movement on the highway. More than last time. They’re calling an emergency council meet. We need all hands.”

You swallowed hard, the fog of the night before burning away in an instant, replaced by something colder. Something heavier.

“Okay,” you said quickly, stepping back. “Yeah. Let me get changed.”

Maria gave a tight nod, already turning, already moving back toward town with that purposeful stride of hers—and you shut the door quietly behind her, your breath catching in your chest.

⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆

The hall was already half full by the time you arrived, a low hum of quiet voices murmuring beneath the timber rafters, the air thick with tension and the scent of dust, leather, and dried sweat.

Sunlight slanted in through the high windows in sharp, golden bands, striping the worn floorboards and catching on the edges of rifles, backpacks, and restless hands.

Most of the patrol teams were already there, scattered in tight clusters, faces grim, eyes weary. There was no laughter this morning, no idle talk—just the low thrum of worry, shared silently between familiar glances and furrowed brows.

You stood off to the side, half-shadowed near the back corner, your arms crossed tight over your chest like armor. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be seen. You especially didn’t want to be caught watching the door, even though your eyes flicked to it every time it creaked open, even though your pulse tripped every time a pair of boots echoed down the steps.

You told yourself you wouldn’t look for him.

You lied.

The door opened again.

And there he was.

Joel stepped inside with his head low, the brim of his jacket collar turned up slightly like it might shield him from the weight of the room. His shoulders were hunched, his posture heavy in a way that made something twist low in your stomach. He didn’t limp, exactly, but there was something in the way he moved that made your chest tighten—a stiffness in his gait, a quiet favoring of his right side, like the ache of the years was finally catching up to him and he couldn’t be bothered to hide it anymore.

He made his way over to the long table near the front, where Tommy was already seated, and lowered himself into the chair beside him with a quiet grunt that made your stomach drop. The sound was small, nearly swallowed by the chatter in the room, but it landed loud in your chest—a sharp, aching reminder that he was getting older, that he wasn’t invincible, no matter how long you’d pretended he was. It brought back his voice from weeks ago, gravel-soft and half-resigned, the words still burned into your ribs.

“Got more years behind me than ahead.”

They’d hit you then.

They gutted you now.

You didn’t realize Maria had stepped up until the scrape of a chair startled you back to the present. She stood at the front of the hall now, her voice steady and no-nonsense as it cut through the murmur of the crowd, calling the meeting to order.

The moment the room quieted, she didn’t waste time. She wasn’t the kind of person who softened news just because people didn’t want to hear it.

“Scouts reported movement this morning,” she began, her voice clear and even, though you could hear the tension curling beneath it. “Three separate sightings near the highway. Four miles out, maybe less.”

A murmur rippled across the room, low and uneasy.

“They armed?” someone called out from the left side of the hall, a wiry older man whose name you never remembered but who never missed a meeting.

Tommy answered before Maria could. He stood from his seat beside Joel, his tone calm but measured, stepping into the rhythm of Maria’s report with practiced ease. “Couldn’t see for sure,” he said, scanning the crowd. “But we’re not takin’ chances. We’re assuming yes.”

“They comin’ this way?” another voice asked—this time a younger woman, one of the newer residents, face pale, arms wrapped tight around herself.

“We don’t know yet,” Maria replied. “But we’re preparing like they are. Patrols are increasing. We’re doubling the outer routes, and no one goes out alone—understood?”

There were nods, quiet murmurs of agreement, but you could feel the anxiety sharpening around you like static in the air.

“What about the kids?” someone else asked from the back. “The school?”

“We’ll be moving the classrooms to the storm cellar beneath the rec hall,” Tommy said. “It’s safer there. Reinforced walls. Less windows.”

“We’ve lived through worse,” Maria added, her voice firm now, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You all remember last winter. We held together then—we’ll hold again.”

You watched her, grateful for her strength, but your eyes kept drifting—pulled like gravity—to the man sitting silent beside her.

Joel hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t spoken.

Hadn’t lifted his head since the meeting began.

He sat with his arms folded loosely across his chest, his eyes fixed on the grain of the table in front of him, brow low, mouth drawn in a line that gave nothing away. But you saw it. The way his shoulders had gone just slightly more rigid at the mention of patrols. The way his hand flexed, barely, when Tommy mentioned the children. The way his jaw shifted—subtle, restrained—like he was biting back the urge to say something. Like there were words caught behind his teeth that he couldn’t risk letting out.

And still, he didn’t look at you.

You could have screamed.

Because you felt him—you knew he knew you were there, sitting across the hall in the corner like a wound he couldn’t look at. You could feel the heat of him from a dozen feet away, the way his presence tugged at something in your chest like a wire strung tight between your ribs.

From the front of the room, the murmur of concern swelled into something louder, sharper.

“So what’s the plan, then?” a voice snapped—low but tense, coming from the back. “We just sit here waiting to see if they show up at our gates?”

Another voice chimed in, equally frustrated. “If we’re not gonna hit first, we need to at least figure out how the hell we’re gonna hold the wall.”

The volume in the room grew jagged, edged with fear, tension cracking just beneath the surface. You could feel it crawling through the air, the slow unraveling of calm beneath panic and desperation.

Tommy stepped forward, lifting a hand, his voice cutting through the noise with the calm steel of someone who’d done this before.

“Fighting with each other ain’t gonna get us anywhere,” he said firmly, letting the words settle across the room like the first drops of rain before a storm. “So here’s what we’re gonna do.”

The chatter dimmed. Heads turned. Maria crossed her arms but didn’t interrupt, letting him take the lead.

“We’re splittin’ into two teams,” Tommy continued, already scanning the crowd, eyes calculating, clear. “Group one’s gonna head toward the west ridge—take the long trail out past the bend. Sweep the woods, check the fence lines, see if they’re settin’ up a camp or just passin’ through.”

He rattled off names—James, Hollis, Leah—people who already had rifles slung across their backs, who nodded without question.

“Second team’s gonna head east,” Tommy went on. “Smaller route, but closer to the outer posts. They’ll be the ones we send if we need to make contact, if there’s any sign they’re watchin’ us or settin’ up to move in.”

He paused, scanning the room again.

And then he said it. Your name. Your chest seized like someone had gripped your heart with both hands.

And across the room, you watched it happen—not just as a witness, but as the only person who would ever notice, the only one who would understand what it meant. The sound of your name had barely left Tommy’s mouth before Joel reacted. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Not in the way people might expect from a man like him. But it was there.

A shift so small it could’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else, but not by you.

His spine straightened, not abruptly, but like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding had turned solid and lodged itself in his chest. The muscle in his jaw tightened—once—like the word had caught behind his teeth even though he hadn’t spoken it. His fingers, resting idle against the table, twitched—barely—then curled inward like they were bracing for something, like they ached to reach for what they’d once known how to hold.

He didn’t even look up at first. Not consciously.

But his head turned just slightly, like the sound of your name had tugged at something beneath his skin, some old muscle memory wired to you, something that didn’t need permission to respond. His eyes lifted last—slow, reluctant, like he already knew what they’d find.

And when they did—

When they found you—

Everything else vanished.

The room, the noise, the people shifting in their seats and scribbling notes and asking questions—it all went quiet in the space between his gaze and yours. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And neither did you.

Because that look—it was the same one that had once made you feel like you were the only person in the world. The same one that had lingered on your skin like heat, that had said everything he didn’t know how to speak. And it was still there, buried under grief and silence and the scar near his temple that hadn’t been there before.

The look that said you are mine, even if he no longer had the right.

And for a moment, as the rest of the room faded into muffled background noise, it felt like you were back in that soft, suspended space that had once existed only between the two of you. A place made of glances and breath and silence, where everything unsaid had still been understood.

You were the one who broke first.

You didn’t want to—God, you didn’t—but the pressure behind your eyes was too much, too sharp, and you could feel your throat tightening with every passing second he held your gaze. If you didn’t look away now, you’d cry. Right there, in front of everyone. In front of him.

So you blinked once, hard, then dragged your eyes away—lowered your head, stared down at the scuffed toes of your boots like they might anchor you to the floor, like maybe if you focused hard enough, you could breathe again without it hitching in your chest.

Tommy’s voice cut through the room. “Alright,” he said, loud enough to carry, firm enough to snap everyone back into the present. “We’re not wastin’ any more time. We move within the hour.”

The murmur of the room surged again, chairs scraping, boots shifting, orders echoing against the wood-paneled walls. People stood, some already moving to gather supplies, others questioning routes and roles, but all you could feel was the pulse in your ears and the echo of his gaze still pressed against your skin.

⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆

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stylesispunk · 7 days ago

Text

The days of you and I | part 1

Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

series masterlist | next chapter

Summary: After Joel’s near-death, you stay by his side, refusing to leave him behind. You both confront the weight of what’s been done and what it means to still have each other for now.

w.c: 4,5k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know.

Note: Remember this story is a sequel of this one shot "What remains of us" or you can ignore it and keep reading this one haha.

A/N: Okay, hello. This is a new Joel series because we love Joel here, and he is alive and recovering. This series will have angst, and the topics followed throughout the story will hold onto the path of healing after a traumatic event for the characters. I already have the end for this series, so everything will lead to it. I hope you like it and stay here to read it. Reblogs are really important, and I appreciate them. I'm gonna be out for a days because I have to put an end to the semester before winter break and do my teacher duties.

Also, I created an AO3 account, and I'll be posting fics there too from now on.

The hospital room was very quiet. With that eerie absence of sound that you could feel penetrating your bones, damaging the inside of your body with a pain that pierced your body, seeped into your soul, and oppressed your heart.

Joel still woke up to that silence, as if was chocking him to death and he had decided he have had enough of it. to the distant hush of an early morning, and a world that carried on without him. The sharp sting in his ribs reminded him he was still alive, though some days, he wondered what for.

His eyes opened slow, the weight behind them too heavy to lift at once. The ceiling looked the same as it had for the past week, wooden beams, a single hanging light. He’d spent more hours staring at it than sleeping. The painkillers dulled the sharp edges, but nothing softened the hollow inside his chest.

And you were still there.

Your silhouette sat by the window, curled into the old chair like you belonged there. As if you were stuck. A book half-read on your lap, a cup of cold tea nearby, and that same tired crease between your brows you probably didn’t know you had. You looked so small in the pale dawn light, so goddamn stubborn.

He should’ve been glad. Grateful you hadn’t left.

But this morning, something cracked inside him.

It wasn’t relief that filled him. It was grief.

His bones were still aching, his legs dumbed under the cover. He didn’t feel like a man no more, but as a lifeless lump lying in bed.

And you deserved better than this version of him, this half-broken thing stitched together by other people’s hands, carrying the weight of mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Joel wasn’t the man you met. Wasn’t the one who held you like you were the only good thing left in the world.

And seeing you here, still choosing him, hurt worse than any wound that other girl that beat him almost to death had left behind.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and unused.

“You don’t need to stay here all the time, you know?”

The words came out more bitter than he meant them to, tasting like rust and regret.

Your head turned, soft eyes finding his. That damn look, the one that exactly saw right through him, the one that made him feel like a man again for a moment.

And for a second, Joel wished you’d leave.

Because it would be easier than losing you piece by piece like this.

You smiled, small but steady, like you always did when you noticed he was awake. That damn smile, it cut through him every time.

“Took you long enough to wake up again,” you murmured, the softness in your voice brushing against the raw places in him he tried to keep buried. You crossed the room, moving to his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it hadn’t been three weeks and one more of watching him drift in and out of fevered sleep and silence.

“You must be feeling tired,” you said, fingertips brushing through the strands of his hair, pushing them gently from his forehead.

Joel didn’t move, but his throat worked around a swallow. It wasn’t fair, you being so gentle. Wasn’t fair that after everything, you were still here, speaking to him like he was the man you remembered, not the one lying broken in that bed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning, barely, into your touch before forcing himself to pull away. His jaw clenched.

Reality blurred at the edges; every breath thick with a kind of grief he didn’t know how to name. Time didn’t move right in this room. It stretched too long, like a cruel joke, dragging him through the sharp fragments of what he used to be.

He wasn’t mad.

He was devasted.

He felt ashamed of the man he was now.

He never experienced a physical pain like this. One that burned inside and out his body.

He hadn’t even noticed his hand was clenching around nothing.

How he could even be useful for this town now that he was gone. Everything left was limb laying on a bed with nothing left but a void consuming him as a whole.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the coppery tang of blood grounding him for a second. His voice, when it came, was cracked and quiet.

“You shouldn’t… shouldn’t waste your time on me, darling.”

A bitter, broken kind of truth. But in his heart, he knew it would be worse than dying to watch you stay, wasting your life on him.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull your hand away, even when his words hung heavy in the air between you like a noose. If anything, your fingers curled more firmly into his hair, a tender anchor to a man too lost to realize he was still here, still tethered.

“I’m not wasting anything,” you said softly, the words steady even as your throat threatened to close around them. “You’re here, Joel. That’s enough.”

He gave a ragged breath, like he wanted to laugh, wanted to scream, but all that came was a low, broken sound somewhere deep in his chest. His gaze dropped to the space between you — his hand, bruised and shaking, lying useless on the blanket.

“Don’t deserve you sitting here, watching this,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes hot though no tears came. Couldn’t remember the last time they had.

A long, aching silence stretched between you.

You could feel it, the war inside him. The part that needed you close, needed your touch, your voice, like it was the last thing tethering him to this side of the dark. And the other part, the one too proud, too broken, too wrecked by shame to let himself have it.

But you’d made your choice the moment he opened his eyes a week ago.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. Not a promise you made lightly in a world like this.

Joel closed his eyes again. He didn’t answer. But for the first time in days, his hand moved, slow, halting, to brush against yours.

“Did you… really take them all?” he rasped.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

You gave a small, steady nod.

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His gaze dropped for a second, his hand flexing weakly against the sheets.

“I don’t regret it,” you said at last, the words steady despite the ache in your chest. “No one deserves what they did to you.”

There was a storm behind Joel’s eyes, a thousand things he wanted to say, but his throat burned too much to let them out. Anger, grief, guilt, some twisted kind of gratitude. It tangled up inside him like barbed wire, tearing at every soft part he had left.

“You didn’t have to…” his voice broke, low and pained.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I would do it again.”

Your fingers brushed against his, and this time, his hand turned, weakly curling around yours. A tremble ran through him, and you felt it in your bones, the weight of his shame, the depth of his sorrow, and somewhere, buried beneath it, the fragile pulse of the man you knew still fighting to breathe.

But the love you felt for him, that was enough to send you into a spiral, where nothing else felt real but the desperate need to save him, the desperation of not losing him because that would have meant losing yourself that day.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. The room was heavy with the things you didn’t need to say.

You didn’t look away from Joel, but you felt the shift in the room, the familiar presence of Tommy as he stepped in.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice was rough, softer than usual, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile peace hung in the air. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You lifted your head, your fingers gently slipping from Joel’s, though his hand lingered in the empty space you left behind.

Tommy gave a small nod toward you. “Gail’s waiting to see you. Said whenever you were ready.”

Your stomach twisted, a cold unease settling in your chest. You gave Joel one last look, brushing a thumb over his hand before pulling away completely.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling, eyes distant.

As you stepped out, Tommy caught your arm, just briefly, his hand firm but kind.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured. “Not gonna leave him alone.”

You gave him a grateful, weary nod and left, the door shutting quietly behind you.

The room felt emptier after you were gone. Joel let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment before shifting to glance at his brother.

“Gail?” Joel’s voice was rough, but clearer now. “She… she going to therapy with her?”

Tommy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sighing as he sank into the chair by the bed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Doctor says it might help. Been… hard for her since it happened. It isn’t just you carrying scars, brother.”

Joel looked away, his throat working around another swallow. The word therapy felt foreign in his mouth, like it belonged to a world he’d never stepped into, one too far gone for men like him.

Joel stayed quiet for a long time after Tommy spoke, the words circling in his head, refusing to settle. His gaze lingered on the window, on the way the morning light edged in like it didn’t belong here.

Then, rough and low, he broke the silence.

“Was she…” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat, hating the weakness there. “Was she hurt? When… when they brought me back?”

Tommy’s face shifted, the answer already written in his eyes before he spoke.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “She… she had some bruises. Took a hit to the side’a her face, couple more on her ribs. And there was a wound on her abdomen.”

Joel’s stomach turned, a cold, sinking dread washing over him.

“Abdomen?” he rasped, his hands curling weakly into fists against the blanket. “Christ.”

Tommy sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. “She didn’t give a damn about it. Wouldn’t let anybody touch her. Wouldn’t even let them clean her up ‘til you were stable. Sat right there in that chair covered in her own blood and yours, talking to you like you could hear her.”

He shook his head, a ghost of a sad, fond smile on his face.

“Would’ve fought off half the town if anyone tried to pull her out of here.”

Joel closed his eyes, the guilt pressing so heavy against his chest he thought it might crush him. A sharp breath rattled through him, his throat burning.

“Goddamn fool,” he muttered to himself, a tear he’d never admit to stinging behind his eye.

“She loves you, you know,” Tommy said quietly, watching his brother’s face. “Way you do her. There is no shame in letting people love you, Joel. Even if it hurts.”

Joel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the knot in his throat, not with the war inside his chest.

But his hand flexed again against the sheets reaching for something, for someone, perhaps you.

The silence thickened again, the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones. Tommy stayed still, letting Joel sort through whatever storm was building behind those weary eyes.

Then Joel spoke, voice low and cracked, like gravel scraping out of his throat.

“She killed… all of ‘em.”

Tommy’s jaw tensed. He stared down at his hands, lacing his fingers together like it might steady him.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Every last one of ‘em.”

Joel’s throat worked around a swallow, his gaze distant, unfocused, like he was seeing it happen even if he hadn’t been awake for it. Like he could feel the blood she spilled on his behalf soaking into his hands too.

“I should have been the one…” Joel’s voice broke at the edge, bitter and aching. “Should’ve finished it. Not her. Not—”

“She didn’t leave you a choice, Joel,” Tommy cut in quietly, but firm. “You were barely breathing. We didn’t know if you’d make it. You almost died on her arms that night.”

Joel gave a humorless, broken kind of laugh, but there was no light in it. Just sharp edges.

“And now what?” he muttered, a tear sliding down his temple he didn’t bother to wipe away. “She got their blood on her hands. Because of me.”

Tommy leaned forward; his voice steady in that way Joel remembered from years long gone, before the world turned to shit.

“She doesn’t regret it,” he said. “You know that. And neither would I.”

Joel’s eyes finally met his brother’s. A flicker of something there. Grief. Fury. Love. Loss.

“But I do,” Joel whispered. “I regret that she had to.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

“You’re not the only one with scars, brother,” he said softly.

“I don’t regret it,” you said, voice steady, though your chest ached with the weight of it. “No one deserves what they did to Joel.”

Gail’s brow lifted, arms folding across her chest. “Murder?” she challenged; one word sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t blink. “Murder’s a simple act these days. Torture?” Your voice turned cold, almost unfamiliar even to yourself. “That’s another thing.”

A beat of heavy silence stretched between you.

“Murder is what Joel committed when he blew my husband’s head off,” Gail snapped, her voice brittle, laced with venom, old grief that still clung to her like a second skin.

“It’s not the same,” you bit out, shaking your head.

“It is,” Gail said, stepping closer. “The only difference is you had the chance to save him. If you hadn’t, Joel would be dead right now. And you’d be mourning him like I mourned mine.”

A fury you hadn’t felt since that day surged hot through your veins. You took a shaky breath, eyes narrowing.

“Fuck you,” you hissed. “You don’t know him. You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Gail’s face didn’t move, but something in her gaze flickered, something dark, bitter, and quietly resigned.

“I know enough,” she murmured. “Enough to understand what kind of man survives in a world like this. And what kind of woman kills for him.”

You held her gaze, unflinching, the burn of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though your face gave nothing away.

“I’m not sorry,” you whispered. “And I never will be.”

“You don’t get it,” you murmured, voice breaking just enough to betray the rawness beneath your fury. “My life would’ve ended.”

The words hung there, fragile and furious all at once.

You swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in your throat. “When they took him… when I saw what they did… there wasn’t a world left for me after that. So don’t stand there and talk about men surviving and women killing like you understand a goddamn thing about what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and left bleeding in the dirt. Because you’ve been behind these walls, safe, without knowing what it’s like out there.”

Gail’s brow twitched; her gaze steady but dull. “Do you think I haven’t lost people? Do you think grief makes you special?”

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back, your voice tight, shaking now. “I’m saying you didn’t see him. You didn’t watch them tear him apart. You didn’t hear the sounds he made. And you sure as hell didn’t have to put him back together.”

Her jaw clenched. “And now what? Do you think murder fix it?”

“I don’t care if it does or doesn’t,” you spat. “I care that they’ll never touch him again. That they won’t look at Ellie. That no one here will whisper about how Joel Miller should’ve died that day.”

Gail scoffed, a bitter sound. “And what about you? How can you carry this and walk around like it won’t eat you alive?”

“I don’t care,” you said, low, certain. “I care about him.

A beat of silence.

“You think that makes you strong?” Gail asked quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “It makes me his, as I’ve always been.”

Gail’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You talk like that’s a badge of honor.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not. It’s a fact.”

She tilted her head, watching you like someone examining a wound too deep to close. “What if you drown into this?”

“I’ll try to save myself” you shrugged.

Another pause. The room felt too small, thick with old grief and new wounds, neither of you willing to be the one to walk away first.

“I loved Eugene so much” Gail said, her voice rough. “And when he died, it didn’t turn me into this.”

You met her eyes, unflinching. “But it made you bitter towards Joel.”

Gail’s jaw tightened, something sharp flickering in her gaze. “He made choices. Ones that cost people their lives. Good people. You act like he’s some goddamn martyr, but he isn’t.”

“And neither was Eugene,” you shot back, your voice low and steady. “Do you wanna talk about choices? Fine. Joel made his. I made mine. And you? You’ve been standing behind walls judging the rest of us ever since we arrived.

Her nostrils flared, a bitter breath leaving her. “I don’t have to like what this world turns people into.”

“Neither do I,” you murmured. “But I’ll fight for the one thing in it that still means something to me. That’s the difference between you and me, Gail. You buried your heart with Eugene. I’m not ready to bury mine.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between you, the old ache of loss clawing at both your throats. And for the first time, Gail didn’t have a sharp reply. She just looked away, jaw clenched, and you took your opening.

You didn’t say goodbye. You just left.

You made your way back through the hallway, your steps slow, heavy, like every word from that conversation with Gail was still clinging to your skin. The air in Jackson felt colder somehow, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something none of you could name.

As a town, you were still recovering from that day.

When you reached Joel’s door, you didn’t push it open right away.

You stood there, hand hovering by the frame, heart hammering against your ribs because, god, he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.

And it didn’t matter how broken or battered he was, how much rage or guilt sat behind those tired eyes. It was him. And that was enough for you.

Inside, you heard the low murmur of his voice, raspy, weighted with a pain he never used to let anyone hear.

“But how is she really doing?”

“She’s… holding up,” Tommy answered, voice cautious. ”

Joel let out a rough, broken sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob.

“If you ask me, you’re lucky she’s still here after what this world’s done to both of you.” Tommy said.

There was a pause, then Joel spoke again, softer this time, like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it out loud.

“I just… I don’t want her staying because she feels like she has to,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, almost cracking. “She should go, Tommy. Find something better. Hell, anyone better than… whatever I am now.”

Your stomach twisted. A sharp, cold ache settling beneath your ribs. You stayed frozen at the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame, every part of you aching. You didn’t mean to listen, but it was too late. The words were already carving themselves into your chest.

“She’s not here out of obligation.” Tommy said, his tone harder than before. “What would you do if you were her?”

Another pause.

Joel let out a humorless, ragged chuckle, and it hurt to hear it. “It’s not fair.”

“But she gets to decide what’s fair,” Tommy shot back. “And so far, she has decided it’s you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking fast against the burn in your eyes. Your heart hammered in your chest so loud you were sure they’d hear it.

You needed one more second to pull yourself together. To bury the hurt his words left behind, not because you doubted him, but because you knew where they came from. The same place you’d been sitting in since the day you saw him bleeding out in the dirt.

You swallowed down the knot in your throat, forcing your face into something steady, or close enough to pass for it. Then, with a breath you weren’t sure reached your lungs, you pushed the door open.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Both their heads turned. Joel’s eyes landed on you first, and for a split second, something in them broke open. A flicker of guilt, sorrow, and something heavier, like he knew you’d heard more than you were meant to.

But you gave him a small, careful smile, pretending the sting behind your eyes wasn’t there. Pretending your heart wasn’t in pieces on the floor between you both.

Tommy cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you. “I, uh — I’ll give you a minute.” He patted Joel’s shoulder, murmured something you couldn’t catch, and brushed past you on his way out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence stretched thin in the room, heavy like storm air. Joel shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his hand twitching against the blanket. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

You crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the mattress by his side. Close, but not quite touching.

“I was thinking…” you began, “I could ask the doctor if you can leave the hospital and go back home. We surely need to make some changes there with the bed and—”

“Stop it.” He cut you off, his voice rough but firm. “I’m not going anywhere right now.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness. “Joel—”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name. “Not until I’m ready. And right now, I’m not ready to face that.”

The weight in his tone pinned you still. You wanted to argue, to tell him that staying there wasn’t helping him heal, but the raw edge in his voice stopped you.

Instead, you just nodded slowly. “Okay,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, the tension in his jaw slowly easing into something like resignation.

You settled into the chair beside his bed, not bearing the closeness anymore, the quiet between you thick but familiar. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edge of his sleeve, as if hoping to stitch together the frayed pieces of him with nothing but touch.

Joel’s breath was shallow, uneven, and you could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing down on the room. The man you knew, the one who’d fought through hell and back was here, but buried beneath layers of pain and doubt.

“I’m scared,” he finally muttered, voice rough and low. “Not of dying... of what’s left after.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re not alone in that,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“What you did—” he began “I didn’t deserve to be saved, baby.”

“I made my choice.” You replied, eyes watering.

Joel’s gaze dropped to your trembling hands, then back up to your face, searching.

“I’m broken,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Not the same man I was before.”

You shook your head gently, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re still him,” you insisted, voice firm but tender. “Wounded, maybe. Scared, sure. But still you. And I’m still here.”

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the faint rhythm of his labored breathing.

Joel’s eyes glistened, a shadow moving through them as he let out a shaky breath.

“What you did… it’ll haunt you,” he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. “Same way Salt Lake haunts me. What I did to those Fireflies… what I took from Ellie. Thought I was saving her. Thought it was worth whatever price.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “But it never leaves you. Never lets you forget. Look what they did to me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in, your hand finding his cheek, thumb brushing against the rough line of his beard.

“No,” you said softly, steady. “It won’t haunt me, Joel.”

He blinked, as if the words knocked something loose inside him.

“Because I know what we do,” you continued, voice trembling but certain, “when we love someone enough to tear the world apart for them. I know what it means to save the person who’s your whole heart. And I’ll carry it. All of it. And I won’t regret a single thing.”

His eyes closed, a tear slipping down his temple, and for the first time in too long, he didn’t look like a ghost of himself. He looked like Joel.

“Goddamn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not letting you go,” you said, leaning your forehead to his.

His breath hitched at the sound of your voice so close, your warmth grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“Baby…” he rasped, like it hurt to say it, like it was both a confession and a plea.

You hushed him gently, your hand brushing through his hair, your forehead still pressed to his.

“It’s gonna take time to heal,” you whispered. “I know that. I’m not asking you to be okay tomorrow, Joel. Or next week. Or even next year. I just need you here. With me. However, you can manage.”

His fingers, still weak, clung to yours like a lifeline. His voice cracked as he spoke again, rough and small.

“I won’t be able to protect you.” You felt it in the way his words splintered under the weight of his shame, the jagged edges of the man he used to be catching against what was left. His eyes searched yours, desperate and hollow all at once.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” he repeated, voice breaking like a man confessing to a sin he could never undo as he closed his eyes. “Not like before. Not the way I should do.”

You swallowed hard, a tear finally slipping free, tracing down your cheek as you gripped his hand tighter, like you could anchor him to this moment, to you.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice trembling but certain. “You protected me for so long, Joel. Longer than anyone else ever did. It’s my turn now. I don’t need a gun in your hand to feel safe. I just need you. That’s it. I just need to feel the beating of your heart under my hand to know you’re still breathing with me.”

His throat worked around a choked sound, his other hand weakly lifting as if it wanted to touch you but couldn’t quite make it, so you guided it to your cheek, holding it there like it was the most precious thing in the world because that’s how it felt.

“I’m still yours,” you whispered against his palm. “Always. However, you come back to me.”

tags 💌: If you want to be removed or you're not interested in the story anymore, please tell me so I can remove you. :)

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#fic: the days of you and I #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller angst #pedro pascal #tlou spoilers

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lanadelspray02 · 29 days ago

Text

HOLD ME ANYWAY: CHAPTER 12

paige x azzi

Hi guys. I ended up just focusing on this instead of the new fic. I wanted to keep the focus of this chapter just on their date. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 6826

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The gym always had a different sound on game-week Thursdays, lighter, sharper, more deliberate. Balls thudded crisply against the hardwood, sneakers cut sharper across the court, and the usual half-lazy warmups carried an edge of focus beneath the noise. But Paige wasn’t really locked in. Not like usual.

She was doing the drills. Hitting the cuts. Smiling at Nika when they ran suicides and she still came in first. But her mind was off-center, drifting somewhere between what if this date is too much and what if it’s not enough.

Azzi didn’t seem distracted. Not visibly. She was locked into her form, her eyes fixed on the rim every time she caught a pass. But Paige noticed the little things, the way Azzi looked away the second their eyes met during water breaks. The slight flush in her cheeks when Coach called for free throws and Paige brushed past her just a little too close.

There was something building between them, slow and unspoken. Everyone could feel it. Especially after Ruby came to breakfast Tuesday. After the way Ruby melted into Paige like she belonged there.

By the time practice wound down and everyone hit the locker room, Paige was practically vibrating with the itch to be close to Azzi again. She showered quickly, threw on a hoodie and sweatpants, and waited just long enough for the room to get noisy, conversations spilling from lockers, KK arguing with Ice about music, Nika yelling about someone stealing her compression tights before she moved.

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Azzi was standing at her locker, her back turned, pulling her hoodie over her head. Hair still damp, earbuds in. Unaware.

Perfect.

Paige moved quietly, slipping through the chaos, and came up behind her like she belonged there, like it was muscle memory now. She slid her arms around Azzi’s waist from behind, slow and steady, palms flat against her stomach, thumbs grazing just beneath the hem of her hoodie. She felt Azzi jolt, then freeze.

“Jesus Paige,” Azzi hissed under her breath, one hand instinctively grabbing Paige’s forearm.

Paige leaned in, her mouth close to Azzi’s ear, her voice low and warm. “Just practicing for later. Gotta make sure I’m in date mode.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, just enough for Paige to see the edge of her smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re nervous,” Paige whispered, teasing. “I can feel it.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, the kind that she always tried to muffle but never quite could. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Paige said, brushing her nose lightly along Azzi’s temple. “You’ve been pretending to ignore me all practice, but I caught you looking. A lot.”

“You’re delusional,” Azzi muttered, but her voice lacked conviction. She leaned back slightly, not enough for anyone to notice, but enough for Paige to feel it, the way she relaxed into her touch.

“Still not telling you where we’re going,” Paige murmured.

Azzi reached back and poked her side. “If this ends with me on a mechanical bull I swear to God”

“Tempting,” Paige grinned, stepping back just a little. “But no. It’s not a rodeo. Just us. Somewhere private. Somewhere good.”

Azzi finally turned around, leaning against the locker with a raised brow. “You practicing for The Bachelor or what?”

Paige shrugged, smug. “I’ve got range.”

From the other side of the room, Nika yelled, “Hey Bueckers, you done flirting or do you need us to clear the room?”

Paige didn’t even look. She just grinned wider. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Azzi shook her head, trying and failing to suppress a smile as she pulled her bag over her shoulder. “You’re trouble.”

Paige leaned in one last time, quick, her breath brushing against Azzi’s jaw as she whispered, “And tonight, you’re stuck with me.”

Azzi’s breath caught, barely, but Paige caught it and then she was gone, slipping toward the exit with her heart pounding and her grin too big to hide.

Tonight was going to be everything.

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The late afternoon sun spilled through the dorm window in golden stripes, catching dust motes in the air and painting Paige’s floor with light. It was almost five. The hallway outside buzzed with post-class noise, doors opening, someone shouting about takeout, sneakers squeaking on linoleum but inside, Paige’s room had turned into a war zone of denim, discarded shirts, and Jordan boxes.

Nika was lying diagonally across Paige’s bed, arms folded behind her head like she was observing a fashion show. KK stood by the closet, holding up a cream sweater that Paige had vetoed twenty minutes ago.

“Okay,” KK said. “This is your first real date, right? You can’t wear the same hoodie you wore the day Ruby introduced you to Sparklehorn.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Paige said, half-laughing, half-panicked. She stood in front of the mirror wearing a white button-up, crisp, slightly oversized, and wide-legged black jeans. Her white low Jordans were on the floor nearby, waiting like they knew they were the finishing touch.

Nika tilted her head. “Actually? That shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “You hitting on me?”

“I mean, no offense,” Nika said, “but if you don’t ask her to be your girlfriend in that outfit, I might.”

KK nodded, arms crossed. “It’s confident. Clean. Hot but not too try-hard. It says, ‘I might be emotionally available and have good taste in music.’”

“Exactly the vibe I’m going for,” Paige muttered, then sat down on the edge of the bed, running both hands through her hair. “God, why am I nervous?”

“Because you’re gonna ask her to be your girlfriend,” KK said. “Tonight. That’s huge.”

“You love a soft launch,” Nika added. “But this is the hard launch, Bueckers. This is ‘I want you officially’ territory.”

Paige exhaled slowly and nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

KK softened. “You sure about karaoke?”

“I think it’s perfect,” Paige said, her voice steadier now. “It’s dumb and sweet and lowkey. And it’s just us. I’ve got the room reserved, dinner set up. I even made a playlist for the drive.”

Nika blinked. “You made a playlist?”

“She’s gone,” KK said. “Absolutely gone.”

Paige didn’t deny it.

--------------------

Fifteen minutes later and across town, Azzi stood barefoot in her bedroom, tan skirt hanging off a velvet hanger, white tank top tucked under her arm. The light in the room was softer now, golden hour bleeding across the walls, Ruby’s toy bin glowing in one corner, Sparklehorn slumped dramatically on her pillow like a chaperone with opinions.

On her phone screen, Caroline and Ines were side-by-side in their dorm, both craning their necks to get a better look.

“Okay,” Ines said, tilting her head. “The tan skirt is perfect. Soft, cute, understated. Wear the tank. Add the gold hoops. Done.”

“I agree,” Caroline said. “You don’t want to overdress. You want to look like you tried… but didn’t try too hard.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You two are exactly the kind of girls I used to roll my eyes at in high school.”

“And yet,” Caroline said sweetly, “you are FaceTiming us for outfit approval.”

Azzi sighed and stepped into the skirt, tucking the tank in as she glanced at herself in the mirror. “I still don’t know where we’re going.”

“That’s part of the charm,” Ines said. “You just have to trust her.”

Azzi smiled to herself, a small, nervous smile. “I do. That’s what scares me.”

The room was quiet for a second before Caroline added gently, “It’s okay to be scared. You’re allowed to want this.”

Azzi’s phone buzzed.

A text from Paige: “On my way”

Azzi stared at the message for a second too long before answering with just: “See you soon.”

When she looked back at the screen, Caroline and Ines were both grinning.

“What?” Azzi asked.

“You smiled,” Ines said. “Like, really smiled.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the blush from creeping up her cheeks. She walked over to grab her earrings, heart starting to race.

Tonight wasn’t just a date.

It felt like something bigger.

--------------------

The knock came just before six. It was soft, deliberate, like whoever was on the other side didn’t want to intrude but couldn’t wait another second. Azzi was still fixing the clasp of her necklace when she heard it. She hadn’t even made it to the hallway before Ruby sprinted past her in socked feet, already shouting, “I get it! I get it!” with Sparklehorn bouncing from one arm like a limp bodyguard.

“Roo...wait, baby, let me..." But it was too late. Ruby had already unlocked the front door with both hands and flung it open like it was a surprise party.

“PAIGEY!”

Azzi rounded the corner just in time to see Ruby launch herself across the threshold, curls flying, eyes wide, and into Paige’s arms like she’d been waiting days, not hours. Paige caught her easily, laughing as she hoisted her up, one hand steady on her back.

“Well hey there, Sparklehorn’s assistant,” Paige said, voice soft as she twirled once on the porch with Ruby clinging tight. “Miss me already?”

“I wanna come,” Ruby said immediately, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “Can I come too? Pwease?”

Azzi’s heart caught in her chest. She stepped up behind them, hand gently brushing Ruby’s back. “Baby, this is a special date. Just for me and Paige tonight.”

Ruby’s face scrunched, lower lip trembling in that dramatic little pout she’d perfected since age two. “But she picked me the ‘corn.”

“I know,” Paige said, crouching slightly to be at her eye level, arms still wrapped around her. “And because you’re the best unicorn boss ever, I’m gonna bring you something back. Deal?”

Ruby considered this with the gravity of a world leader. Then nodded, slowly. “With a snack?”

“With a snack,” Paige promised, holding out her pinky.

Ruby locked hers without hesitation. “Okay. But I want pictures too.”

“You got it.”

Azzi stepped forward to scoop her up and kissed her cheek as she did. Ruby hugged Paige one more time over her shoulder before letting go, her arms stretching out like she was being dragged away from Disneyland. “Bye Paigey! Don’t forget the snack!”

Paige chuckled, stepping inside now that the doorway was clear. “I won’t. I promise.”

The hallway was warmly lit, the scent of roasted garlic and something sweet still lingering in the air. Katie appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. Tim followed behind, glasses low on his nose and a faint smile already in place.

“Well, this must be Paige,” Katie said, stepping forward with the kind of energy Azzi could never quite compete with. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope,” Paige said with a small, nervous laugh, extending a hand.

Katie took it with both of hers. “The best.”

Tim gave a little wave from behind. “I’m Tim. This one’s old man.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Paige said, standing a little straighter. “Thanks for... letting me steal your daughter for the night.”

Azzi glanced away, a small flush creeping across her cheeks. Paige’s voice had dropped just slightly when she said your daughter, and somehow it had gone straight to the center of her chest.

“She’s earned it,” Katie said, her tone warm but knowing. “It’s been a big week.”

Paige smiled at that. “She deserves something special.”

Azzi couldn’t stop the way her chest expanded with that. Paige wasn’t trying to be impressive, she was just sincere. And it landed like truth every time.

They didn’t linger. Ruby had already moved on to bribing her grandfather for ice cream, and Katie gave Azzi a look that was equal parts go, have fun and don’t overthink it.

Paige stepped back toward the door and held it open without comment. No show, no pretense, just a small gesture that made Azzi’s heart race faster than it should have.

Outside, the evening air was soft and full of early spring, that gentle mix of fading warmth and cooling breeze that made everything feel like a memory already forming. The sky was tinged peach and violet at the edges, just dark enough to hint at the night ahead.

Azzi followed Paige down the walkway toward the car, her fingers brushing the side of her skirt, suddenly very aware of her outfit again. Paige didn’t comment on it, didn’t stare or whistle or say anything performative. But when she glanced over as they reached the passenger side, her mouth twitched into something that looked a lot like damn.

“You look... really good,” Paige said finally, unlocking the door and opening it for her.

Azzi raised a brow as she slid in. “That all you got?”

Paige bent down slightly, resting one arm on the doorframe. “If I say more, I might not be able to drive straight.”

Azzi laughed and buckled her seatbelt, heart pounding. “Fair.”

Paige closed the door and rounded the car, her silhouette carved against the amber sky. When she slid into the driver’s seat, she didn’t say anything for a moment just looked over at Azzi with that steady, blue-eyed calm that always felt like a tether.

“You ready?” she asked, turning the key in the ignition.

Azzi smiled, folding her hands in her lap. “Not even a little.”

Paige grinned. “Good.”

As they pulled out of the driveway, Azzi turned to glance back at the house. The porch light had flicked on. The curtains in the living room swayed slightly where the window had been cracked.

She faced forward again, trying not to overthink.

But it was already happening, her body relaxing, her chest settling into a rhythm she only seemed to find around Paige.

She didn’t know where they were going.

But somehow, that didn’t scare her.

Not tonight.

--------------------

They pulled into the parking lot just after sunset. The sky had gone indigo, the last blush of color fading over the horizon, and the building in front of them looked... unremarkable. Brick and glass, a strip mall unit tucked between a nail salon and a dry cleaner, with a glowing sign that read Midnight Mic in bright cursive. Azzi squinted at it, confused.

“This is where we’re going?” she asked as Paige put the car in park.

Paige glanced over with a smirk. “Still trust me?”

Azzi gave a long, theatrical sigh. “Debatable.”

But when Paige got out and jogged around to open her door again, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, Azzi couldn’t help the little flutter that passed through her chest. She took Paige’s hand as she stepped out and didn’t let go.

Inside, the space was dim and moody, with velvet curtains and neon lights casting soft glows on dark wooden floors. Music pulsed faintly from somewhere deeper in the building, but the front was quiet. A bored-looking host checked them in without much fanfare, and Paige murmured something under her breath that Azzi didn’t catch before they were led down a hallway lined with numbered doors.

At the last one, the host stopped and gestured with a hand. “Private room. You’ve got it until close.”

Paige nodded, then reached for the handle. “Ready?”

Azzi arched a brow. “Should I be?”

Paige just smiled, that open, slightly cocky grin that meant she knew something Azzi didn’t, and pushed the door open.

The space was small but intimate. Walls lined with dark acoustic paneling, a low sectional couch, a mounted screen glowing in standby mode. But what caught Azzi’s breath were the details, the subtle flicker of candlelight along the walls, the table in the corner with a full plated dinner setup for two, and the scattered bouquets of pink and white roses tucked into every empty surface like the whole room had been arranged by feeling.

Azzi stood still in the doorway, taking it in.

Paige stepped behind her, resting a hand gently at her waist. “Too much?”

Azzi shook her head slowly, voice soft. “No. It’s... it’s perfect.”

They sat across from each other at the little table while soft music played over the speakers, something ambient, low, more vibe than melody. The dinner was warm and simple: lemon chicken, roasted vegetables, garlic bread still soft at the center. Azzi didn’t have much appetite, but she ate because Paige had clearly gone to a lot of effort. And every few minutes, she caught Paige watching her with that half-smile, like this was everything she’d hoped for.

Midway through the meal, Paige set down her fork and leaned forward on her elbows. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

Azzi swallowed, nodding. “Yeah.”

Paige didn’t look away. “How did you find out you were pregnant?”

The question landed gently, not invasive, just open. Azzi sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly as she traced a finger along the edge of her water glass.

“I was seventeen,” she said, her voice quiet. “There was this guy. We weren’t anything serious. Just... dumb and impulsive and thought we were invincible.”

Paige didn’t interrupt.

“We were careful,” Azzi added. “Or thought we were. But one day I noticed I was late. Not by much. Just enough to make my chest tight every time I checked the calendar.”

She let the silence hold for a moment.

“I took a test in the locker room after practice,” she said, lips twisting into something bittersweet. “In a stall. By myself.”

Paige’s eyes softened.

“I didn’t believe it. I took two more the next morning. When I told him, the guy, he...” Azzi’s throat tightened. “He denied it. Said there was no way. Said I must’ve been sleeping with someone else. And that was the last time we spoke.”

Paige blinked once. “I��m so sorry.”

Azzi shrugged, but it wasn’t careless. Just resigned. “The hardest part wasn’t even him. It was the way everyone else turned on me. People I’d been friends with since middle school suddenly treated me like I was contagious. Like I’d ruined something sacred.”

She looked down at her hands.

“My parents were shocked, obviously. But they didn’t hesitate. They pulled me out of school, helped me finish online. My mom was with me when I gave birth. My dad drove us home. And when UConn reached out... they didn’t blink. They moved across the country for me. For her.”

She looked up again. Paige hadn’t said a word, just listened, eyes steady, hands folded on the table like she was holding the weight of the story alongside her.

“I don’t regret her,” Azzi said. “Not even for a second. But I do regret how alone I felt. How much shame I let other people put on me.”

There was a pause. Paige reached across the table then, not a grand gesture, just her fingers curling gently around Azzi’s.

“You’re incredible,” she said, voice quiet. “Ruby’s lucky as hell. So are your parents. So am I.”

Azzi’s throat went tight again, but she didn’t look away. She didn’t pull back.

Paige smiled, squeezed her hand “Okay,” she said lightly, “before I cry and ruin the moment... it’s time.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Time for what?”

Paige stood slowly, smoothing the front of her shirt with a theatrical flair as she walked toward the karaoke system. Azzi watched her suspiciously from her seat, arms loosely crossed, brow lifted with curiosity. Paige caught her gaze, her smile confident and teasing, eyes sparkling mischievously beneath the soft glow of the candles.

“Alright,” Paige said casually as she picked up the mic and turned back toward Azzi, her voice dipping low with playful intensity. “Absolutely no judgment allowed, I’m stepping way outside my comfort zone here.”

Azzi tilted her head, lips twitching into a teasing smirk. “You literally play basketball in front of sold-out arenas every week.”

Paige paused dramatically, then leaned toward her, eyes narrowing flirtatiously. “Yeah, but those games don’t usually involve me singing.”

Azzi’s mouth parted in amused disbelief as the song title appeared on the screen behind Paige, Floating – Alina Baraz ft. Khalid.

“You wouldn’t,” Azzi murmured softly, already feeling heat rising gently into her cheeks.

Paige held her gaze, eyes warm and daring, mic gripped loosely in her hand. “I absolutely would.”

The slow, dreamy beat filled the room, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and gentle anticipation. Paige took a deliberate step forward, her hips swaying subtly to the rhythm, gaze locked steadily onto Azzi. As the opening notes unfolded, Paige let the melody settle around her, clearly relaxing into the moment.

She raised the mic slowly, her voice soft and velvety as she sang, eyes focused intently on Azzi’s flushed face:

“It’s in the way you see… You know what I need…”

Azzi immediately felt her pulse quicken, her face warming under Paige’s openly adoring gaze. Paige stepped closer, exaggerating each movement slightly, playful yet sincere as her free hand reached out, fingertips brushing lightly over Azzi’s knee, causing her to jump slightly in surprise and laugh breathlessly.

Paige smiled, pleased with Azzi’s reaction, and leaned even closer, voice growing sweeter, more seductive with each line she sang directly to Azzi:

“It’s in the way that you’re holding me, bringing me close… You know that I won’t let go…”

She punctuated the line by gently squeezing Azzi’s hand, drawing a shaky, amused breath from her. Paige pulled back slightly, grinning as Azzi blushed furiously and hid her face behind her palm, embarrassed yet undeniably charmed.

Paige moved smoothly back toward the center of the room, spinning lightly on her heel, turning the mic in her hand with exaggerated flair, channeling some imagined pop-star persona. Her voice lowered, now sultry, intentionally theatrical:

“You’ve got me on repeat… You’ve got me in a dream…”

On the word dream, Paige placed a hand dramatically over her heart, tossing her head back in faux anguish. Azzi couldn’t hold back her laughter, nearly doubled over, eyes bright with amused tears.

“Paige,” she gasped, shaking her head fondly, “you’re ridiculous.”

Paige only winked, undeterred. She held Azzi’s gaze as she slowly approached again, singing with increased confidence, the playful humor softening into something surprisingly sincere:

“I let my worries go soon as you come through the door… Thinking ’bout what it’d be like to be yours…”

On the final word, Paige pointed gently toward Azzi’s chest, eyes sparkling knowingly, letting the sincerity slip through her teasing. Azzi’s smile softened immediately, feeling the shift, the warmth of the moment wrapping around her.

Paige leaned in closer again, free hand lightly brushing Azzi’s shoulder, voice low and velvety as she sang the next lines almost in a whisper, eyes holding Azzi’s:

“Every time you move, you’re looking like you’re dancing… It’s in the way you touch me…”

Her hand traced softly down Azzi’s arm, leaving goosebumps trailing beneath her touch. Azzi drew in a sharp breath, smiling shyly up at her, heart pounding against her ribs.

Paige pulled back with a teasing smile, returning to the playful attitude, twirling dramatically around the room, exaggerating gestures as she continued, voice dipping and rising with playful intensity:

“I don’t know much about love… But I’ll keep on checking my phone to see when you’re home…”

She mimed dramatically checking her phone, glancing at Azzi with exaggerated anticipation, causing Azzi to laugh and shake her head once more, thoroughly charmed and still slightly mortified.

Paige’s voice softened again as she sang the last lines, eyes growing serious, slowing her movements until she was standing just in front of Azzi again, singing now in a tone that felt genuinely earnest:

“We’re one in the same… You got me caught in a daze…”

Azzi’s breath hitched quietly as Paige reached out, gently tracing her thumb along Azzi’s flushed cheek, gaze locked tenderly onto hers as she sang the next line softly, intentionally:

“I love it when you say my name real slow…”

Paige’s eyes dropped briefly to Azzi’s lips, her voice softer now, almost a whisper as she concluded, barely audible beneath the melody:

“All my love is yours, I think that you could have it… Everything you do, I want to do it with you… Don’t ever want to miss you…”

As the song ended, Paige gently lowered the mic, the room slipping into silence, the soft hum of the speakers fading to nothing. She watched Azzi closely, smiling gently, slightly out of breath, her eyes warm with quiet intensity.

Azzi stared back up at her, eyes wide, chest tight with emotion, laughter replaced by a warmth so deep and full she wasn’t sure she’d ever catch her breath again.

Paige finally broke the silence, voice gently teasing but still serious, barely above a whisper. “You still think I’m ridiculous?”

Azzi’s smile softened fully, gaze tender and open. “Definitely,” she whispered affectionately. “But… it’s my favorite thing about you.”

Paige stepped closer, and quietly closed the remaining distance between them, her hand gently returning to Azzi’s waist, the moment humming warmly between them.

“I was gonna sing ‘Hold Me Down,’” she said, eyes glittering with humor, “but technically I already sang that to you... so I figured I’d try something new.”

Azzi let out a breath of a laugh, eyes wet, smile pulling crooked. “Took you long enough to admit that.”

Paige stepped forward slowly, gently closing the distance between them until there was hardly any room left for the air itself. Her hands found Azzi’s waist first, settling lightly at the curve where the fabric of Azzi’s skirt met bare skin. Her touch was warm, steady, fingertips pressing softly against Azzi’s sides, anchoring her.

Azzi’s breath caught slightly. Her heart felt too big for her chest, a hummingbird trapped beneath her ribs, but she didn’t move. She just stayed still, eyes wide, locked on Paige’s with something like awe. Paige’s voice was soft, low, and so tender it nearly ached when she finally spoke.

“Okay,” she whispered, thumb tracing gentle circles into Azzi’s hip through the thin fabric, “now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself and probably violated every karaoke law…”

Azzi laughed softly, almost breathless, her hand drifting up to rest lightly against Paige’s chest. “I liked it.”

Paige smiled, a slow, gentle curve that was equal parts shy and confident. Her voice grew quieter, just between them now. “Azzi Fudd, the best mum in the world with the best daughter in the world…will you be my girlfriend?”

Azzi’s breath stilled completely, caught in her throat. Her cheeks flushed, heat spreading through her entire body. She blinked once, twice, suddenly overwhelmed by how sincere Paige looked. How real this moment felt. How deeply Paige’s words sank into her chest, leaving her utterly open, vulnerable, yet strangely fearless.

Azzi shook her head slowly, lips pulling into a gentle, amazed smile. Her fingers curled slightly into Paige’s shirt, pulling her just a fraction closer. “You’re so full of it.”

Then, without waiting for another beat, Azzi reached up, cupped Paige’s face between her hands, and kissed her.

It wasn’t cautious or careful. It was deep, sure, and immediately dizzying, Azzi’s lips pressing against Paige’s in a kiss so fully intentional it left no doubt about her answer. Paige made a soft sound, something quiet and breathy, as her grip tightened instinctively on Azzi’s waist, pulling their bodies flush against each other until there was barely room to breathe.

Azzi’s mouth parted, allowing Paige to deepen the kiss, tongues brushing softly, tentative at first, then slowly exploring, tasting, moving together like the whole night had been building to this. Paige’s hand slid further around Azzi’s waist, fingers splayed across the small of her back, anchoring her firmly against her own body. Azzi felt her skin ignite, the heat blossoming wherever Paige touched—warm, electric, perfect.

The kiss softened gradually, slowing, growing gentle again as Paige’s lips brushed once, twice, softly against Azzi’s mouth, a final lingering touch before they reluctantly parted. Paige kept holding her close, breathing unsteady as her forehead came to rest gently against Azzi’s. Their eyes stayed closed for a long moment, just absorbing it, feeling the quiet hum of connection ripple through the silence.

Azzi slowly opened her eyes, her breath coming in soft, shallow pulls. Paige was already looking at her, gaze intense, eyes so warm Azzi felt her heart stumble again. Her hand rested gently on Paige’s chest, feeling the rhythmic beat beneath her fingertips.

“Yes,” Azzi whispered finally, smiling softly into the space between them. Her voice was tender, breathless, and unmistakably sure. “Of course, Paige. I’m already yours. Ruby is already yours”

Paige pulled back slowly, just enough to meet Azzi’s eyes again, her gaze softly tracing the flushed glow spreading across Azzi’s cheeks. Azzi’s breath still came unevenly, her lips parted, slightly swollen, still tingling from Paige’s kiss. She swallowed softly, her eyes lingering on Paige’s mouth before slowly moving upward, meeting Paige’s knowing, gentle smile.

“Come here,” Paige murmured softly, tugging Azzi’s hand gently and guiding her toward the plush couch tucked into the corner. Azzi followed easily, allowing herself to be pulled down into Paige’s side, warmth spreading between them as Paige wrapped an arm securely around her shoulders. Azzi rested her head lightly against Paige’s chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of her heartbeat as it gradually slowed back into a gentle, steady pace.

--------------------

The room was quiet now, just soft music still playing faintly in the background, the glow of candlelight washing warmly across the walls, wrapping around them like a gentle blanket. Paige’s fingertips drifted lazily up and down Azzi’s arm, tracing soft, calming circles on her skin, grounding them both in the moment.

Azzi sighed softly, closing her eyes briefly, absorbing the comfort and warmth of Paige’s body next to hers. After a few quiet heartbeats, she tilted her face up toward Paige, chin resting gently on Paige’s chest as she smiled softly.

“What?” Paige asked gently, meeting Azzi’s gaze with a curious, tender look.

Azzi laughed quietly, almost shyly, her eyes lowering for just a moment before flicking back up to Paige’s. “Nothing. It’s just…this feels good.”

Paige’s smile softened, her thumb gently stroking Azzi’s cheek. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded slowly, eyes lingering softly on Paige’s mouth again, her voice dropping to a gentle whisper, her tone bolder than Paige had ever heard. “Yeah. Too good, maybe. God, Paige, I want you so bad right now.”

Paige’s breath hitched quietly, her heartbeat picking up noticeably beneath Azzi’s ear, her hand pausing for just a second. Her smile turned playfully cautious, eyes sparkling with humor even as her voice dipped lower. “You’re gonna make it really, really hard for me to drive us home if you keep talking like that.”

Azzi laughed softly again, her smile warm, playful. “Sorry,” she murmured gently, her voice lightly teasing, even though they both knew she wasn’t remotely sorry. Her fingers traced slow, delicate patterns over Paige’s chest, feeling Paige’s breath quicken again beneath her fingertips. “I can behave. Probably.”

Paige tilted Azzi’s chin gently upward again, pressing another soft, lingering kiss against her lips, then brushed the tip of her nose lightly against Azzi’s. “Not too much, I hope.”

Azzi laughed again, a quiet, breathless sound, pulling back just enough to cool the heat building between them. She sighed dramatically, leaning her forehead gently against Paige’s shoulder. “You’re trouble.”

Paige chuckled softly, leaning back into the cushions and pulling Azzi tighter against her side. They stayed quiet for a moment, breathing slowly returning to normal, tension still simmering softly beneath their skin. Then Paige tilted her head slightly, her eyes catching Azzi’s again with gentle amusement.

“Okay,” Paige said softly, shifting the tone deliberately lighter to ease the heat gently. “We better cool off a bit. Besides, I did promise Ruby a snack. I’ve gotta keep that promise or she’ll never forgive me.”

Azzi’s eyes immediately softened, her smile widening affectionately at the mention of Ruby. “She’s definitely expecting something impressive.”

Paige laughed lightly, her thumb brushing Azzi’s shoulder as she relaxed further into the cushions. “Yeah? What’s Ruby’s snack of choice these days?”

Azzi smiled fondly, eyes warm with the quiet affection reserved only for her daughter. “Honestly? If you show up with chocolate chip cookies, she’ll probably try to get you to adopt her.”

Paige chuckled softly again, nodding thoughtfully. “Chocolate chip cookies it is.”

She reached for her phone without thinking, unlocking it. “Oh.... and she also said she wanted a picture tonight. Said she’d miss me.”

Azzi’s smile turned quiet and full. “She really likes you, you know.”

Paige’s voice dropped a little. “I really like her too.”

Then she angled the camera, holding Azzi closer. “C’mere. Let’s make her smile.”

They leaned in together, cheeks pressed, cozy and warm, their flushed faces still glowing with the residue of too-long eye contact and all the things they hadn’t said out loud yet. Paige snapped the photo, then another, just in case.

She tilted the screen so Azzi could see. “Think that’ll do?”

Azzi looked at it for a beat longer than necessary. “Yeah,” she said softly. “It’s perfect.”

Paige handed her the phone. “Tell her I said goodnight. And that cookies are incoming.”

Azzi sighed gently, contentedly, leaning comfortably into Paige’s side. “You’re really good at this.”

Paige raised a curious brow. “At what?”

Azzi shrugged gently, eyes meeting Paige’s with quiet sincerity. “Everything. Making Ruby happy. Making me happy. Just…showing up.”

Paige’s chest tightened slightly, her smile tender as she pressed one more gentle kiss to Azzi’s forehead. “Good,” she whispered softly. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi smiled again, quietly melting into Paige’s embrace as they stayed curled together, the candlelight flickering softly, music drifting gently around them, neither quite ready to let go of this feeling—warm, full, safe, and quietly promising.

When the time finally came to leave, Paige stood slowly, gently helping Azzi to her feet, keeping their fingers intertwined for as long as possible before slowly letting go.

“Come on,” Paige said softly, smiling warmly down at Azzi. “Let’s go make sure your daughter doesn’t fire me as Sparklehorn’s assistant.”

Azzi laughed, shaking her head affectionately as she took Paige’s offered hand once again, the two of them slipping from the cozy intimacy of the room back into the soft, waiting night.

--------------------

The car was quiet as they drove home, filled only with the soft hum of the engine and the faint strains of music playing from Paige’s carefully crafted playlist. Paige drove one-handed, the other resting gently on Azzi’s thigh, thumb occasionally brushing soft circles against bare skin. Each quiet touch sent a spark dancing up Azzi’s spine, the lingering warmth from their kiss and the sweetness of the night settling comfortably between them.

Azzi watched Paige out of the corner of her eye, warmth blossoming softly in her chest as she admired how Paige’s profile was illuminated gently by passing streetlights, how relaxed and quietly confident she looked, fully herself, fully real. It was hard not to feel a swell of affection for Paige at moments like this. Hard not to feel grateful that Paige was here, quietly holding her steady.

“Hey,” Paige murmured gently, breaking the silence as they neared Azzi’s neighborhood, “we need cookies, right?”

Azzi smiled, softly squeezing Paige’s hand on her thigh. “If we show up empty-handed, Ruby will riot. She takes snacks very seriously.”

Paige chuckled quietly, turning the car smoothly into the dimly-lit parking lot of a small late-night bakery. “Good thing I promised her, then.”

Azzi stayed in the car, watching Paige jog lightly across the lot into the bakery. The neon glow from the bakery window cast soft pink and purple hues onto Paige’s white shirt, illuminating her figure in gentle warmth as she paid at the counter. When Paige returned, she carried a small, neatly-wrapped box of chocolate chip cookies, her expression proud and slightly mischievous.

“You think she’ll approve?” Paige asked lightly, climbing back into the driver’s seat and setting the box carefully between them.

“Are you kidding?” Azzi laughed softly, feeling a gentle swell of affection again. “She’s gonna love you even more now. You might have just raised her expectations permanently.”

Paige smiled, eyes sparkling. “Good. That was the goal.”

--------------------

A few minutes later, Paige parked quietly in front of Azzi’s house. They sat for a moment in gentle silence before Paige reached toward the backseat, carefully retrieving a small bouquet of roses from the karaoke bar.. Azzi raised a curious brow, smiling softly as Paige caught her gaze.

“For Ruby,” Paige explained softly, eyes warm. “She deserves flowers too.”

Azzi’s heart swelled again as she stepped out, the night air cool against her skin. Paige followed closely behind, holding the cookies and bouquet like precious offerings.

Inside, Ruby was curled sleepily on the couch, Sparklehorn tucked protectively under her arm. Her eyes instantly brightened when she saw Paige, small feet kicking excitedly as she scrambled upright.

“Paigey!” Ruby squealed, her voice thick with sleep, curls bouncing wildly as she stretched out her hands eagerly.

Paige knelt beside her, smiling softly as she presented the cookies and roses with exaggerated reverence. “For Sparklehorn’s boss, as promised.”

Ruby gasped dramatically, eyes wide with delight as she hugged the flowers tightly to her chest. “For me?”

“All yours,” Paige said gently, laughing softly at Ruby’s delighted reaction. Azzi’s heart tightened sweetly at the sight, love and gratitude filling her chest.

As Ruby inspected the roses carefully, Azzi moved quietly next to Paige, voice dipping into a playful whisper, eyes mischievous and flirtatious. “You keep bringing home cookies and roses like that, Paige, and I might have to keep you. Maybe you should just stay tonight, finish what we started.”

Paige’s cheeks turned bright pink instantly, eyes widening in playful surprise. She coughed lightly, flustered but clearly amused, whispering back softly, “Az, aren’t you supposed to be the responsible one here?”

Azzi smiled, leaning even closer, voice dropping even lower, teasing warmly against Paige’s ear. “I usually am responsible. But tonight you’ve made it really difficult.”

Paige groaned quietly, covering her face briefly with one hand as her smile widened beneath her fingers. “You think I don’t want to? Trust me, Az...it’s killing me not to...but we both know tonight isn’t the right time.”

Azzi laughed softly, kissing Paige’s flushed cheek gently. “I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t dream about it, though.”

Paige’s quiet laughter was interrupted when Ruby stretched her little arms around Paige’s neck, squeezing tightly, her tiny body warm and trusting. Paige hugged her back gently, eyes closing briefly, cherishing the sweet, simple warmth of Ruby’s embrace.

Ruby pulled back slightly and surprised them both, leaning forward and pressing a soft, innocent kiss to Paige’s cheek. “Night-night, Paigey” Ruby whispered sweetly, voice sleepy and sincere. “Tank you for the presents.”

Paige froze for a heartbeat, eyes instantly misting with tears. She blinked rapidly, quickly looking away, gently touching Ruby’s curls to hide her overwhelming emotion. “Night-night, Roo. Sleep tight, okay?”

Azzi noticed Paige’s sudden emotion, heart squeezing softly as she reached out, gently touching Paige’s shoulder in quiet support. Paige turned slightly, giving Azzi a small, grateful smile before softly clearing her throat and standing slowly.

Azzi walked Paige outside, the porch light casting a gentle golden glow around them. They lingered at the car door, quiet and warm, savoring the intimacy of this soft, unhurried goodbye.

Paige leaned gently against the car, her eyes warm and vulnerable as they gazed at Azzi in quiet wonder. Azzi moved slowly into Paige’s space, arms wrapping comfortably around Paige’s neck, pulling her gently closer.

“Thanks for tonight,” Paige whispered softly, her fingers tracing gentle circles at Azzi’s waist. “For trusting me.”

Azzi’s eyes softened, voice gentle, sincere. “Thanks for making it so easy.”

Paige smiled softly, voice tender, breathless. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? You’re officially my girlfriend now.”

Azzi laughed quietly, shaking her head in playful disbelief, voice softly amazed. “Yeah, wild, right? I kinda love it, though.”

Paige cupped Azzi’s cheek tenderly, her thumb gently brushing her skin before she leaned forward and pressed one last slow, lingering kiss against Azzi’s lips. The kiss was gentle, warm, a sweet promise of all that would come next.

They broke slowly, foreheads pressed gently together for a brief moment, savoring the quiet intimacy of the night. Paige pulled back reluctantly, slowly opening the car door as she whispered softly, “Goodnight, baby. I can say that now, right?”

Azzi let out a low laugh, her voice laced with warmth. “You’d better. Night, Paige... sorry, baby. Drive safe.”

Paige’s smirk deepened as she sank into the driver’s seat. “Mmm. That sounds real good coming from you.”

Azzi leaned in just slightly, eyes locked with hers.

“Then don’t make me take it back.”

She winked, stepping back as the door shut.

Azzi stood quietly on the sidewalk, watching until Paige’s car rounded the corner and disappeared into the night, a small, contented smile lingering softly on her lips. She hugged herself gently, absorbing the sweet, undeniable warmth that Paige left behind.

Tonight had changed everything, and Azzi couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fics #uconn wbb #paige x azzi #pazzi #wlw

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alive-gh0st · 28 days ago

Text

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

.….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ.. .

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not obsessed with him. you’re not. but the world clearly is. strange articles. sneaky algorithms. and a voice in your head that won’t shut up. meanwhile, invincible’s got his own problem: he can’t find the girl who called him out like a scrub tech on a bad day.

⛨ contains: sfw. nurse carla’s mischief. media-induced annoyance. early emotional foreshadowing. reader in denial. mark being haunted by words and mystery. parallel narration. bonus scene chaos.

⛨ warnings: mild language. internet stalking (light). stubbornness. minor delusion. no real threats—just a very determined destiny.

⛨ wc: 2146

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: fun fact—i lost half of this chapter mid-edit because my wifi decided to flatline like a soap opera character. dramatic gasp, hospital monitor beep, the whole deal. one second i’m tweaking a paragraph, the next i’m staring at the void where 800 words used to be. i almost fought my router. bare-fisted. anyway, here it is—risen from the ashes, caffeinated, and slightly more unhinged than originally planned. enjoy my suffering.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You know this. You’ve always known this.

You work twelve-hour shifts surrounded by people coughing on your scrubs and trying to die inconveniently. You’ve stitched up knife wounds caused by things described as “accidents,” told grown men they’re not, in fact, dying from a sore throat, and once had to remove a Lego from a place no Lego should ever be.

But lately, it feels personal.

There’s been a shift. A pattern. A very specific, very annoying theme threading itself through your life like the world’s most persistent pop-up ad.

It’s not love. It’s not fate.

It’s him.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You tap your phone’s screen with more passive aggression than necessary, holding it to your ear even though you know your (only) friend won’t pick up.

Beep.

“Okay, listen—I’m not spiraling. I’m not.”

(Pause. Sip. Another pause.)

“But if one more news article, thirst edit, or random merch featuring that man—shows up in my general vicinity, I will commit a felony. Probably a creative one.”

(Beat.)

“And no—before you say it—it’s not a crush. I don’t have time for crushes. I have sleep deprivation and a spine held together by caffeine.”

(Silence.)

“He’s not even that hot.”

You hang up.

Regret it. Immediately.

And that’s when it hits you—

You’re not obsessed with him.

You’re not.

You’ve been into people before—celebrities, coworkers, a random guy who pronounced your name right on the first try—but this isn’t that. You’re not delusional. You’re tired. You have a full-time job, a chaotic sleep schedule, and at least two stress migraines scheduled for the week.

You’re not obsessed.

The entire world, on the other hand, clearly is.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a newspaper.

A real one. Paper and ink and everything. You’re halfway through your first sip of coffee (not bad, not cursed) when you spot it, splayed open on the front counter like it tripped and fell into your line of sight.

’Invincible saves subway commuters in mid-derailment battle.’

There’s a photo. Midair. Bloodied knuckles. Hero pose. That obnoxious blue-yellow suit.

You blink at it once. Twice. The espresso tastes more bitter somehow.

“…Carla,” you call out, slowly.

A soft shuffle from the break room. “Mhm?”

You tilt your head toward the paper. “Is that yours?”

“Nope,” she chirps, far too quickly.

You squint.

Carla reappears moments later with a tea mug that says ’I am the storm’ in passive-aggressive font and absolutely does not make eye contact as she walks past you.

She hums.

The kind of hum that implies dark intentions.

You stare at the paper like it personally insulted your scrubs.

That’s strike one.

Strike two comes via TikTok. Or… Instagram Reels. Or whatever godforsaken app the algorithm has you trapped in.

You’re lying on your couch on your one night off, a warm takeout container on your lap, the lights dimmed just enough to make it feel like self-care. You open your phone to zone out. Maybe scroll through food mukbangs. A few raccoon videos. Rewatch that one clip from ’The Bear’ for the emotional damage.

Instead, the second video to pop up is a slow-motion fan edit of Invincible. Set to a remix of a 2000s ballad.

You stare at your phone in silence as the hero who bloodied his way through your afternoon is now being thirsted after by teenagers in the comments.

You swipe up fast enough to sprain something.

Then another pops up.

And another.

And—oh, good god. This one’s tagged #invincibae.

You throw your phone facedown on your stomach like it’s contagious.

You’re not angry. You’re not even annoyed.

You’re just trying to have one singular crumb of peace in this godless world, and the masked himbo you verbally body-checked in the middle of a disaster won’t stop invading your downtime.

You eventually find a rerun of ’House MD’ and watch a patient nearly die from licking envelopes, which feels more comforting than it should.

You’re not obsessed.

(But maybe you do glare at a passing bus with his face on the side. Just a little.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

By the end of the week, it gets worse.

You’re at the pharmacy grabbing gauze, extra gloves, and the least offensive granola bar in existence when you see the merch.

Merch.

A corner display stacked with shirts and water bottles and pins. There’s a plushie. A plushie. Of him.

You pause, granola bar halfway to your basket.

A kid next to you picks up the Invincible water bottle and turns to his mom. “Do you think he drinks from this too?”

You visibly clench your jaw.

At that exact moment, your phone dings.

You pull it out with the practiced grace of someone who lives and dies by their calendar app—only to find a suggested article on your lock screen.

’Why Invincible Might Be the Most Relatable Hero Yet!’

You could scream.

Instead, you mutter, “I patched up his concussion while inhaling drywall dust. He was seeing double and still arguing with me.”

The cashier stares at you.

You move on.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The final straw?

A patient brings him up.

Middle of a wound check, nothing dramatic. A few stitches, topical numbing, your hands moving on autopilot. You’re explaining aftercare, bandage changes, when the patient—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—smiles at you and says:

“You kinda remind me of Invincible, y’know? Like, you’re calm under pressure and.. kind of badass.”

You blink.

Smile politely. “Cool.”

Inside, your soul shrivels.

You are not him.

You don’t throw punches. You don’t fly. You don’t have a theme song or fan cams or merchandise.

You have an overtime shift on Sunday and a stress knot in your shoulder that’s starting to feel like a second spine.

But the universe doesn’t care.

You’re not obsessed.

You just can’t escape.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark doesn’t remember your face.

Not clearly, anyway.

The smoke had blurred the details, painted you in silhouettes and urgency. You weren’t the loudest voice in the chaos—just the sharpest. Crisp, cutting, sure of yourself in a way that made his head spin more than the actual concussion.

But your voice?

He remembers that like it’s stitched into the inside of his skull.

Low. Stern. Half-sarcastic and half-soothing. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for bullshit, which—given the circumstances—made sense.

He was bleeding from the ribs. The city was literally burning.

Still, the memory echoes:

“Don’t say fine.”

“You’re favoring your left.”

“You shouldn’t be flying.”

Mark exhales hard, slumping deeper into the worn couch. The TV’s on but silent. Some old action movie flickers in the corner of his vision. It’s supposed to be background noise.

But nothing is loud enough to drown you out.

He doesn’t know your name.

Doesn’t know what you do, where you’re from, if you even survived the aftermath unscathed.

All he knows is that you made him feel—briefly, dangerously—human.

Not a symbol. Not a name in headlines. Just a guy who was bleeding too much and doing too little.

And he can’t stop hearing you.

“You’re zoning out again,” Debbie says from the kitchen.

Mark flinches, barely registering the sound of the fridge opening.

“Sorry. Just tired.”

Debbie hums skeptically and tosses him a cold can of soda. “You’ve said that every day this week.”

“I am tired.”

“You’re also muttering to yourself like a haunted Victorian widow. Anything I should know?”

Mark cracks the can open with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares ahead like the wall is going to give him divine guidance.

“I met someone,” he says finally.

Debbie doesn’t react. Just leans against the counter, raising a perfectly arched brow. “Okay. And?”

“She yelled at me.”

Still silence.

“And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

There it is.

Debbie snorts into her cup. “That’s it? That’s what’s got you acting like a sad poet?”

He shifts. “It’s not just that. She—she saw right through me. In like, five seconds. Called out every injury I hadn’t processed yet. Told me I wasn’t fine before I could even lie about it.”

“And this was… romantic?”

“No!” Mark frowns. “I don’t even know what it was. I don’t know anything about her. I couldn’t even see her face.”

“Okay, now it’s giving Victorian ghost story.”

“She saved a kid.”

Debbie blinks.

“In the middle of it all. Ran straight into debris and smoke. People tried to stop her and she looked at me like I was the liability.”

He doesn’t mention the way your hands shook but never stopped moving. Or the way you lied—beautifully, horribly—just to keep that child alive a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t mention how it made something in his chest ache.

“She sounds amazing,” Debbie says, more gently now.

“She was,” he mutters. “And now she’s just… gone.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The thing is, Mark’s not usually like this.

He gets hit, he gets up. He saves people, and he moves on. Faces blur. Names fade. It’s how he copes.

But this? This isn’t fading.

It’s getting worse.

He’ll be flying over the city and see a flash of hair that looks vaguely like yours—and he’ll nearly crash into a billboard turning to check. His neck has started clicking. He’s going to need chiropractic help and therapy.

He doesn’t even know you, but he’s half-convinced he’ll know when he sees you again.

He’s waiting for it.

And that thought alone is ridiculous.

Because he doesn’t wait. Not for danger. Not for hope. Not for anyone.

Except now, apparently, for you.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

More than once, he’s hovered outside hospitals and urgent care clinics on patrol. Just a few seconds. Just in case.

He makes excuses for it, of course:

• You never know when you might be needed.

• Some med centers don’t have enough security.

• Maybe he’s being responsible.

But then he hears a nurse’s laugh and it isn’t yours.

And he flies off like a coward.

Not even a few minutes later there’s a robbery in Midtown.

Small-time. Two guys. One has a crowbar. The other trips over his shoelace trying to run.

Mark’s on it in sixty seconds flat.

It’s easy—should be, anyway—but his timing’s off. He lands too hard, shoulder twinges wrong. The guy gets one good swing in before Mark sends him flying (not too far).

It’s done in under a minute.

And still—he’s breathless. Not from the fight, but from the feeling.

The missing.

The what if you’d seen that and thought I was sloppy kind of missing.

He doesn’t say anything as he lifts the guy’s dropped phone and hands it off to the store clerk. They thank him. He nods.

Flies away.

He doesn’t go far.

Just lands on some apartment roof, crouches by the ledge, and lets his hands tangle in his hair for a minute.

The city stretches below him, loud and alive.

But all he wants to find is a blur in the chaos that isn’t there.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Later that night, he lies in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might offer closure.

It doesn’t.

It’s just drywall and shadows and everything you saw through.

His notebook lies half-open next to him—not forgotten, just untouched, like a question he doesn’t know how to answer yet.

It’s not a journal—he doesn’t do feelings that way—but sometimes, when his head’s too loud and his hands need something to do, he sketches. Nothing fancy. Just lines. Shapes. Impressions.

Tonight, it’s you.

Or, what he remembers of you. Which isn’t much.

Your face is a blur. Hair? A vague impression. Maybe dark. Maybe not. But your hands—he remembers those. Quick, steady, smudged with ash. Your posture. How you stood slightly in front of the child like a shield, chin up, like fear was something for other people.

He’s drawn the same half-profile six times now. None of them are right.

He sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and flips the page over.

Maybe he’s not trying to get it right.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to forget.

He closes his eyes.

But the voice stays with him.

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Clinic break room. You. Tired.

You sneeze—violently.

Again.

You rub your nose with the heel of your palm, the tip of it already reddish from overuse, and a dramatic groan leaves your throat as you sink into the unforgiving plastic chair.

“This is some kind of karmic punishment,” you mutter to no one in particular. “Like, I must’ve offended a witch. Or touched something cursed.”

“Maybe you’re getting sick,” offers a random nurse from across the room.

You glare at her. “I’m immune to sickness.”

Then of course, Carla appears behind you, perfectly timed as always.

“Maybe someone’s thinking about you,” she says, casual as rain, not even glancing your way before walking off.

You blink. Deadpan.

Then sneeze again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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fluff-lover · 6 months ago

Text

Healing touch | Chapter 1: In the mood

Summary: You’re a new member of the X-Men. Your mutation allows you to heal other people: you can close any wound, and cure any sickness. You’re not a fighter at all, but you’re useful at the battle field when it comes to saving injured mutants.

The one thing you can’t heal? It’s a broken heart.

Warnings for this chapter: mentions of diseases, hospitals, sick kids, cancer patients. Adult language.

Masterlist

Logan found himself walking aimlessly around the mansion in the dark. Like many nights before, sleep evaded him and he grew too restless to stay in his bedroom.

At least this time it wasn’t because of a nightmare. It took a while, but he finally felt like home at the mansion, and with time his trauma started to heal. Healing could possibly take years, decades even, and there wasn’t a certainty that he would ever be nightmare free, but it was an improvement.

Tonight however, his bedroom felt too empty, his bed too cold. Recently his feelings for Jean had turned sour. After she told him girls flirted with the bad guy but went home with the good guy, Logan lost all hope of something more happening between them. Jean assured him she loved Scott and she wouldn’t leave him, breaking Logan's heart in the process.

Feeling restless, he threw on some sweatpants and decided to leave the room to clear his head, hoping he would eventually get tired enough to sleep.

He roamed around the ground floor, not wanting to wake up any of the kids or other teachers sleeping in their rooms. He made his way to the kitchen to get a beer from his personal, secret stash, when his hearing picked up a faint music.

Logan tilted his head and focused on it. “In the mood”, by Glenn Miller played from somewhere inside the mansion. Following the music Logan walked down the hall until reaching Charle's office. The door was slightly open and when he peeked inside, his heart almost stopped.

Charles Xavier was dancing.

Yes, dancing. Slowly, and albeit a bit clumsily, Charles danced to the old swing song. He wasn't alone: Logan then saw a young, beautiful woman dancing with him. Charles smiled widely as she encouraged to keep moving. Logan didn’t know it at the time, but that woman was you, and you would turn his life upside down.

“Look at you go! You still got some moves!” You said and laughed.

Logan pushed the door open in shock.

“Chuck?”

Charles turned to his friend and waved his hands, gesturing to him to approach them.

“Logan! Come! Come! There's someone I want you to meet.”

Logan stepped into the office, his mouth half open.

“You're… dancing.” He said in disbelief.

“It's a miracle, isn't it?” Charles smiled before turning to you. “Darling, this is Logan, one of the professors here. Logan, meet our newest member, Angel.”

You offered Logan your hand to shake and your first name. "Angel is my mutant name.” You explained. Logan shook your hand, still in shock.

“Angel has healing powers.” Charles explained. Suddenly something clicked in Logan's head.

Logan found the name fitting, since Charles called her power a miracle.

“Wait… you healed Charle's legs?” He asked in disbelief, as if he hadn't just seen the two of you dancing just moments ago. You nodded your head and hummed.

“More like his spinal cord, but yeah, basically.” You replied. Logan stared at you still trying to wrap his head around this.

Despite the excitement, it was obvious Charles was out of breath and a little fragile, so he leaned against his desk. Both you and Logan quickly offered him support, one on each side of him. Carefully you walked him back to his chair and sat him gently.

“I don't think you'll be running any marathons any time soon.” You joked, and Charles smiled.

“I've used this chair for so long, it will take time to get used to standing on my own feet again.” he commented.

“Just take it easy.” You said with a comforting smile.

He nodded and turned to his friend.

“Logan, would you please show her the way to her chambers? It's room number 29.” He instructed before turning to you. “Tomorrow you'll meet the rest of the team.”

You nodded your head and picked up your suitcase.

“Thank you for this opportunity, Professor. You won't regret it.” You said and Charles smiled.

“Welcome to the team, Angel.” He said, using your now X-Men name. Your smile was wide and beautiful.

Logan walked you out of the office and took your suitcase from you.

“Oh, you don't have to…”

Logan shook his head. He wouldn't call himself a gentleman, but he wasn’t about to let you carry a heavy suitcase up the stairs, especially after you gave Charles the capacity to walk again.

Eventually you reached a door with a golden “29” painted on it and Logan set down your luggage.

“I'm in room 14. It's, um…” He pointed over his shoulder. “End of the hall, to the left. In case you need anything.”

You smiled softly.

“Thank you Logan. Good night.” You said before stepping into the room and closing the door.

Logan stood in the empty hallway. There was no way he would get any sleep now.

The next morning there was a knock on your door. When you opened it you found a hairy, blue creature looking back at you. If it wasn't for the fact that you had seen pictures of him in the newspapers, you would've thought he was some kind of puppet. Dr. Hank McCoy introduced himself in a very polite manner and requested you follow him to the Professor's office.

As you approached the office you felt yourself growing anxious. This would be your first time meeting the team. You knew who they were, but you never met them in person before.

When you got there, everyone turned to look at you, and suddenly you felt very exposed.

"Hey.” A voice behind you said. You turned to find Logan walking towards you. "How was your first night at the mansion?”

You smiled, feeling a little bit less anxious.

"Good. I hardly slept, though. I was too nervous to sleep.” You said shyly.

Logan smiled softly.

"You'll do just fine, bub.”

A few more X-men arrived, and once everyone was there, Charles started the meeting.

"Some of you might have heard there would be a new member on our team.” Everyone turned to look at you, seeing you were the only new face. "I would like to introduce you to Angel. She's a healer and will be a great asset during battles.”

You awkwardly waved your hand.

"What kind of healer?” Scott asked.

"I'll answer that. " Charles said before standing up behind his desk. A chorus of gasps and whispers filled the room.

"Professor…” Jean said, slowly stepping towards the desk. “You can walk?”

Charles nodded his head.

"If she can heal an old wound that no doctor could, who knows how many other things she can heal or cure.” He said while walking around his desk. Most people in the room turned their faces to you. You wanted to hide, but Logan’s presence by your side brought some comfort, seeing he hadn’t backed away and people knew they could trust you.

“She'll work at the lab with Hank, and as the school's nurse, since she can take care of any wound or sickness our students could get.” Charles explained and sat back down. “So let's get her settled in. Ororo, please show her around the school, give her a tour. Next week we'll start working on including Angel in our missions.”

The next couple of weeks you settled in just fine. You were the “shiny new toy” so most of the staff took an interest in you. Some of them, like Jean and Hank, were fascinated by your mutation. Unlike most mutants, your powers didn’t bring harm or danger. They were quite the opposite, you couldn’t hurt anyone and that was a novelty.

That being said, you were at a disadvantage on the battlefield. You couldn't fight or even defend yourself, so you had to be very strategic when it came to taking part in the missions. While you healed fast yourself thanks to your mutation, you still needed to be careful.

Shortly after you arrived you started training at the Danger Room, where you would follow Jean or Scott’s instructions to move from one spot to the other, always quietly and in the shadows. You also learned to work with the team: having Kurt move you from one room to the other unharmed, or have Kitty turn you intangible and dodge dangerous objects coming your way.

You knew that when the time came, you would be ready to move through the field and heal any wounded friend. However, that wasn’t enough. In case it was necessary, you must be able to defend yourself, to fight if it meant saving your life.

Enter Logan.

He took it upon himself to train you in the Danger Room, just the two of you. Ever since you healed Charles, Logan knew you were special and had the utmost respect for you. He wanted to make sure you would be able to protect yourself and remain safe during battle.

Going easy on people wasn’t his style, but seeing you didn’t have a mutation you could use to defend yourself, he was very patient. He taught you all the basics, like how to block an attack and throw a good punch. Eventually you gained muscle memory, and were able to keep up.

Well, most of the time.

“Left, right, left, right, left, right, down, down.” Logan counted as your gloved hands punched his and ducking low when he attacked back. “Kick!” You went to kick him but lost your footing and ended up falling backwards.

“Crap!” you said as you bounced on the mat.

“We gotta work on that.” Logan chuckled and offered you his hand. You hooked your wrist with his, since you were both wearing gloves, and he lifted you up. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Thanks.” You started removing your gloves.

“Same time tomorrow?” Logan asked.

Usually Logan detested training beginners, he preferred training with someone who could keep up with him. Sure, you could heal fast, but he still didn’t want to hurt you, so he pulled back most of his punches. There was no actual challenge for him.

Yet he didn’t complain. Not only did he enjoy your company, but he was impressed by how well you took his lessons and how much effort you put in your training. Most people would complain and give up quickly.

Seeing you all breathless and sweaty was a bonus. Mutant or not, he was still a man, and he couldn’t help his eyes wander down your body every once in a while.

To his disappointment, you quickly shook your head.

“I can’t. I have something to do tomorrow, it will probably take all day.” You replied.

You liked training with Logan. He was a good teacher, and very patient with you, which was a very good thing considering how often you got distracted by his good looks. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man you had ever seen. There was also something endearing in the way he treated you. You knew he was known for his rough exterior, and most people at the school either respected him, or feared him. You had seen him get angry at Scott Summers over the smallest things, or lose his patience with rebellious students.

But not you. Never you. He was soft spoken and kind around you.

That being said, you could use a little break from all the training even if it was just for one day.

Logan clicked his tongue in disappointment.

“Alright, but you’ll do twice the work next time. I won’t go easy on you until you know how to kick property without hurting yourself in the process.” He said teasingly. You rolled your eyes and smiled.

“Can’t wait!” you said sarcastically.

Truthfully, you did want to train with him again soon.

Ever since he started training you, Logan began sleeping a bit better. Teaching you was a good workout, and with the following shower, Logan found himself more relaxed at the end of the day.

He was still an early riser, so the next morning he was the very first in the kitchen to make coffee. He enjoyed the quiet mornings, before everyone woke up and the school came alive. But that morning the quietness was interrupted by the sound of someone stomping on the stairs.

“Jesus, fuck!” He heard you curse. “Goddammit!” Intrigued, he walked out of the kitchen and saw you walking down the stairs, struggling to carry down a huge plastic bag. It was almost half your size.

“What are you doing?”

You weren’t expecting him, so you snapped your head towards him looking embarrassed. “Um…” You blinked. “I didn’t think it would be this big, or this heavy.”

Logan sighed and walked up the stairs.

“What is it in here, anyway?” He said taking the bag from your hands and easily carrying it down the stairs.

You rolled your eyes.

“Show off.” You mumbled and Logan gave you a cocky smile. “If you must know, I’m bringing toys to the hospital. I make a donation every now and then, and I get to cure some kids.” You said as if it wasn’t a big deal.

Logan looked at you surprised.

“You go to a hospital and heal kids in your free time?” He repeated, as if he hadn’t heard you correctly the first time.

“It’s better than doing nothing.” You shrugged. “What’s the point of having this gift, if I don’t do something good with it?”

“Aren’t you worried people will figure out you’re a mutant?”

“Nah, usually they don’t notice they’re healthy until much later.” Your phone made a little “ping” and you took it out of your pocket. After quickly looking at the notification, you groaned. “My Uber cancelled, great!” You complained.

“I can give you a ride.” Logan offered. Usually he wouldn’t bother, but he wanted to see you in action.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden.” You said quietly.

“If you were a burden, I wouldn’t have offered.” He replied before walking towards the garage door. “Come on!”

The ride to the hospital was a quiet one, only the radio filling in the car -one that Logan “borrowed” from Scott-.

“So, what are we doing here exactly?” Logan asked as he parked the car. You looked at him confused, you assumed he was only dropping you off.

“Oh, you don’t have to come inside with me…”

“Someone’s gotta carry that big bag, and we both know it won’t be you.”

“Ha-ha.” You fake laughed. “Just… just play along, okay? We’re here to visit the kids and hand out donations.” You explained before getting out of the car, Logan following close by.

You walked to the reception and greeted a nurse.

“Hey Rhonda!”

“Hello my little miracle worker!” She smiled. “I’m so glad to see you, I swear everytime you come by, the kids feel so much better the day after! We had several discharges after the last time you were here.”

“Oh, that’s nice!” You giggled before shooting a look at Logan. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. He knew he had to keep his mouth shut.

“And who is this tall glass of water?” Rhonda asked as she looked at Logan up and down.

“Oh, this is my friend Logan. He’s here to help me with the donations today.” You explained.

“Well, we sure can use more helping hands around here.” Rhonda said in a suggestive tone.

Logan cleared his throat uncomfortably, and you quickly started pushing him towards the pediatric wing.

“It was nice seeing you Rhonda! We’ll be out in a jiffy!”

“Friend of yours?” Logan teased when you were out of earshot. You rolled your eyes.

“She’s harmless, I swear.” You replied, making him laugh.

You stopped by a door that had some pink and purple flowers. In the middle there was a name tag that said “Manx, Ashley.” You turned to Logan and opened the bag to fish for a toy. After coming up with a sweet looking purple dog, you knocked on the door.

A woman, Ashley’s mom you assumed, opened the door. You put on your best, kindest smile, knowing it’s never easy to have a child in the hospital.

“Good morning, ma’am! We come on behalf of a non profit that donates toys to sick children. Would it be okay if we come in and meet your daughter?” You asked politely. The woman stepped aside and let you in.

Logan decided to stay behind, watching you from the door.

You approached the bed and made an effort not to get too emotional as you locked eyes with the little girl.

She looked so fragile, her bald head covered with a pink wool hat, cables stuck to her chest and sticking out of her arm. Your heart ached for her.

“You must be Ashley.” You said as you sat on the edge of the bed. She nodded her head shyly. “I saw the flowers on the door, they’re beautiful. Did you make them?”

Ashley shook her head.

“My friends at school made them for me.” she said, her hands fidgeting with her blanket.

“Oh, that’s so nice! I bet they miss you a lot at school… Do you miss school?”

Ashley nodded her head.

“The doctor says I won’t go back in a long time.” She explained sadly.

You heard the mom’s breath hitch. Clearly Ashley’s prognosis wasn’t good. Taking a deep breath, you braced yourself and put on a wide smile.

“I’m sure it won’t be that long. But until then, I have a little friend here that could keep you company.” You said sweetly before showing her the stuffed dog. Ashley smiled. “Do you like it?” The little girl nodded and reached out. As you handed it to her, you made sure to place a hand on her arm. Instantly your mutation transfers your powers through contact.

Ashley took the dog and hugged it tight to her chest.

“Thank you.”

The entire time Logan watched you closely from the door. You were so kind and gentle, so selfless with your power.

“Thank you for this.” The mom said to him. “We don’t have many good times at the hospital, for obvious reasons. What you and your colleague do is very meaningful. We really appreciate it.”

Logan stood in silence, not knowing what to say. He just nodded his head.

You stood up from the bed and gave Ashley’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“You take care, sweetie. And take care of that little friend.” You said pointing at the dog. She giggled and nodded her head.

“I will!”

Once you and Logan left the room, Logan stopped you.

“What happens next? Will she be okay?” He asked and you nodded your head.

“Tomorrow, or one of these days, the doctor will run some tests and find out there’s no traces of cancer in her. It will be odd, and no one will be able to explain it. Her mom will probably say it’s a miracle or something like that… and that will be it.” You shrugged. It really was that simple.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.” Logan said, amazed. You smiled.

“You just wait and see, we’re just getting started.” you said before picking another toy and heading towards the next room.

The toy bag was empty and you were exhausted. It had been a long day at the hospital and you were ready to go home and sleep for the next week and a half.

Logan noticed you could barely stand on your feet, so he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer, letting you use him for support as you both walked back to the car. He opened the passenger door and helped you sit down before fastening your seatbelt.

“You doing ok there, bub?” He asked with a frown.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I think I’m running on empty now.” You said softly, your head wobbling against the headrest.

“We’ll get something to eat on our way to the mansion, alright?” He said before closing the door and getting to the driver’s side.

As promised, Logan stopped by a diner on the way to the mansion and got some food. Sitting on the hood of the car, you munched happily at the burger he got you, humming at the delicious fatty taste. Logan sat next to you, eating a burrito.

“It’s a good thing you have healing powers.” Logan commented, one hand holding up a tray of fries for you to take some. “That looks like a heart attack on a plate.”

You chuckled.

“You don’t get to judge, I’ve seen the cigars you smoke.” You teased back and grabbed some of the fries. Logan smiled.

“How often do you do this?”

“Every other week.” You replied. “I would do it more often but people would start getting suspicious.” Then you frowned, and Logan watched you zooming out, deep in your thoughts. “It sucks, really. I wish I could help them all, I wish I could cure everyone, everything… There are so many people in pain, so many lives I could save or change for the better, but there’s only so much I can do in one day.”

Logan felt a tug in his chest, his heart aching for you. He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re already doing a lot. Think of all the parents that won’t have to bury a child thanks to you.” He said softly, and his words comforted you. “You may not save the whole world, but you save theirs.”

You smiled softly.

“Thank you Logan. Would you like to come with me to the hospital some other time?”

“Of course, bub.”

Logan had given up on humanity a long time ago. He had seen so much pain and cruelty, he was sure it was only a matter of time before human kind exterminated itself.

You gave him a little bit of hope. Maybe not everyone was so bad.

#logan howlett #x men #hugh jackman #logan howlett fic #the wolverine #james logan howlett #james howlett #wolverine #x men fanfiction #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x you #logan x reader #Healing touch

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internetdaddy98 · 2 months ago

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The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 24

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Content Warning: steamy; jealousy: angst; swearing ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t mean to check her location. He really didn’t.

But the app was still on his phone from that one time she got locked out of her apartment after a shift, and now—now it glared back at him like proof of weakness. Y/N: Home.

Of course she was. Because it was their week off. Because normal people used their days off to relax. Not to spiral.

He tossed his phone on the counter and paced. Again.

Three times that morning, he’d almost texted her.

Once to ask if she wanted coffee. Once to see if she’d seen the weather. And once—because he missed her. Stupid. Childish.

The jealousy from the night before still simmered beneath his skin. He could see it like snapshots behind his eyelids: the way that guy had leaned into her space. The sound of her laugh—one he hadn’t heard directed at him in weeks. The stupid way she’d blushed when the guy asked her out while she was holding gauze to his eyebrow.

Robby didn’t blame her. Not really.

He blamed himself.

For the rooftop. For letting his pride get louder than his heart.

But that didn’t change the way it felt—watching her smile at someone else. Not when she used to smile at him like that.

He grabbed his keys.

This wasn’t going to fix itself.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’d spent the better part of the day in pajamas, alternating between staring at your ceiling and doom-scrolling through videos you weren’t really watching.

You weren’t expecting the knock.

You were still in the giant hoodie you’d stolen from Robby months ago, curled up on the couch with a half-drunk cup of tea and a heartache you’d been nursing like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

When you opened the door and saw him, you froze.

Robby stood there—hood down, chest rising fast, jaw clenched like he’d run here on pure adrenaline. His eyes were brewing up a storm. Wild. Angry. Wanting.

“Michael? What are you—?”

“You laughed with him,” he said, stepping inside before you could even finish.

You blinked. “What?”

“That patient,” he growled. “He was flirting with you and you laughed.”

You shut the door, spine straightening. “And that’s why you’re here?”

His eyes flashed. “You think that was easy for me to watch? You think I liked seeing him look at you like you were his to have?”

“I’m not yours either,” you snapped, chest tight.

That did it.

In two steps he was in front of you, chest to chest, eyes burning.

“You think I haven’t wanted to make you mine every damn day since you walked into that pedes room?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You think I don’t wake up thinking about your mouth, your laugh, the way you say my name like it matters?”

You swallowed hard, heart slamming against your ribs.

“Then why—” you started, voice shaking. “Why did you push me away? Why did you let me think you didn’t care?”

“Because I was fucking terrified!” he snapped. “Terrified of how much I cared. Of how deep I was already in before I even realized it.”

You took a shaky breath, but he wasn’t done.

“I see you with other people and it kills me. That guy last night? I wanted to throw him through a fucking wall.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m not proud of it,” he murmured. “But I’m not gonna pretend anymore.”

He stepped closer. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But if you think I’m just gonna walk away and let someone else touch what I’ve been dying to hold—”

He cupped your jaw then.

“—you’re wrong.”

Your lips parted, a protest half-formed, but he kissed you before you could say it.

And God, your body was on fire.

The kiss was not gentle. Not sweet.

It was weeks of unresolved tension, frustration, jealousy, and lust, all crashing into each other like a dam breaking. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. Your fingers clutched at his shirt like you needed something to anchor you.

You gasped when his mouth broke from yours and trailed down your jaw, your neck.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered against your skin. “Every damn shift. Every time you smile at someone else. Every time you walk away.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed.

You blinked. “That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair is you pretending you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he growled. “Walking around the ER, laughing with every idiot who gets five minutes of your attention. Acting like you’re not mine.”

Your breath caught.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he said, voice low and possessive. “I don’t care if it’s messy or complicated or if the whole damn hospital knows. I’m done watching someone else look at what’s mine.”

“I thought you didn’t want me,” you whispered.

“I lied.”

Silence thundered between you.

“I lied because I was afraid,” he said. “Because I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

He took your face in his hands, gaze dark and raw.

“But then you walked in, and every rule I’ve ever followed stopped mattering. Every night I went home and couldn’t sleep because I could still smell you on my scrubs. Every shift I memorized the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you bite your lip when you’re charting, the sound of your laugh when you actually let someone in.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, throat tight.

“And when I saw him touching you,” Robby said, stepping forward until your back hit the door, “it felt like someone was trying to take you from me.”

You gasped. “Michael…”

“Say you’re not mine,” he whispered, mouth inches from yours. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

And that’s all it took.

He crashed into you with a growl, mouth claiming yours like he’d been starving for it. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you up against the door, and you wrapped your legs around him without a second thought.

His kiss was fire and fury—angry, aching, desperate. Your hands clutched at his hoodie, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself to the only thing that felt real in the mess.

“You think anyone else gets to see you like this?” he whispered against your mouth. “Touch you like this? Never. You’re mine, Y/N. Only mine.”

You moaned into the kiss, and that sound—God, it undid him.

He carried you to the couch, laying you down like something precious, like something that had always been his, and tonight—finally—he could have you.

His mouth found your neck, your jaw, the spot beneath your ear that made you shiver.

“I should’ve said this months ago,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Should’ve claimed you the second I realized what this was.”

You arched into him, body aching for more.

“You still can,” you whispered.

His mouth met yours again—hot, possessive, and full of every word he hadn’t said until now.

Mine.

Yours.

#michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #noah wyle

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delilahsturniolo · 1 month ago

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⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . mentions of blood, descriptions of a wound, romantic tension, slow burn.

CHAPTER TEN: NEW BLOOD, OLD WOUNDS

read more parts here!

you limp down the cracked sidewalk, leg aching, heart worse. the sky’s bleeding pink into a gray, tired dusk, and the group is quieter than ever. it’s like everyone’s waiting for someone else to break first. lana’s trailing behind chris and nick, arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes flicking to every shadow. she hasn’t said much since the diner, just quiet thanks and awkward silences. she doesn’t trust any of you yet, and, honestly? you don’t really trust her either.

you glance at matt. he’s walking ahead, again. not too far, but enough that it feels like a statement, a message. his jaw’s clenched. his knuckles white around his weapon. like if he just focuses hard enough, he can pretend he didn’t say something that shattered the air between you two like broken glass. and you wish you could stop replaying it…

“we kissed once. it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

it meant everything. even if he’s too afraid to admit it.

nick finally breaks the silence, walking backward like a tour guide in a war zone. “okay. i vote we find shelter and maybe have a full group therapy session, but like, in a chill, emotionally repressed way.”

“we’re not stopping yet,” matt says without looking back.“dude,” nick deadpans, “you’re limping. she’s bleeding. chris has been muttering to the cat for twenty minutes.”

“he has a name,” chris snaps, holding whiskers tighter. “and he’s helping me emotionally process our near-death experience.” lana finally speaks. “there’s a place up ahead. small house. boarded up, but i saw it on the way in. it looked empty.” matt hesitates. eyes narrow. “you’re just now mentioning that?” she shrugs. “you didn’t ask.”

nick raises a brow. “oh, cool. i love when strangers maybe lead us into traps. very fun for me personally.” but no one has a better option, so you go. the house is small. half-swallowed by vines, windows thick with grime. the door creaks open with a sound like a dying animal. but it’s quiet. still. no fresh blood, no smell of rot. for once… it feels safe.

nick checks the back, chris sets up a sleeping spot for whiskers, and lana sits in the farthest corner, hugging her knees like she wants to disappear into them. you collapse against a wall, pressing a cloth to your leg. it stings, bad. you’re trying to hide how much it hurts, but matt notices. of course he does. he crosses the room, dropping his pack next to you without saying a word. pulls out gauze. alcohol. tape. you blink at him. “i can do it myself.”

“you shouldn’t have to,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. and before you can argue, he’s kneeling in front of you, carefully peeling back the cloth, your breath catches. because even now, even when you’re angry and hurting and full of everything you never said.

his hands are gentle.

he doesn’t look up, just focuses on the wound. “i didn’t mean to say what i said like that.” you don’t respond. he dabs the alcohol and you flinch. he curses under his breath. “sorry.”

“why’d you say it then?” you ask, voice quiet. he pauses. tape in hand. “because,” he finally says, “you make me forget that we’re not safe. that this could all be gone in a second. and i—i can’t lose you.” you swallow. “so your solution is to push me away?” he looks up at you now. eyes dark and tired and pleading. “i’m not good at this,” he says. “but i’m trying. i want you. even if it’s stupid. even if it’s risky. i just… don’t know how to be in love and be in survival mode at the same time.”

your heart stops. “in love?”

his eyes widen just slightly. like he didn’t mean to say it. like the words slipped out before he could stop them. but he doesn’t take them back. you don’t say anything, just stare at him like the floor’s disappeared under you. he finishes taping your leg, slower now. hands lingering. breath shallow.

then, suddenly—

a crash from outside.

everyone jumps. nick swears. chris grabs a pan. lana stands, wide-eyed. you freeze. matt stands, already moving toward the window. “stay here.”

“like hell i am,” you say, following him. and when you peer through the cracked slats, your blood runs cold. figures. three of them. not undead. alive. armed. heading straight for the house.

not zombies. people.

matt turns to you, low and panicked. “we’ve got company. and not the good kind.”

“you think they saw us?” as if on cue, a voice beamed from outside.

“we know you’re in there. come out with your weapons down. you’ve got ten seconds.” everyone’s frozen. you look at matt, matt looks at you back. and all of that tension, all the fear, the love, the mess of feelings…is right there between you again. he steps closer, matt grabs your hand and holds it. “if we make it out of this,” he says, “we’re not ignoring this anymore. okay?” you squeeze his hand. “okay.” the door rattles. you all lift your weapons. outside, the countdown begins.

“ten… nine… eight…”

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godmadeaterribleerror · 4 months ago

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Chapter 7 - Something I Can See

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Big chapter for fans of yapping and Dean overthinking things.

Chapter title from Something to Believe by Weyes Blood

Word Count: 16.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sam and Dean drive you home. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, big angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 6 - Chapter 8

Read on A03!

She was going to be okay. They’d managed to get the knife out of her gut, and Sammy had stitched Her up, so She’d be fine.

She was still knocked out, but Her breathing was even. The blade had been so hot Dean had needed to use a towel to hold it, but it was out of Her body. Her wound kept bubbling and blistering, but it wasn’t an infection.

She’d be fine. Dean was going to kill Her, but she’d be fine.

He looked down at Her, spread out across Baby’s backseat and curled into her body. She’d barely made a sound since She’d passed out. Only soft moans and whimpers as they worked on the injury, and a few grunts as they’d moved Her into the car, adjusted Her body in the seat, and set off on the road.

They’d done everything. All Her shit was in the trunk, Sam was sitting with her to make sure she didn’t fall over or get worse, and Dean was breaking every traffic law he could think of to get there faster.

To South Dakota.

To Bobby’s.

It had taken Dean too long, in the parking lot, to actually call Bobby. He’d waited until She was settled, until they’d loaded almost everything into the car, and until Sammy was dealing with the front desk so Dean was alone.

He hadn’t been alone. He’d been sitting in the back of the Impala, Her head on his knee and his hand unable to stop tracing over her face.

It was wrong. Looking at Her like this. Features sunken and hollow, lips drained of blood, breathing shallow in a way Dean could feel. It made his own breath labored, his whole body tensed as She relaxed against him, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the trust of Her vulnerability, the way Her beautiful face was half buried in his thigh, the way She’d let out a weak, sad sound whenever he tried to pull away.

He’d hurt Her. He’d spent the entire night after their fight ripping apart the club grounds and roaring Her name, giving Sam daring looks to say a single thing. He’d beaten himself into the mud in fear that he’d lose Her twice. Once with spat words and a cold look of hatred, then again with a shredded body and dulled eyes.

He’d wanted to strangle Her. He’d wanted to apologize, and shout that he had nothing to apologize for. She’d lied.

Not about what Dean thought She’d been lying about, but She’d still lied.

Although, admittedly, the truth was far more confusing.

Because Dean had stared at the small, robot-print letters on Her phone screen—pixilated and fuzzy and flipping his world upside—and not known how to process them.

Bobby Singer.

There could be other Bobby Singers that weren’t Dean’s Bobby Singer. That weren’t the guy who was practically his uncle, who he’d played catch with, who’d made him food and given Sammy run-down toys to play with.

It didn’t make sense for this to be Dean’s Bobby. Dean had half grown up in that house. He’d stayed there for weeks on end when Dad had been on a really bad hunt—hunts where he’d come back with hooded eyes and fisted hands, snapping short orders because they didn’t have time to waste on sentimentality—and Bobby had never once had a daughter. Especially not a hot, annoying, impossible one.

Dean would’ve remembered meeting Her before. There’s no shot he would’ve ever forgotten Her. He couldn’t. He’d tried. Dean was pretty sure that, even if he’d only laid eyes on Her once in passing, he would’ve been drawn down into Her and never climbed back out.

That was simply what She did. Who She was. A walking, breathing song that Dean couldn’t figure out how to touch but still wanted to try to learn. She got stuck in his head and played there on loop, and if he’d ever seen Her before that moroi hunt, he was damn sure he would’ve remembered.

And Bobby would’ve told him. If Bobby had a kid that was around Sam and Dean’s age, they would’ve known. Dad would’ve known.

Dad should’ve known. And he obviously hadn’t. Whenever Dean had brought Her up, Dad had called Her that little girl.

Hell, Dad had told Bobby about Her. Dad had said Her name and Bobby hadn’t gone Fuckin’ Jesus, John, that’s my daughter. The hell is She doin’ huntin’ a poltergeist.

Bobby had reacted strangely, though. Dean remember him hanging up right after Dad mentioned Her.

And She had mentioned her dad was a gruff, smart hunter. Which described Bobby, and explained why She knew so much random shit about hunting, and that was Bobby’s number in Her phone, and-

She’d lied. She’d said She didn’t know a Bobby. She’d asked Dean what he thought of Bobby.

Like She was curious what he’d think.

Son of a bitch.

Because when Dean squinted, he could see Bobby on Her face. Not physically, but in small divets and shadows on Her face and body and voice.

They rolled their eyes the same way. Like they were done with everyone’s shit, and knew that they were the most competent and reliable person in the room.

She had the same laugh Bobby had. Dean had only heard Bobby laugh—really, fully laugh with his whole chest—three or four times, but it was the exact same laugh. Loud and powerful and almost cartoonish.

They didn’t walk the same way, but they fought in similar movements. Brutal and effective, with no more or less than necessary.

And if Dean really thought about it, there were smaller things he could draw together. How She turned a page, how She held a pencil, how She drank her coffee.

Small mannerisms She would’ve picked up from being raised by someone, the same way Dean would spin his keys and Sammy always flipped his wallet in his hands before opening it.

Like Dad did.

Part of Dean hadn’t wanted to call the number. His thumb hovered far too long as he’d debated if he even wanted to know. If this was really what it seemed to be, and he’d have to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t known existed a fucking hour ago.

She could never know that he’d looked down at Her, and that had been what finally got him. That Her scrunched face had made his heart feel like it was being wrenched and pounded, that he’d run his thumb over Her nose, she’d relaxed, and let out a song-like sigh that had been it.

He’d pressed call, held the phone to his ear, and still not fully believed it until the line picked up after two rings.

“Hey, kiddo, I wasn’t expectin’ you to call until you had that Kelpie down. You alright?”

Dean had frozen, his voice caught in his throat, staring at Her face as static sounded in his ear.

That was Bobby. Bobby clearing his throat, Bobby grunting Her name-

“Is everythin’-“

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice had been hushed, and he’d watched Her carefully to make sure she wasn’t disturbed.

There had been a long moment of silence, this time from Bobby’s end, and then-

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s-“

“Where the hell did you find this phone, boy?”

Dean had said Her name, his hand tracing over Her brow, still checking she was real. “She gave it to me.”

“She fuckin’- where is she?”

“She’s right here-“

“Put her on, I need to talk to her.”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean had swallowed, and She’d shifted slightly, pressing further into his lap. “I can’t.”

“Dean Winchester, I ain’t lookin’ to kill you, but if you don’t-“

“No, I- I literally fucking can’t, Bobby.”

“Why in hells balls can’t ya’ pass a phone-“

Dean said Her name again, something like lead coating his throat. “Uh, she’s- She’s knocked out.”

There was a brief second of silence, and Dean had winced when Bobby spoke again.

“What the hell typa’ shit have you two gotten into that she’s knocked out?!”

“A demon attacked her, and we- Bobby, we tried to fight it off but it got a knife into her gut, and Sammy patched her up but-“

“Sam’s there?”

Dean had frowned. “Yeah, uh, who else-“

“Never mind, I thought-“ Bobby had sighed through the phone, something tense growing in his voice. “She stable?”

“Yeah, but she told us to call you.”

“Alright, bring her up here and I’ll be ready. And Dean?”

Dean had nodded, staring at Her gorgeous, almost peaceful face, and there had been a long stretch of silence before he remembered Bobby couldn’t see him.

“Dean-“

“Shit, sorry, what’s-“

“I don’t want you lettin’ a single fuckin’ thing near her but you and Sam, got it?”

“Yes, sir-“

“Don’t yes, sir me, boy. Promise me you’ll keep her in your sight.”

“I will. Promise.”

It had been an easy thing to say. The thought of leaving Her alone had—even as his head spun, and his chest started to mold with the question of why the hell she’d lied—made Dean feel taut and sick.

And Bobby had hung up the phone, and Dean had kept his promise. He’d never left Her alone, not for a second. Sam had sat with Her because Dean didn’t trust himself to care for her properly—didn’t deserve to have Her half slump over his body and sigh against his skin—and Dean’d had to force his eyes to stay on the road, and not drift to check on Her

It was bad enough that his mind had been wandering. Coming up with more and more reasons this didn’t make any fucking sense, and far too many reasons why it did.

She’d called going to Bobby’s home, and Dean felt something like bile in his throat at the thought that whenever She’d said home before, she’d been talking about Bobby. And lying. And letting Dean think She was living in a fancy gated palace, when she’d just been at Bobby’s. But now, when Dean pictured Bobby’s table, he could see Her at it. She slotted into the scene perfectly, just as She fit so well in every other part of Dean’s life.

And he still couldn’t hate Her. He had far too many questions—where the hell She’d been whenever they’d stayed with Bobby, why had She never corrected Dean, why had Bobby lied about knowing Her—and he didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he just couldn’t fucking hate Her.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam had asked a few hours ago, watching Dean carefully from the backseat. “What happened, last night? You just, you called me and said she’d stormed off, but-“

“Don’t.” Dean had muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel, and Sam had sighed.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me everything, I just want to know why she’d just fucked off, it doesn’t seem like her-“

“You don’t know her, Sam-“

“But you do-“

“Do I?” Dean had snapped, his eyes flicking back to Her in the rearview mirrors. Always close, and untouchable, and a mystery Dean could never seem to get close to solving. “I’m not sure anyone knows her, and I certainly fucking don’t.”

“Yeah, you do, Dean.” Sam had leaned forward, his tone far too careful and gentle. “Whatever fight you guys had, however pissed she got, I can’t be that bad-“

“Yeah, it can be.” Dean had scowled at the road, his voice lowering to a grunt. “Drop it, Sam. I fucking serious.”

Sam had sighed, and nodded. “Alright, what about the demon? Do you think we need to be keeping an eye out?”

“Eye out-“

“For another one.” Sam had glanced down to Her, she’d made a small noise of distress, and the sound had ached in Dean’s chest. “Dude, it- It knew who you were. And it seemed to know her-“

“There’s- How the hell would a demon know her-“

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking.” Sam had swallowed, and Dean could see the nerves written over his face in the mirror. “You think Bobby will have an idea?”

Dean didn’t know. He’d snapped at Sam that when they got to Bobby’s they’d have plenty of time to figure out what the fuck was happening, but the question was still echoing around his head.

Why would a demon have gone after Her. She was just a year older than Sammy, so she couldn’t have made that many enemies. She wasn’t some kind of target. There was nothing about her that could-

There was everything about Her. If Dean thought about it for too long—which is all he had time to do—She wasn’t just an enigma to Dean. Her family was still her family, no matter how she knew Bobby. Dad had said She’d stolen something, all those years ago. Maybe the demons would want it.

Maybe others felt that pull. Maybe there was something deeper Dean didn’t know how to see.

Maybe there was nothing at all, and the demon had been hunting Her because of her proximity to Dean.

That thought made him feel sore and ill. Dad said that it was a demon who had gotten Mom. A demon who had gotten Jess.

And She wasn’t Dean’s. She’d made that perfectly fucking clear.

But he couldn’t stop looking at Her. Couldn’t stop how the air didn’t feel clean in his lungs because Her breathing was shallow, how his hands kept itching on the wheel to brush over Her cheek and soothe the small wrinkle in Her brow. He could tell himself he just wanted to check for a fever, but he also wanted to move the hair from Her face. Sam was just letting is lie there, and Dean knew she hated people touching it, but she always let Dean touch her. She never slapped his hand away when he touched Her. She leaned into him, and sometimes She smile, and sometimes Dean could pretend she was his-

She wasn’t. She wouldn’t be. Dad had known Mom. Sam had known Jess.

Dean didn’t know anything. He didn’t know why the demon had been after Her, or what She been thinking just stomping off, or why Bobby was her home.

All he really knew was that this still looked wrong. That the sight of Her in pain was making his heart shred itself in his chest, and that he wanted to reach around the seats and touch Her. Pull Her into him until nothing else could hurt Her, until he could get her somewhere safer than him.

She’d be safer anywhere but with Dean. Bobby had said to keep an eye on Her, but Dean didn’t trust his eyes. All week they’d kept seeing things that didn’t really make sense. Every moment they just made Her more beautiful, even as Dean silently cursed himself for still looking.

He couldn’t stop looking. He fucking hated Her for lying, but every single sharp and blunted piece of wrath in Dean’s chest felt more searing when it carved on his own ribs. She was a liar, but Dean was a piece of shit. He’d bitten Her too hard. He didn’t have a damn clue about Her life, but he’d still aimed to kill and then been a whiny son of a bitch when his shot had landed.

She may bring out the most of him, but it was still Dean who was made of all those foul, uncontrolled pieces.

Dad knew how to control himself. Dad wasn’t perfect, but at least he kept himself in line, and he’d tried to teach Dean how to do the same but Dean was just weaker. Pathetic and useless.

He didn’t deserve to be around Her. No matter how much it pissed Dean off that She was better than he was, it didn’t change the fact. Dean wasn’t worthy of being around Her.

And he still couldn’t stop looking. She was dangerous, and awesome, and looked so perfect in Dean’s car—fit so well with everything that was Dean, everything that belonged to him—but she also was impossible. And insufferable. And seemed to be trying to break Dean into pieces, because Her eyes fluttered, her breath hitched, and She arched her back.

All while mumbling Dean.

Her eyes drifted open, a small frown on Her face, and the first thing she said was Dean.

She was trying to kill him.

“Dean.“ Her voice was soft, and weak, and rooted right into the cavity of Dean’s chest. Washing it in silver light with only Her voice, saying his name as Her fingers flexed and she reached mindlessly out into the air.

There’s a brief second where Dean wondered if She was looking for him. Reaching out to see if he’d take Her hand, if he’d reassure her with just his touch.

He needed to get it together.

He didn’t know how.

“I- Dean, what’s- I don’t-“ Her voice was growing distressed, Her slightly gazed as they dragged open. Her fingers seemed to be digging into Her skin as she shrank into the bench, Her breathing speeding up and becoming short and shit-

It looked wrong. It felt wrong. Dean had no right to touch Her, no reason to tense and balk at the sight of Her in pain—small and panicked and almost feral in his backseat, ducking Her head and hugging her body as if she could shield herself—but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting hold Her until she was calm, to wrap himself around her like a barrier from everything else that could hurt Her in the world.

It was selfish as hell. Dean could hurt Her. Dean had hurt Her. He was the asshole who got them here in the first place, all by not knowing how to just control himself.

He didn’t want to control himself right now. Not as Her face twisted in pain.

Not as She kept saying his name.

“Where are we- I- Dean-“

“I’m here,” He muttered Her name, gripping the back of his seat to stop himself from reaching for her. “We’re in the car.”

She went silent, Her body stilling completely, and cold seized over Dean’s body. Why was She just lying there. Why wasn’t She speaking, or shouting, or sneering. Asking questions or spitting venom about their fight, trying to get up or curl further into Herself, why was she so fucking still-

Dean was about to damn it, reach further back, and touch Her—just to feel the warmth of Her body, just to get something of a reaction—when She finally spoke.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Dean would’ve never bet on that being what She’d say. On Her seeming to mean it, her face twisted slightly, Her head bowed, and her voice soft. “I- I didn’t mean to.”

He frowned. “Mean to what.”

“Anything.”

Her eyes drifted open. Bright and seeming to glow on Dean’s, looking at him like She always had. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve thought their fight had never happened. There was no possible way it could’ve when She was still looking at him. Right into him, into the deep pit in his body that felt smaller under Her attention. Felt lined or coated in warmth and light, because that was what She did to him.

And She still looked vulnerable. Just watching him, something more nervous on her face than Dean usually saw, something almost afraid.

He hated it. She shouldn’t fear Dean, She should trust him. She didn’t, but he needed Her to. At least enough to know that, even if Dean—for some sick, fucked reason—tried to, he couldn’t lay a hand on Her. He could hiss and mock and poison Her with his mouth or presence, but he was pretty damn certain that his body would turn itself to ash before it hurt Her.

Which didn’t make sense. It wasn’t rational, or reasonable, or understandable. But Dean’s hand flexed on the seat, and She practically fucking flinched, and Dean had never felt lower in his life. Any ideas he’d been holding about demanding answers and shouting about everything—their fight, Her lies, his brimming and spilling desire and how She needed to stop doing this to him so he could control himself—began to vanish into thin air. It was impossible to be really, truly angry at Her when she looked like that. Beautiful and fragile and critical to the blood in Dean’s body.

He’d find that anger later, and they’d fight later. For now he just let out a long breath, and shrugged.

“’S fine.” It wasn’t. But it was the only good thing to say here, because Dean might rather stab himself than tell Her about how fucking furious he was, and make Her fold further down. He’d wounded Her enough for a while. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m-“ She paused, hands padding over Her stomach. “Did you-“

“Sammy gave you some stitches.” Dean said, watching her carefully. “He’s not great that them, though, so don’t move.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. Dean wished he could touch it. “Where is Sam?”

“Getting gas. We got a few hours left until we hit Sioux Falls.”

“Oh.”

Dean didn’t miss the flash of something over Her face. He didn’t know what. He just knew it was wired, and taut, and brittle. That he wanted to ease it, but didn’t know how. Wasn’t really worthy of trying to learn.

But Sam was taking a while.

And Dean couldn’t fucking stand how fearful She looked.

“If you press on the stitches, does it hurt?”

She raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to press on them, Winchester.”

“Nah, I know, I’m just trying to figure out how shit a job Sammy did.”

She didn’t look like She believed him, and Dean really wished he’d come up with a better excuse to talk to Her, because now she was lifting up her shirt.

Her skin looked a little raw and torn around the wound, but everywhere else was soft. Smooth. He’d noticed it while patching Her up, that she barely had any pale, raised patches of skin where other hunters did.

No scars was so fucking rare.

But so was She.

And Dean needed to pull it together.

“It’ll hold,” She looked back to Dean, and he had to blink at her. Pretend he hadn’t just been gaping at Her bare skin. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He muttered, scanning over Her features. She was awake, but there still wasn’t enough color in Her face. Too little fury behind Her eyes, nothing dancing and shining like it usually did. She looked exhausted. Weakened. The little furrow of Her brow tighter than usual.

They had hours to go, and Dean knew how to fix that. He knew how to poke at Her until she snapped and everything bent with Her—all Her force making the world clearer, Dean’s body stronger—and how to walk right up to the invisible line, touch Her just as much as he was allowed, and make Her relax. Sam didn’t. But Dean did.

“I’m coming back there.” He grunted, starting to shift in his seat, and She frowned.

“What?”

“Sammy’s gonna drive the rest of the way, I’ll sit with you-“

“No, you don’t-“

He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear Her say he didn’t have to, because it just reminded him that she didn’t feel this. That there was nothing that called Her to Dean’s side, because if there was she’d be fucking begging him to sit with Her.

He knew that, because he was seconds away from dropping to a new low and begging Her.

“We had Sammy back there all day,” he held Her gaze, trying to make his voice stern. “Only fair you get saddled with me too.”

“I’m not-“ She cut herself off with a shake of Her head. “I don’t need Sam to sit with me either, De. I’m fine.”

De. She said De, and it was maybe the only thing more powerful than Her calling him Dean. Even if She didn’t mean it, the word felt like a command over his body, and that was only another thing Dean didn’t understand.

“You’re- you look like shit, Princess.“ He couldn’t stop the nickname from slipping out of his mouth. No matter how screwed things were, the way Her body loosened slightly at the sound of it was always a small high, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop chasing it.

She scowled. “Hey-“

“You just got stabbed, and you haven’t woken up in six hours-“

“I’m awake now-“

“And I’d like to keep it like that.” Dean snapped. “I- you just gotta-“ He ran a hand over his face, because She didn’t want him there, but every time Her eyes drooped or Her body twitched with pain it made Dean’s gut contract. “At least keep Sammy. So you’re not alone.”

She rolled Her eyes. It really did fucking look like Bobby. “I’m not alone, dummy, you’re like two feet away.”

“What if you pass out again? Am I just supposed to pull over?”

“Yeah? I mean, I’m not gonna pass out-“

“You can’t know that, sweetheart-“

“I can guess.” She glowered at him, raising Her chin slightly, and even lying down She looked like royalty. “It’s my body, Winchester, and I feel fine.”

“For now.” Dean muttered, and She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Shut up-“ She cut herself off with a yawn, and Dean’s jaw clenched.

She couldn’t see Her. Every single second that passed no light returned to Her eyes, and everything just grew duller. She’d just yawned. But Dean was pretty certain that—if She hissed at Sam to get in the front seat and not bother worrying about her—the giant baby would listen.

Dean needed to work around this. She needed to be okay.

“You’ll need to keep talking.” He grunted, holding her gaze. “I hear one second of silence, and we’re pulling over so I can move back there. Understood?”

She gave him a flat look. “Are you serious-“

“Deadly, Princess. Understood?”

Dean might be imagining it, but a little color returned to Her face. The flush. And the breath. And the-

“Understood.” She muttered. “You’re such a fucking dick.”

“You’ve told me.” Dean turned back to face ahead, and she let out a long breath behind him.

This silence was short, but maybe the heaviest Dean had ever experienced. It weighed on the top of his chest, and he didn’t know how to push it off, and he wanted to look at Her again, but he couldn’t bear it if She didn’t look at him-

“Dean,” She whispered, and his whole body went alert at the sound of her voice. Softer than usual, but still calling him down. “I’m-“

Whatever She was, Dean didn’t get to know. Sam knocked on his window, waving to Her in the backseat, and Dean had to turn and roll down the window so they could hear each other.

“Dude, why are you hunching down like that, just get in the freaking car-“

Sam rolled his eyes, not moving to from the window. “I still need to get coffee, Dean. And,” He said Her name with a grin, completely ignoring Dean’s glower. “You’re up!”

“Yep.” She returned Sam’s smile, and Dean scowled. She hadn’t smiled at him. “Thanks for the stitches.”

Sam shrugged, leaning a little further through the window. “No problem. They feel okay? Because I was rushing a little to get you on the road, and-“

“They feel fine, Sam. I feel fine.”

Those last words were shot at Dean, and he rolled his eyes. “You won the argument, Princess, don’t get all bitchy with me.”

“I am not being bitchy-“

“You’re being dramatic-“

“I just got fucking stabbed, Winchester, I can be as dramatic as I want.”

Dean scoffed, twisting in his seat. “I’m the one who had to watch you get stabbed-“

“How fucking harrowing for you-“

“What the hell does harrowing mean-“

“Hey!” Sam slapped Dean’s arm, shooting both of them a stern look. “You guys can fight all you want when we’re on the road, but we actually need to get on the road. Tell me what you want from the gas station, and kill each other after.”

She let out a long breath. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam said Her name, gave Dean a pointed glare, and Dean scowled.

“I didn’t fucking do anything-“

She scoffed, the sound a rough cough that almost made Dean leap over the bench to pick Her up and hold her to his chest. “Oh, fuck off, Winchester-“

“Wouldn’t you love that, Princess-“

“Dean!” Sam snapped. “Don’t- Just tell me what you want, please.”

Dean opened his mouth, and She cut him off with sharp, short words.

“Don’t say pie. You’re driving.”

Dean was either going to smother Her with his hands around her neck, or with his mouth slammed to Her’s. She was so fucking hot, and annoying, and Dean wouldn’t strangle her because he knew his dumb body wouldn’t allow him, but Jesus, She needed to shut the hell up before Dean made her and then lost her forever-

“Dean?” Sam was raising his brows. Waiting for a response.

“Gimme some coffee.” He muttered, gripping the wheel like it could save him from Her glare, and how it made his skin feel sore. “And jerky.”

Sam nodded, glancing over to Her, and when she spoke her voice was too quiet. He watched to jump over the bench again.

“Coffee and candy?”

“Sure, you want anything specific-“

“Whatever’s cheap.” She said, and Dean was going to break the wheel.

His head was churning and spiraling again. She said that like Bobby said it. The same dismissive cheaper is easier, boy, and I ain’t an idiot to fall for fancy fuckin’ packagin’ tone.

“Snickers?” Sam offered, and She must have nodded because a second later, he was gone.

It was silent. So silent that Dean had a brief, stabbing moment of worry that She was passed out again. His eyes flicked up to the mirror again, and Her eyes were open—pretty and glaring at Dean like She wanted to stab him—but they looked lidded. And the little furrow was becoming more prominent, and Her breathing was a little too shallow, and-

“You’re supposed to be talking.” Dean snapped, and She rolled Her eyes. And it was still exactly like Bobby did, but, son of a bitch it was so much hotter-

He needed to get a grip. He needed to figure out how—when they eventually did get to Sioux Falls—he was ever going to be able to look at Her and not wonder how he hadn’t seen it before. He was a little fucking worried he’d look at Bobby and start to feel that gravitational pull. That Dean would start to orbit around Bobby, and smell him all the time, and hear his voice in dreams-

If that happened, Dean would need to give himself a concussion and pray it erased his memory. He already didn’t love how he wanted nothing more than to crawl over Her and make her smile, and if he started to crave Bobby’s attention too, he’d lose his mind. Crashing into Her was usually good, when she wasn’t trying to give him a heart attack or being the most impossible person Dean had ever met. Crashing into Bobby would be gross. If Dean had to start fantasizing about Bobby under him when he fucked someone, he might just have to kill himself-

“Dean!” She was shouting, Her voice slightly strained, and he turned to frown at Her.

“What’s-“

“What am I supposed to be talking about?”

He frowned. “I don’t fucking care-“

“Alright, then I won’t-“

“No.” Dean pointed a stern finger at Her, narrowing his eyes. “You gotta talk. That was the deal.”

“I didn’t make a deal, you just ordered me to talk-“

“I did not order you, Princess, I’m trying to goddamn keep you alive after you went and got stabbed-“

“Oh, suck my fucking dick-“

The car door opened, and they both turned to see Sam leaning into the car, coffees in hand and snacks under his arms.

“Oh, good, you didn’t murder each other.” Sam passed out their coffees and snacks, his voice a dry mutter that was gonna get him punched. “Actually,” he frowned between them. “If you’re going to fight for the rest of the ride, can Dean sit in the back so I can tune it out-“

“Neither of you are sitting in the back.” She pushed Herself upright with a small, weak sound, and Her hands were shaking. Dean was going to tackle Her.

“Maybe, uh,” Sam glanced at Dean as he said Her name, like he could see the rough tension over his heart at Her insistence to be as difficult as possible. “I mean, I really don’t mind if I do have to sit with you-“

“I’ll be alright without a babysitter-“

“Because you’re going to keep talking.” Dean muttered, drumming his hands on the wheel. “Sammy, apparently her majesty can’t come up with a topic, so that’s on you, but I don’t want a single second of silence, sweetheart, or-“

“You’ll pull over and be a massive fucking baby.” She snapped, and Dean wished She wasn’t so hot when she was pissed. “He threatened me, Sam.”

Dean scowled. “I did not threaten you-“

“Fine. It was blackmail.”

“It was- I-“ Dean whipped around to glower at her. “You’re such a fucking-“

“Bitch?” She sneered, holding his gaze. “Am I a bitch? Am I a spoiled little bitch?”

“That’s- You know I wasn’t-“

“Trying to hurt my little bratty girl feelings-“

“I never fucking said-“

She scoffed, and Dean could swear something hot and wired was fueling all his anger. Maybe it was how the air in the car seemed to be waving, or how every word was venomous and cold and making something inside of him wither, or how breathing was so fucking painful when She was furious and sneering-

“That I’m a bitch? That I’m a controlling fucking bitch-“

“Shut up! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Dean slammed his hand on the bench, and She flinched. Visibly flinched. Recoiled.

“I- I didn’t-“ She swallowed, staring at Her cup in her hands. “Sorry.”

Dean was a piece of fucking shit. He’d done it again. He’d pushed it too far because he was an asshole.

He muttered Her name, his voice low. “I didn’t- I’m-“

“Don’t.” She mumbled, and She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll keep talking.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and all he could do was nod. She looked sick. He fucking felt sick. He kept slamming his fist between them, making everything worse, hurting Her in a way he’d never seemed to be able to hurt anyone before-

Sam cleared his throat. Dean had forgotten he was there.

“So, uh, we’re talking.”

Dean opened his mouth to say no, they needed to fucking patch whatever the hell was wrong with him with glue, so he could shove himself into her hands as a pathetic, useless apology, but She was faster. Better. Still a liar, still in pain, but also still beautiful. Still so far away from Dean.

“Yeah. Get in the car.”

Sam nodded, shooting Dean one last look, and leaned out of the car. Dean started the engine—biting his tongue not to vomit a million apologies he knew wouldn’t come out right—and they were back on the road.

Four hours until they hit Bobby’s.

Four hours of beating himself bloody in silence, and listening to Her speak.

Normally Dean would’ve thought there was no better way to spend his time than being drowned in Her voice, and hearing her say anything at all. But normally She wasn’t in this pain, where She’d gesture too broadly and hiss, or Baby would hit a bump and She’d whine. Normally he didn’t have to force himself not to look at Her—and whenever he lost control and his eyes slipped to Her in the mirror, she didn’t look so colorless and drained—and normally Dean allowed himself to speak to Her in more than grunts.

She was acting like everything was fine. Sometimes he’d look back and She’d be smiling, and it didn’t reach Her eyes, and Dean had done that. That wasn’t the injury.

That was just Dean. Ruining everything because She’d fallen from the sky into his hands and he’d bashed Her into the mud.

“There’s…” Sam was said Her name, his voice filled with disbelief. “You don’t actually think that, right?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it-“

“But it’s Star Wars! I mean, it’s not perfect, but you can’t seriously believe it’s bad.”

“It is bad, Sam. It’s objectively poorly written, but it has iconic imagery, music, and actors-“

“Because it’s not bad!”

It had been thirty minutes of this. Sam hadn’t needed to look that hard to find a topic, and the moment he’d said the words Uh, you like movies? Dean had known it was over. He’d had this exact conversation with Her before, and it had involved a lot more yelling and shoving than Sam was getting.

It had also involved Her giggling and smiling and leaning so close that Dean could see even the smallest features on her face—tiny bumps and scars, little divets that somehow made Her more beautiful—and smell that strange fruit until it intoxicated him, and he’d thrown his hands up in surrender.

Her eyes had sparkled then. She still wouldn’t look at him now. Even when Sam would echo a point Dean had made before, She shot it down with ease—and a careful, detailed argument that made Dean think She’s been freaking practicing—and Sam would let out a sigh that sounded a little like a whine.

“I don’t think it’s useless, you know. I’m saying it’s not-“

“You just called it the most overhyped movie ever made!”

“And it is, but that’s why it’s not useless. It was the primary cause of science fiction being popularized-“

“Because people liked it!” Sam looked to Dean with wide eyes—as if Dean could fucking do something about this—and then back to Her with a shaking head. “I- They’re maybe the most popular movies of all time-“

“Popularity doesn’t equate quality, Sam.” She said, and Dean hoped She couldn’t see him mouthing along with her every word, knowing exactly what she’d say. “It can, but it doesn’t have to. Star Wars being popular is its greatest strength, because that mean it was able to serve as inspiration for many, better things.”

Sam scoffed. “Like what?”

That was a mistake. If Dean was allowing himself to participate in the conversation, he would’ve been able to tell Sammy that saying that—especially in a doubtful tone—was never a good idea. She’d have examples, and if She didn’t, she’d come up with some right here in the car.

Dean had fallen for that trap before. And he was too fucking tired and bitter to save Sam from it.

“I’m so glad you asked, Samuel.” Dean glanced in the mirror, and that was a wide, blinding, almost manic grin that appeared when She was about to hand Dean’s ass to him on a platter.

He almost felt bad for Sam.

“I- Samuel?”

She hummed, completely ignoring Sam’s indigence. “Almost all science-fiction movies are somewhat inspired by Star Wars, or owe Star Wars the popularity of the genre. And, Star Wars significantly popularized the use of Monomyth in film-“

Dean didn’t remember what Monomyth was. Sam didn’t seem to either, because She cut herself off with a sigh.

“The Hero’s Journey. In movies.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “Dean said you didn’t go to college.”

Dean cringed slightly, feeling Her glare through the mirror.

“Did he.”

“Yeah, it’s just surprising, you’re smart-“

“I don’t have to go to college to be smart.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, you just- You don’t sound like you didn’t-“

“I’ve read a lot.” She said, and a vision of Bobby’s library flashed through Dean’s head.

There were a shit ton of books in there. Even Sam hadn’t read them all, and Dean was pretty sure Bobby hadn’t either, but he also remembered Bobby saying that they’d all been read.

By Her.

“And,” She was still talking. Of course She was. “I’ve watched a lot of TV, which is how I know I’m right. Star Wars is terrible-“

In the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam open his mouth, and then make his first good choice of the day and close it.

“But it’s also the only reason we have Indiana Jones-“

“You like Indiana Jones?”

Dean rolled his eyes. Another mistake from Kid Genius in shotgun-

“Shut up, Winchester.”

Dean blinked, scowling at the road. “I didn’t say anything-“

“You were going to.” She snapped, and when Dean glanced back, she was glaring at him. “So shut up.”

Sam frowned between them. “Why would Dean-“

“Her majesty loves Indiana Jones.” Dean grunted. “Good luck, Sammy.”

“Don’t wish him luck, I’m not going to try to kill him-“

“Sure, Princess.”

She kicked the back of Dean’s seat, and he didn’t even grunt. The hit was weaker than usual, and it wasn’t because She wasn’t trying.

She was just weaker. She was still coughing and taking breaths that were far too long. Her eyes were still a little hollowed, and lips in too tight a line, and brow drawn in pain. Dean couldn’t fucking stand it. He wanted to pull over, grab Her and demand that they forgive each other now—or at least try to pretend nothing had happened in the first place—because she was hurt and needed Dean’s help-

“I’m not going to kill you, Sam.” She said, and Sam didn’t look all that reassured. “And I do love Indiana Jones. I think it’s fun.”

Sam frowned. “Star Wars is fun.”

“Star Wars parodies are fun. There’s an episode of the Muppet Show with the Star Wars cast, and it’s better than all the actual Star Wars movies combined.”

She and Sam kept talking—Sam refused to believe one single episode of television could be greater than a film trilogy, and Dean didn’t think She was capable of just surrendering any sort of argument—and Dean’s head started to wander again. Back to Bobby’s house, and every single sign of Her he’d never noticed. Never had reason to notice, or dwell on, or observe, but now he couldn’t stop remembering all the grenadine in Bobby’s fridge that the man himself never seemed to touch, but always seemed to be in use. All the normal books that weren’t for hunting, and didn’t seem like things Bobby would read.

If Dean squinted in his head, he could see the VHS tapes stacked near the TV. There had been a lot of movies he’d stayed up late to watch—action movies and westerns and some fancy art films he hadn’t action movies and TV shows-really understood—but also some he’d never touched. Comedy films and chick flicks and-

“Bobby had that show.” Dean muttered, and She and Sam fell silent. “The Muppet Show. He had a freakin’ VHS tape.”

They hadn’t mentioned it since She woke up. The looming axe over all their heads, that they were heading to Bobby’s, and She’d fucking lied about knowing him.

But Dean hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was never able to stop himself with Her. It was fucking amazing, how he kept managing to make this whole thing worse.

“Yeah.” She muttered. She’d tucked Her knees to her chest. “He does.”

Sam cleared his throat, his voice gentle. “I, uh, you don’t have to answer, but can I ask how you know Bobby? Dean said he raised you-“

“He did.”

“Oh.” Sam looked between Her and Dean with a frown. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Her voice becoming taut, and it squeezed around Dean’s throat. “I’ve told you my dad is a hunter-“

“So Bobby’s your dad?”

“No, it’s-“ She sighed. “I- It’s easier to say father than man who raised me. We’re not related.”

Sam nodded slowly, and Dean stayed perfectly fucking still in his seat. If he moved or breathed wrong, She might remember he was here and stop sharing things.

“If you- How have we never met before?” Sam’s voice was cautious. Dean understood that. “It’s just, Dean and I have known Bobby our whole lives, we’ve spent weeks at his house-“

“I was…” She swallowed, Dean didn’t have to look back to know Her head would be bowed, and she’d be picking Her skin bloody. “Really sick. I had to be kept separated from other people.”

It wasn’t a lie. Dean could fucking hear it, could feel the sinking ache into his bones at Her tired, heavy voice. And it didn’t matter how vague and useless an answer that was—how it just left him with more questions about how sick She’d been, what type of sickness, if She was alright now when she didn’t really seem to be—because it was the truth.

And She looked sad. She wouldn’t look up, and She was tucked into Herself, and there was hair blocking all Her features from view, and Dean wanted to move it and touch Her, trace his hands over Her face until she smiled and her body went loose-

She wouldn’t let him touch Her. If he tried, he’d probably get punched in the gut, and it would leave a gash in his intestine he didn’t know how to prevent or heal.

He was still pathetic though. Still feeling an itch on his skin the longer She looked like she was trying to hide from something invisible, the longer Her brow pressed to Her knees and the acidic silence stretched on.

He couldn’t just stop.

“Keep talking, Princess.” He grunted, and he could feel Her glare sear through his head. It was better than nothing.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was too gentle. He didn’t get it. How She was too quiet and too bendable and it was making Dean feel sunken and empty. “Maybe we can just listen to music or something-“

“No. Talk.”

Sam’s eyes widened, and if he kept gaping like that, Dean was going to kick and punch him.

“Well, Deano,” She was still glaring at him from the backseat. “What the fuck should I be talking about?“

“Anything, just-“

“Anything isn’t helpful-“

“Tell Sammy what food he is.” Dean snapped, and Sam blinked.

“Tell me what?”

“I’m pie,” Dean muttered, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Because the smartass back there is a little genius.”

“I am a genius.” Her voice was harsher than before. Stronger. “And I didn’t just say you were a pie, I said you were pecan pie, you asshole-“

“Same thing-“

“It’s not. The specification is important-“

“It’s damn pie, sweetheart. Pie is pie-“

“Why pecan?” Sam asked. “I mean, why not apple, or cherry-“

“Because I don’t pander.” She said, and Dean had to bite down a snort. “And he’s not nearly sweet enough to be cherry-“

Dean frowned. “Hey-“

“And,” She pushed on, ignoring Dean entirely. “The chewiness of pecan is very Dean.”

He didn’t know how to protest that. He didn’t know what to say to that. Not when he glanced back in the mirror and Her face was so unreadable.

She didn’t sound as pissed anymore. Dean didn’t know what to do with that.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding, looking between Her and Dean with another unreadable expression. Everyone needed to start saying what they were thinking soon, or Dean was gonna lose it. “I- Yeah. I can see that. What food am I, then?”

“Bubblegum.”

Her answer was quick, and if Dean didn't have to drive and brood, he would've laughed at the look on Sammy's face.

"I- Why?"

“You’re sweet. And flexible but still kinda stiff.”

Dean frowned, lowering his voice to speak under his breath. “I’m sweet.”

She hummed. “Yeah, but you’re an acquired taste, Deano. Like pecan.”

She kept talking, but the word bounced and echoed around Dean’s head. Deano. She only called him Deano when he’d said or done something stupid, but She wasn’t really that pissed about it. Deano had an underlying tone of affection to it. A higher sound on the De and a long moment on the O.

She might not hate him.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding slowly, still twisted in his seat. “I can be bubblegum. Is- Do you do that a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Uh, sort people, I guess? Like, what type of drink would you say I am?”

“She doesn’t drink, Sammy.” Dean muttered, and his seat got kicked again.

“I still know what drinks are-““Could you tell us what each one is like?” =

There was a brief pause—Dean could imagine the small, pouting frown on Her face—and then- “No.”

Dean shot Her a wink in the mirror before he could think better, and it was a mistake. She was glowering at him. She was really hot when She glowered at him—Dean could easily imagine smoke rising off Her body and small, silver spark flying over his skin when he touched Her—but her easy, high beauty wasn’t nearly enough to distract Dean from how shitty she looked. There was more gray in Her face than before, She was curled more into her own body, and, son of a bitch, Her eyes were fluttering slightly-

“What about music genres?” Dean said, just to keep Her talking, and She blinked at him. “What?”

“Music genres, Princess. You know hip-hop, pop, the blues-“

“I know what music genres are, asshole, why are you-“

“Which are we.” Dean gave a vague, one-handed wave between himself and Sammy. “Do your thing.”

“I don’t have a thing-“

“Yeah, you do. Give it a shot, sweetheart. Music genres.”

Sam gave Dean an unwelcome, amused look. “You know, it kind of feels like one of us-“

“Shut up, Sammy.” Dean looked back in the mirror, raising his brows at Her. “And you’re supposed to be talking.”

She wrinkled Her nose him, but she also started talking, so Dean didn’t really care all that much. He was rock—but She was annoying, said Latin pop first, and giggled for five straight minutes after—and Sammy was jazz. Fancy bar Jazz.

Dean didn’t know what that meant.

But he really liked the sound of Her voice, and the way She said most everything. She could’ve probably called Sam country music and he’d agree, just because of how She’d say. With a smooth, passive authority that told something in Dean’s brain She’s right. All the freaking time, even when She’s obviously wrong, she’s still right.

Sam was starbursts, and Dean was a KitKat. Dean was dusk, and Sam was noon. Sam was a Lily of the Valley, and Dean was a rose.

Dean had no interest in being a flower. He did like Her telling him what he was. He liked the idea that She’d been looking at him. That She’d thought about him enough to think he’d be a car if he was on object—which was a cheap shot, but still made Dean feel fuzzy—or a tree if he was a plant, or a seal if he lived in the ocean.

He frowned, waiting for Her to elaborate—he still wasn’t allowing himself to speak all that much, because this felt delicate and still slightly fractured—and decided he wouldn’t kick Sam’s ass for being a butthead the whole car ride when the kid took the bullet for him.

“Why am I an octopus?”

She yawned. It made Dean’s stomach clench. “You’re productive and floppy.”

Dean snorted, and Sam shot him a glare.

“Well then, why’s Dean a seal-“

“Cause he’s all big and toothy.”

Dean scowled. He wasn’t nearly as big and toothy as Sammy was, but fighting with Her on reasoning almost always ended up being a dead end. Just as how asking Her what she was only ever resulted in a hum and shrug. Dean’s goal was to keep Her talking, so he had to move on.

“Whatever, Princess. What about out of the ocean animals?”

She shifted a little in Her seat—letting out a small noise that hurt Dean’s whole body—but kept talking. Sam was this, and Dean was that. Dean was that, and Sam was this.

And every time she spoke, Dean could imagine the tilt of Her head, the way she was probably rubbing Her skin at she examined them and thought of an answer with far too much sincerity. He wanted to rub Her skin. To trace his hands up Her legs, watch Her look at him with nothing but softness in her eyes, feel nothing but molten light fill him up from the inside-

He needed to figure out how the hell She always did that. How all of Dean’s fury was now smothered and coated Her, how all the way in his soft tissue he just really wanted to touch Her. To stop giving Her reasons to sneer at him, to stop pushing Her until she fell away forever, for everything to just be alright.

For this conversation to be not edged with the knowledge that She probably didn’t want him around now. Even if She didn’t hate him, he must have snapped everything too much to fix it.

But Dean was pathetic, so he still wanted to care for and protect and follow Her.

He wanted to fix this. To salvage it.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just drop this, just sit with the fact that everything was ruined and over. Why something to the right of his heart seemed to pound and roar at the idea of never touching Her again. Not ever a hand on Her back or brief high-five.

Worse was imagining never hearing Her voice again. Only hearing it call him on the wind.

He couldn’t really hear Her voice now.

She’d slumped forward, Her brow resting near Dean’s shoulder and her eyes turned towards the floor.

“Dean.” She mumbled, and his whole body tensed. “Can we be done with the talking game?”

“No,” Dean grunted Her name. “It’s not a game, you gotta keep talking-“

“I’m good.” She let out a long breath. It was too ragged. “I- I think I’m just a little tired.”

“Well, I need you to keep fucking talking-“

She shook Her head, her temple pressing right into Dean’s arm. “I don’t- it hurts, Dean.” She made a high, weak noise, and Dean was going to break the wheel with only his hands. “Can I have five minutes, please?”

Fuck. She was saying please.

“Princess, just- shit- for an hour, keep talking for an hour- Sammy-“

“Got it. Hey,” Sam said Her name, and his voice was too gentle. She needed it to be shouted, She needed to hear that she had to stay awake, that it wasn’t a damn option for Her to sleep. “Can you tell me more about, uh, movies? What’s your favorite movie?”

She didn’t have a favorite movie. She had about fifty, and they were all dumb, and She was always adorable when She told Dean about them, and why wasn’t She talking-

“Sammy.” She mumbled, grabbing Sam’s arm and turning Her head to him. Away from Dean. “Why does Dean call you that?”

“It was, uh, it was my nickname growing up.” Sam swallowed, giving Dean a desperate look as he continued. “Did you have a nickname, when you were a kid?”

“No.” She mumbled. “People don’t give smart little whores nicknames. But,” Her voice got softer, dropping like She was telling a secret. “Dean calls me Princess sometimes.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ve heard it. He said it like five seconds ago-“

“I like it.” She said, and Dean was going to grind his teeth to dust. “I like him. He’s an asshole, Sammy, but I like him.”

Sam had no right to look like he’d been punched. Dean was the one who had to keep driving and acting like he couldn’t hear.

Sam said Her name, his tone slow and careful. “I think-“

“There’s something wrong with me.” She said, and there was nothing angry in Her voice. She really just sounded sad. Sad and tired. “It really hurts.”

“I know, but Dean’s right, you need to stay awake until we get to Bobby’s-“

She groaned, and leaned further into Dean’s arm. “He’s gonna kill me-“

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll kill you-“

“He will. He’s gonna tell me I’ve been dumb and reckless, that I was supposed to-“ She paused, then sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Sam frowned, looking back to Dean. He needed to stop doing that. Dean didn’t have a clue what was going on. “Why?”

“You’ll tell Dean. Then Dean will kill me. I like him, I don’t want him to kill me.”

“I’m pretty sure Dean’s not gonna kill you-“

“He is.” She let out another sad, little sigh. “He already hates me, Sam-“

“He doesn’t-“

“I don’t…” She yawned, shifting Her head just enough for Dean to see her eyes were closed. “I don’t hate him. I think he’s…”

She yawned again. And She didn’t finish her sentence, and Dean could swear their bodies were going to be glued together. She didn’t seem to remember he was there, but She was still moving closer into him, and he was going to go fucking insane.

Because She was asleep, and they still had an hour to go.

Dean swerved over from the far-hand lane, stopped Baby on the side of the highway, and got out of the car. Sam was smart and understood what was happening—scooting into the driver’s seat without a word—and She just kept fucking sleeping.

She barely stirred when Dean pulled Her backwards, letting Her head rest on his chest and her body slump in his arms. He wasn’t supposed to allow himself to touch Her like this. She might stab Dean if she found out he was hugging Her, holding Her like she was fragile and vital to everything around him. She would stab him again when he’d tell Her that’s because she was.

Everything was easier when he stroked his thumb down Her nose, and She let out a soft, breathy sound before curling fully into his body. The same way She’d tuck into herself, or sink into the mattress or couch after an episode. Like She was trying to shield herself from something.

But now, Dean was Her shield.

And he was so goddamn confused.

They had an hour until Bobby’s—more like fifty minutes now—and Dean still couldn’t wrap his head around what was becoming more and more obviously the truth.

If it was, She wouldn’t be spoiled. And that would make sense—She’d never really seemed spoiled, mostly just smart and confident—if that didn’t really mean that She’d been raised by Bobby. That the girl who’d painted Her nails on Dean’s motel table, who always smelled like sugar and fruit and kind of looked like She was forged deep in a star, had been raised by freaking Bobby. Beer and books and cars and no need to give me extra attention Bobby. The Bobby who was practical, and sharp, and didn’t take any shit-

Son of a bitch.

It still didn’t make sense. There was no reason for Her to lie about knowing Bobby. Dean had even told Her he liked Bobby. That Bobby was the best hunter he knew, after Dad.

He’d probably yell at Her about it, if he could. Shout and sneer and bite—he didn’t know how to just be moderate with Her, how to hold himself the hell together—until She gave him answers. And that never seemed to work.

But Dean also never seemed to learn. Not when it came to Her.

Because even as the confusion and anger bubbled in his chest, it wasn’t nearly as powerful as how goddamn sick he felt. Yelling at Her had gotten them here, and Dean never learned. If he hadn’t pushed and snapped Her, she never would’ve gone off alone, and the demon never would’ve seen her. It had probably realized that She was a hunter and stuck to her trail.

She wouldn’t be in all this mumbled, whined pain if it wasn’t for Dean. She wouldn’t be in danger. She’d probably just be sitting with him and Sam at a diner, laughing and talking until they parted, then found their way back to each other’s paths a few weeks later.

This time, Dean didn’t think She’d come back. One way or another, She’d be gone. There was the way that made the pit in his chest turn into a chasm—the way he outright refused to entertain—but there was also the second, slower way. Where She didn’t hate him, and She wasn’t gone, but Dean still lost Her. She left, and he was alone.

Dean wouldn’t allow the first way to happen. Every time Her breathing was too shallow, he’d snap at Sam to hurry up and try to soothe Her until it was even again. He could give CPR, if he had to. He didn’t know how to do CPR—he should probably learn—but he’d seen Sammy do it, and it didn’t look that hard. Dean could sing Stayin’ Alive. He could press his lips to Her’s and give her his fucking lungs out of his chest to fix this. He could peel off his skin and patch it over Her wound if he needed to.

Stab wounds aren’t supposed to be this bad. And Dean had never been stabbed by a demon, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be any different. The knife that the son of a bitch had lodged in Her gut hadn’t even been all that special. Just a smooth, iron blade that was knocking Her—Her—down for the count.

She had to hang on. Dean would want it to be for him, but he knew better, so he’d settle for it being for Bobby.

Because Sam finally parked the car in Bobby’s yard, and Bobby was already outside. Hunched on the step, shooting to his feet before the engine was even off.

Dean suddenly felt like he really shouldn’t be touching Her, or holding her tight against his chest, or trying to smell Her like a creep every few minutes. She smelled good. Like wet dirt—but in a sharp, earthy way that mostly made Dean feel comfortable—chlorine, something vanilla that was cheap and strong, and there was the fucking fruit-

Bobby probably wouldn’t care that She smelled like an odd, unplaceable fruit. He also didn’t have to know why She smelled like chlorine. Dean wasn’t looking to get shot and—based on the way Bobby was glowering at him through the window—explaining what they’d been doing last night didn’t feel like it would be welcome information.

Because Bobby had never looked at him like that. Really fucking angry, with a drawn brow and deep scowl. Dean couldn’t tell if the glare was at him, or for Her, but he knew Bobby was pissed. If his expression wasn’t a give away, the gruff, low tone of his voice was.

Dean was barely out of the car—Her body cradled carefully in his arms, an apologetic grimace already on his face—when Bobby started snapping.

“Fuckin’- balls- Bring ‘er inside Dean, and Sam, grab the stitch kit. My stitch kit, I don’t wanna be usin’ that fuckin’ weak one in the trunk of your car.”

Sam nodded, walking into the house with a tight, nervous expression at Dean over his shoulder. Dean would’ve shrugged in return, but he didn’t want to shake Her in his arms, or make Bobby think he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was. He couldn’t not, because it was Her. And Her breathing was weak, and Her features were so washed over and Her lips were pale and she kept clinging to Dean’s arm-

“Dean.” Bobby grunted, jerking his head to the door. “Inside, now.”

“Yes, si-“ Dean cut himself off, changing himself to only a nod as he moved her into the house.

It was exactly as he remembered it. Nothing ever really changed at Bobby’s house, and every piece of furniture and color was exactly in place with how it had been in Dean’s head, but there more now.

Things Dean had seen but never really given deeper thought, like a mug that was a soft pastel color in the side-table—slightly stained with coffee, and looking long-empty but never moved—and chapstick near the TV, and-

“That’s her jacket.” Dean said, a little stupidly, and Bobby shot him an odd look.

“What’re you talkin’ about-“

Dean said Her name, nodding to the leather jacket that was hooked over a chair. It was a woman’s jacket, not really Bobby’s style, and Her’s. Dean knew it was Her’s. She about ten different jackets—all in different styles and cuts and materials—but Dean also knew all of them. That was the one She’d been wearing on the onryu hunt, that had ended stained in her own blood and the spirit’s ash. She’d shoved it into her trunk before She left the next day, and told Dean she’d clean it later when he’d offered, because he was pathetic and hadn’t known how to not offer.

He’d asked if She even knew how to clean it. She’d flipped him off, told him She did, and said that she’d do it when She got home.

A small part of Dean had gotten toxic at the idea of Her being home. That maybe She’d just pass the jacket off to a servant she didn’t know the name of—She’d probably have known the name, but it served Dean’s anger better to imagine she was worse than she was—and let them touch a piece of Her instead of Dean.

But She’d been here. Cleaned the jacket here, at Her home.

And there really wasn’t any evidence to prove that She didn’t belong here. So Dean was fucked.

“That’s… It’s her jacket.”

Bobby sighed, rolling his eyes. “Believe it or not, Dean, I’m aware. Put ‘er down on the table.”

Dean nodded, tearing his gaze away from Her jacket and setting her flat on the dining room table. She tried to hold onto him. Dean pulled back, and She tried to hold onto him, and he was going to go insane.

Bobby didn’t wait for Dean to fully step away before he was moving. Adjusting Her on the table so She wasn’t trying to sink into the wood, scanning over her with a tight, unreadable expression.

“Knife got in her gut?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, his hands fisting at his side. “Sammy did stitches, but they were quick, and-“

“I’ll fix ‘em.” Bobby grunted, hiking Her shirt up her stomach and-

Fuck.

The wound was worse. The stitches looked frayed in Her body, and her skin was definitely blistering, and there was something yellow and sticky that smelled horrible-

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice was tight, his eyes never leaving the wound. “This ain’t lookin’ like a stab wound-“

“It was, Bobby, I saw it-“

“You still got the weapon?”

Dean nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Alright, go get it while I deal with ‘er.”

Dean didn’t want to go get the weapon. He didn’t want to leave Her side. She was in pain, and She’d tried to hang onto Dean and he didn’t want to leave Her-

“What’re you just standin’ here for-“

“You can-“ Dean swallowed, his attention trapped on Her dulled, beautiful face. “Bobby, you can fix this, right? She’ll- She’s gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be alright. Gonna have some explain’ to do when she gets up, but she’ll live.”

“Explaining-“

“How the hell she ended up with you boys and a knife in her damn gut. Matter of fact, you and your brother better start gettin’ your story straight, cause I ain’t just gonna let you drop my kid off bleedin’ on my doorstep then drive away.”

Dean tensed, and finally managed to really look at Bobby. His expression was still flat, still neutral, but there was something in his eyes Dean hadn’t seen before. Not glazed, but not sharp, just… heavy. Bobby looked heavy. He was staring at Her body with a painfully neutral face that had slightly lines of tension on the edges. He was standing taller than usual, his whole body rigid and wound up, and Dean could really, truly see it.

It had been the truth. If the way Bobby stood and spoke—in tight, clipped words like he didn’t have room to be anything but short—wasn’t a giveaway, it was those last words.

My kid.

Bobby’s kid.

She was Bobby’s fucking kid.

Dean forced himself to move away, his head ducked down and his steps quick as he passed Sam with only a grunt of acknowledgment and returned to the Impala trunk. Sam hadn’t been careful about how he’d grabbed Her things. They were smushed and scattered, pressed against each other and all looking like Her things. Those were things she owned, that they’d grabbed from Her car and motel room. Clothing that wasn’t covered in blood and dirt, a lot of notebooks Dean really had to fight himself not to read, and fewer personal possessions than he would’ve thought.

There was that small, colorful bag that had all Her girl stuff in it, and Her knife, and a backpack that—when Dean zipped it open—was filled with more notebooks, and… plants and rocks. A lot of plants and rocks.

He didn’t have time to try and work out why the hell She was keeping plants and rocks in her bag. He didn’t have time to overstep and push it like he always did, and let himself comb through those notebooks. One did fall open, but nothing Dean saw in it made sense—he didn’t speak that language, he didn’t even recognize it, and there was a weird drawing that he didn’t even know how to start interpreting—so he had to move on. To grab the demon’s knife from when he’d tucked it in the back and close the trunk, because all of this could wait until She was better.

She’d have to get better.

Sam and Bobby were working in silence when Dean returned. Sam holding Her arms to the side as Bobby cleaned the wound and re-did the stitches, a bottle of water at his side that he kept pouring over her skin.

Dean set the knife on the kitchen counter, walking over to stand by Her head. That little wrinkle was back, and Her lips were pressed together, and She was in pain-

He had to restrain his hands to stop them from moving to touch Her. To sooth the wrinkle and brush sweat and hair from Her face. Sammy wasn’t holding Her right. His grip was too tight, and Her arm didn’t look like it was at a good angle, and Dean could hold Her better-

She took a slow, ragged breath, eyes fluttering, and Bobby glanced up to where Dean was standing over Her.

“You get the knife?”

“On the counter,” Dean muttered. “She’s…”

He trailed off, and Bobby let out a long breath. “She’s alright. Almost done with these, and I’m gonna have to fight with her about restin’ when she gets up, but you get ‘er here quick enough. Nothin’ that can’t be patched up.”

Dean glanced down to the wound, and that seemed true. Bobby’s stitches were cleaner than Sam’s, and the pus was half-gone. He didn’t really know how that was possible. Infections didn’t usually just… vanish. But Bobby splashed more of the water over Her stomach, made another stitch, and Her breathing grew steadier.

There were too many questions. What was with the water. Why had one stab wound managed to infect and maul Her skin like that. How the actual fuck was She Bobby’s kid, and why had Bobby never mentioned Her, and why had She lied about something so dumb, and did Bobby know about Her family? About the shit Dad had found, about Her past, about all those weird episodes and how She always hunted alone, except when She was hinting with Dean-

Dean didn’t think Bobby had known they were hunting together. Which offered another question about why. Why hadn’t She told him. Why did She think Bobby would kill her for this, when it wasn’t Her fault, it was Dean’s.

Bobby might kill him. Dean had never seen Bobby so pissed with him. Every time he grunted for Dean to pass him something, his eyes were harsh and focused. It wasn’t hateful, but it was angry.

But Dean had gotten Her hurt. He deserved it.

If She stopped talking to him after, he’d deserve that too. If Dad snapped at him for being an idiot when Bobby told him they’d been hunting together, Dean would deserve it-

“You say a demon attacked her?” Bobby’s question was quiet, and Dean almost didn’t hear it.

He nodded, and Bobby’s jaw clenched.

“You see the assholes eyes?”

“His eyes?” Sam frowned. “You mean the demon-blink thing? Where their eyes go all black?”

Bobby looked up, frown deepening. “They were black?”

“I- I think so?” Sam looked for Dean for help, and Dean just shrugged. He hadn’t really been looking into the demon’s eyes, more focused on beating the shit out of it, and helping Her.

“I dunno, Sammy-“

“Did you see them?” Bobby interrupted, glaring between Sam and Dean as he cut another stitch. “See the bastard go all black?”

Sam shook his head. “I didn’t, but demons have black eyes-“

“Not all demons.” Bobby muttered, glancing up to Her still pained face. “I’ve seen black eyes, orange eyes, and red eyes. If you boys saw anythin’-“

“We didn’t.” Dean looked over Her, then back to the wound. “It attacked, stabbed her, and Sammy exorcized it. Son of a bitch got away-“

“It give you a name?”

Dean frowned. “We didn’t exactly have time to introduce ourselves and shake hands, Bobby-“

“No, ya’ idjit, if we have a name we can know what we’re lookin’ for.”

“Looking for?” Sam leaned forward, looking between Her and Bobby with a frown. “Has- Have you needed to look for a demon before? Like dad?”

“No, Sam, I ain’t-“ Bobby cut himself off, his head shooting up to glare between Sam and Dean. “Did John know you boys have been huntin’ with her?”

“That’s uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “That’s a question for Dean, I think.”

Bobby raised his brows, and Dean scowled. Sam was back on the getting punched list.

“Never got a chance to mention it.” He muttered. “Haven’t seen Dad in months.”

Sam rolled his eyes—punched and kicked—and Bobby’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Dean wanted to ask what the hell that was about—Dad was a good man, even if Dean never really wanted Her around him—but Bobby was already moving on.

“How long you been huntin’ together?”

“A few years.” Sam said, and Dean shot him a glare.

“How’d- You weren’t even fucking there, Sammy-“

“She told me on the onryu hunt.” Sam shrugged, looking back to Bobby. “They’ve been hunting together for years.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened. “That true, Dean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dean, you call me sir again and I’m makin’ you wait outside-“

“Sorry, I-“ Dean let out a long breath, his gaze trapping back on Her. In so much fucking pain. “It’s true. And she, uh, she never mentioned she knew you, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed something that might have been a laugh. “Wish I could say I was surprised by that.”

“You aren’t?” Sam blinked. “I mean, I- I’m still not understanding-

“Questions later, Sam.” Bobby grunted, cutting the last stitch. “Right now I need your hands brinin’ her shit inside.”

Sam frowned. “Can’t Dean-“

“Dean’s stayin’ here.” Bobby shot him a glare, and Dean swallowed. “No fuckin’ funny business while I’m gone, boy-“

“She’s passed out, Bobby-“

“And if she wakes up, you’re askin’ her how she feels, callin’ me, and droppin’ it there.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “No fuckin’ interrogations. You can ask me questions when we get ‘er settled. Understood?”

Dean scowled, but nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Good. Sam-“

“Coming.” Sam threw Dean a what the fuck is happening look over his shoulder, followed Bobby out of the kitchen, and Dean was left alone with Her.

She didn’t wake up. In the long moments where it was only Her and Dean in the whole world once more, She didn’t stir for even a second. Her breathing grew more and more even with every passing moment, but She didn’t open those brilliant eyes and look at Dean.

Dean didn’t know if She would ever really look at him again.

She didn’t hate him.

She’d been keeping secrets—so many fucking secrets—but She didn’t hate Dean, and when he allowed his hand to trace over Her cheekbone, she leaned into the touch.

Maybe She would leaned into anyone’s touch, but she wasn’t. Right now, She was leaning into Dean’s.

He let his hand linger there as long as he could. She was warm, too warm, almost burning, but it was better than Her being cold. Color was returning to Her face, and there was a heavy flush over her pretty cheeks, but it was better than nothing. No color. No slightly uneven breaths or dried sweat on her brow.

Dean finally got to brush the hair away, and he wasn’t sure how She only got prettier. She was pretty in a way Dean never really cared for before her. She looked like a bird. Untouchable and free and delicate. Breakable, but not because She was weak. Because She wasn’t supposed to be on the earth like this, just how Dean wouldn’t be free or light enough to go where she went.

Because even if this was Her life—even if she wasn’t spoiled and born from comfort Dean would never know—he still couldn’t have Her. If anything this just made that more certain. That She was so good and unnaturally better, that She’d been living down in the mud with Dean this whole time and he’d still been blinded. If She ever managed to crawl out of here, She might become ethereal. Glorious. Brighter than the sun and more heavenly than a paradise Dean didn’t believe in.

And if Bobby really raised Her, everything Dean tried to loathe about Her would probably vanish into the air. Bobby was smart. And good. And didn’t like pointless shit, so there was no way he’d let Her become spoiled or entitled. She wasn’t spoiled or entitled.

She was just awesome.

And Dean didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to live with that now. That he’d bitten Her, and the mark was festering in him.

She let out a soft breath when Dean thumb stroked down Her nose, the movement subconscious, almost automatic.

He had to yank his hand away the floor creaked, and Bobby turned the corner only a second later.

They didn’t speak at Bobby hauled Her up and carried Her away. Dean wanted to go with Her. He needed to go with Her. He needed to have Her look at him one last time, and he needed to work out how to apologize in a way that didn’t make him sound like a little bitch, and-

“Dean.” Sam leaned into the kitchen, tilting his head back to the living room. “C’mon, dude, Bobby said we could get three questions.”

“Three?” Dean frowned, glancing past Sam to where they’d vanished up the stairs. “We only get three-“

“Between us.” Sam sighed. “And he, uh, I think he might be pissed at us.”

A door slammed upstairs, and Dean raised his brows. “You think?”

“You two.” Bobby appeared behind Sam—for a fairly big dude, he could move faster than thought he had any real right to—and pointed between them with a glower. “Sit. Now.”

Sam shot Dean a worried look and shuffled to the table, tugging Dean into a seat as Bobby stood before them, arms cross and eyes narrowed.

“What the hell did you idjit’s say to her?”

Sam blinked. “We didn’t- I mean, I didn’t say anything-“

“Hey!” Dean shot him a glare. “Dude, what the hell-“

“I can’t speak for you, Dean! I mean, you guys are a lot closer-“

Bobby’s glare turned to Dean—the feeling of it searing through his skin—and Sam was now getting punched, kicked, and body slammed.

“Sammy.” He hissed, bracing a fist on the table. “Shut your fuckin’ face-“

“How close would you say you two are, Dean?”

Bobby’s question didn’t need to have that silent, underlying threat for Dean to flinch. It was already a question he didn’t know the answer to. She lied and he sucked ass, but She also liked him—enough that he’d been allowed to hunt with Her at all, enough for her to slur it to Sammy in the car—and he couldn’t stop thinking about Her if he tired.

And he had tried.

And he’d never really seen Her interact with people except for Sam and Dad. And She and Dad clashed, but She and Sam got along, and Bobby obviously cared for her so maybe her liking Dean wasn’t all that special-

“Dean.” Bobby snapped. “Answer my question.”

“I, uh, I don’t-“

“Sam?”

“They’re just friends.” Sam shrugged, saying Her name in a voice that wasn’t nearly reverent enough. “From the hunting.”

Sam was back down to being kicked and punched, because the little shit could’ve easily laughed and said that Dean had a crush on Her—he didn’t, She was just his best friend and the only person he liked to hang out with—but that would’ve probably made everything worse. Especially given Bobby didn’t seem all that happy with the just friends answer either.

“How many years you two been huntin’, exactly

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s been like two- But that,” Dean pointed up the stairs. “Hasn’t happened before, Bobby, I swear-“

“I don’t give a shit about that.” Bobby snapped, jerking his head back. “You boys did the smart thing, for once in your damn lives, and listened to her. Brought her here.”

“If you don’t-“ Sam frowned, his face returned to pure confusion. “If you don’t care that she got stabbed-“

“No, Sam, I care that she got stabbed.” Bobby let out a long, breath, shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit that it happened with you two. If she’s gotta get stabbed, I’m happy she ain’t alone to try and stitch herself up, cause that girl ain’t good at takin’ care of herself in way that matters.”

It was Dean turn to frown, sitting a little straighter in his chair. “What do you mean, she can take care of herself-“

Bobby scoffed. “She can do her hair, Dean. She ain’t gonna do stitches.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Has she never done stitches on herself?”

“Not good ones-“ Bobby cut himself off with a glare between them. “This ain’t the point. What’d you do, Dean.”

Bobby and Sam were both looking at Dean, and he groaned.

“I didn’t do anything, Bobby, and if you’re not pissed about her getting hurt-“

“Some injuries ain’t on the surface, boy. I could give a flyin’ fuck about what danger she puts herself in, I know she can handle it better than you two dumbasses, but if you hurt that girl, I ain’t gonna stop her hurtin’ you.” Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face, and Sam cleared his throat.

“Bobby, how, um-“ He glanced to Dean, expression nervous. “You said she’s- I still don’t understand-“

“Sam, if you got somethin’ to say-“

“How do you know her?” Sam’s words were quick and frantic. “That’s- you said we get three questions, and that’s our first.”

They hadn’t actually discussed the questions, but Dean could live with that one. Shit, he’d spent the whole day trying to work that one out himself, and Bobby seemed to know it had been coming, because he dropped in a seat across the table with a long sigh.

“It ain’t my place to tell you everythin’,” he muttered. “All I can tell you two is that I met her when she was a kid-“

Sam opened his mouth, and promptly shut it as Bobby shot him a glare.

“You ask that question, Sam, I’m countin’ it. She was eight, I found her wanderin’, I took her in. Kept her from killing herself, raised her like the daughter I didn’t get before. Which,” Bobby turned to Dean, and it wasn’t fair that he was being singled out. Sammy was here too, hell, he’d asked the question- “She may not be my blood, but she’s the closest thing I got. Understood?”

Sam mumbled an agreement, but those words weren’t for Sam.

So Dean nodded, and hoped Bobby could see all over his face that he really just wanted to go upstairs and check on her. He’d do that after, if he could get away with it. And She was probably fine—Bobby wouldn’t have left her if she wasn’t—but Dean needed to see it. With his own freakin’ eyes, making sure she was comfortable, and relaxed, and peacefully asleep-

“What’s up with those, uh- the-“ Sam swallowed. “Those weird episodes?”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Episodes?”

“When she likes, freaks out and shit. I mean, is it like a really bad panic attack?”

Sam was back to getting punched, kicked, and body slammed. That wasn’t their thing to tell Bobby about. Bobby might know more about Her past, but he obviously hadn’t known that they’d been hunting together, which meant there might be other shit She didn’t want to tell him. Other shit She’d trusted them—trusted Dean—to see, that Sam had just fucking told Bobby-

“Those aren’t panic attacks.”

Sam frowned. “Then what-“

“Not my place.” Bobby said, his tone making it clear that was final. “I know what they are, so does she, and if- It’s up to her what you know. She’ll tell you if she wants, but she’s had a rough time, Sam. So don’t go pushin’ her about it.”

Sam nodded, even as the nervous expression remained on his face, and Dean cleared his throat. He had to ask. Even if all he got from Bobby was a not my place, Dean just needed to spit it out and ask.

“Why’d you… I mean, how did we never know, Bobby?” Dean held Bobby’s gaze, every word slow and careful. “You said she was eight, Sammy would’ve been seven, so we knew you by then. Shit, we were here all the time but never even heard her name. I don’t- Why?”

Bobby let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. “It’s complicated.”

Dean scowled. He was really starting to fucking hate that word.

“But,” Bobby pushed on, giving Dean a firm, solemn look. “I wasn’t ‘cause of you boys. I said it already, I ain’t gonna tell you what’s not mine to tell, but I never liked keepin’ you apart.”

“But you did.” Dean grunted, and Bobby sighed.

“Yeah, I did. And I’m not gonna tell you I had reasons, cause that’s fuckin’ bullshit help and we know it, but I will say it was all I could do. Not for the best, but the only damn option.”

Dean was pretty sure he was telling the truth. It wasn’t the same alarm he’d learned to set off with her, but it was close. That seemed to be the truth.

Dean wished it wasn’t.

“She said she was sick.” Sam muttered. “When she was a kid. And that’s why we couldn’t know each other.”

Bobby let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Course she did. Sick is one way of puttin’ it. I-“ Bobby looked between Sam and Dean, something weighted behind his eyes. “There were times when she could’ve used you two. Glad she seems to have you now. And I don’t know where your Daddy is, but-“

“He’s hunting a demon.” Sam said, and Dean was out of ways to kick his ass for saying stuff. “The one that killed our mom.”

Bobby’s eyes widened, and the conversation moved on. Bobby asked if She and Dad had crossed paths, Dean told him not for years, and Bobby and Sam started to talk demon. Bobby had books Sam could read. Sam had questions about what Bobby had run into, with his own wife.

She’d told Dean Her dad’s wife died.

Fucking hell.

Eventually, Bobby went out. They’d stayed at the table as Sam and Bobby descended into nerd talk—mostly just Sammy being a little dweeb, Bobby was just smart—and Dean had spent the hours stealing glances up the stairs and wondering how he could get up there. How he could see Her, check on her, without Bobby getting on his ass and shouting about Dean being careful with Her, because he always was-

Except when he wasn’t. Expect when he poison and ruined and wrecked Her in a way he’d never wanted to. When he made Her sad or hollow, put Her in danger, showed her exactly why Dad had been right, that they shouldn’t be close to each other.

Dad had just gotten the wrong reason. Dean shouldn’t be near Her. She was annoying, and stubborn, and reckless, and a know-it-all, and kinda mean, but in a hot way. She was bossy, but it was adorable. She’d snap and taunt Dean, but she never did it in a way that left a mark. Dean always left a mark. And invisible bruise or scar that Bobby must have seen somehow. It must have been why he was so automatically pissed, why he’d accused Dean of hurting Her.

And he had.

So he didn’t deserve to go up those stairs and see Her.

But he was still selfish. And he still didn’t know when to stop.

Bobby muttered that he was going off to get food. The he hadn’t been expecting Her back for a while, let alone Sam and Dean with her, so all he had was canned food that tasted like pig-shit and a half-eaten chocolate cake in the fridge.

Sam grabbed the tiniest, most bitch-baby piece of chocolate cake with a mutter of long week, and moved to settle in library.

Dean started to snoop.

It was so plainly obvious She belonged here. Just like with Her mannerisms—seeing Bobby all over them once Dean squinted—all it took was one quick scan of the kitchen to see more places She’d probably been before. Not just grenadine, but a box of cheesy kids snacks in the back of the pantry. Dean had always assumed Bobby had gotten them for him and Sammy, then never thrown them out. But he’d seen Her buy those exact snacks countless times, and a few of the boxes looked practically unopened.

In the living room there were all those books and movies, and a blanket that was far too fuzzy for Bobby to like. A pair of women’s sneakers and boots near the door. A glittery toothbrush on the bathroom sink, some of that sugar-smelling shit Dean knew she used under the skin, and fancy shampoo in the cabinets.

Dean had seen some of this stuff before, but he’d always assumed Bobby just had a lady-friend. A weird, sparkly lady friend who wrote notes on the margins of some of the lore books in that same language from before. From Her notebook. In Her handwriting.

Lady friends didn’t use a towel—carefully tucked and folded in a closet—that had a little princess stitched onto the corner. Lady friends didn’t watching animated children’s movies so much that, when Dean open the case, the tape looked well-worn and used.

And lady friends didn’t draw with crayon.

But in Dean’s defense, he’d never seen the drawings before. That was part of the snooping. Shifting casually through Bobby’s desk for more evidence, and coming out clutching old, well-worn drawings of colors. A lot of colors. Most of the drawings seemed to be odd shapes and patterns, all in bright colors.

There were a few more, where the drawings were red and black and yellow, with sharp lines and jagged symbols that resembled Her strange writing. Those symbols were repetitive.

Briefly, Dean had an image in his head of a smaller Her, holding a crayon and sitting on the floor of Bobby’s living room, scrawling those symbols over and over until Bobby took the paper from Her. She had braids in that vision. Oddly complex braids that Her small, swollen fingers couldn’t have done.

But Bobby could’ve. And now Dean could see that same small version of Her on the couch, humming to herself as she read a book that looked far too big in tiny hands, while Bobby braided her hair with a scowl.

Dean blinked, and returned the papers back to the drawer. He was about to close it when something shifted in the very back, and a last drawing caught his eye.

It had been separated from the others, and drawn on black construction paper. Tucked into a book and folded carefully. And it was the only one where Dean could tell what the hell it was.

A stick drawing—round body and tiny arms and legs—of a man with a thick blue line on his head and scratches of brown on his face, holding the hand of a girl. Same eyes and hair as Her.

She’d drawn this one too. Of Her and Bobby.

She’d used a light green for Bobby’s skin, though. And a metallic silver for Her own. And the grass was golden and the clouds were red and the sun was white. It was really fucking weird.

Dean chalked it up to the creative liberties of an eight-year-old, and carefully returned the drawing to its place before sneaking up the stairs.

He needed to see Her.

It took him a minute to find Her room, because up until yesterday, he’d thought he knew all the rooms in Bobby’s house. Kitchen, library, living room, bathrooms, and guest rooms. The only room he’d never been in was on the third floor, because Bobby said that room was off limits, and-

Son of a bitch.

He’d always assumed that was Bobby’s room. That Bobby just didn’t want to little boys snooping around and finding his private shit. Dean had imagined that the room would have a wooden-poster bed, dresser, chairs, and simple decorations. Not all that lived in, because Bobby was practical, and knew that in this life getting attached to a lot of personal possessions was pointless.

This room was lived in.

By Her.

Those were books Dean had seen Her grab from public libraries, or exact copies that She’d pulled from her bag. CDs of albums he’d known She liked, plus a few he hadn’t. A few Dean liked, scattered on the dresser next to a book he’d seen Her read, sunglasses he’d seen Her use, and a shirt that he’d never seen Her wear.

It was monotone black, and not Her style or size, and looked like a men’s shirt.

The was a bitter, hot pang in Dean’s intestine and along his heart chamber, because why would She have a men’s shirt. If the overflowing dresser was any indication, She certainly didn’t need more shirts, and it certainly wasn’t Bobby’s, so it all together meant that was the shirt of someone who had given it to her. And she’d kept it, because it looked clean, and Bobby had said he hadn’t expected her back, so it had been there for a while, and who the fuck was giving Her a shirt-

She shifted on the bed, and Dean’s head turned without his permission to look at Her. He’d been trying not to. Gun pressed to his temple, he’d swear he’d tried so fucking hard not to watch Her sleep like a pervert creep. But Her siren-like voice made a small sound, and this room was drowning in that fruit smell, and Dean couldn’t fucking help himself.

It took him a second to find Her. She’d burrowed herself under the covers, the only parts of Her that were visible being a single hand falling over the mattress and Her gorgeous face smushed against the pillows.

Her bed was shockingly normal. This whole bedroom was shockingly normal. She had curtains and a nice carpet, a desk and chair, a large amount of blankets and a hamper and a cork board on the wall. Pinned with notes that were in English—Dean could read those, and they mostly seemed to list new monsters and reminders for hunts—and a few more in that odd language. The walls were painted a dark color, and it made the room feel smaller. Safer. Like this was the only place in the world.

It might as well be.

Dean dragged a chair to sit at the side of the bed, because that felt less creepy than standing over Her as she slept. For a long while he only watched Her sleep peacefully. Softly.

Then Her brow wrinkled, and Dean’s hand moved without thought. Petting over Her nose until she relaxed, and made a soft noise that kicked him right in the heart and reverberated over his ribs.

He let out a long breath, and started speaking in his lowest, quietest voice. Before he could think better.

“You… you got a lot of explaining to do, Princess.” He muttered. “Bobby handled some of it, but he also won’t tell Sammy and I jackshit that matters until you give the go ahead. So you gotta wake up and do that. Plus, I want to call you a fucking idiot for hiding something so freakin’ dumb from me, and I can’t do that while you’re knocked out. So… Wake up. Soon. Get better and wake up soon and I’ll be waiting, because I- I’m just gonna stay a while. ‘Least until you give me some god damn answers. And,” he let out a long breath. She couldn’t hear him. He was allowed to say it, when no one at all could hear him. “I don’t want to leave. I like you, Princess, and if you really don’t hate me, I’ll stick around.”

He had more to say.

But She hummed like she could hear him, rolled a little closer to the edge of the bed, and none of it really seemed that important anymore.

Her fingers flexed. She didn’t hate him.

Dean took Her hand, and he fell asleep at Her side because he never learned, and really didn’t want to.

And when Sammy woke him up, saying Dad needed them for something back in Colorado. That he’d called Dean but he hadn’t picked up—his phone was in his jacket downstairs—so he’d called Sam instead.

Sam had said they were on their way, and told Bobby they were heading out. That they’d let Bobby know how it went, and hopefully be back with good news about the son of a bitch who killed Mom rotting in whatever was lower than hell. Sam hadn’t mentioned Her.

And Dean had to go, but She was still asleep. He needed to go, because Dad wanted him there, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here, in Her small room that was he could sink down into if he tried.

But he had to go.

He wanted to leave Her something. To promise in silent words that could be right to not hate him. That he’d really like Her to keep not hating him. But he didn’t have much. He had his car, and his jacket, and ring-

He set his ring on Her dresser. He’d come back. He didn’t know how not to come back, and hopefully when he did, She’d still like him. At the very least, She wouldn’t have started to hate him.

Because Dean knew at this point that there was no way in hell She felt the pull. He also knew that he’d still follow Her all the way down, and up, and just here.

Dean might just like being with Her anywhere.

And She didn’t hate him.

So he’d press a soft, dangerous kiss to Her brow because he couldn’t help himself, and look back because he had to, and come back because he wanted to.

He’d come back.

End Note: One of the glorious things about nearing the end of the season 1 arc is all of us knowing what happens at the end of the season 1 arc.

Also, as we hit 100k words, I'm unspeakably grateful for the support of the story!!! I can't say it enough, thank you so so much for reading!! I hope y'all continue to enjoy the story!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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3fingersofscotch · 4 months ago

Text

Like a Party Favor

Pairing: M/M/M/M/F Sylus x Zayne x Rafayel x Xavier x Afab Reader

‧₊˚✩彡Summary: In what scenario does MC get passed around like a party favor? This one!

‧₊˚✩彡WARNINGS: 18+ mdni!! GANGBANG, word porn with just enough plot to make your brain happy, double penetration, vaginal and anal sex, rough face fucking, rough cunniligus, creampies, tons of cum, like... tons, reverse harem, butt plugs, multiple partners, multiple positions, actual funny parts, gratuitous self pleasing smut.

‧₊˚✩彡Author's note: I started writing this back in August, so obviously some new cards have come out to spoil a couple of things. There is one chapter where Zayne is enjoying a martini. We know know he doesn't drink. Give me a break. This is a WIP. I'm trying to figure out how to fit Caleb in there somewhere.

‧₊˚✩彡Ao3- 3fingers_of_scotch Chapter 2

You must ask for permission to repost on other platforms.

I do not give permission for my work to be copied or translated anywhere.

You can’t hide your innermost desires from a man with an aether core in his eye. And this man in particular makes direct, sinister, enrapturing, infuriating eye contact with you as he plunders your body.

Sylus is a far departure from the men you are used to. You shudder at the thought. You’ve struggled with this for a while now. Grandma would be so ashamed if she were still around to find out.

You’ve sampled 4 men in as many weeks. 4 beautiful men with giant hearts and eyes that look at you like you hung the very stars in the sky. And while you let them ravage your body and lose yourself in their arms, in that brief searing moment, love seems so pure and so wholesome.

Then you come down from your high and that feeling is gone—replaced with the guilt of knowing you are nothing but a common, back stabbing whore who can’t pick one good man to give your heart to. You tell yourself that your love is true, that you aren’t a bad person. You don’t believe that lie for a second.

You know Sylus can hear the voice calling from the depths of your mind on occasion. He has heard your heart cry at some point-

Xavier

Rafayel

Zayne

And though he pretends he didn’t hear and that he doesn’t know, you can’t help but notice that those are the sessions that he fucks you the hardest. Those are the days that your orgasm rips through your chest because he fucks you like he paid top dollar to use your body like some common street walker.

‘This has to be grief,’ you tell yourself as you try to distract yourself from the mental and physical pain of losing your family in that explosion.

But if that were the case, grief is still not an excuse for being a bad woman.

Fuck me

He stares at you intently after you dismount the back of his bike and remove the helmet. You were painfully wet. Sylus had teased you all night when bidding became boring and he was certain no one was looking. You could tell he was wound up and ready to pop, especially since he’d taken the hand you had wrapped around his waist and placed it over his half hard erection when you were nearing his compound.

The wet spot you left on his bike was embarrassing. All of this was embarrassing. It is shameful how much you need him. It was disgraceful what your innermost desires confessed to him in the throes of passion.

You wonder why he hasn’t walked away. He continues to comply like your desires aren’t insane. He looks thrilled as he fulfills all of your darkest needs. He hasn’t said no yet. It appears he is also willing to comply tonight.

Fuck me

“In due time, kitten.” His voice is like warm honey in your ear and you tremble as his fingers tease under your skirt and slip into your panties. Sylus pulls your hips back into his clothed erection and you grind against his length, whimpering your want as the pads of his fingertips dig deeper to firmly tease your clit.

You know you aren’t alone in the compound. Luke and Kieran are lurking somewhere, but you let Sylus rip open your blouse, buttons flying across the living room. His right hand is still playing with your pussy and you know your skirt has ridden all the way up, and the left hand pushed your bra up and over to expose your breasts so he could play with your nipple.

“Luke and Kieran--“ you begin.

“Will stay out of sight if they know what is good for them,” Sylus murmurs in your ear, making you shiver. His fingers sink in past the lips cloaking your entrance, making awkward squelching noises with each pump.

“Look down,” he orders. You comply and see him withdraw his fingers that are glistening with clear, sticky juices. He lifts his fingers to your lips. “Clean the mess you made, kitten.”

He normally likes some sort of resistance. Resisting has turned him on thoroughly in the past, but tonight, you just want to be fucked so bad and this back and forth is making you frustratingly hot.

You lap at his finger just like the stray kitten he imagines that you are and you hear him hiss with approval in your ear.

“Sweetie, when did you become so obedient?” the timber of his voice purrs.

“I won’t stay this way for long if you don’t bend me over soon!” Your frustration amuses him.

His evol envelops your body and lifts you off the ground to bring you upstairs and you feel your own juices tickle as they drip down your thighs uncomfortably.

His compound is too large. By the time you reach his bedroom, you are crying from need and Sylus hates seeing you cry.

“Shh, shhh,” he cooes as he unbuttons his shirt. His evol places you gently on the edge of the bed and you become increasingly frustrated as you try and tug his belt off. It won’t comply.

Sylus grabs your hand and lifts it to place a gentle kiss on the inside of your wrist as his other hand slides a notch on his belt buckle. It releases quickly and you unbutton and unzip his pants, feeling triumphant as the head of his big beautiful cock springs forward from his underwear. The front of his boxer briefs are nearly as wet as you are, and you lean forward to taste the tip of his cock.

It’s salty and bitter and oh so rewarding, especially as he hums his approval, fingers threading into your hair. You desire to be used. To be punished for being such a loose, despicable woman.

Fuck my face

And he does with hands firmly wound in your hair, he holds you in place as he thrusts. You can feel the head of his cock impact the back of your throat and that just won’t do. He clucks with disapproval, before repositioning you so that your throat lines up straight with is thrusts. You’ve practiced this before. Several times in fact, he has read your desires and given you exactly what you are too afraid to say aloud.

Today, the head of his cock enters the column of your throat, stretching out your esophagus. You clutch at his muscular thighs as you feel tears sting your eyes. He thrusts a few times, before abruptly withdrawing and throwing you back on the bed.

“I’m not ready to cum yet,” He growls and his right eye glows red. Your bra and panties are ripped off, but he leaves your skirt bunched up around your waist.

Punish me

“How?” He asks as he kicks off his pants. You aren’t quite sure you even know yourself. But he always come up with an answer and you find yourself on your hands and knees in front of him. He sinks two fingers deep past the heat of your thighs and without warning, roughly finger fucks you, causing you to cry out blissfully.

This felt more like a reward than punishment and you want to be mad, but he is already making you cum and it catches both of you by surprise as you cry out and your inner walls clamp down around his fingers.

“Sylus! Ooh, Sylus!” He doesn’t need you to announce your orgasm because it won’t stop him. His fingers continue their plunder as his other hand caresses the smoothness of your ass cheek. You are screaming at this point, but the firm grasp he has of your ass is not lost on you. He squeezes roughly and as your second orgasm ripples through your body, his hand withdraws from your ass cheek and you are given a firm, stinging smack.

He’s never spanked you before, so he waits for you to protest before he dares to try again.

You love it. It only makes your orgasm more powerful and your cries only reflect pleasure.

“Hmm, this is interesting. Does the bad kitten need another spanking?” he asks. You can hear the amusement in his voice and although it annoys you, you also feel a wave of relief at the lack of disgust you were worried he’d feel.

You nod wordlessly in response and feel the crack as his palm smacks your ass with more force.

“Ooh!” You cry. Words are useless at this point and you quiver as you feel the bed dip behind you as Sylus climbs up, lining his cock with the entrance of your core and sinks in, filling you deeper than his fingers did. You moan as he gives you all of him and sighs your name under his breath.

He enjoys the feeling of your moist heat swallowing him for a moment before he moves, plunging violently deep within you.

Deeper and deeper and deeper. He’d crawl into you if he could, you were sure of it. The others could be too gentle when all you wanted was to be used. An endless stream of moans, curses and his name tumbles from your lips.

Punish me

Oh God, why is he reading you again right now? You were going to start thinking of the foulest, dirtiest things soon.

Sylus’ hand smacks your ass once more and you practically buck crying out sharply. That one was sure to leave a red welt. You want that and more and his cock feels so good and you feel so naughty.

“Slut.” Yes, you are his little slut. Your body was made to be wrapped around his, you are certain of it. His hand slaps your other ass cheek and the sting lingers.

“Oh, God,” you utter as you feel him reach forward and wind his fingers in your hair, using it as a handle as he continues to fuck you from behind. You are so close to cumming and the hair pulling nearly tips you over the edge.

“Does my little slut want me to cum in her tight pussy again?” Oh god, he was close too?

You love cum. You love being filled by cum. You love feeling a cock throb inside you as it releases rope after rope of cum.

Sylus never bothered to put on a condom. As a matter of fact, he never bothered to ask you if you were on birth control. You don’t think he really even cares. But every time he cums in you, he asks you for permission and its hot knowing that your pussy is good enough for his release.

Cum in my ass.

“Fuck!” Sylus bucks like he can’t believe what he just heard and you feel him coming completely undone, trembling and shaking as his cock throbs in you. He grips your hips, holding you flush against him, burying himself as far as possible and you are certain this is the longest he’s ever cum as you feel his body twitch and jerk against you.

“That was so fucking hot,” He murmurs as he rolls you onto your back. He kisses you the same as he always does when you are done. Deep, like he wants to say something that words can never convey. He leaves you, digging around a drawer in his room somewhere, but you can’t see because you are still trying to catch your breath. Despite not finishing, you are happy, ready to clean up and let sleep take you.

He returns, a lecherous grin you’ve never seen plastered on his face with a tube and a towel in his hand.

“Is that really where you want me to put it, kitten?”

Fuck, suddenly you remember that your inner most desire told him something you weren’t ready to reveal.

Sylus puts that nonsense to bed, silencing the protest you are about to utter with his lips. You feel the growing need as hope blooms in your chest. His lips taste the column of your neck and you realize that he is rock hard as his still wet erection rubs against your navel.

You want to touch him everywhere and he lets you as he continues to taste your chest. Your fingers grasp at his hair when you feel a lubed finger circle your asshole. Your cheeks burn bright red as he meets your gaze.

“Princess, you have to tell me. Is this what you want?” His voice is dripping with desire you didn’t know he’d hidden from you.

You can’t trust your voice, so you shyly nod and you feel his finger push in. You wince at the discomfort and he studies your face, pressing soft kisses to your temple to distract you and he pumps slowly, in and out until you nod that he can go faster. Whatever pain from initial entry subsided after a moment and you were ready for another.

You still can’t talk, so you nod once more and Sylus understands, grabbing the tube of lube and diligently applying more to his fingers before entering.

You can feel how hungry he is as his lips swallow yours. You try to match his enthusiasm, but his fingers scissoring and stretching you out distract you. He is diligent and gentle until he is not, needily nibbling at your ear and hungrily squeezing your body against his.

“Fuck, kitten, I need to be inside you so bad,” Sylus rocks his hips, grinding his erection against you. You can feel his leaking need.

“I’m ready,” you tell him. Honestly you aren’t sure, but you’ve never heard his voice drip with this much desperation. He withdraws his fingers and applies a generous amount of lube to his cock before rolling you onto your stomach.

“I’m sorry sweetie. This will probably hurt,” He whispers as he enters.

Despite Sylus’ diligent prep, it is searing. You feel the head of his cock ‘pop’ past the ring of your entrance and the pain is astounding. You buck and cry out as Sylus pins you down.

“Fuck!” Tears roll down your cheek and onto the mattress beneath you. “Fuck, Sylus!” You don’t think you can take it. His cock is so very huge and you are so very small.

“Shh,” he soothes and you hate him for it. “It will only hurt for a little while. Trust me.”

Sylus doesn’t press further and you focus on your breathing. It still hurts, but you think you can handle more.

“More,” you tell him and he obliges, sinking further into you as you continue to take deep breaths. It still hurts, but not as much as it did initially and you realize he is fully seated. He doesn’t move and you continue to focus on your breathing.

“Okay, Sylus. I’m okay.” Your voice is shaky and you are sure it betrayed you, but Sylus takes you at your word and gentle thrusts in slow shallow motions that are searing. You bite your lip, enduring the pain when you notice that suddenly, it doesn't hurt. As a matter of fact, it is starting to feel good.

It’s not long before your tepid breath becomes pleasurable moans and you feel Sylus huff in amusement against your shoulder.

“You like it, kitten?”

“Mmhmm, oh Sylus! Yes!” And that was all he needed to rear back and pound into your tiny body. Every bone and muscle in your body reverberates with each clap of his hips against your ass as you feel yourself sinking further and further into the mattress beneath you. You are swimming in a pool of sweat and your own desires and Sylus is unrelenting, encouraged by your screams of bliss.

“Fuck, your little asshole is so tight,” Sylus mutters and you can tell he is fighting a losing battle from the pitch of his voice. You can’t see him, but you imagine he is beautiful as he pounds you with abandon, glistening with the sweat you can smell all around you. His hand snakes its way under your torso and between your legs, teasing your clit deliciously.

“Sylus, mmm! Oh! Sylus, I’m gonna-“

“Me too," the way his moaning becomes more fevered as his breath becomes shallow confirms it.

"Cum for me, kitten!” You vision goes white hot. You are throbbing from multiple places. Sylus grunts are drowned out by your cries of pleasure and you feel him filling you up so nicely.

Sylus chuckles when he hears you whimper as he pulls out and pulls you into his arms. He places gentle kisses on your temple, like he wasn’t just balls deep in your asshole seconds ago.

“Thank you,” he whispers, gently running his fingers through your hair.

“For what?” You know the answer, but you want to hear him say it.

“Your first time. It’s a big deal. Thank you for choosing me.” Sylus picks you up with his Evol and takes you to his shower. His aftercare is like a routine at this point and doesn’t surprise you.

What does surprise you though is the hour under steaming hot jets where he persistently showers your body in doting kisses until you feel the temperature drop and know that the hot water is about to run out.

You feel guilty and undeserving once more as he pulls you into his chest and rapidly falls asleep. He always does when you are around, despite your opposite sleep schedules. But your body is exhausted and sleep claims you as you ponder what to do to get out of your predicament without hurting four men you care about deeply.

The only thing there to wake you in the morning was the glimmer of sun peeking through the dark curtains in Sylus’ room. You plug in the cellphone that you realize you never charged the previous night and head down to the kitchen to see if Sylus’ chef can whip something up for you. It isn’t until you are completely down the stairs that you realize that Sylus is talking to the three people you’ve been avoiding since you went into hiding at the N109 zone.

You hear Zayne, Rafayel and Xavier call out after you as you turn and run as fast as you can out the front door.

Chapters 2, 3, 4, and 5 are already uploaded on my Ao3.

You must ask for permission to repost on other platforms.

I do not give permission for my work to be copied or translated anywhere.

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foli-vora · 3 months ago

Text

run to you: ch 9

marcus pike x f!reader

A/N: we're getting somewhere now and I for one am fucking thrilled. Enjoy the new chapter with some feels! And, as always, a huge thank you for all the love! I appreciate each and every one of you! I have a day off tomorrow so I'm gonna sit and reply to the reblogs I've kept in my drafts from the prev chapter and reply to your asks x

Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and ‘You’re Somebody Else’. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.

Word count: 5.7k-ish

Warnings: there's angst because obviously, but I believe we've finally earnt some semi-sweet and comforting fluff now - finally (don't get too comfortable tho lmao). Swearing, mentions of murder, vague descriptions bullet wounds, talk of the break in, lots of anxiety and sweating, scribs is going through it, not exactly a suicidal mindset but more of a 'whats the point fighting this' mindset regarding the danger and threat of the whole situation, protective!Marcus coming in HOT, bit of yearning and touching and FEELINGS and they're finally getting somewhere thank god, but again, don't get too comfortable lol. I finished this at 4am so we're gonna ignore any mistakes thank u

main masterlist | series masterlist

This story is 18+ only.

The slam of a door has your breath halting to a choking stop in your throat, and the person responsible for slamming it open in such a hurry steps through not even a second later. You knew it was him coming, heard his hurried rush up the stairs from the speaker of your phone clenched tightly in your hand, but the pure and utter relief that still washes through your system is so overwhelming your knees threaten to give out from beneath you.

“Marcus.”

He spares you a long glance as he closes the distance between you while sliding his own phone into his pocket, eyes rolling over your body where it half leans against the wall until he’s satisfied you’re unharmed. His hand raises, a gesture for you to keep where you are, and your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls a gun from out behind him.

“Stay here.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You follow it, swallowing around the lump in your throat as he steps into your apartment and the silence that follows does nothing to quell the anxiety twisting its way around your nerves. What if you were wrong, and someone was still in there? What if he finds something? What if whoever did this is coming back and you’re left out here alone?

He appears only a few moments later, the frown between his brows deep.

“Are you okay?”

Are you? Physically, yes.

You give a little nod, shifting under your jacket and doing an internal check over your frazzled nerves and endlessly whirling mind. “Just… shaken, I guess.”

“That’s understandable. You haven’t touched anything? Moved anything?”

“No,” you murmur, fingers pinching and tugging at your sleeve. “You told me not to.”

“Good, that’s good. You did good.”

The praise does little to settle your nerves, but you appreciate the thought.

The door to the stairwell opens, your heart all but stopping dead in your chest at the thought of the unknown and the fear that freezes the blood in your veins. It’s nothing to worry about, the new faces that come through the door bare you no harm, but you still can’t seem to wind down from the pure and utter panic that seizes you.

Marcus immediately strides forward to greet the couple of police officers that introduce themselves, leaving you behind with your arms wrapped so tightly around your chest in an effort to ground yourself.

A high pitched ringing pierces your ears and your eyes flutter closed, focusing every thought on counting the breaths that leave your lungs. In, out. In, out. It works for the most part, the ringing in your ears slowly subsiding until you’re able to hear a familiar voice carefully reach out to you.

“Hey Picasso.”

Jacob’s coming to a stop in front of you when you open your eyes, concern swimming in his eyes as he rakes them over you. He’s dressed much like Marcus, clad in wrinkled track pants and a loose fitting tee that you can plainly see is inside out. Another friendly face is calming, and the little smile that pulls at your lips isn’t easy and probably comes off more like a grimace, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Hey Jacob,” you murmur quietly, hands rubbing along your arms.

“You doin’ okay?”

You give a shrug, eyes darting past him to watch Marcus and the couple of officers talk. “I’m alright. What are you doing here?”

“Pike called in for backup on his way here,” he explains, head turning to eye where your front door had been pried open. “I live the closest so…”

You nod, eyes dropping to the floor. “Sorry to get you out of bed for this.”

“Don’t be. You should be more sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. Thought we were friends, Pollock.”

He’s frowning playfully at you when you look up at him, and you shift a little from guilt. He means no harm, you know that, but you didn’t even think of him when you decided to back out of the case. Was he a friend? You suppose so. You’d opened up to him, warmed to his easy going presence and the way he stood up for you. He was nice.

“I’m sorry about that. I just couldn’t—”

He holds up a hand with a gentle smile. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, it’s alright. Gotta do what’s best for you.”

Marcus appears beside him not even a moment later, slapping a thankful hand to Jacob’s shoulder before resting his eyes on you.

“They’ve just got a few questions for you. Nothing major, just a little statement and then they’ll call in the crime scene team and we’ll leave.”

“What’s the plan, boss?”

“She’s coming with me. She can stay at my place tonight,” Marcus says, and Jacob merely nods in return, as if he was expecting it. “I need you to stay and consult with the local detectives—”

You stop listening, brows coming together as you process his words. His place? Since when is that an option? And why couldn’t you stay somewhere else? A hotel? The little warehouse space they had reserved for you to paint? Hell, you’d settle for the couch at Jake’s at this point.

“What?”

Marcus sighs sharply, brown eyes fixing on you.

“Don’t fight me on this. We can find you somewhere else in the morning, I just—please.”

You find yourself nodding in response to his plea.

The officers behind them make themselves known, reaching out to you by name and beginning a small line of questioning. You answer their questions to the best of your ability, doing your best to focus on them as Marcus and Jacob discuss your apartment quietly behind you.

What time did you get home? What did you do when you found your apartment broken into? Do you know anyone who would do this? Is there anyone who would wish to harm you?

All of the questions begin to make you sick after a while, and Marcus must see it.

He steps in easily, directing their attention to him and cutting any further questioning off with the kind of finality only an agent of his standing could. They back off under his reassurance that he’ll answer any further questions regarding your situation and the investigation you were involved in himself at a later time, once you were settled somewhere safe.

With a nod of goodbye from Jacob, you follow Marcus down the corridor and down the stairs of your building. You try to relax, try to reassure yourself that you’re okay now, but with the gun in plain sight in front of you tucked into the waistband of Marcus’s pants and the tense way he seems to hold himself, eyes checking and rechecking every corner and space on your way out of the building, it does little to settle your nerves.

He opens and holds the passenger door of his car for you, and it’s impossible to miss the way he studies the street with eagle eyes over your head as you slip into the seat and settle yourself against the leather. You watch him walk around the front of your car, wondering what he sees, what he's thinking.

He’s on high alert, even when he slides in beside you and starts the car. It’s silent as he drives. He doesn’t move to flick the radio on to fill the silence, too lost in his own theories to even spare it a thought. Minutes tick by, the flash of streetlights passing by your window and washing over your features as your face twists with your thoughts, running over theories again and again until you feel almost dizzy.

You need to know what he thinks before you drive yourself mad.

Your voice catches in your throat. “Is this related to the investigation?”

“I don’t know yet, but given the timing it’s probable.”

“Am I in danger?”

His fingers rub over his mouth, his gaze focused solely on the red light in front of him as he internally debates on how to answer. You study his side profile, wondering if he’s intentionally avoiding your eyes to dodge answering truthfully or simply just trying to find a way to process his own thoughts.

A soft sigh eventually leaves his lips.

“Maybe.”

The stirrings of a chill begins to creep along your shoulders, a sick feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach from having your chaotic string of anxiety ridden theories confirmed.

“Hey, I meant what I said. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You don’t have the strength to say anything, couldn’t even find words if you tried. A thank you attempts to build itself on your tongue, yet it dissolves away the more your mind races and tears start to bite at your eyes. Your hand reaches across the small distance over the centre console to rest on the back of his own, hoping the silent gesture would get your words across well enough.

Ever so slightly his hand shifts beneath yours, and a part of you wilts at the thought of him pulling away and taking away the comforting reassurance the physical touch provides, your fragile state finding an anchor in the familiar touch of skin.

But he doesn’t take it away.

His hand carefully turns, palm now warm against yours, and his fingers gently tangle with your own.

He says nothing, merely letting the rough pad of his thumb stroke along your skin. The steady back and forth of the touch begins to coax the race of your heart into something calmer, soothes the sting of tears. Neither of you move your hands for the rest of the drive.

—

It’s exactly what you expect.

The apartment is neat and tidy, decorated with simple pieces of furniture and little splashes of character throughout. You’re not surprised to see art, and lots of it. Framed prints hang from walls, ranging in size and emotion. A floor to ceiling mahogany bookshelf stretches along a wall behind a small dining table and you itch to tread closer to the collection of books lining it, to see who sits in the few frames that sit peacefully on the shelves.

“It’s very… you,” you comment quietly after studying your new surroundings, readjusting the strap of your weekend bag on your shoulder.

Marcus shifts where he stands, fingers toying with his keys and a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“You’ll never know.”

The smile widens and he walks deeper into the apartment, keys rattling softly as he places them on the breakfast counter. “The spare bedroom is just in the hall to the left, the bathroom is opposite.”

“Spare room?”

“You didn’t think I was going to make you sleep on the couch, did you?”

“I don’t know,” you reply.

You honestly didn’t know what to think when he bought up the topic of staying at his place. You weren’t opposed to sleeping on a couch when the occasion called for it, and God knows you’d rather take the floor than his bed. That felt entirely too personal given your history.

A spare room was a welcome development. You’d be out of his way and in your own space until he’s able to organise something else.

“Okay, well…” you falter, somewhat awkward just standing there in the middle of his apartment. “If it’s alright, I’m—I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

He nods, eyes falling briefly away from you.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Uh, help yourself to the kitchen if you need anything during the night. If you need something else and can’t find it, my room’s at the end.”

You linger for just a moment more, a small piece of you clinging to the reassuring safety his presence seems to provide after the previous events of the night. His gaze moves back to you, so open and steady and soft, it finally pushes you to speak the words you’ve been struggling to get out since he all but flung himself out of bed to get to you.

“Thank you, Marcus, for… everything. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs, gentle but with the firm seal of a promise.

His eyes follow you as you begin to make your way to the spare room, the weight of them familiar and surprisingly not unwelcome. No, you feel comforted, secure under his watchful gaze, able to breathe and release the tension embedded into your shoulders.

He doesn’t shy away when you spare him a final glance over your shoulder, and when he returns your small smile with one of his own, something in your chest seems to warm at the tender curl of it. The feeling follows you even when you close the door and slip into something more comfortable, stirs along your nerves when you slide into the crisp clean sheets of the bed and settle against the fluffy pillow.

And it’s still there, even when you succumb to the weight pulling at your eyes and slip into a heavy sleep. It’s not enough to keep the nightmares away though, shadows creeping along the familiar walls of your apartment in your mind and ghostly hands reaching out to tighten around your throat. You awake with a start sometime later, hands tight as they twist in the sheets and heart drumming against your ribs.

You attempt to settle back against the mattress with a few deep breaths, but the shadows dance along the ceiling of the room, taunting you with your recent fear.

Maybe they’d have faces if you knew who was behind this. Maybe they’d be the faces of old acquaintances, pinched with hatred and disgust that you’d given them so easily to the FBI and out for revenge. Maybe they’d be strangers, twisted by fury and fuelled by the significant loss of money from your replicas replacing their targets.

Maybe you deserved it.

Maybe this was just karma, the fall out of your choices and the consequences of each finally catching up to you. Maybe Marcus was wasting his time trying to step in, to save you from a fate you had probably sealed yourself in for when you first agreed to step into that forbidden world all that time ago.

These people, the widespread global business that runs behind closed doors, it was all so much bigger than you ever could’ve imagined when you started out.

What hope do you have of outrunning it? Of surviving the escape of it? There’s no leaving it behind.

Your body feels heavy as you pry yourself from the sheets and sit along the edge of the bed, neck stretching to either side in an effort to rid the ache slowly building behind your temples. Your mind continues to race, barraging you with questions of the unknown, the logical part of your mind struggling to comprehend, to put together how this came to be and how it could possibly play out.

None of it seems to lean in your favour.

The mere notion of it is dark, the apparent threat of death stretching and twisting through your mind until it’s seemingly all you can think about.

Marcus can try, but in reality, how much difference could he possibly make in the end? Whether it was now, or months, maybe even years, down the line… he won’t always be a phone call away. He won’t always be there with a promise that nothing will ever happen to you because of all of this, because of the life you chose to live.

You’re quiet as you slip out of the room and into the living area of his apartment, ensuring to keep your feet light over the floorboards to not disturb him. He had left a light on for you, a lamp perched on the side table beside the couch. That little trace of warmth returns with the thoughtful notion, attempts to coax the darkness plaguing your mind away, but it does very little in the end. The thoughts still run rampant.

The blanket you reach for on the couch is soft and smells comfortingly familiar as you tuck it around your shoulders. In the subdued light of the apartment, you nuzzle into it as you pad to the kitchen, taking in one final steadying breath before setting about finding a glass and filling it from the tap.

Sinking into the couch, you tuck your feet beneath you and huddle deeper into the blanket, thankful the warm light keeps your mind from finding shapes within the shadows stretching along the walls.

You don’t know how long you sit there, mind racing and anxiety spiralling out of control, but the telltale sound of a door opening down the hall has your eyes immediately fixing on the hallway, waiting for him to appear. He does only a moment later, hair askew and shadows under his eyes.

“I can’t sleep,” you offer quietly as an explanation, tucking the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” he replies, footsteps almost inaudible as he tracks his way to the couch and sinks into the cushions with a soft sigh. “I can’t sleep either.”

Every time he closed his eyes he saw your body spread out on an autopsy table, the soft skin of your forehead swollen and pierced by a single bullet wound. He hears vivid descriptions of your death, the degree of decomposition. His mind plagued him, tortured him, with it all over and over.

He swallows the bile building in his throat, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and taking comfort in the fact that you’re beside him. Breathing, alive.

Is that how this could’ve turned out? What if you had gotten home and they were still there? What if you didn’t have the chance to call him? Who would’ve eventually found you? What if they had come back and he was too late? He shakes the thoughts away, refusing to entertain them for another single second.

It won’t happen. He simply wouldn’t let it.

“How are you doing?”

“Not good.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Do you? You wouldn’t even know how to form your thoughts into words. Where would you even begin? What would talking about it achieve? Nothing. There was no point. Besides, it wasn’t his burden to bear. This struggle was all yours and yours alone.

“No,” you mutter finally, sighing quietly. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It is something, and it does matter,” he pushes softly, head resting gently against the back of the couch and head rolling to the side to watch you pick at his blanket. “I know it won’t mean much coming from me, but you’re not alone. You can talk to me.”

“To be honest, I don’t even know where to start. My mind’s all over the place. I had a nightmare and it—I don’t know. I just… I’m scared. That’s all.”

Your tone is dismissive, and he seems to take the hint that that’s all he’ll be getting out of you while you’re in this state. He doesn’t push any further, and simply lets the silence fall over you both as his eyes trace the outline of his coffee table.

“Are you hungry?” He asks after a little while. “I can cook you something.”

Your face twists, eyes bouncing to the window where the night still stretches out beyond it. “Marcus, it’s like 3am.”

He hums lowly, and in the corner of your eyes you see a small boyish smile forming on his lips.

“Perfect time for pancakes.”

Pancakes? At this hour? But your stomach rumbles at the thought, reminding you that you didn’t get to enjoy the leftovers sitting in your fridge that you were saving for after your shift. You can’t remember when you ate last, wondering if it was something small before leaving for work or even something earlier than that.

He must see the indecision play across your face.

“Come on,” he coaxes gently, standing from the couch and holding a hand out to you. “We’ll make some pancakes and then we’ll watch a movie or something. It’ll take your mind off of everything. I’ll even let you pick what we watch.”

The offer of a distraction is welcome and highly appreciated, but guilt still bubbles in your system from keeping him from rest yet again. He has a rough job, with sleep surely being scarce already. You couldn’t ruin his attempt of getting what little sleep he could after you practically pulled him out of bed earlier.

“Shouldn’t you go and try to get some sleep, agent?”

He gives a small shrug, that smile curling along the edges of his lips. “It’s not my first all-nighter. Come on, you know you want to.”

You fight a smile of your own and relent, reaching for his hand and letting him pull you to your feet.

It works.

Through the making of the batter, the playful tossing of the pancakes, and the soft drone of American Pickers playing out across the screen when you both finally sink back into the couch with your plates, you find that your mind had been peacefully quiet, your anxiety calmed to a minimum.

Another thing to thank him for.

That warmth, soft and sweet, stirs back to life, and when you glance over at him you have a fleeting thought that you might be in more danger than you’re ready to admit. You immediately stamp it out and refuse to let it grow into something more, swallowing down your appreciative thank you and instead moving to cuddle into the plush arm of the couch, ensuring to keep a distance stretched out between you.

—

Your tea’s cold, the steady rolls of steam wafting up from its pale brown surface long gone. You don’t have the appetite for it right now, the craving all but snatched away with the one simple phone call Marcus had stepped into his bedroom to take. He said he’d be back, that he’d tell you everything.

Time rolls on, and your impatience merely grows along with it.

Do they have any answers? Do they know who was in your apartment and why?

You hope for something random, a break in from someone’s need for quick cash and that can be in, but deep in your gut you know it’s not the case. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t that easy, that simple.

He immediately has your full attention when he eventually reappears, frowning down at his phone before sliding it into the pocket of his slacks. He’s dressed and ready for work, the soft comfortable side of him hidden behind his neatly pressed suit. He senses your questions before you have time to even form them on your tongue, and he gets straight into it, confirming your theories and curdling that bitter anxiety back to life.

“There were fingerprints at your apartment,” he starts, and you shift on the couch as something flashes across his face. “They were a match to the prints we previously pulled—”

—from a gun.

He feels physically sick.

They matched the prints from the ones found on a gun, linked to the murder of one of your old crew. These people, this person, had been in your home, touching your things, been so damn close to you…

Marcus stiffens his shoulders, heart beating at the back of his throat. He doesn’t know their motives, but judging by the state they left your apartment in, he gathered they weren’t there to recruit you. Someone somewhere knew you, knew what you had done, and they weren’t fucking happy.

“I’m putting you into protective custody.”

It’s final, leaving no room for argument.

You’re left to nod, accepting his decision readily despite the dark thoughts that return with it all. What’s the point? His face twists, eyes suddenly narrowed and on you and it’s only then that you realise you’d unintentionally said it out loud. You sigh tiredly, eyes falling away from the questions flashing across his face.

“Marcus, they—” you falter, hands clenching to hide their tremble, “—they’ll find me eventually, whether it’s now or in the future. What more can you do?”

“Anything. Everything. I’ll bounce you around this country until I find all of them if I have to.”

It’s spoken with such a determined vigor you’re left with nothing to say in return. You can’t argue with his resolve. You can’t tell him that it’s ridiculous, that you’re not worth that trouble and that you doubt the FBI would waste such resources on keeping someone like you safe. You’re hardly on the top of their priority list.

“But what kind of life is that? I’m practically on the run until you think it’s safe?”

“If it wasn’t for us—if it wasn’t for me—requesting your assistance with the case, you wouldn’t be in this situation. It’s my responsibility to see to it that you’re safe while we continue the investigation and apprehend those responsible, no matter how long it takes.”

So he thinks it’s his fault you’re in this position. This is him just covering his back, crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s so he wouldn’t be held responsible for anything that happens to you. It’s understandable, his job must mean a lot to him considering his position. It’s your fault you’re even here in the first place.

“Marcus, you don’t have to feel guilty for any of this. I chose to do it. It wouldn’t be your fault if anything happens to me, that’s just the consequences of getting myself mixed into everything when I did.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“You don’t know that, you can’t promise that—”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he repeats, firmer.

There’s that resolve again. You see it etched into his expression, buried within the tightness between his brows. There’s no moving him from it, no talking sense or pushing your case. He won’t hear it, won’t entertain any other possibility than the one he’s seemingly settled on. How could he be so sure?

It wouldn’t kill him to admit there’s a risk here.

You sigh, hands itching to busy themselves as worry curdles along your veins. It pushes your heart faster, turns your stomach until you feel a sickening ache building in your throat. You could take comfort from how hell bent he is on keeping you safe from harm, but your mind pushes to see reason, to know why he’s being so damn stubborn about this.

Even if Jane was right about his supposed ‘feelings’, going to all this trouble for a silly little crush built from your past is just ridiculous. Unless that’s what he’s trying to make up for. It’s not about feelings that are or aren’t there, it’s about fixing what happened. That’s what he’s doing. He couldn’t stop everything spiralling last time, so maybe that’s what he’s trying to do this time.

“You don’t have to do all of this, you know.”

Confusion bleeds into his expression, his hands finding his hips as he waits for further elaboration.

“You don’t need to make up for the past or anything. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

And you were, in a way. Oddly enough, this whole experience had given you closure on a chapter you never thought you’d be able to close. Never did you think you’d be able to achieve this kind of… peace with it all, and yet here you are—in his apartment, comfortable in his presence and the bitter hatred that had curdled so viciously in your heart nowhere to be found.

Of course it still hurts, and probably always will, but he wasn’t all bad. His continuous insistence in keeping you safe, his genuine sincerity in comforting you, and respecting the boundaries you had made along the way through coming into the investigation had shown you that. You can believe he had no intentions of letting it spiral as much as it did back then, didn’t mean for it to develop into what you had shared. It must have been confusing for him, the lines blurring between real and fake.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” He questions softly, hardened frame weakening under your gaze. “Making up for the past?”

“Why else would you be doing all of this?”

The quiet that falls between you is built with something you can’t seem to place in the moment, his warm brown eyes flicking over your face almost as if he were debating saying something. His mouth opens, and you wait, watching some kind of conflict pass across his face before he exhales gently, his gaze falling to the floor.

He leaves your question unanswered.

“I’m going into the office to organise your accommodations and to follow up on those prints. I’ll have an agent come to collect you sometime later this morning—you can grab some things from your apartment before we move you.”

You should leave it, but you can’t. You want to know why. If it’s not because he’s trying to compensate for the past, then why is he going to all these extremes? Protective custody is a logical step in this kind of circumstance, but you highly doubt there are agents just opening their homes to victims needing somewhere safe to stay.

He had wanted you here, in his apartment where he could watch over you himself. He had made you pancakes, made such an idiot of himself making a mess with batter and tossing the pancakes until a chuckle finally broke its way past your lips, and carefully tucked the blanket around your shoulders when you had fallen into a light sleep on the couch.

Though you weren’t fully conscious enough to recall all of it, a part of you had felt the shift of the couch, sensed his hands near and the sudden reassuring warmth of the blanket before slipping into a dreamless slumber. He was asleep and spread out beside you when you awoke a few hours later, hand stretched across the couch and resting on the cushion just shy of your covered feet, almost as if he were looking for you while lost in his own dreams.

“Marcus, why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s my responsibility—”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish his sentence. He lets it hang in the air, body slackening as soon as your eyes meet his. The vulnerability that seems to work its way through his system displays openly on his face.

“Be honest with me. Tell me the truth.”

He huffs in wry amusement, face twisting. His head drops, he shuffles on his feet and then he sighs, resigned. “After your conversation with Jane, I think you know why.”

You can’t help but recoil from his words, a frown quick to pinch your brows in surprise. “You know about that?”

His small smile is sad, uncomfortable.

“Jane may be a dick, but Rigsby’s a good guy. He pulled me aside and told me about it when he heard you had dropped your involvement. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were put in that position—it must’ve been difficult for you. And it’s not something you should’ve heard from him, of all people.”

He’s not denying it. He’s not rejecting Jane’s words. He’s not standing there insisting it’s just another one of his silly little mind games, or that he was making a big deal out of nothing. He has feelings for you. Actual feelings, and not some strange little crush carried from the past, and from seeing you again after so long. You don’t even know how they could be there. He doesn’t know you, not anymore at least.

“You can’t have feelings for me,” you state plainly, heart suddenly beating at the base of your throat.

“Why not?” He fires back immediately, defensively.

“Because you—” you flounder for words, eyes darting around the apartment in an effort to string your thoughts together. “Marcus, before this investigation, we hadn’t seen each other since—”

“Yeah, well… I guess they never went away.”

“They weren’t real!” You cry out, a touch of anger seeping into your tone as you stand from the couch and face him fully. “You were working, I-I was just a lead! You couldn’t possibly have—”

“You were never just a lead!”

You’re taken aback by the sudden force behind his voice, and he must see the way you flinch at it. He calms almost instantly, chest heaving with a sharp exhale as he breaks away from your gaze and curls in on himself. You don’t know what to say. You merely wait for something more, hanging on the way he seems to be thinking so damn hard on his words.

“You—you weren’t just a lead. Not to me.”

“What are you saying? The whole time, you… the whole time?”

“The whole time,” he confirms quietly, and for a split second you just wish he would look at you.

He doesn’t, and your mind spins. The revelation hits you deeply, the stirrings of confusion, heartache, simmering in the pit of your stomach. It doesn’t change anything. It couldn’t. The damage had already long been done, but strangely enough there comes a wash of comfort that soothes the bitter sting, and the question slips free of your lips before you even comprehend it.

“It was real,” you choke out, eyes prickling from the build of tears, “wasn’t it?”

Maybe not the whole thing given the circumstances, but what you shared, what he felt for you—

“It was always real to me.”

And with those few little words, he shatters the perception you had built of him and the time you shared together. You feel it hit you—hard, your body taking a step back as your throat tightens until you worry you won’t be able to get a breath in or out. The tears slip free, spilling down your cheeks as your mind hurries to replay every memory of him in a different light, one not tainted with betrayal or hatred.

He follows your step back on instinct, one foot coming to move his body forward towards you before he stops himself short. He swallows, a hand finally leaving his hip to run over his face and collect the stray tear that had slid along his cheek.

“Someone will come to collect you soon,” he rasps quietly, leaving you to your chaotic mess of thoughts and slipping out of the apartment, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #pedro pascal x reader #the mentalist fanfiction

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souliebird · 1 year ago

Text

[[and then I met you || ch. 19]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 3.6k

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banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen

Frank, admittedly, isn’t as fit as he used to be.

Running through the desert, carrying all his gear, used to be an everyday thing he could do no problem, but now, running through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he finds his breathing to be a bit labored.

Then again, that might be because he’s pissed off. He, Jones, and Red were in the middle of setting up for a night of surveillance, something Red insisted they do, when the costumed idiot took off into the night without a word.

Normally, Red will give them the damn courtesy of letting them know before he disappears to protect his flock, so him just starting to bolt had Frank and Jones scooping up their shit and following.

One thing Frank’s learned while working with Matt Murdock is to trust the bastard when it comes to his senses - when he says they need to clear out, there is usually a damn good reason to start running. But he has always given a reason or a head’s up - taking off like this must mean something is going down.

Jones gave up trying to keep pace a few blocks back, but Frank is determined to find out what the hell is going on. Red has the advantage of not hauling an additional fifty pounds of gear, and he has taken to parkouring over the roofs, so has gotten about a block and a half ahead.

Frank can keep him in his sights, at least. He’s making a bee-line right towards Chelsea and that’s causing a pit to start to grow in the Marine’s stomach. Not many things override Red’s deep seeded commitment to his city and only one of those things resides outside Hell’s Kitchen.

He adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move faster.

The buildings around him shift from businesses to residential and about two blocks into the change, Frank knows what set the Devil off.

His little girl is in the middle of the sidewalk, crying hysterically as her mother struggles on the ground against some fat fuck in a business suit. Frank only sees the attacker for a brief second before fury incarnate grabs him by his thick neck and slams him into the ground by Mom’s feet. The sound of a skull being cracked rings clear before it's covered by angry roars and the crunch and squelch of someone’s face being pounded in.

By the Grace of all that is Holy, Red’s baby seems to not care her dad is about to kill a guy and scurries to her Mommy now that she is free. Frank kicks his ass into gear to get there before she can be traumatized anymore.

He doesn’t know if the little girl recognizes him or not, but she doesn’t fight it when Frank picks her up. She clings to him desperately, burying her face against his neck and just sobbing. Instincts he forgot he had kick in and Frank bundles Minnie up in his duster, rocking her and trying to soothe her the best he can.

“Hey, hey, sweet girl, it's okay, it's okay. I gotcha. Everything’s gonna be okay, I gotcha.”

Frank cups the back of her head, careful to not tangle his fingers up in her curls and turns her away from her bloody mother. He needs to check on you, to make sure your wounds are something he can handle, and they don’t need to take you to the hospital, but he can’t do that with a crying toddler in his arms.

“He hurt my Mommy!” The baby wails and his heart just about breaks. He wants so badly to join Red in stomping the piece of shit’s head into the pavement for endangering such a precious child, but he knows he can’t. She can’t witness any more than she already has.

As often as Frank takes digs at Murdock for being an altar boy, he can’t let Red’s daughter see him lose control and step over the line he swore to never cross. He’d never forgive himself for causing that trauma for her. So, he hugs the little girl closer, kisses the top of her head, then grunts, “Red!”

Murdock stills mid-punch, his bloody fist raised and ready to continue his punishment. He looks feral - he is snarling, and gore has splashed up onto his face. He is shaking with rage and for a brief moment, Frank can see why he claims to have the Devil in him. Then, just as his little girl cries for her Mom again, control returns to him. Red tilts his head in a way Frank knows he heard something, then he pushes himself up into standing.

Red rips his gloves off, throwing them to the ground, before taking the few steps to clear the gap between him and Frank. He barely starts to rasp out his daughter’s name before she’s turning in Frank’s arms and trying to throw herself to him, sobbing.

“DADDY!”

The noise Red makes is not at all human as he crushes his baby girl to his chest. A new round of loud tears start and Frank knows he has to work quickly before they start attracting attention.

He pulls his duster off and throws it around Red’s shoulders, trying to hide his garish costume. Murdock seems to realize what he’s doing - he curls into it while ducking his horn-head and moving towards the shadows as he comforts his daughter. Frank can’t hear what he’s saying - his voice is low and the crying covers it - but honestly he doesn’t care.

He turns his attention back to your limp body on the ground, dropping down and letting his knowledge of field medicine take over.

Your forehead is bleeding pretty bad, but a quick assessment of the wound tells him it looks worse than it really is. You’ve got a pretty good gash, but it is shallow, and he doesn’t feel any bone breakage under it or swelling. You’ll need a few stitches, and a hell of a lot of ibuprofen, but you won’t need a hospital. You probably passed out from a combination of pain and exhaustion from an adrenaline rush.

Still, Frank checks your neck before deciding to move you, just to make sure it's safe.

As he starts to press his fingers along your spine, Jones finally makes her appearance, jogging up to the scene.

“What the fuck?”

Frank barely looks up as he growls out his reply, focusing on his work while formulating a plan in his head, “It’s his kid.”

“Oh shit,” she replies, then after a beat, “Is he dead?”

Frank barely looks over to the beaten man in question - his chest is still rising and falling so that’s good enough for him. “Nah, not yet. Call it in - then meet us up in her apartment.”

He rattles off the address and apartment number as he scoops you up into a fireman’s carry. He’s glad he doesn’t have far to go, because your weight, plus his gear, isn’t doing any favors to his back. As he gets you situated, Jones steps over to the attacker and nudges him in the side with her boot. His face isn’t recognizable as human, but that isn’t what she comments on.

“What is that smell? Did he shit himself?”

“Fuck if I know, just call it in,” Frank grunts as he begins to trudge towards the right building. “Red, let's go!”

He knows he doesn’t have to explain the plan to Murdock - fucker heard him the first time. Red falls in line and by some miracle, his little girl’s crying has tampered down. She’s still crying - Frank would be more concerned if she wasn’t - but she’s tucked herself close to her Dad and seems to be just more upset than actively terrified. Frank’s got no idea what Murdock could have possibly done to soothe her, but he gives him props for doing it so damn fast.

He can hear Jones calling for an ambulance as they enter into your building, and once in the lobby, Frank wastes no time barking another order, “Take off your helmet.”

That earns him a glare, or what counts as a glare from the Devil, and Murdock uses one hand to pull his cowl off and stuffs it between his chest and his daughter before starting for the stairs. Frank is right at his heel and being so close means he can finally hear what Red is repeating to his girl.

“Just listen to her heart, baby, everything’s okay. You know that sound. Just listen to her heart.”

Frank has a good guess what that means - his theory about passing out from exhaustion and pain is probably correct. If your heart isn’t in crazy panic ‘I’m dying’ mode, you should be fine after a good night’s rest.

The only problem they encounter in the climb up to your apartment is your door. They have to do a weird song-and-dance of Frank turning so Red can get into your purse to get keys while also making sure Minnie can’t see your face. He hasn’t gotten the chance to clean you up in any way and he’s not going to let any little girl see her mom like that if he can help it.

Once they are inside the apartment, Frank goes right to the couch to lay you out. As he does, he says over his shoulder, “I’m gonna call Curt.”

Just because you don’t need a hospital doesn’t mean you shouldn’t see a medical professional. Frank knows what he is doing, but he does not trust himself to stitch up your face. Someone with delicate hands needs to do that, and the best person he knows for that is Curt.

Murdock, however, disagrees.

“Call Claire,” he counters firmly.

Frank knows better than to argue - this is Murdock’s family and Frank ain’t got a dog in this fight. So, once you are down, and his gear is dropped, he fishes out his phone to call the feisty nurse. As he does, Red starts back towards what Frank assumes is the bedroom, talking in a sweet tone to his little girl, “It's okay, Frank’s gonna clean Mommy up, then we can go see her. She’s just got a scrape, everything’s okay.”

Frank focuses on his task at hand - as the line rings, he raids the kitchen for washcloths, bowls, and paper towels. He’s on his way back to the couch when Claire finally answers.

“What did he do this time?”

A little smile forms on his lips at her bluntness - he’s always liked Claire and her no-nonsense attitude.

“Ain’t him. His girl got mugged, hit her head pretty good,” he explains, as he dips a washcloth into the water to start on cleaning you up. The cut on your forehead is still bleeding, but only a little by this point. He’ll have to retrace their steps to wipe away any blood droplets, so they don't leave a trail right to your door.

“So, take her to the ER.”

He hums at the response, then adds the crucial element, “His little girl saw it all.”

The line is silent for a good five seconds before Claire is swearing, “I’m on my way. How bad are we talking?”

He feels a little for the nurse at the moment - she’s always having to deal with Red broken and battered and is probably thinking she’s going to have to do some sort of impromptu surgery. He gives a rundown on your injuries, then adds, “Your stitches are nicer than mine.”

“Exactly what a lady wants to hear. How’s the kid?”

“Physically ok, but probably going to have nightmares for a while,” is his honest reply. There wouldn’t be an attacker left to pick up in an ambulance if Minnie had gotten hurt - he would have made sure of that no matter what Red would have said.

Claire groans in response, “I don’t know anything about child psychology, Frank.”

“No one’s expecting you to.”

The nurse may be a miracle worker in the eyes of Red’s little vigilante group, but no one in this world is qualified to deal with all their mental problems.

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll be there. You’re lucky I’m on this side of town already.”

Claire hangs up on him and Franks stuffs his phone back into his pocket. He’ll need to call Mirco later to set up a camera on your building, something similar to what he’s got for Karen, and arrange for some background checks on the neighbors. The area seems to be working class just trying to get by, but isn’t that just all of the city now? Even if one drunk-off-his-ass guy just made some stupid decision, it put you and the kid in danger and that is a no-go in Frank’s book. As much Red will huff and puff and growl, his family falls under Frank’s sphere of protection and that isn’t something Frank skimps on.

So, a full security upgrade is in your near future.

But that is something he’ll figure out the details for later on. Right now, he puts his full attention in cleaning you up.

The worst of it is the cut on your forehead. He folds a washcloth and sets it on the wound to help the remaining bleeding stop, then moves onto your cheeks. You’ve got some gravel stuck there, but he doesn’t see any glass or metal. There’s some bruising, but he doesn’t think it will be anything to fuss about - it will fade away within a day or so. He’s seen worse coloring on a hickey. The bastard who attacked you didn’t seem like he knew what he was doing, or he was too sloshed out of his mind to be coordinated.

Overall, you are just pretty banged up.

But nonetheless, Frank takes care to make sure it just looks like you are resting, even putting the throw blanket left on the couch over you to hide the grime stains on your clothes.

Red and his creepy bat ears must be listening, because as soon as he goes to dump the bloody cleaning water, he’s coming out of the bedroom with Minnie. She’s still in his arms, clinging to his neck like a koala, but her tears have stopped. She’s still sniffling, though.

Frank hangs back as the little girl is brought to her Mommy and his heart damn near breaks again when she starts talking.

“She’s just sleeping?”

“She’s just sleeping,” Red confirms. He carefully kneels down beside you and makes slow, exaggerated movements as he puts his hand over your heart. “You can feel, too. Just sleeping.”

He watches as the tiny little girl untangles herself from her father and stretches to put her hand next to his. She scrunches up her nose and gets a look Frank has seen a million times on Red.

“Boom. Boom. Boom.”

“Exactly, boom. Boom. boom. The same heart-noises Mommy makes when she sleeps.”

They stay like that for a few seconds before little hands go up to your face and Minnie is examining your cuts.

“He hurt Mommy,” she says so softly that Frank wants to stomp back downstairs and unload his Glock into the asshole. “She has ouchies.” She turns so quickly in Red’s arm that Frank sees him jump just a little - probably still on high alert - and she slaps both her hands on his cheeks, “You have to kissy it better.”

Her voice is so serious and demanding, he’s surprised Red doesn’t instantly comply. Instead, he kisses his little one’s forehead.

“A doctor is going to come and make sure all her ouchies are taken care of. Then we can kiss it better.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Her curls bounce as the little girl whips around to address Frank, ordering in the same voice, “You have to kissy it better, too.”

He damn well knows better than to argue with a three year old girl - Lisa could put him in his place like no one's business - so Frank simply nods with a, “Yes, ma’am.” Red doesn't look thrilled at the agreement, but he's not the one who's opinion Frank cares about.

Her brown eyes sus him out, narrowing a fraction before he passes whatever criteria she has and Minnie turns back to her mother and father. “When is she gonna wake up?”

“She'll wake up when she's done resting,” Murdock gently advises. “She needs lots of rest right now.”

Frank knows what question is coming before it is even asked. It is the universal toddler question.

“Why?”

Red, it seems, needs to spend more time with his kid because he looks completely baffled by the question. He repeats the word, which just gets parroted back at him, and Frank can practically hear Lisa and Frankie chanting along with her.

Why?

Why would you need lots of rest in a way a terrified toddler would get it? There's a slight hint of panic in Red’s sightless eyes as he fights to find an answer and Frank takes pity on him.

He steps forward and asks the little girl, “Have you ever played really hard then needed a nap after?”

Attention swings back to him but this time he is prepared for it. Minnie considers his question, then nods, and Frank gives her a soft, friendly smile. “Same thing, sweetheart. Your Mommy’s body worked really hard and now she needs a nap.”

“She needs a nap,” the baby replies and then, to his amusement, proceeds to stuff her fingers into her mouth and suck on them. He's got no idea what that means, but Red’s shoulders relax a fraction, so he assumes it's a good thing.

He wonders if she's starting to get tired now that the action is over. He can't imagine why they were out in the first place, but he has to guess it was to get something from the store. That is his experience with bringing a baby in their pajamas out at night - there was something needed that couldn't wait until morning. That would also explain the black bag in your purse.

He looks to Red and his girl - Murdock has sat himself on the floor beside the couch, facing you, and Minnie is tucked in his lap, sucking her fingers still. Both of their focus seems to be on you. So, Frank lets curiosity get the better of him and he goes to snoop.

There’s a bottle of Pedialyte nestled inside the bag, and by the tiny bit missing, he has a feeling he knows who it is for. He looks from it, over to the sweet child sitting in Red’s lap, and decides she probably still needs it if her mom went out in the middle of the night for it. So, he turns his snooping to the kitchen and opens and closes cabinets until he finds the one holding sippy cups. All of them have Braille labels on them and he briefly wonders what each says before grabbing one with Big Bird on it. He gives it a good rinse before filling it up halfway with the blue liquid.

He removes his tactical vest before he heads back to the living room. He thinks of it more of a sign for Red than Minnie. The little girl might be scared of the skull art, but he hopes it will help Murdock relax. He’s putting on a good face for his daughter, but Frank can see the tension in his jaw and how on edge and angry he must be, and he can’t be blamed. He knows how emotional Red can get and he’s surprised he’s managing to keep it together - so subtly letting him know ‘there’s no danger here’ and Frank isn’t a threat to his family might just get him to stop grinding his teeth.

He approaches slowly and somewhat loudly, while holding out the sippy cup, “Here you go, sweetie.”

Minnie blinks up at him with those wide brown eyes and he can see the exhaustion starting to creep in - getting a bottle might just knock her out. He has to lean down so she can take it, but as soon as she does, her hand drops from her mouth and she politely mumbles, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.”

“What is it?” Murdock questions, nose twitching to try to figure out the smell. Frank doubts he’s familiar with the drink, but soon he’ll have it memorized.

“Blue Pedi-lyte,” the baby grumbles before the spout goes right into her mouth and she starts to nurse it. Almost instantly she starts leaning back against Red’s chest and Frank knows right away she’ll be asleep within minutes.

He checks his phone as he goes to take a seat at the kitchen table. Claire should be here any minute and it's a toss up if Jones comes up or not. He’ll wait until everything is all settled to head out - he does want to make sure you are okay and he’s not going to leave Claire alone with an upset kid and her Dad-devil.

Frank brings up his texts to Karen to start typing out that the op is a bust, when Murdock’s quiet voice interrupts his train of thought.

“Thank you, Frank.”

“Nothing to thank me for, Red. It’s your family. You don’t gotta explain that to me.”

“Still, thank you, Frank. I mean it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Murdock.”

---

a/n: frank has entered the chat and assumed Alpha Dad role. his family now.

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