#patient`s death

[lifewithaview]

Sela Ward and Hugh Laurie in House (2004) The Mistake

S2E8

Chaos ensues after Chase's negligence leads to the death of a female patient. Now, after an inquiry from the hospital board, and a subpoena from the patient's brother, it's up to Stacey to protect Chase's career, as well as House's.

*At the beginning of the episode, Kayla's daughters tell her that Sally Ayersman has been teasing them, to which Kayla responds, "If Sally's mean to you again, I'm just gonna have to key her daddy's new convertible." However, later in the episode, House blackmails a surgeon into doing Kayla's liver transplant. The surgeon is a Dr. Ayersman, whose wife, getting an "anonymous" tip about her husband's cheating, decides to key his new convertible. In House's words, "Enough irony for us all."

[see-arcane]

An AU where Ellen catches Carmilla's attention instead of Orlok's could be interesting. Lonely girl who's mom is dead living in an isolated manor; now that sounds familiar doesn't it?

Perhaps in some ways more insidiously Mircalla actually bothering to pose as some sort of "spirit of comfort" instead of pretty much immediately dropping the act seems likely.

I could see it! But then that still leaves the question dangling of whether Mircalla/Carmilla will be as attached to Ellen as she comes to be with Laura, or if Ellen would go the way of other girls who caught Millie's eye and simply get dead about it sooner rather than later :c

[wayfinderships]

The Snow yearning is so strong tonight

[1tsjusty0u]

DO I HAVE TO CHANGE THE SHRINE OF RESURRECTION FOR THIS AU??

[voidcat]

once again at my wits end bc of men

[nathankirschenbaum]

Advance Care Planning: A Personal and Profound Approach to End-of-Life Care

The grief that follows the loss of a loved one can be overwhelmingly painful, leaving families in a state of emotional turmoil. In such fragile moments, Advance Care Planning (ACP) emerges as a beacon of relief, offering a structured way to honor a loved one’s wishes while fostering a sense of peace and closure. By ensuring that the departed’s desires are respected, ACP significantly reduces the…

[taintandviolent]

sin creeps in ; Nosferatu x Reader

summary: You're plagued by heinous nightmares of a mysterious monster, but you can't help but feel drawn to he who plagues you.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.5K | female reader, monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, bloodplay, biting, drinking blood / blood loss, mentions of death, making out, smut, unprotected sex, mentions of accents, shadow play (fingering)????.

a/n: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR NOSFERATU 2024! this is just.... listen, I'm not even going to try to justisfy myself. rack up yet another hear me out moment for me. you either understand or you don't. shorter than I wanted it to be, but I needed to get this out and sate my hunger. banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You awake with a strangled gasp, your hands flying to your throat as your breath gradually returns. The nightmares had roused you, as they had every night, but this time, something lingered. Your room was frigid; the gauzy curtains fluttered in front of the open window like misplaced ghosts, allowing the chill of the night to penetrate your quarters. Everything looks terrifying at night; familiar shapes are transformed into horrible spectres, and your very room feels unknown. Unsafe. 

He is here. For the first time in several nights, you weren’t dreaming – he has come for you.

“I know that you are here with me,” you bravely whisper into the emptiness of your own bedroom. The wind whistled, a familiar sound, but something growled – growled in a language you didn’t speak, but understood. The voice was low, gravelly, and heavily accented. 

Hurriedly, you kick the sheets from your legs. The moonlight pales your skin, washing you in its blanch, bluish tone. Gripping your gown with both hands, you gather it up your thighs, exposing them to the cold. The chill of the wind hits your center, and you hiss through your teeth. Your head drops to your chest, and so does your gaze, watching patiently. At the edge of your bed, a large, slender shadow manifests. Him. 

You dare not look up. The feeling of his presence petrifies you, but also arouses you – letting a slick warmth pool deeply between your legs. 

The shadows continue to creep further up your bed, until they reach your feet, which twitch in response. Up, up, up… along your shins. Your skin prickles, and you shiver, doing your best to remain calm. Though he doesn’t touch you, you feel him. You feel every pass of his large hand as it makes its way up your body. His shadow glides over your hip, to your stomach and finally between your plump breasts, coming to a stop over your beating heart. It thumps away like a rabbit’s heart underneath the blackness of his form, and you hear a ragged, strained groan.

Then, with no warning, it moves down, leaving a cold, lifeless chill in its path like a gust of winter wind. You pant, desperately clinging to what breath you have. All at once, the shadow envelopes the soft, warm mound between your legs and your hands fall to the bed, bracing yourself. You have felt his ghostly touches for countless nights, tasting your body as a lover would, but each time your body climbed the peak, the sensations disappeared.  He comes to you in dreams, always leaving you unsatisfied. Your chest heaves in the night, cold droplets of sweat peppering your decollete and breasts. Your hands claw the sheets while you dream, but never reach euphoria.

Tonight, there are new sensations. The phantom wisp of his middle finger runs along the length of your slit. Grazing it. Somehow, you feel his finger part your wet folds, toying with your most sensitive areas. The nonexistent pads of his fingers sweep back and forth over your swelling clit, bringing a spasmodic twitch from each of your muscles. Wanting. Craving. While the sensation lacks the familiar warmth of a living man, it is bountiful with pleasurable feelings – your body responds embarrassingly; your shoulders shudder violently. 

He inhales, a deeply hollow sound. “You desire this… thine own body craves it….” 

The accent seems to fill his entire mouth, rumbling in his throat as he speaks slowly, drawing out each word like an incantation. You let out a plaintive moan, throwing your head back against the pillows, the down feathers crackling underneath you. As though he’s still pleasuring you, your hips writhe back and forth, practically convulsing with need. The shadow of his hand is gone from your body, replaced by the looming darkness of his physical form. After a moment of trepidation, you finally lift your head, and stare into the dark, terrifying eyes that watch you. 

You swallow hard. “I do.” 

A moment passes before you continue. “Take me as you will, for I am yours.” You consent again, desperate to convey your own insatiable hunger, your unimaginable need. 

Another intake of breath from him – it almost sounds labored, painful. His footsteps are dreadful as he moves around to the side of your bed. He’s tall, his form stretching towards the ceilings and towering over you, consuming your atmosphere as he had in your nightmares. His silhouette is large; enhanced by the countless furs he has on.

Weightlessly, his lithe, ghastly fingers reach for you and make contact with your form. They are cold, and the icy feeling of them penetrate the thin fabric of your nightgown. He moves gradually, but hungrily, feeling the curves of your body beneath the cotton. As he moves southward, his fingers skim over the peak of your breast, a nail catching on the swollen nipple. It hurts, but your chest jerks forward still, craving more of his touch. 

Pulling a breathy moan from deep within your throat, his long, sharp nails rake across the tender flesh of your thigh. It’s bathed in the silvery moonlight, which casts horrible, elongated shadows of his fingers down towards your center. He scrapes downward, his middle finger digging into the flesh enough to leave a reddened streak behind, but not so much to break the skin.

“P-please…” you mewl, looking up into his horrifying visage. The sight of him fills you with dread and disgust, but like a single drop of blood in water, it’s tainted with something else, something else that has been lingering in your system for days. 

He’s above you now, though you don’t remember seeing him move atop of you. Still, he’s there. The bed creaks as you push yourself into the mattress, whimpering underneath him. He lowers himself down onto you, the brush of his mustache tickles your face as he lingers above you. A second passes and his waiting mouth envelops yours. He tastes damp and cold, faintly of ash and earth. His tongue slips out and it too is cold, slipping wetly along your own and along your bottom lip. His kiss is dreadful, but possessive, and he inhales each time you exhale, as though he’s trying to suck the very warmth out of you. No man has kissed you the way Count Orlok kisses you, and the chill of the room disappears, snuffed out by the fire that rages in your lower abdomen. 

Your tongues collide with each other; you tasting his lifelessness, and him tasting your utterly intoxicating, vibrant liveliness. For a moment, the two of you stay intertwined at the mouth until he separates himself, smearing his mouth over the warmth of your neck. He hovers, pausing over your pulse. It thrums under his lips, and his hips urge into yours, indicating his hunger.

There is a shuffle, a rustling of clothing. You try to lift your head up to gaze between your bodies, but his hand holds you fast, pressing you against the pillow. The size of his hand is staggering; his palm underneath your chin, while the fingertips extend past your hairline, into the strands. You shudder again and whisper his name. He inhales as though he plans to speak, but doesn’t. 

The front of your nightgown falls apart, revealing your chest to him. With one hand covetously clutching your breast, his mouth opens between your breasts, the slithery coolness of his tongue gliding down along the length of your sternum. As the teeth puncture your flesh, your hands make fists on either side of your body, pulling the sheets into the confines of your palms. He enters you, in more ways than one, and you feel the steady tug of his mouth as he sucks the blood from your veins. Warmth pools in the cave of your stomach.

The fingers of his other hand crawl up your shoulder, and like a quill in ink, he dips the pads of his fingers into the hollow of your chest, coating them in your crimson essence. He smears the blood along your decollete, along the hem of your nightgown, tugging it harshly over your shoulder. The blood coats you in a flash of warmth, and then chill as it meets the cold air. 

His hips rut against yours as he drinks, the pulse of your blood matching the thrust of his hips. An ache starts in your neck, a slow pulling sensation that has your eyelids fluttering. He moves within you, his length penetrating as deeply as his sharpened teeth have. Your release is found amongst blood and groans and that same language which you understand, but do not speak. His tongue scrubs at your soft skin, lapping up the blood as it comes… as you do. 

The darkness is ever-looming, and as your aching cunt ebbs its throbbing, it settles down upon you. You let yourself fall backwards into the abyss, freely. It takes you, wrapping its arms around your tiny frame which is dwarfed by his stature. His mouth breaks free of your bloodied skin with a slick pop.  Into the softness of your skin, you hear him growl, ‘Mine.’ The feeling vibrates against your neck, and your lids flutter shut.

[kira-akira]

What I Want You To Know About Long COVID

Well lads, I've been suffering from Long COVID for over a year now. My life is at a complete standstill. I'm 25 years old and I'm too sick to go back to school, I can't work, I had to move back in with my parents and I'm still stuck here.

Here are just a few things I wish people knew about Long COVID, including things I didn't know myself until I got it.

COVID destroys your immune system. Yes, even if you don't have Long COVID. Are you getting sick more often now? When you get sick, does it last longer? There are many studies showing that COVID causes t cell depletion, even in mild COVID cases! T cells are how your body remembers how to fight off infections you've had before so losing those cells? Bad news.

Your initial infection can be mild and you can still get Long COVID. Right from Yale Medicine, "Most people with Long COVID had mild acute COVID." (This is also a good link for a basic Long COVID overview).

There can be a gap of time between when you "get better" from the initial COVID infection to the onset of Long COVID symptoms. Some people get sick with an initial COVID infection and never get better. Some get better and then weeks or months later start developing Long COVID symptoms. Long COVID symptoms can even fluctuate over time, can go away for months and then suddenly come back.

So many people have Long COVID and don't realize it. Do you feel more tired lately but no matter how much you sleep, nothing helps? Is it harder to concentrate at work or school? Can you just not think like you used to? You could have Long COVID and not even know it. Even mild post-COVID symptoms are still Long COVID.

COVID can do anything to your body. Long COVID has over 200 recognized symptoms and can affect basically any part or system of your body. There is no one mechanism or cause of Long COVID which unfortunately also means there's no one cure either.

The effects of COVID are cumulative. Each COVID reinfection increases your chances of developing Long COVID. COVID is also affecting your body in other ways, yes, even if you're otherwise young and healthy! "Repeat COVID-19 infections increase risk of organ failure, death".

Once you have Long COVID, repeat COVID infections will make your symptoms worse. "80% [of Long COVID patients] saw their symptoms worsen [from reinfection]. In 60% of people who were in recovery or remission from Long COVID, reinfection caused a recurrence of Long COVID."

There is a lot more I want to say about Long COVID but I want to keep this post at least somewhat manageable to read. Like how when COVID is contracted during pregnancy, those COVID-exposed fetuses have a 6.3-fold increased risk of motor developmental delays, or that another study found 50% of babies exposed to COVID in utero had developmental delays.

You need to keep caring about COVID, for others around you and also for yourself even if you're "healthy". Everyone is at risk. And don't forget 40-60% of COVID infections are asymptomatic, which is why masking even if you feel fine is crucial. The only way right now to not get Long COVID is to not get COVID in the first place. It's not too late, if you've stopped masking it's never too late to start again! I know it's easy to get distracted by things in your life that seem more real than the possibility of getting sick some time in the future, and the peer pressure to not mask can be intense. But it only feels less real or less important until your entire life is having Long COVID. Trust me.

I know this is a complicated issue, many people can't afford to stay home when sick even if they want to because of their jobs, there are disgusting policies trying to ban wearing masks, but please if you can. Keep masking. Masking works, masking saves lives.

This post got a bit longer than I wanted so below the cut is a non-exhaustive list of my Long COVID symptoms and some of my experiences as one of the "healthy young people" who got "unlucky". cw brief mention of suicidal ideation.

Welcome to the Thunderdome that is my body with Long COVID. Keep in mind these are just my experiences and symptoms, Long COVID can cause any range of symptoms at varying severities.

Dysautonomia: Exercise intolerance, Post-Exertional Malaise (PEM), fatigue, and heat intolerance. What do those things mean? Here's some specific examples. Absolutely terrible circulation I am so cold all the time but also, if I get a little too warm I will pass out. Eating hot food makes my heart rate spike, I sweat, my body feels heavy. Blood pooling and pins and needles in my feet when I walk. Don't even think about exercising past walking, it's impossible. I used to work out an hour a day 4 times a week and now walking up one flight of stairs makes my heart pound and I can't breathe. Can't take even just warm showers anymore or I will pass out. Heat rashes from being in the sun for 10 minutes.

Digestive issues: Honestly too many to name but: constant bloating, extreme nausea, constipation, slow motility, lack of appetite, just so much cramping and pain. I lost 18 pounds from Long COVID, as someone who was already considered underweight their entire life, and almost had to get a shunt put into my chest to deliver nutrients because I was nearly completely unable to eat. For the first 6 months of Long COVID, if I could manage 600 calories a day, that was a good day.

Histamine intolerance: Oh boy. My worst symptoms, I don't even know where to start with it. If you know Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS) it's very similar. I can only eat 19 foods. If i eat a single bite of something not on that list, it's 48 hours of absolute hell. Coughing, migraines, itchy eyes, such extreme nausea I cannot even describe it, panic/feeling of doom, racing heart rate, derealization, rash, uncontrollable muscle tremors. I only learned about histamine intolerance 5 months into having Long COVID so before that, I was experiencing these symptoms nearly every single day. Terrifying isn't even a strong enough word to describe how it felt to experience all this and have no idea what it was, how to stop it, or if it would ever stop. Really dark times.

Neurological issues: More of that derealization. Inability to concentrate. Anxiety. OCD-like symptoms such as thoughts getting "stuck" in my head, repeating 24/7 completely unable to stop them, genuinely felt like my brain had cracked open and I had lost my mind. Constant dizziness like I'm on a boat.

Sleep issues: I sleep like garbage. I have insomnia, I wake up dozens of times every night and every single time I sleep I have intensely vivid dreams. I can't sleep longer than 7 hours total no matter how exhausted I am. It is exhausting. I'm exhausted, I'm so so tired.

And finally. Just. Really intense suicidal ideation. My body, my health, my entire life has been stolen from me because someone else decided my life was worth less to them than wearing a mask or staying home if they feel sick. Before I got Long COVID, I was preparing to go to South Korea to teach English, then on to a PhD in neurolinguistics, I was supposed to meet my long distance partner and had already booked plane tickets when I got sick. All of that has been destroyed.

Most of us with Long COVID are stuck in a cycle of being extremely sick, then if you're lucky you'll slowly get better over months, just to get reinfected and go right back where you started or worse. Honestly, I'm not scared of dying from COVID. I'm scared of living for a long time, suffering from Long COVID the entire time. This isn't living.

I don't know how to end this now. I'm still fighting, I'm trying experimental treatments, I'm not giving up yet. I hope everyone reading this stays healthy and well.

[nereidprinc3ss]

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart. 

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static. 

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months. 

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good. 

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way. 

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not. 

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present. 

This is the right thing. 

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses. 

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair. 

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared. 

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making. 

��Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth. 

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes. 

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32. 

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts. 

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying. 

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. 

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him. 

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint. 

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me. 

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone. 

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand. 

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he’s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes. 

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily. 

“So you’ve told me.” 

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink. 

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days. 

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things. 

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend. 

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks. 

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no. 

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin. 

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.  

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple. 

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t. 

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone. 

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?” 

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it. 

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence. 

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing. 

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing. 

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh. 

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow. 

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn. 

More buzzing silence. 

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton. 

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back. 

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered. 

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey. 

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?” 

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face. 

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon. 

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be. 

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers. 

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can. 

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains. 

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably. 

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming. 

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice. 

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat. 

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed. 

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble. 

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear. 

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity. 

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much. 

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen. 

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right. 

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased. 

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in. 

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun. 

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die. 

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood. 

The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that. 

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too. 

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. 

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper. 

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you. 

-

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well. 

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch. 

-

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room. 

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything���only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him. 

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp. 

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief. 

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too. 

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state. 

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt. 

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you. 

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines. 

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

-

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth. 

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries. 

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection. 

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter. 

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand. 

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad. 

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag. 

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet. 

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall. 

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!” 

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders. 

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again. 

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper. 

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway. 

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent. 

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says. 

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best. 

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into. 

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival. 

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in. 

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant. 

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity. 

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release. 

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin. 

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds. 

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment. 

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want. 

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue. 

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully. 

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him. 

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you. 

“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want. 

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done. 

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry. 

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait. 

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again. 

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it. 

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end. 

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck. 

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer. 

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision. 

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name. 

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would. 

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best. 

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you. 

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life. 

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay. 

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids. 

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you. 

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room. 

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet. 

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles. 

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face. 

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction. 

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression. 

That only pisses you off worse. 

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox. 

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are. 

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke. 

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it. 

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied. 

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross. 

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him. 

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff. 

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart? 

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across. 

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him. 

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you. 

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works. 

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again. 

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar. 

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could. 

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know. 

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters. 

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls. 

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery. 

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love. 

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield. 

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV. 

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window. 

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck. 

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you. 

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ. 

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this. 

He loves me. 

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong. 

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails. 

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much. 

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic. 

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined. 

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell. 

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner. 

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart. 

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal. 

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole. 

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below. 

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers. 

You tap lightly at his door. 

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect. 

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens. 

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed. 

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth. 

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled. 

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on. 

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine. 

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for. 

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. 

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting. 

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV. 

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me. 

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things. 

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin. 

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation. 

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention. 

“I’ll call room service,” he decides. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle. 

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking. 

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you. 

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink. 

“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all. 

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you. 

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums. 

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step. 

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go. 

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home. 

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards. 

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to. 

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter. 

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that. 

Fuck. 

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him. 

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood. 

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them. 

Which means you need to backtrack. 

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face. 

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between. 

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat. 

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way. 

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way. 

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted. 

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach. 

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears. 

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is. 

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years. 

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again. 

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave. 

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself. 

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision. 

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders. 

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable. 

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out. 

-

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs. 

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything. 

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you. 

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next. 

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. 

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight. 

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process. 

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast. 

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor. 

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you. 

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you. 

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins. 

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself. 

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen. 

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water. 

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence. 

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen. 

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while. 

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat. 

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying. 

You watch it wash over him. 

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic. 

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air. 

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. 

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room. 

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them. 

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not. 

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath. 

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it. 

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh. 

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs. 

You only shake your head.  

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave. 

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull. 

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember. 

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.  

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters. 

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows. 

No solution. 

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come. 

So he gets up. 

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good? 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to. 

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time. 

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so. 

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem. 

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking. 

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance. 

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can. 

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes. 

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches. 

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent. 

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning. 

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it. 

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him. 

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it. 

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin. 

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers. 

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore. 

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it. 

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss. 

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.  

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh. 

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here. 

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down. 

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance. 

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands. 

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.  

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer. 

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve. 

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs. 

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more. 

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be. 

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet. 

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper. 

No response. Back and forth. 

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it. 

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. 

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation. 

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist. 

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach. 

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life. 

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would. 

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter. 

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him. 

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing. 

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap. 

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter. 

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up. 

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat. 

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected. 

She’s… looking at your feet. 

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem. 

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you. 

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late. 

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair. 

Before you can, she speaks. 

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside. 

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny? 

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you. 

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go. 

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on. 

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good. 

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama. 

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends. 

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins. 

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch. 

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers. 

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia. 

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back. 

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own. 

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips. 

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago. 

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.  

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you. 

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it. 

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you. 

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen. 

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you. 

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw. 

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling. 

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.  

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours. 

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe. 

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater. 

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book. 

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended. 

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive. 

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails. 

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another. 

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins. 

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer. 

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder. 

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat. 

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans. 

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose. 

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe. 

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINE’S SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!

[popcornpoppypop]

Like You

Summary: You're a single mom to an angry teen boy. Jack isn't phased, he can handle the anger. He is there for your son, no matter what. Years later, Pittfest makes them more alike than anyone would wish.

Warnings: Angst, fighting, angry teen, mentions of death, mass shooting, blood, medical inaccuracies, talk of amputation.

There wasn’t a day that passed where you weren’t beyond grateful for Jack Abbot. Most people would have turned and ran the moment they found out you had a 14 year old son. You couldn’t blame them. It’s a lot of baggage. But Jack never blinked.

“Honey, you are the best person I’ve ever met. Why the hell wouldn’t I love someone you made?” He told you the night you had finally let him in.

“He can be angry sometimes, Jack. He might not like you for a while.” You warned, not wanting to sugar coat anything and be left when things got hard.

“I was angry for most of my life. I know what it’s like. I’ll be okay. It’s not about me anyway.” He shrugged.

“Oh my god, just fucking kiss me already.” You sighed as you pulled him into you, his laughter rumbling in his chest,

Your son wasn’t introduced to your boyfriends often. You never really found any that you felt would stand the rough weather. But something in Jack made you trust him. The first meeting went over like a lead balloon. Ended with your son shouting at Jack.

“You don’t care about me! You just want to fuck my mom! Fucking pervert!” Your son,Matt, shouted at him.

“Matthew! Stop that, you don’t speak like to anyone, let alone someone I care about!” You scolded.

“Y/N, it’s okay.” Jack said stroking your arm, trying to calm you down.

“He’s just here to get in your pants! Thinks if he buddies up to me it’ll happen.” Matt growled.

“I know that’s what’s happened in the past, but I promise that is not what I’m doing right now.” Jack raised his hands up like he was calming a wild animal.

“Oh please, you’re just like the rest.” Matt scoffed, pacing back and forth.

“Matt, please just sit down and let’s talk about this.” You plead with the boy.

“Shut up, bitch!” He snapped. Jack stood up fast, the chair flying back from underneath him.

“Hey! You listen to me now! You can talk how you want to me, I don’t care, I can take it. You will never, NEVER, speak to your mother like that. She doesn’t deserve your anger.” Jack growled. Matt stopped looking at Jack in all his intimidating power.

“You’ll never be my father.” Matt whispered before running upstairs. Jack sighed shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry, Jack. I-I didn’t think he’d get this upset. Maybe that was naïve. You didn’t deserve that.” You sighed, head in your hands.

“Honey, I’ve had worst hurled in my direction. He can be angry with me. If that’s what he needs.” He said smoothing your hair from your face.

For months, Jack would come by the house and try to speak with Matt only to be met with insults. Jack saw how it tore you up, tried to console you. You both knew it was part of the process, it didn’t make it easier.

You had to go on a work trip for the weekend, you’d asked Jack to stay at your house to keep an eye on Matt. Matt had broken a glass when you’d told him.

“If I can handle violent psych patients and IEDs, I can handle a teenager.” Jack joked.

Matt had stayed in his room for the most part, running downstairs to grab food and run back to his room. One night, Jack was asleep on the couch, the TV playing old M*A*S*H reruns. His prosthetic leaning against the side table.

Matt watched him for a moment. Seeing the stoic man in such a vulnerable state took him back for a moment. He stalked over, keeping as quiet as he could. He picked up the fake leg and tried to leave with it.

“If you don’t give that back, I’ll have to hop on one leg while I kick your ass and that’ll be embarrassing for both of us.” Jack grumbled as he woke up.  Matt cringed as he brought the leg back. He’d crossed a line he didn’t want to.

“Whatever.” Matt mumbled as he set the leg back down. He stood staring at Jack’s leg for a while. Jack let him, not embarrassed about it, never had been. Occasionally, he’d be insecure when it made certain activities of the sexual nature more difficult. He’d learned how to work around it.

“You can ask.” Jack said, catching Matt off guard.

“What happened? Mom said you were in the Army. It get blown off?” Matt was trying to poke the sensitive parts.

“Yeah. I was a medic on a tour in Iraq. Got shot, blew most of my foot off.” Jack nodded. Matt was somehow not prepared for a blunt answer, even though he got nothing else from Jack.

“What’s it like being less of a man?” Matt hissed.

“I’ll let you know if that happens.” Jack sniffed.

“You’re annoying.”

“Kid, you can say what you want. It’s not going to phase me.” Jack turned the volume up, his ring catching the light.

“Mom said you’re a widow too.”

“Yes.” Jack’s voice ever so slightly tightens, ready for some insult.

“You remember her still?” Matt’s head hung low as he sat at the other end of the couch.

“Every damn day. Always will. Your mother understands.” Jack nodded.

“What happened?” Matt didn’t meet his eyes.

“She got sick. I couldn’t save her.” Jack cleared his throat.

“That’s like your whole thing.”

“Yeah. I know. Some things are beyond our control.” Jack’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“My dad watched this shit too.” Matt nodded to the TV.

“He had good taste.”

“He would have liked you.” Matt huffed. Jack looked over at him, bewildered.

“Yeah? Why?”

“You take good care of us. You’re not a real asshole, just like a surface asshole. You want people to think you are but you’re not.”

“I try my best. I care about you too, Matt. I know it’s hard to believe, but I do.” Jack turned to face the boy. He looked like a child more than he ever had.

“I know. It’s…something in my head makes me want to hate you. Like if…if I don’t I’ll forget him.”

“You won’t. He’ll always be around for you. I’m not him, I wouldn’t try to be. Maybe we can try getting along for a bit, see how it feels. I know it would make your mom’s life easier.” Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Try it out.” He chuckled as he got up and left.

After that night, Matt relaxed a little. You were so grateful to have some relief to his anger. Jack felt that same relief.

Life got a rhythm to it soon after. Jack moved in and Matt didn’t argue so much. They would watch the Steelers together and you’d pretend you wanted to, mostly you just enjoyed being one family for a moment.

Three years on and things were comfortable. Matt asking Jack’s advise about girls and school. They would go out to the batting cage every Sunday. Jack always made sure he had Sundays off, time to spend with his family.

“Jack, I’ll be fine. I have enough sunscreen!” Matt groaned as Jack shoved a can of sunscreen spray into Jacks bag.

“It’s going to be hot and there will no shade. Melanoma ain’t something to fuck around with, Kid.” Jack said.

“Matt, humor him so you can leave.” You laughed as you walked out of the kitchen.

“Look,” Jack whispered looking behind to make sure you were out of ear shot. “not just sunscreen in there. You be careful, I put a couple sizes so we didn’t have to get that personal.” He winked.

“Oh my god! Stop talking!” Matt whined.

“He’s right Sweetie! I see way too many teen boys at the clinic with STDs. It’s no fun.” You chuckled as you walked back in.

“I tried to be subtle, that’s on you.” Jack pointed at Matt. “Jake will be there, if you need someone go find him.”

“It’s a concert. I think I’ll be fine. You two are paranoid.” Matt laughed.

“It’s our job. I see too many things go sideways.” Jack sighed.

“Matty, we just want you to be careful. Be back in this house by 10pm. A second later and I will lose my shit.” You smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Matt rolled his eyes.

“Hey, listen to your mother. You treat that girl well too.” Jack said.

“Girl? What girl?” You asked looking between them.

“Jack! Come on man!”

“Matt, please be careful. Go have fun.” You sighed, not wanting to give yourself more to worry about.

“Call if you need anything.” Jack said. Matt waved you both off as he ran out the door.

“Is 17 too young for a music festival? Did I just make a huge mistake?” You asked, suddenly filled with anxiety.

“Hell if I know. Things are different these days. I would have snuck out to go, so he was probably going either way.” Jack shook his head as he started for the bedroom.

“You want breakfast before you pass out?”

“No. Rough night. Just want sleep.” Jack said. You marveled at how he never let Matt see how heavy his job was. He watched people die and came home and joke about football with Matt. You worked in the low-income clinic attached to PTMC, never seeing half the things he did.

You sat in the sun, enjoying the quiet of the late afternoon. Your garden was the small way you kept your sanity. The flowers blooming made you feel like you weren’t a complete failure at life. You tried to stay out of the house when Jack was sleeping, allowing him some peace.

“Didn’t I just give the melanoma speech this morning?” Jack stood in the patio doorway.

“The day got away from me.” You chuckled.

“Get in here before you fry.” He said, his eyes twinkling.

“Was that an order?” You smirked.

“Yes, it very much was.” He said, he leaned on the doorway, his biceps flexing in the sun. You felt a little dizzy looking at him. You stood, dusting yourself off as you walked up.

“I’m covered in dirt.” You laughed.

“Never minded a little dirt.” He said tilting your chin up with a finger and gently kissing you. His hand tangled in your hair as he deepened the kiss.

“The neighbors are definitely watching.” You smiled.

“Let them.” He said as he pulled you close.

“Take me to the bed, our backs can’t handle the patio bricks.” You chuckled.

“Is that an order?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir, it is.” You bit at his bottom lip. In a swift motion he wrapped an arm around your waist and lifted you over his shoulder.

“Yes, Ma’am!” He said taking you towards the bedroom.

“Oh my god! Do not hurt yourself being an idiot!” You giggled.

“I lift patients all day, you think I can’t carry you to bed? Please!” He threw you on the bed.

“Take your shirt off.” You barked, suddenly desperate to see him. He didn’t waste time, threw the shirt onto the floor. His muscles shining in the sunlight.

“Now you.” He was practically drooling as you undid your shirt and let it sink to the floor. He stood between your legs, running his hands up your arms, across your collar bone, taking his time tracing his fingertips up your throat.

“dispatch sending all available units, Signal 36, Pittfest. Shots fired.” The police scanner buzzed with the warning.

“Jack did that just say-”

“Call Matt.” Jack dropped his hands fumbling to find his phone. You scrambled to find your phone, dialing Matt.

“It’s going straight to voicemail.” Your voice shook.

“Dammit! They probably took over the cell signal.” Jack growled.

“Jack, what do I do!?” You’re breath picking up.

“Honey, breathe. You gotta stay calm.” He said, holding your face in his hands. “You keep trying to call him. Once he gets away from the festival grounds, he’ll be able to reach you. You stay here, let all your neighbors know to watch out for him.” He told you.

“What are you doing?” You looked confused as he started dressing.

“Baby, I gotta go into work. They’ll be overwhelmed with patients. He might head there first, I’ll be there if he is.” Jack sighed.

“Jack, what if-”

“No. Don’t go there.” He stopped the thought before you could finish it. “I’ll have someone monitoring my phone if I can’t. You call me the second you see him. I love you.” Jack kissed you as he grabbed his bag and ran out the door.

Jack was right, The Pitt was overwhelmed almost immediately. He kept his head down, going from patient to patient. Kept asking Dana for updates.

“Jake? Jake, where’s Matt?” Jack ran up to the boy, his leg oozing blood.

“I don’t know, man! I lost him in the crowd. I tried to find him.”

“Okay, it’s okay. Sit down, we’ll fix you up.” Jack said as he assessed the leg and ordered treatments,  running back, seeing the state Leah was in. Robby wasn’t going to handle that well. He kept working, all he could do was keep working.

“Jack…” Dana’s voice brought him back, looking over as Robby crumbled.

“Come on man. You’ve done more for her than anyone else. If this was a different day, she still wouldn’t have made it.” Jack said.  Robby kept pushing meds and doing compressions for a moment, Jack’s words settling into him.

“Stop compressions.”

“Want me to call it?” Jack offered. Robby shook his head.

“Time of death 2104.”  Robby shook his head. Jack patted him on the shoulder.

“I got another red! GSW to the abdomen and right leg! Lost a lot of blood in the field.” Shen called as he wheeled in another patient. Jack tossed his gloves off and grabbed new ones. When he turned he saw the shoes. The shoes he bought Matt for his sixteenth birthday. The shoes he had begged for, never giving you or Jack peace until he had them. The white shoes now red.

“No.” He whispered as he ran over. The pale face of Matt knocked the wind out of him.

“Dr. Abbot, IO is placed. Should I start giving blood?” Princess asked. Jack froze. “Dr. Abbot?” Princess asked, looking at him confused.

“uh…yeah, yes. Start giving blood, we have to get his clothes off.” Jack’s voice shook. “Dr. Mohan! I need you here!” He called, his voice sharp and broken making everyone face him.

“Oh god.” Dana gasped.

“Dr. Abbot?” Samira questioned. “Do you need to step away?” She asked.

“I-I…Robby! I need you!” He cried out. Robby turned, his face red and confused until he saw Matt’s face. He ran over, pushing Jack away.

“Dr. Mohan start intubation.” Robby started barking orders. Dana came over and dragged Jack away.

“Call her.” She handed him the phone and ran over to help.

His hands shook as he hit your contact.

“Jack? What’s going on? Is he there?” Your voice is thick with worry.

“Honey, he’s here. He’s hurt.” His voice was so broken, you’d never heard him like that. The fear ran up your spine and grabbed your heart.

“Oh my god. Okay. I’m…fuck. Okay, I’m on my way.” You cried as you hung up the phone and ran to your car.

Jack watched as his friends worked to save his stepson. Watched as Robby did everything he could after just coding his own stepson’s girlfriend. He felt like his heart was in his throat and he was choking.

“Dr. Walsh, admit this one to surgery.” Robby called.

“He’ll be next in line, we’re finishing up with the other now.” She nodded as she walked with the nurses towards the elevators with Matt.

“Dr. Abbot, he’s okay. He’s going to surgery. Damage to the bowel, his right leg has some pretty bad damage, but he’ll survive.” Dr. Mohan told him.

“Jack, get some air.” Dana said. Jack stood, going straight to Robby.

“Brother…thank you…” He said.

“Yeah. You did the same.” Robby nodded. “Jake’s leg is okay?” Robby questioned.

“Yeah, yeah. It’ll be okay, won’t need amputation.” Jack cleared his throat. Robby nodded and walked off.

“Jack! Jack, where is he!?” You came running in, the blood on the floor almost stopping you. Jack ran up and wrapped you in his arms.

“He’s okay! He’s okay! He’s in surgery. Robby saved him.” He told you as you sobbed into his chest.

“Oh my god, thank god!” You cried.

“The leg was pretty bad, Honey. I don’t know if they’ll be able to fix it.” Jack sighed.

“He’s alive, that’s what matters to me.” You said, finally taking in the state of him. You brushed the sweat soaked hair from his face.

“I froze.” He said, his voice catching as he looked away.

“You got the right people to help him. That’s all you needed to do.” You told him.

“I’ve never froze like that.” He said, trying to stop the tears.

“Jack, your son was on the table in front of you. I would have too. Everyone would have. He’s going to be okay, Right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what we need to hold onto right now.” You kissed his temple.

“He’ll be in surgery for a while, you can sit in the break room until I can take you up.” Jack nodded.

“I can help.” You said.

“No, not tonight.” He said as he walked off.

“Hun, come sit with me.” Dana said pulling to the nurses station.

“He’s in shock.” You muttered.

“Yeah. We all are. He loves that boy.” Dana sighed as she handed you a chart to start entering, knowing you’d go crazy if you didn’t do anything.

Jack powered through getting his patients charts in and dealing with any last treatments. His mind clouded but functional.

“Dr. Abbot? Dana said to let you know they called down from surgery for you.” Javadi said.

“Okay. Can you make sure that the patient in bay six gets another round of O-neg.” He ordered as he walked off towards the nurses station.

“He’s getting moved to a room right now. They said Room 314.” Dana told him. You jumped up and followed him to the elevator.

The ride up to the third floor felt like an eternity. The door opened and the quiet on the floor was stunning. You both took a breath before leaving.

“Dr. Abbot, we got your boy over here.” Walsh waved over. “Some damage to the small bowel, we were able to correct, made the repairs to the liver. He’s got a broken rib from the impact. He’ll be on strict rest and NPO for a few days, IV calories strictly so those bowels can heal.” Walsh rattled off.

“Thank you.” You said, wiping the tears from your face.

“Course. I do need to warn you. We did everything we could to save the leg. The damage was too much. We had to amputate. Half way up the shin, like yours.” Walsh nodded. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He never wanted this for him. He wanted to keep this pain from him.

“Okay. Thank you.” Jack said as if he was still holding his breath. You both entered the room. The breath caught in your throat as you took him in. His face so pale and the wires sticking off of him. The way he lay so still.

“Jack…” You sobbed. He wrapped you up in his arms. His eyes never left Matt’s right leg.

“He’ll be okay.” He said, burying his face in your hair.

You both sat next to him, refusing to leave. He didn’t wake for two days. The agony of waiting was obvious on your face. You were dozing off, head on Jack’s shoulder.

“Mom…” Matt groaned. You both shot awake.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” You said as you held his face in your hands.

“Mom.” He started to cry. You wrapped him up in the arms. Jack kept a hand on his leg.

“You’re okay, Matty.” You sobbed.

“it hurts.” He groaned, he tried to sit up. Jack put a hand to his chest and pushed him back.

“Take it easy. You gotta stay down for a while.” Jack said as he hit the call button.

“I remember the shots, I heard everyone screaming. There was a burning in my belly and then nothing.” Matt’s voice shook.

“Dr. Abbot?” a nurse came in.

“He’s in pain. Have Walsh put in an order for more morphine please.” He ordered.

“You got shot in the abdomen, Matt. They repaired it, you’ll be able to eat solids in a few days.” Jack explained.

“Okay. My leg hurts though.” Matt looked confused. Jack shook his head looking at the ground.

“Baby, you got shot in the leg. They tried everything, but they couldn’t save it. They had to cut it off at the shin.” You explained, trying to take the burden from Jack. It was heavy, too heavy for anyone but more so for Jack.

“I lost my leg? It’s just gone?” His voice filled with panic and confusion.

“If they left it, you would have been in so much pain.” You told him.

“We’ll help you through this, Kid. You’re strong. Stronger than I was.” Jack told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m like you?” Matt looked up at Jack, he looked like a child.

“Yeah.” Jack nodded, trying and failing to stop the tears.

“Right now, we focus on getting you better. Then we focus on your leg.” You told him.

“You’ll help me, right?” Matt looked at Jack.

“Always, Matt. I’m always going to help you.” Jack pulled him into a tight hug. The two clung onto each other and cried.

You watched them, your chest tight. The healing would hurt, but you knew your family would make it.

[reasonsforhope]

"When Ellen Kaphamtengo felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen, she thought she might be in labour. It was the ninth month of her first pregnancy and she wasn’t taking any chances. With the help of her mother, the 18-year-old climbed on to a motorcycle taxi and rushed to a hospital in Malawi’s capital, Lilongwe, a 20-minute ride away.

At the Area 25 health centre, they told her it was a false alarm and took her to the maternity ward. But things escalated quickly when a routine ultrasound revealed that her baby was much smaller than expected for her pregnancy stage, which can cause asphyxia – a condition that limits blood flow and oxygen to the baby.

In Malawi, about 19 out of 1,000 babies die during delivery or in the first month of life. Birth asphyxia is a leading cause of neonatal mortality in the country, and can mean newborns suffering brain damage, with long-term effects including developmental delays and cerebral palsy.

Doctors reclassified Kaphamtengo, who had been anticipating a normal delivery, as a high-risk patient. Using AI-enabled foetal monitoring software, further testing found that the baby’s heart rate was dropping. A stress test showed that the baby would not survive labour.

The hospital’s head of maternal care, Chikondi Chiweza, knew she had less than 30 minutes to deliver Kaphamtengo’s baby by caesarean section. Having delivered thousands of babies at some of the busiest public hospitals in the city, she was familiar with how quickly a baby’s odds of survival can change during labour.

Chiweza, who delivered Kaphamtengo’s baby in good health, says the foetal monitoring programme has been a gamechanger for deliveries at the hospital.

“[In Kaphamtengo’s case], we would have only discovered what we did either later on, or with the baby as a stillbirth,” she says.

The software, donated by the childbirth safety technology company PeriGen through a partnership with Malawi’s health ministry and Texas children’s hospital, tracks the baby’s vital signs during labour, giving clinicians early warning of any abnormalities. Since they began using it three years ago, the number of stillbirths and neonatal deaths at the centre has fallen by 82%. It is the only hospital in the country using the technology.

“The time around delivery is the most dangerous for mother and baby,” says Jeffrey Wilkinson, an obstetrician with Texas children’s hospital, who is leading the programme. “You can prevent most deaths by making sure the baby is safe during the delivery process.”

The AI monitoring system needs less time, equipment and fewer skilled staff than traditional foetal monitoring methods, which is critical in hospitals in low-income countries such as Malawi, which face severe shortages of health workers. Regular foetal observation often relies on doctors performing periodic checks, meaning that critical information can be missed during intervals, while AI-supported programs do continuous, real-time monitoring. Traditional checks also require physicians to interpret raw data from various devices, which can be time consuming and subject to error.

Area 25’s maternity ward handles about 8,000 deliveries a year with a team of around 80 midwives and doctors. While only about 10% are trained to perform traditional electronic monitoring, most can use the AI software to detect anomalies, so doctors are aware of any riskier or more complex births. Hospital staff also say that using AI has standardised important aspects of maternity care at the clinic, such as interpretations on foetal wellbeing and decisions on when to intervene.

Kaphamtengo, who is excited to be a new mother, believes the doctor’s interventions may have saved her baby’s life. “They were able to discover that my baby was distressed early enough to act,” she says, holding her son, Justice.

Doctors at the hospital hope to see the technology introduced in other hospitals in Malawi, and across Africa.

“AI technology is being used in many fields, and saving babies’ lives should not be an exception,” says Chiweza. “It can really bridge the gap in the quality of care that underserved populations can access.”"

-via The Guardian, December 6, 2024

[nameless-ken]

Bucky Barnes Fic Recs Pt. 2 - Imagines/One-Shots

More amazing stories written by amazing people 🤎✨🕯️💫🌹🪐🍂😊🤎🥺 If anyone would rather not be apart of this list please let me know & I'll edit it.

Part One

@inkdrinkerworld

courting: Bucky is a man from a different time. It shows when you start ‘going steady’ and honestly, you love it. Alternatively; Bucky uses 40’s dating etiquette to woo you, and surprises you with a modern turn of phrase.

@buckyalpine

Bucky can't lie: A smutty thot. Imagine the avengers fucking around with a lie detector test, testing how well the super soldiers were trained. Steve failed instantly while stating his own name, blushing from embarrassment. Bucky was shoved into the chair next.

@howiswhatawhy

Dive: college athlete! fuckboy(?)! bucky x tutor! Reader

@mrs-elsie-barnes

5 Times You Are Not Dating Bucky Barnes (and the one time you are)

@azaleassence

Party 4 u

@alisonsfics

you are my sunshine: a team bonding day is just what the thunderbolts need after a string of rough missions. you set aside all your other stress and make one goal for the day: get bucky to finally kiss you.

@orellazalonia

Even if You Forget: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back.

@cherdior

Till' Death Do Us Part: Even after your death, he continues to love you, so you stayed. You watch him fill the silence with old conversations, clinging to what used to be. But tonight, you finally ask him to let you go.

@jobean12-blog

In Your Arms: Bucky's been away on a mission and when he returns, you're all he wants.

@writingunderneathawillow

Blue Valentine: the four times bucky makes you cry + the one time you make him cry

@vividxpages

You, Forever: Bucky thinks if he gives this whole congressman thing some more months, he’ll might be okay with this new kind of lifestyle. Everything for the mission, right? But he just can’t bring himself to accept the fact that he keeps missing out on the evenings with you.

@lolab4t

Off Duty Part One: after a rare night off, you stumble back into avengers tower at 2 am.. tipsy, feet hurting, and definitely not expecting to run into bucky barnes on the couch. Part Two: days after the tipsy night on the couch, you’re left wondering what it meant… especially with bucky acting infuriatingly normal. the tension leads to a steamy exchange between the two, where bucky seems to let go of his gentleman manners for a bit.

@bcksgirl

helping bucky practice kissing leads to a whole lot more (SMUT)

@bcksbarnes

Flowers in Hand: unfortunately for bucky barnes, he is head over heels in love with you, and when you want something, it doesn't take much convincing. Traces of a Lonely World: bucky's job takes him away from you more that he cares to admit. most of the times you can understand, but there are some nights it tears you apart. Have I Found You: you and bucky are in the beginning stages of your relationship and get caught in a rainstorm

@magicaloneandmystery

Blush: the five times Bucky made you blush and the one time you did.

 @fanficgirl429

Y/N admits to Bucky that she has feelings for him

@navybrat817

Don't Look or Touch: Bucky isn’t having a good day and John suffers the consequences

@thunderbolt-ing

"I Can't Do it Alone": Who would've thought that you tearing panelists apart with merely your sharp words would land you a job? Or, better yet, here's how you became Congressman Barnes' legislative aide.

@featherandferns

You or Nothing: when the Thunderbolts enter the void, Bucky goes missing. You take it upon yourself to find him, venturing into his deepest pockets of his shame.

@bruisedboys

bucky flirts with his shy secretary (fem!reader)

@artficlly

the art of pretending: being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely. (SMUT)

@midnightquips

Chaos: You and Bucky are involved in a friends with benefits situation. But when feelings start to creep in, you’re not quite sure if this situation is the best for you anymore.

@the-winter-spider

Pink Skies: He left, and the world didn’t end but something in you did. What followed wasn’t healing, not at first, just presence, patience, and hands that never let go.

@marvelstoriesepic

If you asked me now: Years after separating for college, you reunite with Bucky while coincidentally working the same wedding. Still on the list: Frat!College!Bucky x College!Reader - Bucky Barnes, the infamous frat guy, known for sleeping around and throwing parties left and right, constantly invites you, out of all people, to all of them. His intentions though remain a mystery to you. Following a troubling event that leaves you shaken and anxious, Bucky is there to pick up the pieces. Stolen glances and exchanged smiles gradually blossom into a connection that goes beyond what meets the eye. Powdered Sugar: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader - Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you. Creamy and Crunchy: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise. Like he means it: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you. Weakness: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

@delusionalwriterr

Gym Buddy: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Reader. You have a hard time keeping your eyes off of your gym crush.

@sinner-as-saint

stick to me, like caramel: Sergeant Barnes has retired, and moved as far away as possible from the superhero life. He’s still in touch with some of his friends, but he never asks them to visit. Nor does he ever leave the quaint, warm small town he’s found himself in, or the spacious home he has, nestled between mountains and dense pine woods. Bucky lives a quiet life, away from danger, guns and bullets, aliens and wizards, and all the other noises. He likes it here. It’s calm, nice, and quiet. Nothing stresses him out, nothing bothers him. Nothing, except a certain neighbour of his. She torments him, in the best ways. And Bucky’s not sure how long he can resist her. (SMUT)

@world-of-aus

Hot Shot: NHL!Photographer!Reader x Hockey Player!Bucky

@marvelwitchergilmore

Anchor: Bucky is there for you when no-one else is. Late Nights: Bucky talks to you after you have a nightmare. Something More: Since you met Bucky, he's always looked at you with...something more. And you never knew why. One day, you finally find out what he means by it.

@wkemeup

Flight Risk: Bucky becomes a flight risk after a failed mission and is put in lockup under Steve’s orders. Even though Bucky won’t say a word of what happened, you camp outside the door to his cell so he knows he isn’t alone.

@fawniswriting

Even Fallen Things: The story of a girl and her fallen flowers, as well as a boy who can't seem to forget either of them. After I Was Too Late: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other. Before I Could Say It: The three times Bucky almost confessed his love to you, and the one time he finally does.

@pellucid-constellations

Are You Bored Yet?: College!Bucky x Tutor!Reader - God, you hated Bucky. Bucky probably hated you, too. Maybe. It was hard to tell when he was drunk and calling you pretty at a party you shouldn't have gone to.

@msmarvelwrites

Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of: “ You had been an empath for as long as you could remember. But still, there were days more frequently than not that you wished you could turn it all off. ”

@cheekybarnes

The Shape of Life: You didn’t plan to become a guardian overnight—and you never planned to ask Bucky for help. He wants a future you’re not sure you believe in, and now you’re both standing at the edge of it, trying to decide what comes next. A Place to Land: After a night out goes violently wrong, you call Bucky—without knowing what you’re even asking for. He shows up anyway, staying long after the worst of it, until you finally start to believe you’re safe. Hold Fast: A winter mission goes sideways, forcing you to cross a frozen lake under fire. The ice doesn’t hold—and when you go under, Bucky is the only thing between you and the dark.

@waternilly

"Pick You Up at Seven?": Almost two weeks after meeting Bucky, he finally asks you out to a proper date.

@skaye44

Migraine: You suffer from migraines. You haven't had one in a while so you go out shopping with Wanda and Nat only for one to start when you are halfway done. You ask Bucky to come and get you, so he drops everything and does, leading to some TLC he gives you while you rest and recover.

@helaintoloki

Misunderstanding: you accept Bucky’s invitation to attend Tony’s charity gala as his date, but your night quickly turns sour when you find out about his bet with Natasha after accidentally sending yourself back in time, you run into a younger version of the man you loathe only to find yourself questioning your feelings for him Somethin' Stupid Part One: a drunken confession spoils a perfectly good evening Part Two: being forced to go on a mission together allows bucky and y/n to come to an understanding

@maemae2998

Behind Closed Doors: Military Officer Bucky AU (SMUT)

@thedevilsoftruth

gorgeous and cinnamon: A cute date with the hotie you met online turns into a night of him fucking your brains out after you open up to him about a certain " fella " who did you wrong. (SMUT)

@daxisyzz

Pretty Please: Bucky Barnes is hopelessly in love with you. He gives you everything you ask for—until you stop asking. That’s when he decides to give you the one thing you never say aloud.

@writingunderneathawillow

Dozed Off

@imtryingbuck

Timeless Love: Bucky might have met the love of his life in the middle of a war, he just wished he was able to live a life with her.

@mandoalorian

Under His Claim: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader - After a heated confrontation with Ethan, Bucky can’t hold back any longer. His possessive instincts take over when he returns to the safe house. Bucky makes it clear that you are his—now and forever. (SMUT) The Cost of Freedom: Bucky thought he could outrun his past, but HYDRA always finds a way to drag him back. A confrontation with Ross reveals a chilling ultimatum—become the Winter Soldier again, or lose everything. When Bucky races back to your apartment, it’s already too late. You’re gone, leaving only an unmade bed and the echoes of a fight you never saw coming.

@aquaticmercy

The Congressman’s Secretary: Bucky forgets his birthday. You, his secretary, remember. Sanctuary: Bucky needs to vent, and you’re there to listen. One day, you both try a powerful sex magic ritual that blurs the line between healing and love. Better Man: Trapped in an abusive relationship, you cross paths with Bucky Barnes. Maybe, you deserve a second chance at love. Princess: You fall for Bucky Barnes, the Avenger assigned as your bodyguard. When a photo of the two of you kissing leaks to the tabloids, your clients start questioning your company’s integrity.

@malum-forev

Eyes, They Never Lie: Sam and Bucky try to recruit (Y/N), Bucky's ex and a former Avenger who has left that life behind. But they realize her life has changed completely once they meet a her daughter with striking blue eyes.

@appocalipse

The Same Thing: during a mission, you put yourself in harm's way to protect bucky. back at the avengers compound, he wants to know why.

@itsalliny0urhead

Let Me Stay: Bucky doesn’t ask for help. He never says he needs you. But when the nightmares hit, you’re the only one who can reach him. In the silence of the early hours, you hold him through the shaking, the memories, the guilt. He says he doesn’t deserve love — but you stay anyway. Because he’s yours. And you’ve never needed him to be perfect — only real.

@levanswrites

In the mood: He tells himself it’s fine. Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list.  His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. Until he met… you.

@moonlitdesertdreams

the beach: Post CATWS, you and Bucky have found temporary refuge somewhere warm and tropical. Now, you both enjoy an early morning on the beach.

@vunblr

Crumbs of Connection: When Bucky wanders into a quirky late-night bakery, he doesn’t expect the warmhearted owner to challenge his defenses.

@ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes

An (Almost) Unheard Confession

@reverieblondie

Book Club: Working at a library and at times be boring... but what happens when one of your regulars wants to make a book club? Just you and him? (SMUT)

[pigfacedbitch]

Second to None

summary : you may be Percy's girlfriend, but not his first choice.

word count : 0.9k

type : imagines

pairing/s : Percy Jackson x Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson x Daughter of Hades! Reader.

warning/s: angst lol, and a little cliche. never settle for fucking less, guys.

here's my masterlist! along with Part 2.

Note : I'm not against Percabeth, just so you know. Or Annabeth, I think she's a badass. I just thought of this and I was like "Damn, did I just hurt myself?" Blue aesthetic since the color represents sadness.

You knew what you were signing up for when Percy Jackson asked you out.

You fell in love with him despite knowing the risks.

The constant danger, the relentless quests, the whispered rumors, the pointed stares whenever you were together— none of it was enough to scare you away. He was the great hero of Olympus, the son of Poseidon who had saved the world twice and continued to do so. Of course, people talked.

And you could handle all of it.

All of it— except one thing.

Annabeth Chase.

You were new to Camp Half-Blood, but not naïve.

You knew, the moment you agreed to be his, that you were stepping into a love story written long before you came along. You weren’t a new chapter. You were just a footnote, scribbled in the margins, fighting for space in a tale that was never yours to begin with.

Even your own brother, Nico di Angelo, had warned you. Everyone did.

They had seen Percy and Annabeth’s story unfold— the rivals turned partners, the friends turned lovers, the two who walked through literal hell together and survived. The kind of love even the gods envied.

"It will only end in heartbreak."

But you ignored them all. Because when Percy pulled you into a fierce kiss after winning a game, when he whispered sweet nothings as you lay beside him, when he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world— it was easy to pretend.

Pretend you didn’t notice the silver owl pendant he kept hidden under his shirt.

Pretend you didn’t see the way his sea-green eyes softened at the mere mention of her name.

Pretend you didn’t feel the hesitation in his touch whenever she was near, or the way he always seemed to be waiting— for something, or someone.

Forget that you were never meant to be his forever. That you were just the one keeping his heart warm until she wanted it back.

And yet, you knew Percy loved you. Maybe not in the way he loves her, maybe not in the way you deserve, but in the only way he knew how.

You never doubted your own worth before. You were the daughter of Hades, powerful in your own right, admired, desired. But with Percy, doubt bloomed inside you like a slow-growing poison.

And you loathed it.

Loving Percy Jackson is your greatest blessing. And your greatest curse.

Annabeth never tried to take him back— not outright.

She didn’t need to.

She moved like the strategist she was— calculated, deliberate, patient. Weaving herself into his life in ways you couldn’t contest.

Inside jokes only they understood.

Touches that lingered just a second too long.

Shared memories and unfinished dreams that whispered, This isn’t over.

She never crossed a line.

She never had to.

Because she was Annabeth Chase. His first love. His best friend. The one who had built a world with him long before you ever arrived.

You were the outsider.

Because Annabeth never really lost Percy.

She had simply let go.

And Percy? He had never truly moved on.

So, you waited for the inevitable. Like an inmate on death row, counting down the days.

Maybe you were still hoping. Hoping he’d look at you and finally see you, not her shadow. Hoping he’d realize that you were the one here, standing beside him, loving him— not better, but differently.

Or maybe you were just a fool who enjoyed her own suffering.

Or an addict who couldn’t let go of her drug, even as it destroyed her.

Then one night, walking through the woods, finding solace in the quiet and darkness, you heard them.

Percy and Annabeth. Sitting on a log beneath the stars, wrapped in the weight of a history you could never rewrite.

"Do you ever think of what could’ve been?" She whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"All the time." Percy admitted, after a long silence. "Annabeth, you know I’ll always—"

She moved closer. Too close. Her fingers brushed against his wrist, and you felt the chill of inevitability run down your spine.

"If I asked for a second chance..." She breathed. "Would you give it?"

You braced for the pain of hearing him say yes, for the final dagger to be driven into your heart.

But he hesitated.

Perseus Jackson, who never think twice in the face of death, hesitated.

But Annabeth didn’t.

Before he could answer, she leaned in, claiming a kiss that had always been hers. Her arms wrapped around his neck like they belonged there.

"Choose me, Percy." She whispered against his lips. "You know it’s always been me. Be with me again."

You turned away before he could kiss her back.

You didn’t need to hear his answer.

You already knew it.

Shadow-traveling to your cabin, you threw a few things into a bag. Nico wasn’t there— probably off with Will— and you were grateful. You weren’t in the mood for questions.

You couldn’t stay long enough for Percy to look at you with guilt-ridden eyes and tell you what you already know.

So you left a note on his nightstand.

"I wish you and Annabeth the best. Don’t let her go this time."

Some might call you a coward for walking away.

But you didn’t care.

Percy had made his choice.

And now, you had made yours.

[deathbxnny]

Can I request angst for arcane characters x reader. Where they argued with each other and then later on reader is hanging on to dear life (READER SAVE ISHA FROM DEATH PLEASE! IM COPING-)

Arcane women with an s/o that dies after an argument. | Vi, Jinx, Caitlyn x Gn!Reader

So I may have taken this idea in a more extreme direction, ahaha... Anyway, thanks for the great request and I hope you'll enjoy!!<3

(I'm sorry in advance-)

Content: Heavy angst, arguments, spoilers for season 2, established romantic relationships, blood, fatal injuries, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》VI

Your argument was a petty one. At least in her humble opinion, at least. She warned you not to push her too far, to not bring up Caitlyn when it wasn't needed. But you ofcourse refused to listen, and it ended in a full-blown screaming match she wasn't proud of. You were just looking out for her, scared she'll lose herself under the bright lights of the fighting pit and the flashing bass of the clubs. The alcohol consumption was destroying her, too, and you wanted to get her out of this hellscape.

You were always so kind and patient with her, something she was always so grateful about. So why did she tell you that she hated you? That you were overbearing? That Caitlyn was far better than you ever could be? She didn't know. She really didn't.

And any apology she may have had died on her tongue when you ran out of her dingy little showroom in tears. Oh, how her heart ached at the sound of YOU apologizing for not being good enough. The clarity of what she had done hit her like a truck then, making her finally see what she had become.

The shame made her turn even worse, your warnings and pleas feeling undeserving to follow. Days turned into weeks, then months, and she eventually forgot all about everyone... except for you. The image of your brokenhearted figure haunts her at every moment. Especially her dreams.

So when Jinx came to her for help, she saw it as a sign. She needed to apologize and get you back. She was desperate for it. She couldn't take it any longer without you. But alas... karma was an odd thing. Instead of hitting her like she wished, she found you being the victim of it instead. Whatever God was out there must've hated her terribly.

You were fighting with the Enforcers during the invasion of the Noxians and the Herald. Battle was never your strong suit, but you were never the type to back down from anything. Especially not when it came to the defense of your home. You had the option to leave. In fact, Caitlyn was the one to give you it. Yet, instead, you grabbed a uniform and headed to the Frontlines at her side. You were always so loyal, so goddamned good.

It was, therefore, not surprising that you threw yourself over Vi when she was being shot at. You had only briefly seen each other before it was time to move, and you gave her a welcoming, weak smile that made her heart hammer against her chest. She wasn't deserving of you. "Why... Why the fuck did you do that?!" She yelled over the sound of chaos above her, when she was finally able to get you somewhere safe. Giving her a bloody grin, you flinched a little at the pain in your chest, an arrow protruding from it. The crimson liquid drenched the blue of your uniform and Vi's palm that she desperately pressed against it. But there was no hope. It was over.

The gods wanted you dead.

Placing your hand over hers, you stopped her frantic movements with a chuckle turned cough. "I... I'm sorry-" "-Stop apologizing! I should be the one doing that! I'm the reason this all happened, I... I'm so fucking sorry." Her tears dropped onto your face, and you reached up with the last of your power to wipe them away. You couldn't breathe anymore. Your heart was beginning to fail, and the primal panic set in in the face of death. Intelligible words spilled out of your mouth, not making any sense to anyone but you. You wanted to tell her how much you still loved her.

But with a deep, rattling breathe your suffering was finally over, and your hand dropped to your side limply. Vi could only stare at you in horror, unable to say a word anymore, before she was dragged away by some Enforcers. She tried to fight her way back to you, yet there was no use.

The last thing she saw was your body being covered by debris from the falling ceiling.

》JINX

You and Jinx had gotten into an argument in the Herald's weird compound over Vander's well-being. Whilst she, too, didn't trust Viktor, she ultimately had no other ideas on how to turn him back to normal. And that's all she really wanted. She wanted her father back so badly that she and Vi were both too blinded to see how odd this entire thing really was. And it didn't help that you were worried about Isha's safety too.

Everyone here felt too robotic to be human. They didn't have real emotions or motivations other than what their leader had already preached about. It all felt superficial and lifeless, like they were husks and empty shells of people. But alas, you were the only one who saw it. Everyone basked in the warm sun and heavenly aura, never daring to glance into the darkness around them in fear of what they may see. The people that were "healed" didn't seem really healed. And you wondered if the Herald himself was blinded too.

Either way, it led to a huge argument in which you asked her to get Vander and everyone else rounded up to leave immediately. She was confused at first, but it started to frustrate her how you couldn't understand how much this meant to her. This was the first step to freedom and having her family back. A family she always wanted to have with you. Jinx got a small taste of that with Isha around now and never wanted to lose it again. But you couldn't shake the feeling that something really bad was going to happen if you didn't get out of here now. It ended with you both going your separate ways for the time being, mainly because you refused to argue in front of the poor small girl.

You avoided each other like the plague in the compound, and Jinx ignored you out of pettiness when you tried to reconcile. The safety of the family you've created was also important to you. More than she'll ever understand. But alas, no one could convince the blue haired girl of talking to you again. Not Vi. Not Isha. Even Vander tried his luck by slightly pushing her towards you. She always took everything so personally. So much so that her stubbornness often caused the death of others she cared about.

And just as she thought that she might have finally escaped that fate, the world had to once again prove her wrong.

The Noxians were attacking, wanting to get ahold of Vander, who had gone crazy and aggressive in response. Calming him down was impossible, and fighting off an entire army of trained warriors even harder. Jinx was panicking, trying to look for you and Isha in the dense, chaotic crowd, until she saw the small girl sprint towards the crazed Warwick with her gun in hand. She was quick to understand what she was trying to do and attempted to stop her, but Vi held her back. But the girl wouldn't die today. No, at least that part of her wish would come true, as she wouldn't lose her family today... just you. Her entire world.

You came sprinting out of the masses, practically tossing Isha into safety as you grabbed the gun from her. Aiming it up at Vander, things slowed down around you when your eyes met Jinx's horrified ones. Her screams echoed in your mind whilst you mouthed "I love you" to her and pulled the trigger, hoping that everyone made it out safe in the end.

》CAITLYN

The funerals of the deaths that were caused by Jinx's actions were all cold and grim. All of them evoke deep hatred in Caitlyn, who now stood at her last one, most guests having cleared out by now in grief. Looking back, she wondered when everything went wrong. After careful analysis, she came to the conclusion that your argument sparked most of the events in a way.

You were feeling betrayed by her lack of presence in her relationship ever since she and Vi had a mission to complete. She never let you in on what exactly they were up to, and she now realises that it was wrong of her. Cait could see how you might have thought that she had something with Vi that was never there. Sure, she was a pleasant company, and the only thing she had in very dangerous moments... but it was never more than that. She was a friend and that's it.

You, on the other hand, were her betrothed, the person she swore her life to and wanted to marry in the coming spring. Her mother had always approved of you two and practically pushed her to the next step, especially at how close she was with you. Cassandra had adopted you as your mother in law from day one, to say the least. And yet... she had disappointed her with the way she yelled at you to get a grip. Caitlyn was so stressed and exhausted in that moment that she couldn't think straight and let it out on you. Something she regrets deeply, perhaps even more than never being able to tell you how sorry she was now.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder, her mother’s stern, yet sympathetic expression greeting her. "It's time." She said, confirming the closing of your casket. Yes, this was your funeral. You had thrown yourself on top of her mother once the ceiling came crashing down. She lived with minor injuries whilst you were crushed by the debris. It was all so fast. Your reflexes were impressive as always. And it cost you your life. You were dead. Gone. She still couldn't believe it, even after gazing at your body for hours on end now.

The rage and anger turned into unspeakable hatred, one she could never shake for as long as she lived. She'd get her revenge one way or another. Even if it means to burn the entirety of Zaun down in your name to achieve it. But instead of voicing it, she took a deep breath and nodded. "Very well." She whispered, not trusting her voice anymore. The guilt was eating her alive, and she couldn't help but sway a bit on her feet at how nauseous she felt. You were always so scared of the dark and tight spaces. This was your worst nightmare, and she couldn't stop thinking about how scared you must've been in your last moments. Her mother said that you cried out Caitlyn's name before you stilled.

And so, as the casket's lid began shifting over your cold, stiff body, she stretched herself ever so slightly to catch last glimpses of your slumbering expression.

She may never forgive herself... but she'd make the undercity beg for her forgiveness instead. It was time for justice to prevail at last.

[twohearts-hs]

Dove & Captain: 4 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 9.8k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, Miscarriage, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

-

1200

Y/N finally looked at her phone again. It was little past twelve and she had a moment to breathe. Opening her phone, she saw a few messages. One from Jack around a few minutes ago: “Jesus, dove, woke up to this novel of a text. Sounds good about dinner. I’ll grab ingredients soon. Dogs are good. Going to walk them in a bit. About Dolly, send me a link, but can’t promise anything. We have four already…  Just be smug to Robby back and put him in his place. Beckett can crash, but can we talk before he comes? Just need to debrief with you. Let Beckett know that the guest bed is made, but if he leaves his socks in the kitchen again, I’m going to make him clean the bathroom. Talk soon.”

            She nodded, reading it before going to the next message that was from Beckett. “Fire. Talked to Mom a few days ago. She met a lad at the legion and now thinks she has found her soulmate. Let’s see how long this one lasts…”

            Y/n chuckled, nodding before closing her phone. Robby gathered everyone and debriefed with them all about charting. It was a standard lecture about how to improve patient satisfaction scores, to get the hospital more money and to be through with diagnosing.

            Y/N finally got the tests results back for Nick Riley, glancing over them, she sighed. The kid did OD over fentanyl. Basically the same age as Beckett.

            “Robby,” Y/N said, getting up and walking over to him. She was wearing a cardigan now, a hot pink one, due to her being cold. “Nick Riley’s cerebral perfusion study is back,” she told him, handing him the tablet.

            She watched him take a deep breath as he glanced over the tablet to see the results. A loud sigh came before subtle nods. “No blood flow past the brain stem. Ok,” he muttered, looking over at her. “How are you holding up?” he asked, sending her a silent nudge.

            Y/N stared at him for a moment before nodding. “Fine. Grand. Good,” she muttered and shook her head lightly. “A lot of death today.”

            He nodded. “Yeah, I know. Jack had a rough night as well,” he explained.

            Y/N nodded. “Must be a full moon,” she mumbled. “Or a retrograde.” He just stared at her for a moment before chuckling. “How are you holding up, Chief?” she asked. “You don’t usually work this day. I’ve been caught up with my shit and didn’t think about you. Just checking in.”

            He stared at her for a moment, debating whether to talk, but thought not to. “Just another day in paradise,” he responded. “I’m fine,” he added as she stared at him for a moment with a raised brow. “You sound like Dana.”

            “We are cut from the same cloth,” Y/N replied, sending a smirk. “What do you want me to do with Nick?” she asked, going back to work.

            “Let me know when the transplant people from CORE arrive,” he said to her.

            “Yeah, totally,” she replied before turning away and leaving to check on her patients.

            Y/N was so close to winning the bet, but Collin’s got her by one factor. She had crash and the catch wrong, which Collin’s got right. Robby made fun of her for a bit, saying she did her calculations wrong, but Y/N shoved it off. She muttered something like, “Better at counting cards than making bets. There’s a mathematical equation to it which you can never get wrong when you do it correctly.”

            Dana and Robby just stared at her as if she had two heads.

            The ER was in its usual state of chaos, monitors beeping, sneakers squeaking, call lights flashing, trauma bay doors opening and swinging. It was just another day. Busy, hectic and chaotic.

            Y/N was standing leaning against the counter lightly as she wrote something on the computer. Her reading glasses on her nose as she ran a hand down her face. She was focused, humming lowly under her breath some song that Jack showed her a few days ago. He was about educating her on real music, whatever that meant.

            Robby approached her. “How many cups of coffee have you had?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

            “I don’t know. Maybe four,” she muttered, not thinking. “Did you get me one? I would love you forever. I didn’t sleep last night.”

            He stared at her, but she was focused on the computer.

            “You know, you’re only supposed to have two cups of coffee a day max while pregnant,” he whispered, leaning into her. Y/N slowly glanced up to him, face falling.

            “Fuck,” she whispered.

            “How far along are you?” he asked, raising a brow.

            “Seven weeks,” she whispered back. “Oh my God,” she whispered again, “the fetal heart rate is going to be increasing, and it could impair oxygenation. It can also increase a miscarriage.” She was whispering more to herself. She glanced down at the floor, trying to calm herself. “Oh my fucking God,” she whispered, voice filled with worry.

            Robby instantly softened. He stepped closer, placing a hand on her arm, squeezing it lightly, voice gentle but steady. “Hey, hey, breathe, Ace.”

            She nodded, but her hand was already on her stomach like could somehow undo the caffeine with her palms. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t even – fuck, Robby, what if I messed something up?” Her voice cracked on the last word, quiet but filled with a rising panic she didn’t often allow anyone to see.

            “You didn’t,” he said firmly. “Y/N, just stop, ok? Deep breaths. It’s not like you shot espresso into your veins through an IV. Four cups ins’t great, but its not catastrophic.”

            She bit down her lip, looking at him through wide, glassy eyes. “I know better, though. I fucking know better.”

            He nodded. “Yeah, you do. But you also haven’t slept. You’ve been working all week and you’ve been carrying this secret around, trying to function like nothing has changed. You’re stressed. That doesn’t make you a bad mom. It makes you human.”

            Her eyes dropped again, and she gave him a small nod. “Thanks, Robby,” she hummed.

            “Where’s that giant water bottle you carry around? The pink one? Let me fill it with water and electrolytes, vitamins and all that jazz. Get you hydrated,” he said with a smile, patting her on the back.

            “It’s at my station,” she replied. “Thanks.”

            He nodded. “Anytime. But before I do that, I do need your advice on something,” he told her, looking at her.

            Y/N nodded. “Yeah, shoot.”

            “It’s really weird and I don’t know what the hell to do with it. I don’t know if you’ve seen something like this or read about it…”

            She slowly nodded, pressing save on the chart she was working on and turning her full attention to him. “Talk to me.”

            “There’s a woman who came in this morning. Nausea, vomiting, lightheaded, fatigue, that sort of thing. Vitals were fine. Blood work clean. Nothing to show what was happening. With a few questions, she finally admitted that she had taken an induced vomiting drug. Made herself sick to get here.”

            Y/N raised a brow. “Factitious Disorder?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

            He shook his head. “Thought that, but no. She wants help. Told me her son is planning on killing some schoolgirls.”

            Y/N’s face doesn’t change, instead she just stared at him. “Repeat that?”

            Robby leaned forward, voice low. “She said her teenage son has a list of girls he wants to kill. A hit list. She found it. Doesn’t know who to tell. Doesn’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should get the police involved – McKay said I should. Dad died due to COVID. Kid ran off when I questioned.”

            Y/N exhaled. “Holy shit, ok.”

            “Yeah,” Robby nodded. “I’ve never had anything like this in the decades of medicine I’ve been practising. I mean, what do I even do? I’m not psych. This isn’t my wheelhouse.”

            Y/N doesn’t hesitate. “First, you need to document everything. Everything. Everything he mentioned, every action he did. Anything. Everything mom says and does as well. Trauma can cause idealisations like this. Or other mental health disorders. Mom brought him here, which means there’s an element of seeking help rather than hiding it. That’s important.”

            Robby nods slowly, absorbing.

            “Second,” Y/N continues, her tone soft but confident, “you are talking to her like she’s in a crisis. This is not a crisis right now. Do not make her more worried than she is right now. This is terrifying for her. You need to build therapeutic rapport.”

            Robby furrowed his brows. “I’m not a therapist, Y/N.”

            She shrugged. “Well, sometimes you need to be. Therapeutic rapport is building a bond, trust between you and the patient. No judgment. Be empathic, validate her feelings, make her feel safe. Hear the whole story. Moms know their kids. I know you’re good at rapport. I’ve seen it.”

            He nodded.

            “Ask her how she’s coping. Ask if there’s anyone helping her – therapists, counsellors, psychologists, even family. A support system needs to be created. She’s not crazy, she’s worried. She’s a mother whose son might be a danger to others, she’s scared shitless.”

            He nodded. “What about the son?”

            Y/N shrugged. “He’s a minor, right?” Robby nodded. “It’s not a ‘tell the school’ issue. You need to report this. Don’t call the police. Police don’t know how to deal with cases like this without making it seem criminal. Get psych involved, even social work. I can help do. But right now, your job is the mom. Talk to her. Sit down. Be human. It’s not about diagnosing, it’s about understanding the pain that this kid is going through and how you can support the family. If that makes sense. It’s not black or white, Robby. Tough with situations like this.”

            Robby looked at her for a beat, then chuckled softly. “You can be terrifying when you’re calm like this.”

            She hummed. “Did my time in mental health, remember? Three years of working in the psych ward as a mental health worker. I’ve sat on too many cold tile floors with kids who thought no one would ever understand them. You don’t forget that. Being a teenager is hard, especially in this day of age.” Y/N squeezed his arm. “I have a teenager brother. It’s hard for them.”

            Robby nodded. “Thanks. I mean it.”

            Y/N bumped her shoulder with his. “You got this, Cowboy. Just be kind. Active listening. That’s all people ever really need.” He sent her a smile. “Want me to come? Jump in if needed?”

            He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, too many bodies. She might freak out.”

            Y/N nodded. “Absolutely valid. Go be a therapist for a second. Might even boost your patient satisfaction scores,” she hummed, smiling.

            Robby chuckled, shaking his head and walking away.

-

Dana came up to Y/N a little while later. “Have you eaten, sweetheart?” she asked, leaning to look at her.

            Y/N shook her head. “Not since this morning when Jack shoved a sandwich down my throat and then I puked it up,” she replied, humming.

            “Come on, Mama,” she hummed, hooking her arm with the nurse and pulling her to the break room.

            Once they got there, there were several bags filled with sandwiches. Instantly, Y/N then felt her hunger, sitting down and going through the bags.

            “Ugh,” McKay groaned, “the things I would do for pastrami.”

            Y/N smirked, going through the boxes to find something she could eat. It was recommended not to eat cold cuts when pregnant, so she was searching for something.

            “Is there a turkey and cheese?” Princess asked, glancing over.

            “Uh, yeah,” Y/N replied, handing her a box.

            The door opened, and Robby came in. “Oh, what is all this?” he asked.

            “Lunch. Primanti’s. It appears that we have at least one grateful patient,” Dana replied, looking over her shoulder to see Robby.

            Robby smirked. “Hope is alive. Who do we have to thank?” he asked.

            “I don’t know. I think there’s a card at the bottom of the bag,” Dana said.

            Robby found it, reading it over, however he placed it down, face fallen. “Enjoy your lunch,” he responded, then looked over at Y/N. “But you…eat,” he lectured, pointing at the young nurse.

            “I am!” she hollered back, mouth full of food.

            “Good.” Then he left the room.

            Y/N noticed the wicked change of behaviour from the old man within seconds. Brows furrowed; she grabbed the card.

            “What was that?” Whitaker asked.

            “Don’t know,” Dana replied.

            Y/N sighed. “It’s from Shelby Adamson, Dr. Adamson’s sister,” Y/N replied, handing the card to Dana.

            “She sends something every year,” Dana muttered, sighing.

            “He doesn’t like her?” Whitaker asked.

            Y/N shook her head. “No, it’s about that. It’s about him,” she whispered, biting into her sandwich again.

            “Dr. Adamson was Robby’s mentor and he…he died during COVID, so,” Dana replied, another deep sigh came from her.

-

1300

Y/N got called for a potential drug-induced patient or even psych. Nandi, an influencer who was erratic. Y/N stood next to Robby, arms crossed, as Donnie administered some drugs and Santos and Mohan tried to get the patient’s history.

            “Javadi, Whitaker, see if you can do the exam,” Robby said, looking over to the med students.

            They nodded. Javadi took out her pen light. “Can you look at the light?” she asked as Whitaker took vitals.

            Instantly, the patient flinched, hiding herself away from the light. “No. What was that?” she expressed.

            “Ok. Open your mouth?” Javadi tried.

            The patient was curled up, scared and filled with fear. Y/N continued to watch the behaviour, glancing over to Robby, who gave her a look.

            “No. It’s not real. Where am I?” the patient continued to express, voice filled with fear.

            “How do you even do an exam with a patient like this?” Whitaker asked.

            Nandi continued to be paranoid.

            “Observe her. Wait for her to look at you or open her mouth, and get a quick look. Make sure she moved her arms and legs equally,” Mohan explained to the med students.

            Donnie tried to get the patient hooked up to the monitor, but she was fighting.

            “Alright, we might need to wait until after the meds kick in,” Robby explained, arms still crossed as he looked at the patient. Then he called everyone out of the room. Y/N followed suit.

            Once out of the room, Y/N stood in front of Robby, glancing back as she tried to think of what could possibly have happened. However, Robby let out a sigh.

            “Ok, differential diagnosis?” he asked.

            “Schizophrenia, first psychotic break. She’s in the right age range,” Javadi suggested.

            Y/n slowly nodded. Robby too. “Yeah, what else?” he said.

            “Drugs, also common in this age group,” Whitaker explained.

            “Common in any age group,” Y/N replied.

            “Exactly,” Robby said. “What else?”

            “Not just recreational drugs. It could also be toxicity to medications,” Javadi tried.

            Y/N nodded again, thinking that could be a possibility as well.

            “Don’t just jump to conclusions,” Mohan reminded. “Think big categories and then specifics.”

            “Metabolic, hyper- or hyponatremia, calcium, hepatic encephalopathy,” Whitaker brainstormed.

            “Endocrine, hyperthyroid, infectious encephalitis,” Javadi added.

            “These are all possibilities,” Robby muttered, looking down at the floor for a second. “Ok, let’s work her up medically and see if we can clear her.” Then he glanced at the patient through the window.

            “Chem panel, CBC, TSH and T4, drug screen, and hCG,” Mohan muttered, saying the tests they need to do.

            “Yep. Keep me posted. If it’s all negative, then admit her to psych,” Robby ordered, nodding at the team before walking off.

            Y/N nodded, turning back to the patient to help stabilise her so they could get the tests done.

-

Y/N watched Robby’s behaviour for an hour. The way he was snappier, grumpier and a little bit too harsh with his tone. She figured it could be because he was hangry or perhaps due to the fact that it was Adamson’s death day. However, she needed to talk to him. She needed him to talk to her and for her to express that he can’t talk the way he does to his team.

            When she spotted him exiting the bathroom, she made her way, stopping in front of him. He stared at her for a moment, raising a brow.

            “You, me, talk, now,” she barked, pointing to the hallway.

            “Y/N,” he tried, voice low and warning.

            She shook her head. “Nope. You’re talking to me,” she explained, grabbing his arm and pulling him.

            “I’m a busy man, Y/N. I don’t have time–“

            “Don’t care. You need a moment to decompress. To breathe. So, we will go to the corner and hash it out,” she barked back, stopping in a spot where no one could see them. “You’re being harsh to the kids. A little bit too blunt, which isn’t like you, Robby–“

            He stared at her for a moment before glancing away, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” he said, trying to convince her.

            She shook her head. “You’re off today. I’m not the only one who sees it.”

            He scoffed.

            “You’re snapping. Chewing the kids out like they stole your car. Something’s going on, so tell me,” Y/N explained, nudging him. “Just between us.”

            He glanced at her, eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite place – exhaustion, maybe. Pain. Or both. His jaw clenched.

            “Jesus, Y/N,” he muttered. “Not everything needs to be dissected with your psych degree and nurse intuition. Maybe I’m just in a bad fucking mood.”

            She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t snap at people because of a bad mood. That’s not who you are. Also, you need to be professional, Robby. If it is a bad mood, stop impacting other people. We need to work as a team.”

            Robby looked away again, like he was trying to swallow something that didn’t want to go down. “You ever think that maybe I’m just a ride for people expecting me to hold it together?” he muttered.

            Y/N softened when he muttered that. “Then talk it out. Say it. Don’t lash out at them. You’re their attending, Robby, their mentor. The chief of the ER. They look up to you.”

            He let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, today they’re looking up to a man who’s–“ He sighed.

            She stared at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re one of the only people I’ve ever trusted to go into hell with and come out on the other side. But not like this. Not when you’re burning people with you.” He blinked. Once. Twice. “It’s ok to not be ok.”

            Then his tone dropped, almost broken as he glanced down.

            “It’s Adamson’s anniversary.”

            She nodded slowly. “I figured.”

            “And then all the fucking deaths, chaos. It’s just–“

            “It’s a day, Robby. Too much in one day,” she replied, sending him a small smile.

 He nodded, breathing harder now. “I just. Everyone expects us to fix things and sometimes I don’t know how to fix things.”

Y/N nodded. “You’re not supposed to fix everything, Robby,” she said gently. “But it’s ok to not be ok. We are doing our best. All of us.” Robby stared at her. “We aren’t superheroes. We aren’t God or whatever people believe in. We are just ER cowboys trying to win the rodeo,” she replied.

            There was a long pause, and Robby looked like he might finally crack. His mouth opened but then Y/N’s face shifted.

            Instantly, she grasped the wall as she clasped her stomach, holding it. Wincing, as she held her breath.

            Robby watched her, eyes widening. “Y/N?” he asked, instantly, alarm.

            Her brows furrowed as she continued to feel the intense cramps. “Fuck,” she whispered before shaking her head. “No, no, no, you do not get to do this.” Y/N bent over, both hands covering her stomach now.        

            Robby stepped closer, his voice soft but urgent. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”

            Y/N glanced up at him, colour draining from her face. He said her name again, hand coming out to hold her, but instantly, she pushed past him. Robby turned, seeing her beginning to try her best with walking away.

            “Y/N,” he tried, walking after her.

            “I’m fine, go back to work,” she whispered, breathy.

            He scoffed. “No, no. You’re not fine,” he said, trying to reach for her, but she pulled away.

            She turned to him. “Fuck off and leave me alone,” she barked. “Do not follow me.”

            Then she disappeared down the hall, leaving Robby standing here, pulse pounding in his ears.

            He knew it. He knew exactly what was happening. And this time, he couldn’t fix it either.

-

1400

Y/N pushed the bathroom door open. She knew what was happening, biting down on her bottom lip, she closed the bathroom door, locking it. Sitting down on the toilet, she pulled her pants down and glanced at her underwear.

            Instantly, her stomach turned. Instantly, a sob came from her. Instantly, she closed her eyes and lost it.

            Blood. So much blood.

            She was miscarrying.

            Sitting there, she let it happen. She let everything happen. Y/N closed her eyes, sitting there on the toilet. Her pants were down, her hands were on her knees, and the tears just came. Y/N knew it was going to happen. It happened before. The chance of her getting pregnant was slim, but the chance of her carrying to term was even slimmer.

            There was a piece of her that was hopeful. Bleeding can happen in pregnancy, and she was still in her first trimester, but as she opened her eyes again and looked at her underwear, she shook her head.

            This was not light bleeding. Not even close. This was truly a miscarriage.

            Y/N let the tears happen for minutes. She knew Robby would find her if she got spotted, but she couldn’t think about this right now.

            She just had to let herself grieve in solitude.

            Twenty-four hours. She had knowledge that she was pregnant for twenty-four hours. She found out around two o’clock the day prior and now it was just a little past two, and she was not pregnant anymore.

            Y/N took deep breaths. Allowing herself to calm herself down. Cleaning her underwear and grabbing a sanitary pad from the bathroom, she fixed herself up at the mirror. She had to go on. Few more hours. Few more hours and she could go home.

            Y/N knew Beckett wanted to come over today, but she couldn’t let him anymore. She needed to be alone. Tomorrow was her day off. She could wallow in her own pity or pretend it never happened.

            Then it hit her.

            Jack. Her sweet, old man, Jack. He had no idea. Not a single clue what was going on.

            There was no pregnancy anymore. There was no exciting news. There was no baby. There was no way she was going to tell him now.

            He didn’t know about the last miscarriage. They weren’t together at the time. She had her last one at twenty-two. Eight years ago. A different partner at the time. A whole other world.

            Y/N grasped the sink for a moment, wiping her tears before looking back up. She smiled, showed her teeth and then took a deep breath.

            She needed to confirm the miscarriage. She needed proof.

            Opening the door to the bathroom, she kept her head down, walking past everyone and making her way to the ultrasound machine that was standing by the nurses’ station. She grabbed it, wheeling it to Central 16. However, Robby watched her. Robby watched her with Dana next to him as Y/N tried to hide this from everyone.

            Instantly, he pushed off the leaning post against the station and followed suit.

            Y/N was in the trauma room, turning the ultrasound on while grabbing the gel, when the door opened.

            “Lie down,” Robby whispered. “Let me,” he said.

            Y/N turned her head, tear tear-stained face and reddened eyes. However, no more tears were thre. She froze for a second, gripping the ultrasound probe too tightly, knuckles white. The room was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that made everything echo, even your own breath.

            Y/N stared at him, no words, just shook her head in a silent ‘no’. Robby stepped forward gently, hands raised as if he was approaching a wounded animal.

            “Please, Ace,” he said softly. “Let me help.”

            She blinked slowly; tears welled again but didn’t fall. Her voice was nearly gone. “I know how to use an ultrasound machine, Robby,” she responded.

            “I know you can,” Robby replied. “But you shouldn’t have to do this. Not alone.”

            Y/N’s lips trembled. Her fingers loosened around the probe before she let it drop onto the tray beside the machine. She didn’t say anything – just walked slowly over to the medical bed and laid back, legs still tense, arms folded across her chest.

            Robby moved with care, grabbing a pair of gloves and setting up the ultrasound. He didn’t speak as he pulled, he pivacy curtain across the window and door. The room filled with a quiet hum of the machine warming up.

            “This is just to check, ok?” he said. His voice was steady and careful. “I’m going to use a little pressure.”

            She nodded without looking at him. Her jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt. Mind racing as she took deep breaths. Tucking her shirt up, she exposed her stomach to him.

            Robby squirted the gel onto her lower abdomen and gently moved the probe into place. Y/N turned to look at the screen. Both of them did.

            Nothing.

            He tilted the wand slightly, adjusted angles.

            Still nothing.

            No heartbeat. No flicker. It was there yesterday, but today it was gone.

            The silence was deafening.    

            Robby’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Y/N…”

            “Try transvaginally,” she whispered, staring at the screen. “It would be hard to see it as I’m so early. It’s more accurate.”

            Robby stared at her for a moment, watching as she broke her eye contact from the screen to look at the man, she was so close with. When their eye’s met the hope that was in Y/N’s eyes, the sparkle, was long gone since this morning. She knew the answer, but she was science-based and needed to know.

            “Ok,” he muttered, pulling the probe away.

            “Get me something to drape myself,” she muttered, and Robby nodded, handing her a sheet from a cart in the corner.

            Robby turned his back to her and Y/N pulled her pants down, underwear and all, before draping the sheet over her.

            “I’m bleeding,” she whispered, warning him. “Vaginally,” she muttered added. “Because I’m–“

            He nodded. “I know. It’s ok, Ace. I’ve got you.”

            He didn’t look at her body. He didn’t even glance. He just handed her the internal probe and told her she needed to insert it herself. Y/N sat on the gurney, knees up, legs spread as she inserted it.

            “It’s in, Robby,” she whispered.

            He nodded, finding the probe under the drape, his arm steadying on her knee, a comfort message as he looked back at the screen.

            Still nothing.

            Just the hollow blackness of an empty gestational sac. No flicker. No movement. The image that meant life twenty-four hours ago was now confirmation of loss.

            Y/N closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even flinch. It was like her soul had gone quiet. Numb.

            Robby slowly removed the probe and stepped back, carefully covering her again. He went to open his mouth to explain the next steps when it comes to having a miscarriage, but Y/N stopped him.

            “Not my first rodeo, Cowboy,” she muttered with a hint of a joke, pulling her pants back up. “This is my third,” she casually said.

            Robby stared at her. Hearing such a secret, the vulnerability of her words. “Have you and Jack gone through this before?” he asked. “Were you trying?”

            She scoffed, shaking her head. “No and no. I was twenty-two last time. Then nineteen the first time,” she responded. Y/N was moving to sit on the edge of the medical bed, looking at Robby, who was staring at her like she was broken. “Don’t look at me like that.”

            “Like what?” he whispered, brows furrowed.

            “With pity,” she said. Then she took a deep breath. “Don’t tell Jack. Don’t ever tell Jack. Don’t ever bring it up to Jack. Jack will never know. Never ever know. This is my story. Not our story,” she said, words very deliberate and soft.

            Robby’s brows furrowed, jaw tightening. “Y/N–“

            “I’m fucking serious, Robby,” she snapped, eyes finally locking on this. “He’ll never know. You hear me? This is going with me to the grave.”

            “He loves you, Ace. So much,” Robby said quietly, eyes soft but firm. “He deserves to know. He would want to know. I would want to know if we were together,” he said.

            “But we aren’t,” she casually shrugged before glancing up at the ceiling. “Jack has had a hell of a life. So much loss. He doesn’t need this on top of it. He thought I couldn’t get pregnant. He made his peace with it. I don’t need to disrupt that.”

            Robby crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s not good going through this alone,” he muttered.

            She shook her head. “Well, sometimes there are things you do have to conquer alone,” she responded, jumping off the bed and looking at the chief of the ER. “Patient-Doctor confidentiality, Robby. I was your patient,” she said. “Don’t tell Jack.”

            Robby swallowed, nodding. “Go home, Y/N,” he said, a little too sternly, a little too roughly. “Go home. We’ll cover you.”

            She stared at him, crossing her arms. “I’m not dying, Robby. I’m miscarrying, I’m fine–“

            “You’re emotional,” he whispered.

            Her head snapped to him. “Oh, fuck you, Robby,” she barked, shaking her head and walking to the door. “Burn the scan. Delete the images. This never happened,” she said. “Thank you, though, for being here for this minute.”

            Robby didn’t say anything as she opened the trauma room door. He just watched her walk away with fire in her step and devastation in her eyes.

            The minute the door clicked shut behind her, he ran a hand through his hair, then face through his beard and exhaled hard. This was the part of the job that hurt the most. Not the trauma, not the chaos. It was watching someone you love – really love – bleed silently and refuse to help.

            And Jack?

            Jack would lose his fucking mind if he knew what just happened in this room.

            Y/N went to the nurse’s station, sitting down and opening up the computer. Dana knew what was up. Robby mentioned Y/N tumbled in pain, and then she wheeled the ultrasound machine into the trauma room. She stayed silent for a moment, debating what to do with the young nurse who was pretending nothing happened.

            She walked over, pulling a seat next to Y/N.

            “Talk to me,” Dana whispered.

            “Rather not,” she replied, eyes focused on the screen. “But thank you for being like a mom to me,” she whispered. “Thank you for the support.”

            “Always, sweetheart,” Dana hummed back, touching her shoulder, squeezing it. “But I’m here.”

            Y/N nodded, halting her type before looking at Dana. “I’m going to give the same speech to you as I did to Robby. This is between us. Jack will never know. You hear me never know. Ever. It’s my story and I chose who gets to know,” she said quietly, voice sharp.

            Dana nodded staring at her for a moment. “Of course.” Then Dana moved away from Y/N, knowing that hovering wasn’t going to benefit her at all.

-

            Y/N instantly was on her feet when a child rolled in on a gurney. Paramedics announced she was a drowning victim. Y/N instantly grabbed gloves and hurried over.        

            “Amber Philips, six years old. Found at the bottom of a home pool with an unknown downtime. Asystole on the monitor,” the paramedics called out as Y/N hurried alongside them.

            “Intubated with a cuffed 4.5, 22-gauge left AC, 0.25 epi three minutes ago,” another called out.

            Y/N grasped the underlying sheet, as someone counted down before they moved the child from the gurney to the medical bed. Instantly, she was back to herself, grabbing supplies and working around the doctors.

            “Whitaker, take over compressions,” Robby called out before looking up. “Any family coming in?”

            “Grandma and little sister,” a paramedic called out.

            “Fast and deep,” Collin’s stated.

            Whitaker began doing compressions as Mel stepped in with her stethoscope. “She’s really cold.”

            Y/N heard that, knowing what that meant and nodded, already going to work before Robby could say anything.

            “Ace, get a core temp,” he called out.

            “On it already,” she replied.

            “Good breath sounds bilaterally,” Mel called out.

            “Should we use the Lucas?” Whitaker asked.

            “No, she’s way too small for that,” Collin’s replied.

            Y/N was grabbing her temperature, brows furrowed. “Rectal temp only 85.” Y/N shook her head. “Kid’s got moderate hypothermia,” she stated. Robby glanced at Y/N who was deep into her work.

            “Yeah,” he stated, nodding. “We need to get her up to 90 if we have any chance of restarting her heart.”

            They all nodded.

            “250 ccs heated saline. Set up the Arctic Sun. Continuous core temp monitoring, and prep another epi 0.25,” Collins called out, and Y/N instantly went to work grabbing the supplies and things needed.

            Robby just stood there, looking at Y/N. “Robby, if you keep staring, I will throttle you,” Y/N muttered, walking around him.

            He then nodded, out of his daze. “Yup,” he muttered, looking back at the patient.

            They continued to work on the patient, trying their best to bring her back. Y/N tried not to think that there was a little girl on the table, someone’s daughter.

            Grandma came in, sitting next to Amber.

            “She wasn’t breathing, so the medics put a tube in her throat,” Robby whispered to the grandmother.

            “She’s so cold,” Frances, the grandmother, called out, scared.

            “We’re warming her up. That way, she’ll have a better chance to respond to the medicines,” Robby explained, looking back at Y/N who refused to look him in the eye.

            “They moved a bench next to the pool fence so they could go over, because their soccer ball went in the water. Amber couldn’t make it out of the deep end. The gate was locked. I was vacuuming. I didn’t hear them,” Frances muttered, holding onto her granddaughter as she sniffed and sighed.

            Y/N’s heart broke hearing that, but she couldn’t think of that right now. She had a job to do.

            The parents came in soon after. Y/N watched them as the mother came to hold her daughter. Y/N swallowed.

            “Rhythm check. Hold compressions,” Collins called out.

            Whitaker took a step back. But the machine was flat lining.

            “Asystole. Resume compressions,” Collins ordered.

            Whitaker went back to CPR while Y/N held the breathing bag.

            “Three minutes since the last epi,” Y/N said.

            “Push another,” Collins replied.

            “Did you shock the heart?” the mother asked, glancing up.

            “Uh, no,” Robby replied, calmly, lowly.

            “Why…why didn’t you shock the heart?” the mother asked, words desperate and confused. “We’ve got to save her. You’ve got to shock the heart.”

            “Heart rhythm right now is flatlining. That’s not treatable with a shock. We’re trying to get the rhythm to change to something we can shock by warming her up,” Robby replied, voice quite and low.

            “Ok. So, we’ve got to warm up. You’ve got to get some more blankets in here or something,” the mother rambled.

            “We are giving her warm IV fluids, and you can feel these blue pads. They have warm water running through them like a hot tub,” Robby muttered.

            “Are you sure you’re doing everything?” the mother asked, quietly.

            “Yes, we are,” Robby confirmed.

            Robby’s eyes went back to Y/N, who glanced up to see him. He was just staring her, and Y/N took a deep breath and dodged his eyes.

            They continued longer trying to bring back this little girl. Y/N didn’t try to think of the situation but rather the job that needed to be done. Whitaker continued to do chest compressions, warm saline went through her veins and Y/N helped with getting oxygen into her.

            “Core temp is 88,” she spoke up. Slowly it was climbing.

            “Is that good?” the dad spoke up, looking around the room.

            “It’s up from 85 on her arrival, so we’re headed in the right direction,” Collins spoke up.

            Robby was hovering, arms crossed as he walked around the room. His eyes were on the little girl, then Collins, before jumping back to Y/N, who remained emotionless.

            “You hear that, Amber?” the mother spoke. “It’s better,” she said between breaths as she ran her hand through her daughter’s hair. “You’re getting better.”

            “I need to step out for a second. You’re in good hands,” Robby whispered, looking at the parents. “Come find me when it’s over 90,” he whispered to Collins before leaving the room.

            Eventually the core temperature got to 91. Robby was back in the room, glancing at monitors. Mateo was on the bag down helping her breathe while Y/N stood with her arms crossed.

            “Can you shock the heart now?” the dad asked.

            “91 is warm enough for her heart to respond,” Robby muttered, still looking at the monitors.

            “Hold compressions,” Collins addressed. Whitaker stopped and the machine flatlines. Y/N walked to the phone to hear the results of the labs.

            “Asystole,” Mel whispered.

            “Resuming compressions.”

            Listening to it, her face fell, nodding. She hung up, placing the phone back on the wall before turning to the crowd. She took a breath. “Potassium levels are back,” she said.

            Robby looked at her, raising a brow.

            “12.2,” she breathed, knowing what it meant. Her eyes looked over the crowd as Robby walked over, bending down next to the family.

            Y/N’s heart broke, looking over to the girl on the table. Seeing her small frame, her lifeless, small frame and sighed. Another death. Another death on this day.

            “No one has ever survived a cardiac arrest with a potassium over 11. There is absolutely no chance of recovery,” Robby said, voice low, calm and soft. He took a breath. “I am so sorry. Amber has died.”

            Y/N instantly glanced down, biting down on her bottom lip.

            “Before we stop, do you think her sister would like a chance to say goodbye?”

            “No,” the dad responded, shaking his head. “Uh, Bella shouldn’t see her like this.”

            “Ok,” Robby replied, sending a solid nod. “You can stay in here for as long as you like. We are going to stop now,” he told them.

            The mother was hysterical. Y/N couldn’t blame her. She just lost a child. Her child. A daughter who barely lived. So small, so young. Y/N lost a child today, and it might not have been the same as the mother, but it was still a child.

            Robby met Y/N’s eyes, and he saw her expression. His head nodded to the door and she nodded back, quietly excusing herself from the room.

            Y/N walked right outside the trauma ward into the ambulance bay. The sun was shining, the wind was soft, and it was just a beautiful day. A beautiful September day, but it was such a fucking shitty day. She leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath and staring in front of her.

            “Fuck, I want a cigarette,” she muttered. “Just one fucking cigarette.”

            However, she could hear Jack’s words in her brain scolding her for pumping poison into her lungs. His words would be so simple “Dove, rather you talk to me than take your stress out through inhaling toxins.”

            If that was so fucking simple. If everything was so fucking simple.

            She had no idea how long she had been there for, but she saw Nick Bradley’s body being wheeled out on a gurney to the ambulance bay to be transported for organ donation. She missed the memory walk. However, Y/N didn’t move. She stayed put, glancing ahead.

            Dana, Collins and Robby came out to see the ambulance leave. Y/N stayed put, not saying a word, not even looking at them. Instead, just stared ahead. Her arms were crossed, then she glanced down at her shoes, seeing the stains from the job. Her cardigan was gone. Just the long-sleeved cheetah print she had under the lighter scrubs. Y/N pulled the band from her hair, letting it fall over her shoulder. Long, thick locks that cascaded in perfect waves.

            Robby spotted her by the doors, about three metres from them. Her back against the wall, just staring. He debated whether or not to walk over. Would she be down to talk? Would she even want to talk?

            He lingered, hands on his hips, watching her, hus head straight then a slight tilt he did whenever he was thinking too hard. Collins and Dana exchanged a glance, one that said, “leave it to Robby” before heading back in through the double doors, the hush of grief following them.

            Robby waited a beat longer. Then walked over.

            He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside her, leaning back against the same wall, crossing his arms. His shoulders brushed hers, but she didn’t move. Instead, her head came, leaning over to his shoulder.

            Her eyes remained forward, lips pressed together and jaw tight. She swallowed hard before she took a deep breath.

            Robby didn’t know what to say.

            “You missed the walk,” he said after the moment, voice low.

            “I know.”

            “He was your patient.”

            She was silent for a moment, then a small, “I know,” came. Nothing else came from her, instead, she just moved her head to get deeper into the crook of his neck.

            Robby’s hand came, grasping her hand as their hands entwined. “I’m here,” he whispered.

            She nodded. “I know.” He went to open his mouth. “Don’t tell me to go home. Please don’t. That’s the last place I want to be.”

            He said nothing, stayed quiet.

            “You’re a good man, Michael,” she whispered. “A really good man. Who deserves so much. Happiness, peace, solitude and a fair life,” she mumbled. “I’m thankful for you. I’m grateful you’re in my life.” Then she breathed. “I’ll always have love for you,” she whispered, looking down. “But this job,” she muttered and took a deep breath in, “slowly degrades you. Burns brain cells. Eats your blood count. Destroys your faith.”

            “I know,” he replied. “You’ve had a day.”

            She stayed quiet for a brief second before pulling away and looking up to his six-foot frame. “No, we are having a day. Not just me.”

            He nodded. “Yeah, pretty fucking shitty. But this is what we do.”

            Y/N nodded in silence before looking back in front of her. “I should tell Jack, right?” she whispered.

            “Yeah, you should.” She nodded, reaching for her phone but he stopped her hand. “This is something to do in person, Y/N. I would like to hear it in person. Not due to selfish needs, but because I would want to hold you while you told me. Wipe your tears. Hold your hand. Caress your hair and whisper ‘it’s going to be ok’.” Y/N met his eyes, and he saw how broken they were. “I would tell you how much I love you. I would ask what you’d want next. Then I’d run you a bath, get in with you and hold you. I’d whisper sweet nothings, delivering kisses along your skin as I rub your stomach. Then we’d go to bed, and I’d hold you all night.”

            Y/N stared at him. They said nothing for moments. Just stared at one another. Their hands were still entwined together.

            Then she took a long, deep breath. “A lot of death today,” she mumbled.

            “I agree.”

            She broke her gaze from him and looked ahead. “It’s been officially like a hundred days of me not smoking. I stress smoke. Since I was eleven, and stole them from my mother. I might light one or two, or a whole packet,” she muttered. Then she took another breath. “Jack found me last time. I’d got news that my mom was ok. She was missing from her housing facility. She was missing for two weeks. Found,” she let out a chuckle, “at our old shit box home. We lived in it till I was ten before we got evicted. She was pregnant with Beckett at the time. We moved into my Nana’s. Beckett was born not soon after,” she mumbled. He looked at her, listening but then she shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I just want a fucking cigarette, and I can hear Jack’s brooding, grumpy old man voice in the back of my head lecturing me.” She met his eyes. “Don’t lecture me, Cowboy,” she joked with a small smile. “I bet you have vices to deal with your shit.”

            He smirked, chuckling. “Hey, we work in the ER, the ways we cope can’t be judged.” Though he winked at her, and she raised a brow. “I can’t give you a cigarette as I don’t smoke and I know Jack would throttle me if he found out. But,” he hummed, digging into his pocket, “I have a mint.”

            Y/N stared at the mint he had. The peppermint, one that brought a smile to her face. “That’s from the staff room.”

            He nodded. “Yes, it is.”

            She then sent a small smile. “Jack, before we started dating, would hand me a mint from the staff room whenever I had a bad case. He would say something like, ‘the burning would distract you’. We’d sit on the rooftop. Talk about anything. Well, he was my boss, so I didn’t know what to talk about. So, we’d talk about common things, which usually was how bad the coffee in the break room was and how I had a conspiracy that the sandwiches from the cafeteria were recycled from the university and from frozen. I was awkward with him.”

            Robby glanced at her. He had one thought – if she wasn’t on night shifts for two years and on days instead, would they have had months like this…leading to a life together.

            “I didn’t know that,” he said gently.

            “Jack’s not a talker,” she responded. “Now he is. Not a yapper, but like the type to express his wants and needs bluntly.”

            Robby chuckled. “Yeah, best mates we are,” he hummed.

            Y/N nodded. “Oh, I know. You two trade tools, talk about trucks and bond over building things from scratch.”

            Robby chuckled. “I did pressure wash your rancher home this past summer,” he mumbled. “And your Bronco.”

            Y/N chuckled. “Jack has threatened me that if I continue to keep my Bronco a mess from all my trash, shit and life, I will be sleeping in the guest room.”

            Robby chuckled, nodding. “Yeah, he’s a military man. Organisation, clean, sleek,” he muttered.

            Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’m right now banned from his truck because I spilt my Starbucks in it last week and plus left my shit in it. But it wasn’t shit. It was like a claw clip, a lipgloss, a tide pen, an old coffee mug and my panties,” she muttered, and Robby raised a brow.

“Panties?”

“We went on a walk, and I ended up swimming in my undergarments, so I took them off in the car while he gave me his shirt. I forgot to bring in my lake-soaked panties. Classic Jack is like ‘Dove, the truck isn’t a purse’ and ‘Your chaotic gremlin energy does not belong in the truck. Truck is sacred’,” she muttered with a chuckle while doing a grumpy Jack impression. “Now, when we have to go anywhere, he demands we drive my car when we have three other cars on the property, but he complains they are ‘collectors’. Then he goes on about the mess. Whatever…”

            Robby rolled his eyes in laughter. “You’re a chaotic girl,” he muttered. “And a chaotic gremlin.”

            “No, I’m spicy. Unique. Different. Keep you on your toes type of girl,” she responded. Then she smirked. “But, I’ll accept gremlin.”

            Robby nodded. “You know it was love at first sight with him,” he mumbled.

            Y/N heard him, heart fluttering for a moment before shaking her head. “No, it wasn’t. When we met, he was emotionally shut down. Still grieving his late wife. I was this chaotic thunderstorm who entered the ER at twenty-two, who questioned the way he charted and his brooding demeanour.” Then she chuckled. “The first year, it was just professional, but I also mainly worked with you Robby on days. I moved to nights because of the premium rates and then gradually, he started to challenge me, teach me new things. After one hard case, he came over and crashed on my couch. Then he started to crash every shift we had together and then he was sleeping in my bed. We were just friends. He never touched me or flirted with me. Then one day, I just kissed him. Somehow, I did it on the rooftop and then…magic. Six years later, four dogs, a mortgage on a rancher on an acre of land by the edge of a city, a Bronco he bought for me, paid off my debt, paying my brother’s university and endless camping trips where I complain about shitting in a hole and sleeping on the floor.” She took a breath. “Why me? I ask every day. Why me? Because I’m far from perfect. Childhood trauma. Addict Mother. Dad,” she breathed, “dad, who has a whole other family. A half-brother who’s my world. And so many stories I’m not proud of but had to do to survive.” Then she shook her head. “He doesn’t know it all. I keep so much because he’s Jack. Old-fashioned, but still progressive, the type who,” she looked over to Robby and whispered, “makes sure a teenage girl gets an abortion. Brooding, strict, blunt, but so kind, deliberate, gentle and patient. The type who makes two of everything when he makes a coffee, or a lunch, because he wants to ensure I’m taken care of. The one who takes care of everything, so I don’t have to worry. Lectures me on letting the dogs on the bed or spending 7$ on a coffee.” Then she let out a loud cackle. “The man who hates my mother but still supports her housing. Buys her groceries for her with me. Comes with me to check on her and didn’t get mad when I was hiding that I was sending her money from our account.”

            Robby stayed quiet, knowing she didn’t need a response.

            “I’m so incredibly happy,” she whispered. “I made my own happiness. Becoming a guardian to Beckett at nineteen, raising him when my mother couldn’t, supporting myself and him while I attended school, going to university, becoming a nurse…getting Winston. But he came, and it was just like, ‘yeah, I’m good now. Don’t need anything else’. But,” she breathed, “a baby.”

            Robby glanced over but her eyes were focused on a rock on the ground. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Moments. He knew she was thinking of the best way to say it. Her brain was going over every word in her brain.

            “I was a mother,” she eventually said,” I am a mother.”

            Robby’s brows furrowed.

            “I became a mother at fourteen when mom went on a bender for two weeks. Gone, came back for her shift and then fucked off forever. I had a four-year-old brother. I had no choice,” she muttered. “Fuck,” she scoffed. “How am I alive? With her as my mother. Fuck knows. But Beck is mine. He is my child. He’s my son,” she whispered. “Jack sees him as a son. He takes care of him. For me. For us. For him. But also, because he’s Jack,” she muttered as tears came.

            Then everything hit. Memories she shut out from her childhood. Moments she didn’t know ever existed. Situations she hid from herself. Tears began to come down her cheeks.

            “Jack can know about this,” she eventually muttered. “But he can’t know all of me. Of everything I’ve done to be here today to be with him because he wouldn’t understand it.”

            Robby didn’t interrupt. He let her sit in that silence, let the tears fall. One thing Y/N taught him was active listening and how beneficial it was. But it was so rare to see Y/N like this, how she talked like this. Her truth that isn’t jokes, humour, and smirks. Her world was beautiful now, he knew that. But the way she spoke broke him internally. But this wasn’t a moment for laughter, but rather her talking about a grief that suited her.

            She sniffled hard and swiped her cheeks with the sleeve under her scrub top. “He wouldn’t understand it,” she whispered again, quieter this time. “He’s ex-military…we are survivors in different ways, but I don’t understand his trauma, and he wouldn’t understand mine. But he’s good. He’s cleaner in ways I never was. Sure, he may have combat fought and saw shit. But, never had to,” she shook her head, “never mind. He’s a good man and I needed him, and I thank the universe everyday for us.”

            Robby nodded.

            “But I want a baby,” she whispered. “I realized it in the last twenty-four hours, and I can’t have a baby, Robby. But it doesn’t make sense for us to have a baby. He’s forty-nine. We are workaholics. I still love a good party. I smoke if Jack doesn’t catch me, drink like an Irishman at a pub and dance like it’s 1999,” she said as she stared ahead. “Beckett was my baby. He was my baby, and I became a mother at fourteen,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I think I just realised that.” She scoffed. “I have to be his mother because ours is a piece of fucking shit.”

            Robby swallowed thickly, chest tight, watching her unravel, not in chaos, but in clarity. A trust she hadn’t spoken aloud, maybe not even to herself.

            He pulled her closer to his side, holding her. “Yeah,” he whispered. A piece of him would want to say I would give you everything, but he knew Jack already did. “Beckett is yours. Might be a adult now–“

            “Don’t remind me,” she muttered. “He went to Jack two weeks ago for advice on oral sex.”

            Robby snickered, rolling his eyes. “You’re a good mom to him, Ace. You’ve done a good damn job.”

            Y/N looked at him, and he looked at her. “You’re a good man, Michael. In another life, I’d give you what you wanted,” she whispered, and he nodded.

            “In another life, Ace.”

            Then she scoffs. “God, I’m turning into an intern or a med student, crying in the ambulance bay,” she muttered before letting out a loud, real laugh.

            Robby smirked. “Welcome to the club. Took you long enough. They meet daily. Dana brings them muffins.”

            She glared at him. “I’m a nurse, not a goddamn med student. Crying is for the weak,” she barked but then smirked.

            “So judgmental, the rookies need to feel, Ace.”

            Their eyes were still looking at one another. “Do you think Jack would be mad if I didn’t tell him right away? Tell him when I’m ok?”

            Robby shook his head. “I would be ok with that,” he whispered but then sighed. “But Jack, he’d wouldn’t be mad, he’d be upset that you went through this alone.”

            She nodded. “He would say his classic line. I literally have a quote diary for him,” she muttered with a smile. “He would say,” she began and looked at Robby, clearing her throat for her best Jack impression, “it’s in the diary, ‘Dove…I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.’ Then he would be like, ‘Not in you, but in me. That I wasn’t there, but also that you went through this alone,’ isn’t that a Jack saying.” She smirked, proud of herself. Robby stared at her for a moment before nodding and chuckling.

            “You’re right on point, Ace.”

            “God, I know. I’ve been practising,” she hummed, smirking and sending him a wink and nudging his shoulder. “Anyway,” she whispered moments later. “You’re the Chief, fuck off and save lives.”

            He looked at her again and nodded. “You right?” he asked, nudging her.

            She looked at him for a moment, finding her words then broke in a smile. “I need a bloody case.”

            “Don’t jinx it.”

            “I need them alive. But like a good adrenaline rush. Earlier, when you let me do that intubation,” she hummed, nudging him again, “convincing me to join the daylight?”

            “You were moved to day shifts ten days ago,” he stated nonchalantly.

            “So, I can always change. You are on salary, me…well, hourly.” Then she smirked. “I love you, Cowboy, but like, you need to convince me to stay on the day. Jack lets me do way more on our shift.”

            He raised a brow, “It’s day. I can’t let you play being a doctor,” he stated. “Hate to break it to you, Ace, but you have a BSN, not an MD.”

            “Well, fuck you too, Robby.”             They stayed silent for moment. Then she smiled. “Hey, Cowboy?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Thanks for the mint,” she said with a smile, holding up the wrapper like a prize. “It helped. But not like a cigarette though.”

            He chuckled. “Well, if you stay on days, I’ll buy you a pack and store it in my locker for when you need them. But you can only smoke between 8am-6pm before Jack comes.”

            She smirks. “Marlboro lights, Cowboy. Take notes,” she hummed, winking.

            He nodded as she dropped her hold. “Locked in mind, Ace,” he hummed, smirking.          She nodded. “Go, save lives. I’ll be there in two.”

            He nodded, kissing the side of her temple before squeezing her arm and walking away. For a second, he paused, turning on his toes to look at her. “I may be good friends with Jack, but talk to me, ok? We are friends.”

            She smirked. “More than friends. Great friends, Cowboy. I’ll call you if I need you,” she muttered then lowered her voice, “better fucking do it to me if you need me.”

            He stared at her, mouth dropping a second before nodding. “Affirmative.”

            She smirked, watching him walk away. “That’s my saying!” she called out.

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-

Hope you enjoyed. xoxo

Ava <3

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Maybe a Jack or Robby x reader who is raising her sibling(s)? The kid/teen is taken to the Pitt for whatever reason and some comforting is needed from one of our favorite new doctors? 😊😊😊

Rating: M

Warnings: Angst—a lot; Reader's half-sister has cancer; some fluff; Reader is a former medical student at the Pitt; implied age gap; mention of the death of a parent

Summary: There was nothing different, nothing new. You used to know the feeling of Robby beside you. You used to crave his attention, his approval. You felt the heat of him against your side now, as steady as it had been just a year ago.

When your mother died, the responsibility to care for your six-year-old half sister had closed in so fast. Her cancer diagnosis had hit as furiously as your mother's death, and you'd had no choice but to drop out of med school, to leave the program that you'd entered in at the Pitt.

"Hey."

"Hi—What? Why are you whispering?" Dana frowned, shaking her head as Robby beckoned her closer.

"Am I having a stroke, or seeing things, or—?" Robby nodded toward central, and Dana didn't have to turn her head to know what he was referring to.

"Her sister is in surgery. Came in half an hour ago." She broke it to him gently, and it was hardly a second before understanding washed Robby's features, his hands flexing and unflexing in the fabric of his hoodie over his arms. He took in a deep breath, raised his hand, pinched the bridge of his nose—

"Any news?"

"No. But it's early."

"She can't be back there. She doesn't work here anymore."

"No, but she knows what it's like." Dana leaned a little closer, nudged her hip against Robby's thigh. "She needs something to do. Keep her mind off of what's happening upstairs."

Robby hesitated before he nodded, raising his hand to scrub at his brow before he slid it back to his neck.

"Okay," He conceded. "Okay."

"Dr. Robby, you're needed in south fifteen."

"Yeah. On my way," He answered Perlah without a thought, glancing back toward the sound of her voice, but his eyes stayed glued to the woman at central.

"...Go on," Dana urged, "I'll keep an eye on her. She's not making decisions without input."

"Okay." He answered again, unthinking. He needed to go. There were patients that needed him—but he wondered if she needed him a little bit, too.

--

"We've got a patient coding in north two!"

You glanced back toward the yell, glanced over as the man near you scrambled out of his chair, leaving something behind.

"Take the pad!" You called back, nodding toward the desk.

He hurried back to his spot, snatching it up—and holding there.

"I, uh—Thanks."

You glanced toward him, brow furrowing.

"Sure."

"I'm Dennis Whitaker."

"Hi, Whitaker." You nodded over your shoulder. "You got somewhere to be?"

"Shit—Yes! Yeah, uh—Yes!"

You glanced after him, straightening up from the computer you'd been leaning over, folding your arms across your chest as you huffed out a laugh, watching him scurry after a few nurses and residents. You heard Dana chuckling behind you, and you couldn't help but shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips.

"Where the fuck did you find Bambi?" You asked, nodding after the medical student.

"Nebraska."

"Huh," You nodded, turning back to the board. "Tracks."

"Thoughts, feelings, opinions?"

"So sweet of you to ask like I know better."

"I don't mind a fresh set'a eyes every now and again."

"You don't need it."

"Maybe I do."

"Please," You scoffed, "You'll outlive us all."

It was a mistake to say, and your eyes darted to your phone screen where it was sitting on the desk. You shook your head, trying to shake yourself from the focus. You knew that you didn't cover well when Dana reached out, rubbing your arm gently.

"Why don't you get some air?" She offered softly. And sure, you knew that it would be for the best, but—

"The uh—" You cleared your throat. "The patient in south three should be sent up to psych."

It took a moment before Dana answered, "We called. We're waiting to hear back."

"How long has he been down here?"

'"'Bout a day and a half hours."

"Jesus," You hissed. "The fuck?"

"I know you've been away from the ED for a while. It's gotten worse." A hand between your shoulder blades, and a soft, "We need ya back."

"I can't afford it."

Your time, your money, your focus, your care—there was no part of returning to the Pitt that you could afford. Being able to return to school would mean losing your sister, and losing your sister would mean—

You turned and braced your hands on the desk in front of you, fighting to settle your churning stomach.

"...Go find somewhere quiet," Dana urged. "We've got it here."

"I really don't think I should be anywhere quiet right now."

"Could do more good than harm."

"Dana—"

"There probably isn't anyone in the chapel this time'a day. Go on."

--

It was the right suggestion to make, and you'd known it the second she'd made it. You eyed the altar with dispassionate numbness, heart thudding in your ears, eyes unfocused as you tried to take in deep breaths and steady yourself. Your phone stayed clutched in your hands, waiting—damn near praying for a vibration, a text, news.

"This seat taken?"

His voice had no right to make your heart leap into your throat, your fingers tighten further around your phone.

"Ten other pews in the place and you've gotta sit here?" You asked. You didn't turn to look, didn't nod approvingly. But that didn't stop him from stepping in and lowering to sit down beside you.

There was nothing different, nothing new. You used to know the feeling of Robby beside you. You used to crave his attention, his approval. You felt the heat of him against your side now, as steady as it had been just a year ago.

When your mother died, the responsibility to care for your six-year-old half sister had closed in so fast. Her cancer diagnosis had hit as furiously as your mother's death, and you'd had no choice but to drop out of med school, to leave the program that you'd entered in at the Pitt.

"Surprised to find you in here," He added. You shrugged a little.

"Dana's idea," You admitted. Then, before you could stop yourself, "It's where mom would be."

Robby didn't answer for a moment. You felt him shift beside you, his thigh brushing against yours, then away again.

"...You think your mom is in here now?" He asked softly. And you knew what he meant, what he was driving toward, but—

"Pretty sure we buried her in a cemetery, Robby."

"Okay—"

"Unless someone moved her and they didn't tell me—Should we check under the pews? You take left, I'll take right."

"What is it with you and sincerity, huh?"

"I'm allergic."

"What happens?"

"Oh, I swell up. Anaphylactic shock."

"Good thing you're already at the hospital."

You couldn't help but smile a bit, shaking your head.

"Were you this bad when you worked here?" He pried.

"You know, I think I was. Something about the Pitt just brings it out in me."

"...How long has she been up there?"

What about the last few things that he'd asked made him think that you wanted to answer that question? But facts were facts. And—

"An hour."

"Not bad."

"Sure," You shrugged, nodding before you couldn't help but shake your head. "You know, I never thought knowing what I know could make all'a this worse?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—I mean when I was younger and my grandpa was in the hospital...I remember being there with him. The doctor was saying a bunch'a shit that I just didn't understand. It's one of the reasons I wanted to become a doctor, you know, to decipher what he was saying. Like learning to read hieroglyphs. But now..." You shook your head, eyes prickling with tears. "Watching Langdon and everyone work on Ellie, hearing what they were saying, reading the screens—It was worse. How could it be worse, understanding?" You slouched against the pew. "I've never wanted to be willfully ignorant before, ya know. Hearing what they were doing, just—" You tried to draw in a deep breath, failed, "Just confirmed just how fucking—" You tried to draw in another deep breath, but it caught in your throat, "How fucking bad it is." You fought to draw in another deep breath as your chest pounded, your eyes welling with tears.

Robby's arm curled around you as you folded forward, pressing the heels of your hands pressing against your eyes to stem your upset.

"She's going to be alright," He insisted, "Garcia's got her."

"Oh, good. That's good," You mumbled. "She'll hold the fact that she saved Ellie over my head forever."

"She might not."

"Oh, please. Have you met Garcia?"

Robby huffed a soft laugh, raising his hand to gently cup the back of your neck, his thumb sweeping across your nape. You let the movement soothe you the way he intended, leaning up into it.

"...Did you tell Dana to kick me out from behind central?"

"No. Why?"

"I saw you talking to her."

"You think it was about you? Self-centered much?" He knocked his knee against yours. "Maybe you should've been a doctor."

"Don't. Don't," Your huffed laugh came with a plea as you squeezed your eyes shut. Robby smoothed his hand across your shoulders, drawing you into his side. And where you would've shied from the touch a year ago, you welcomed it now, leaning heavily against him. You felt him nuzzle against your hair, rest his head against yours, draw in a deep breath. You let yourself hone in on him for a few moments—his warmth, his steadiness where you've so badly missed it, wanted it.

You drew in a deep breath, held it, sighed through your nose.

"You should get back in there," You mumbled.

"The others've got it."

"They need you."

A moment of quiet, another nuzzle against your head.

"What do you need?" He murmured. And you were tempted to fib, to tell him that you didn't need anything. But it had been so long since you'd been asked what you needed, and even longer since you were willing to be honest about your answer.

"...I don't fucking know, dude," You mumbled.

"Is that the truth?"

You startled when you felt your phone buzz in your hand, and you sat up before you could stop yourself, bringing the phone up to eye the screen and scanning the text. You opened your mouth, drawing in a deep breath for the first time in a few hours.

"What is it?"

"She's in the recovery room," You relayed. "She's in—She's in the fucking recovery room—I shouldn't be swearing in a chapel but oh my god—Oh my fucking god," You breathed, folding in on yourself.

Robby didn't let you get far as you shook, just waited, and held as the news settled.

You leaned up slowly, propping your elbows on your thighs and pressing your face into your hands.

"How long 'til you can see her?"

"Half an hour."

"Okay," He murmured, rubbing his hand over your back. "Go get some coffee in the staff room."

"Staff room is for, uh—Staff? Which I have not been for a long time."

"Cafeteria coffee isn't as good."

"I should get the full Pitt experience."

Robby chuckled softly. "You'll do better with ours."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

You grunted, leaning back against the pew.

"You should get back," You urged again. "I'll be fine."

"...Okay," He murmured. "Keep me updated?"

"Sure." It was another moment before he stood, giving your shoulder a soft squeeze before letting go. You twisted as his footsteps faded, unable to help yourself. "Robby?"

He stopped in the doorway, and you almost crumbled as he caught your eye. You hesitated before you nodded.

"I did feel her here—Mom, I mean."

Robby gave a small smile before he nodded, too, taking a step and turning away.

You waited until he was fully out of the chapel before you let yourself crumble.

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