#what would one even call this kind of whump?? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ssa-dado · 3 months ago

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8.01 - Anaisthēsía

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, with a touch of whump and teasing Summary: Hotch stays by your side after a near-death experience, grappling with guilt and relief as you recover. When you wake, disoriented from anesthesia, you hilariously flirt and praise him, including a playful obsession with his hands and teasing remarks about his voice. As the fog lifts, you groggily bicker with Hotch about philosophy and paperwork, ultimately losing a playful debate as he deftly out-argues you. Warnings: medical trauma, guilt, anesthesia-induced vulnerability, mentions of death, P***r gets mentioned once. GISSI GISSI GISSI Word Count: 13.5k Dado's Corner: This little flashback was inspired by the wonderful and ever-inspiring @cuddleprofiler. What was originally meant to be a short piece quickly spiraled into something far longer because, honestly, I missed their old dynamics way too much to stop myself. As always, I probably went overboard, so - just a heads-up: the sweetness in this one is seriously tooth-rotting. Writing this version of Y/N was so fun, it felt different, but I hope it still makes sense and resonates with you. KG, I hope it brings you as much joy to read as it did for me to write. And yes, I used yet again some pics from Dharma and Greg for young Hotch, sue me.

masterlist

Are you alright?

Were there any complications?

Is something wrong?

He watched as your eyes fluttered open, the focus still absent.

His stomach dropped.

Every part of him screamed in panic, his mind racing through the events that led them here.

It happened so fast, too fast.

He had barely arrived in time, his steps too slow, his fingers fumbling with the phone to call for help.

He was useless.

If he had gotten there a second earlier, maybe it would have been different. Maybe you wouldn’t have been lying there, so fragile, so vulnerable. He couldn’t stop thinking of all the things he didn’t do, all the moments where he had failed to act.

"Hey," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, careful as if the slightest sound might shatter your bones. "How are you feeling?" His chest was tight, his heart racing.

That was his fault.

He shifted nervously, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

Was he standing too close?

Was he in your space?

Was his presence somehow making things worse?

Every little movement you made sent a jolt through him, was this normal? He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t think.

He should have gone to med school. Maybe then he would know how to help you instead of just sitting there in his uselessness.

Did you need water?

No, you were too frail to drink because of him.

You blinked again, slow and unsure, your gaze still too distant, lost in a fog he couldn’t reach. He could feel the panic rising in his chest again, breathing felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford just yet. Not until you were like that.

The memory of those moments before you woke up was still too fresh - the image of you, lying still on the operating table - probably the only time in your life you ever actually stopped - your body cold and unresponsive.

For a few seconds, he’d lost you.

No pulse, no breath.

Just the cruel, deafening silence that seemed to stretch on forever.

And in those brief seconds, he'd experienced something he hadn’t thought possible: the overwhelming, suffocating emptiness of nothing.

He was supposed to keep you safe.

He was supposed to be enough.

What kind of partner leaves their partner dying?

If only he’d been faster, more decisive.

If only he’d been able to do something, anything, to make sure you were okay.

What if you had been a second too far gone?

What if he had been a second too slow?

You wouldn’t be lying there, resting on a cold metal table just a few floors-

"Who… are you?" you asked with the quitest of voices.

What?

He swore his heart dropped into his stomach.

Was it because of the shock, the trauma, the anesthesia?

Or had his existance really been so useless that you didn’t even recognize him?

He had to say something, at least so he wouldn’t have failed you in yet another thing.

Hotch.

Just five letters, simple.

Easier than saying his name - or whatever you used to call him when you still had a reason to care about him – Lawyer - or back when he was still decent enough to be considered your partner.

Hotch.

Just Hotch.

"It’s me, Aaron," he replied, forcing his voice to stay light, though it trembled under the weight of the tightness in his chest. His words came out strained, heavy with guilt, as if he had failed you even in something as simple as the tone of his voice.

You repeated his name slowly, the sound of it rolling off your tongue like it was a foreign word in probably the only language you hadn’t mastered yet. Who could blame you, after all? He wouldn’t recognize his own name either, if only he could. If only there were a way to erase his memory. "Aaron. That’s a nice name."

Nice? Him – nice?!

The words felt strange in his ears, as if they didn’t belong to him, as if you were talking about someone else entirely.

Nice wasn’t how he would have described himself, not when you were looking at him like that - distant, almost as though he were a stranger.

And just like that, the realization hit him, crashing through the fog of his thoughts.

Oh, you don’t remember.

The tight knot in his chest loosened, but only slightly.

You weren’t mad at him.

At least not in the way he’d thought.

It wasn’t his fault, not really.

It was the anesthesia, the drug that had clouded your mind, made everything feel far away, unreachable.

Now it made sense.

He could finally breathe.

That’s when he found out he had no idea how long he had been standing there, just staring at you, lost in his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed how tightly he’d been gripping the edge of the chair until he released his hold, his fingers sore, and then slowly pulled it closer to your bed.

“Yeah, I guess I’m pretty fond of it,” he said, forcing a soft smile, but it felt fragile, like glass about to shatter.

Your gaze, still unfocused, drifted to his face. Now he could see you trying to make sense of him, but the haze of anesthesia made everything about him blurry and strange in your eyes.

Yet he could feel that, despite the confusion, something shifted in the way you looked at him.

“You’re very… pretty,” you said suddenly, your words tumbling out before you could stop them.

What?

Hotch blinked. If you ever did offer him such a compliment - though you never did… why would you, after all? - he had always imagined it would be something far more complex.

Something pulled from the depths of the philosophy texts you cherished so much, or even an adjective so obscure and unique that it had only ever appeared once, buried in the pages of some forgotten manuscript.

Maybe it would be a neologism you created, one only you knew the meaning of, a word with layers of secret nuances and significance. Never something so common, so... "shallow" as "pretty."

He blinked again, wondering if it was just his imagination playing tricks on him, making him believe he was hearing something he’d always wanted to hear come from your lips.

Because seeing you – always so sharp, so composed, the kind of person who measured every word with precision - suddenly so soft, so shy, was surprising.

He couldn’t deny how it affected him, how hearing you speak so gently, in such a vulnerable tone, made his heart race in a way that almost felt like betrayal.

Was this what it was? Was this what he had been hoping for?

His mind scrambled, tricking him into thinking that maybe this was your way of showing him you felt the same. As if, for a fleeting moment, the barriers between you two had fallen, and everything he'd ever wanted from you could be real.

But rationally, he knew better - he knew it was just his own longing tricking him, his brain desperately filling in the gaps he couldn’t bear to face.

It wasn’t you, it was the anesthesia.

This softness wasn’t true to you.

Still, the pull in his chest, the warmth he felt when you looked at him with those eyes, told him a different story.

“Pretty, really?!” he said, trying to inject some humor into the situation, he probably got that from you. “I thought you were more into philosophy than, you know, looks.” He leaned in just a little, unable to resist.

You blinked at him, your brow furrowing slightly, and he could almost see the fog lifting in your mind as you tried to process the words that had just come out of his mouth. “Philosophy?” you mumbled, sounding almost genuinely curious. “What’s that?”

Hotch stifled a laugh, the sound escaping through his nose despite himself. “Oh, God. This is… this is going to be good,” he muttered under his breath.

And still, despite the absurdity of the moment, the karmic lesson finally coming full circle after all those hours you had him tangled in your philosophical musings, Hotch couldn’t help but find it amusing.

It was almost poetic, the way he had struggled to keep up with you, only for the roles to reverse now. Even though he’d never admit it to you, he could have listened to you talk about philosophy for hours, not just because of your passion, but because you had this way of making even the most abstract concepts feel so objectively interesting...

…And, of course, because he loved to hear your voice in any shape or form, whether you were unraveling complex ideas or simply informing him that the office coffee machine had broken down yet again and needed his help to fix it - as if he were some kind of coffee machine whisperer.

But still, as much as he found it hilarious, he couldn’t deny how profound it all felt. The fact that you, his Philosopher, were struggling to acknowledge philosophy itself felt like the most philosophical thing he’d ever heard you say.

It was as if the question itself was the answer, a perfect paradox wrapped in innocence.

“You really don’t know what philosophy is?” he asked, his voice dry, a little incredulous. “You? The one who still managed to quote Hegel while bleeding to death?”

You blinked at him, clearly still processing what he had said. “Who?” you asked, your face a mix of confusion and the tiniest bit of intrigue. "Hegel?"

“Never mind,” Hotch replied, though he couldn’t help the teasing tone creeping into his voice. "I thought you’d be spouting some philosophy by now, but I guess we're starting with the basics." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he watched you try to make sense of it all. “Okay, let’s see if you remember any of it,” he said, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “Do you know who Plato is?”

You blinked slowly, your mind still a little foggy from the anesthesia. “No,” you said with such unshakable certainty that Hotch couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

“Not even your favorite?! How about Schopenhauer?” Hotch asked, his voice a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

You looked at him for a moment, clearly trying to process his words, then shook your head. “No,” you said again, your voice so confident, with the perfect German accent. “And it’s pronounced ‘Shoh-pen-how-er’.”

Hotch stopped mid-laugh, blinking at you in mock surprise. “You don’t know who he is, but you’ve still got time to correct my pronunciation?” he asked, raising an eyebrow - thankfully, you couldn’t tell how your words made him feel like he was suddenly melted by your accent, something about the way you made German sound almost romantic. “How reassuring of you.”

You flashed him a grin, eyes sparkling just a little too brightly for someone still under the influence of anesthesia. “Sorry, you’re just so cute, especially when you butcher German like that”

Hotch shook his head, his lips curling into a smile despite himself. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he replied with a chuckle, though he knew the warmth in his gaze was unmistakable. “Alright then,” he said, still slightly flustered by your words, leaning in just a little closer. “Let’s see if you know Kierkegaard, maybe?”

You smiled sleepily, “No,” you mumbled, but then added, your tone suddenly more serious, “And it’s Kierkegaard... ‘Keer-geh-garh’. The ‘ie’ is pronounced like an ‘e,’ and the ‘aa’ is like the ‘a’ in ‘raw’.”

Hotch couldn’t help but laugh, rubbing his temples as if trying to alleviate the mounting amusement…and a bit of frustration. “This is exactly what happens when you mix a philosopher with anesthesia,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair with a bemused grin. “You forget everything you love, but somehow still manage to correct my pronunciation.” He shook his head, still smiling at the absurdity of it all.

“I like how you say ‘Philosopher’. It’s... very nice.” you giggled softly before shifting in the bed, your eyes still locked on him as if he were the only thing in the room.

“Someone’s got a crush,” Hotch muttered to himself under his breath, though he was sure you couldn’t hear it.

Or maybe you could.

Either way, it didn’t stop the smile that kept tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Thankfully you two still were alone… in a hospital room.

His chest tightened just thinking about it.

He couldn’t still think about it.

He had to push it away. He had to.

You were here now.

You were awake.

You were alive.

But the fear - God, the fear - it still lingered, crawling in his throat, pressing down on his lungs. It was there every time he looked at you, still pale, still fragile in that bed. He needed to see that spark in your eyes again, needed to know you were really here, really with him.

The way you always looked at him, with that glint of intelligence and mischief that made everything feel alive. He needed to see that more than the oxygen in his lungs.

He leaned forward, pulling something from his bag, a small book he had picked up with the hope of cheering you up, and honestly, maybe even cheering himself up too. He’d been terrified, so now he just wanted to see you as you again. He needed to see the spark in your eyes, the one that always made him feel like he was seeing something brighter than the world around him.

“Alright, if you really don’t remember anything, maybe this will help.” He held up the book with a small shake, like it was some sort of weapon. “Nietzsche for Stressed People... I’m sure the title speaks for itself. No need for an explanation, right?” He gave you a wry smile, his eyes still holding a hint of worry behind the teasing.

He pointed to the picture of the man on the cover, raising an eyebrow, trying to focus on something light. "Do you recognize the guy with the mustache?" He wasn’t sure why his voice softened so much, he was speaking to you like this - so gently, so carefully - as though you were a child he was trying to explain something simple to.

But in that moment, it felt right.

He just wanted to see you smile.

You blinked at the cover, your mind clearly still foggy from the medication. You scanned the picture and looked up at him. “No,” you mumbled, with a slight shrug.

Hotch’s smile faltered for a second. He was really hoping this would work. But he recovered quickly, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “Well, I guess that’s okay. You don’t need to remember everything.”

You were already half asleep again, your eyelids drooping as you mumbled, "I think I liked him..."

Hotch paused for a moment, looking at you as you drifted off. "Oh no, you hate Nietzsche. That’s exactly why I bought this," he muttered to himself with a shake of his head.

“Aaron…” you said, your voice almost a whisper, soft and uncertain.

The sound of his name on your lips always made Hotch’s heart skip a beat.

Although this time it wasn’t the usual sharpness, the teasing sarcasm, or the biting wit that he was so used to. No, this was different.

It was tender, hesitant, he watched you, noticing the faint pink hue that spread across your cheeks as soon as you met his gaze, making them glow against the stark white of the hospital sheets. He could see how your fingers fidgeted nervously with the blanket.

What was happening?

"Yes?" he asked gently, leaning forward slightly, his voice a soft coaxing, encouraging you to say more. He didn’t want to rush you, but he could see you were trying to find the right words, something important you wanted to say but hadn’t quite managed yet.

Your eyes fluttered, struggling to focus on him, and he watched closely, noting the way your mouth opened as if searching for something to say but not quite finding it – definitely because of the anesthesia.

But then, almost hesitantly, the words slipped out, quieter than before, as though they were secret confessions. "I… think I like you.”

Oh, if only it wasn’t the meds confessing his attraction to him, but actually you...

“You like me?” Hotch repeated, his voice low and teasing, though there was something softer beneath it, something unspoken that made his words feel less playful and more genuine.

You nodded slowly, still not meeting his eyes fully, your gaze drifting down to the blanket in your lap. "I do," you murmured, the words shy as they left your mouth. Your eyes fluttered again, and as you smiled, the blush deepened, tinting your cheeks an even brighter shade of pink. “You’re so nice. So handsome. So… so lawyer-ish.”

Hotch couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped him, the way you looked at him with such genuine affection, it was so disarming. “Lawyer-ish?” he repeated, his grin widening. “What a wise choice of words, coming from someone with such a vast lexicon like you.”

You blinked at him, your wide eyes still locked onto his. "You’re so… elegant, so smart," you said suddenly, your voice earnest and serious, as if sharing a secret. "I love lawyers."

Hotch laughed, almost startled by your sudden change in tone. “Oh, you’re lying,” he said, his amusement clear. “You’ve been calling me ‘Lawyer’ just to mock me for months. Don’t think I’m buying your ‘I love lawyers’ routine just because you’re a little loopy on meds.”

Hotch couldn’t help but notice how your gaze shifted downward to his hand, the one resting casually close by your side, although he continued “You despise lawyers - you’ve always said we bend the law, are enslaved by it, and have no personal ethics, unlike…”

He swore as he talked there was still something about the way you looked at his hand. Subtle at first, like a flicker of curiosity behind your eyes, but then your fingers twitched, almost on instinct. Before he could react, you reached out and gently grasped his hand, pulling it closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Hotch froze, utterly bewildered. His usually steady pulse quickened as he watched you inspect his hand with an intensity he’d only seen you use on crime scene evidence. Your brows furrowed slightly, your lips quirking as if you were unraveling a mystery only you could understand.

He watched the way your fingers traced over the back of his knuckles, your touch so light and delicate yet managing to leave a trail of fire wherever your fingers traveled.

“Uh, what’s going on here?” His voice was a little shaky, the confusion clear in his tone. Then his eyes flicked back to your face, flushed a deep shade of red. He swallowed hard, trying to make sense of the situation.

You didn’t answer.

Not right away, at least.

Instead, You remained entirely focused on his hand, your fingers tracing the lines of his skin until his breath caught when you moved down to the curve of his wrist. Every nerve ending seemed to spark under your touch, and for the first time in years, Hotch felt completely, hopelessly out of control.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” he began again, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably when his voice wavered, “but there’s a whole person attached to that hand.”

Still nothing.

You stayed focused, your fingers mapping every detail as though you were committing it to memory. Hotch let out a shaky laugh, a blend of amusement and disbelief. “You do realize this is kind of weird, right?” he teased, though the corners of his mouth twitched with a reluctant smile.

Finally, you looked up, blinking slowly as though you’d momentarily forgotten he was even there. “Hmm?” you murmured, your voice soft and distracted.

“A person,” Hotch repeated, arching an eyebrow, his tone tinged with both amusement and exasperation. “Me. Aaron Hotchner. Your-”

You didn’t even let him finish. How rude.

Your lips quirked into a small, almost mischievous smile, and you tilted your head slightly. “I know who you are, Aaron,” you said, your voice light and teasing.

What?

Hotch blinked, momentarily caught off guard. For a split second, he wondered if the effects of the anesthesia that somehow turned you into a completely different person had started to wear off.

But then, as he studied your expression, he caught another clue - your eyes. Still soft and dreamy, unfocused in a way that practically screamed drugged, he could finally lethis heart rate return to normal. False alarm.

“Your hands,” you said finally, your tone almost reverent, as if those two words held the key to the universe – or maybe they did for your ephemeral little dizzy one right now. You glanced down at them again, your grip tightening slightly.

Like that was enough of an explanation.

What happened to the woman who loved words more than herself?

“My hands,” he echoed, his brow furrowing. “What about them?”

“They’re… interesting.” Your gaze dropped back to his hand, your fingertips now grazing his palm. He couldn’t tell if you were studying him or if this was just some elaborate way to drive him insane. “You can tell a lot about someone by their hands, you know.”

“Oh, really?” Hotch chuckled, leaning back slightly, though he made no effort to pull his hand away from your grasp. If logic and anesthesia were a match made in heaven, he’d eat his tie. Clearly, reasoning with you right now was a losing battle. If he wanted answers - or at least entertainment - he’d have to play by your rules.

“And what, exactly, do my hands say about me?” he asked, his tone light but with a hint of curiosity.

You tilted your head, your expression turning uncomfortably serious, as if you were solving an ancient riddle. Hotch could almost feel the weight of your scrutiny as your eyes flicked from his fingers to his wrist and back again. “Strong. Dependable. But a little… rough around the edges.”

You paused, your lips twitching into a sly smile that made him raise an eyebrow. “And, you probably don’t moisturize, do you?”

What kind of drug did they give you for God’s sake?!

Hotch blinked, caught completely off guard by the comment. “I - what?” he stammered, a startled laugh bubbling out of him. “Moisturize?”

You nodded, your expression so matter-of-fact it made him wonder if this was something you genuinely cared about. “It’s okay,” you said breezily, patting his hand in a gesture that felt oddly consoling. “You’re a busy lawyer who works way more than anyone should. Classic workaholic move. It’s completely understandable.”

Hotch let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, I’m glad my hands pass your inspection, even if they don’t meet your hydration standards.”

And then, with a boldness that surprised him even more than your initial touch, your fingers slid between his, intertwining in a gesture so casual yet so intimate that it made his chest tighten. He stared down at your joined hands, his mind racing.

You had never been this touchy before. The woman he knew - strong, composed, relentless - had always kept a deliberate distance, a boundary he’d always appreciated because, truth be told, he was even worse when it came to physical contact. For him, touch had always felt too intimate, too exposing, like a crack in the armor he so carefully maintained.

But here you were now, completely unguarded and soft, your fingers tracing his hand with a tenderness that caught him off guard. And despite everything he thought he knew about himself - about his discomfort with touch, about his constant need for control - he couldn’t deny the unfamiliar warmth that spread through him.

It wasn’t just surprising, it was disarming.

For the first time in years, something about this moment felt… right. Like he didn’t need to pull away, didn’t need to overthink it. It just was, and he couldn’t bring himself to let it end.

“Well, this is certainly… new,” Hotch said with a laugh, his voice almost incredulous as he shook his head in disbelief.

You smiled up at him, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him. Then, in a whisper so soft it barely reached his ears, you added, “You’re very handsome when you laugh.”

Oh, you sly Hegelian charmer.

He blinked, momentarily stunned, before a dry chuckle escaped him. He had never been courted like this in his entire life. Which, honestly, made everything feel… hilarious. Or at least that’s what he told himself - it was the only way he could deflect the heat rising to his face.

He couldn’t stop himself from laughing even harder. “Oh, you’re going to pay for this,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m definitely going to remind you that you said you think you like Nietzsche when you finally make up your mind.”

At the mention of Nietzsche, your eyes lit up, darting to the book he had set down on the side table earlier. Without hesitation, you leaned forward, grasping his arm lightly. “Could you read me some?” you asked, your voice soft but insistent.

Hotch raised a brow, half-amused, half-skeptical. “You want me to read you Nietzsche?”

“Yes,” you said simply, your gaze earnest. Then, as if explaining an obvious truth, you added, “I like how your voice sounds. It’s so low and… buttery. But not too smooth, it’s got this rough edge, especially with your consonants. Like the way your /t/ and /d/ sounds have a little friction, and your /r/ is so restrained it’s almost elegant. And when you say certain words, there’s this… resonance. Like when you said Nietzsche. It’s perfect.”

Hotch blinked, completely floored by your unexpected - and highly technical - analysis. “I didn’t realize I had a special way of saying Nietzsche,” he said dryly, though his lips quirked in amusement.

“You do,” you replied confidently, tilting your head slightly. “Because it’s completely the wrong pronunciation. It’s adorable.”

Hotch laughed again, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called adorable before,” he mused, his tone dry. “But I’m not about to start taking pronunciation lessons from someone who just complimented my consonants.”

“Please say it again,” you prompted, leaning toward him, your eyes gleaming with curiosity.

How could he say no to you?

“Nee-chee,” he said, drawing out the word with deliberate slowness, his voice dripping with mock emphasis.

You giggled, a light, airy sound so unlike your usual self that Hotch had to glance away briefly, clearing his throat in an attempt to keep his composure. “See? So wrong,” you said, shaking your head with exaggerated dismay. “You completely butchered the ‘tz’ sound! Where’s the sharp little ‘tss’? It’s supposed to bite, Aaron. You made it sound like a sneeze!”

Hotch blinked, momentarily stunned by your critique, before letting out a low chuckle. “A sneeze?” he repeated, incredulous. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, pointing at him as if you’d uncovered a grand conspiracy. “It’s not ‘Nee-chee,’ it’s ‘Neet-ss-chuh.’ Say it with me - ‘tss.’ Like you’re flicking your tongue against your teeth. Not-” you waved dramatically, “-like a tired cowboy trying to name his horse.”

Hotch laughed harder, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize I was being graded on my pronunciation of 19th-century philosophers.”

He was so proud of himself for remembering the time period.

“You’re not being graded,” you replied, smirking. “But if you were, it’d be a D-minus for effort. Although,” you added with a dramatic pause, “you get bonus points for making it sound adorable. Like you’re trying your best but still somehow failing spectacularly.”

“Adorable,” he repeated dryly, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Alright, now I’m definitely reading this to you. But don’t expect miracles, I’m not correcting my pronunciation just to impress you.”

He stood from his chair, lifting it carefully and bringing it over to the right side of your bed. He placed it close enough that you wouldn’t have to strain to see him, then sat down, adjusting the book in his hands. He even tilted it slightly away from himself so you could read along if you wanted.

Hotch froze, his breath hitching as the warmth of your touch spread from his arm like a slow-burning fire. His mind raced for a way to keep himself grounded, to push aside the thought that your touch felt far too perfect, far too right.

It was the drug, not you.

You weren’t really fond of him.

Control, Aaron, control.

But still, it was impossible to ignore the way you fit so effortlessly against him, like two puzzle pieces quietly finding their place.

His lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile, a small betrayal of the control he prided himself on, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted ever so slightly, angling his body just enough to make it easier for you to stay where you were. If he noticed how his heart thudded against his ribcage, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice a quiet murmur, the words far more tender than he intended. His gaze flicked toward you, and he found himself silently praying this wasn’t something he could get used to - that the sight of you leaning into him, fitting against him like you were made to be there, wouldn’t embed itself too deeply into his mind.

Because it would be impossible to let it go.

You hummed softly, your head resting against him as you snuggled closer, as if you belonged there. “Very,” you replied, your tone dreamy, filled with a sincerity that struck something deep inside him.

He gave a small shake of his head, and turning to the first passage, he scanned it briefly before speaking, his deep voice carrying a soothing cadence. “‘We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once.’”

You opened one eye, staring up at him with a playful glint. “Are you secretly a dancer, Aaron?”

Hotch let out a soft laugh, his voice low and teasing. “I might know a step or two, but I sincerely hope you’ll never find out.”

“Oh,why not?” you teased, grinning up at him. “I bet you’d be great at ballroom dancing. Strong frame, steady hold… unless your footwork’s as rough as your hands.”

He swore he was going to buy some moisturizer the second he would leave that hospital room.

“My footwork is impeccable, thank you very much,” he shot back dryly. “And for the record, I’m reading Nietzsche, not auditioning for a dance competition.”

You giggled softly, the sound warm and light, as you gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “Sure, Mr. Hotchner. But if the FBI ever has a formal gala, I’m claiming the first dance.”

What?!

Hotch stiffened, his heart skipping a beat. How… how did you know that? He didn’t recall mentioning that he worked for the FBI. His gaze flicked to your face, searching for any sign that the fog of anesthesia might be starting to lift. But your expression was still soft, dreamy, your words carrying that loose, unfiltered edge that came with the lingering effects of the drugs.

Swallowing his unease, Hotch flipped to another page of the book, trying to redirect his thoughts. “‘Without music,’” he read aloud, his voice calm despite the sudden racing of his heart, “‘life would be a mistake.’”

“That’s true,” you said, your voice steady but still faintly slurred. Then, without missing a beat, you added, “But I think it’s the same with voices like yours. Life would be a mistake without those.”

Hotch froze, your words landing like a sucker punch.

His mind reeled.

Was your memory beginning to return?

Were pieces of you slipping back into place?

Or was this just another effect of the drugs, pulling fragmented thoughts from the recesses of your mind?

He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but the uncertainty gnawed at him in a way he hadn’t expected. You seemed so open, so unguarded in a way he’d never seen before, and it tugged at something deep within him.

And then, as if sensing his shift in thought, you interrupted him again, your tone light and teasing. “Your hair.”

Hotch blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What about my hair?” he asked cautiously.

“It’s falling on your forehead when you read,” you said with a soft smile, your eyes focused on him as if this observation was the most important thing in the world. “You have really nice hair, you know.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, caught completely off guard. “Thank you…” he replied, his voice unsure, his heart beating a little faster. “I’m not sure where this is going.”

You sat up straighter, your eyes bright and full of mischief. “I really want to run my fingers through it,” you announced, utterly serious, as if it was a completely reasonable request.

Hotch froze, the statement catching him entirely off guard. “You want to… what?”

“I want to touch it,” you said again, as if that would clarify everything. Your gaze didn’t waver, wide and pleading, your lips curving into the smallest, most endearing pout.

Hotch let out a startled chuckle, shaking his head. “You’ve definitely lost your mind,” he said, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward, betraying his amusement. He should say no. This was ridiculous. Still, when you looked up at him with those big, pleading eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to deny you. “Alright, fine. Go ahead.”

Your expression lit up like you’d just won the lottery, and the sight made something in his chest squeeze. You hesitated for a moment, as if savoring the permission, before gently reaching up. Your fingers threaded through his hair, moving carefully, almost reverently, as though you were afraid to hurt him.

Hotch closed his eyes, caught off guard by how… nice it felt.

Your touch was soft and warm, sending little waves of comfort through him. It wasn’t something he ever thought he’d care about, but now, with you, it felt impossibly good.

For a man so used to control, the way you handled him with such tenderness made him feel vulnerable in a way he didn’t entirely mind.

When you finally pulled back, you looked at him with wide eyes, a hint of worry crossing your face. “It’s… coarse,” you murmured, as though you’d uncovered some devastating secret.

Hotch couldn’t help it - he laughed, the sound rich and warm as it spilled out of him. “Well, I’m sorry my hair isn’t up to your standards,” he teased, his tone light. “But I wasn’t exactly aiming for shampoo-commercial perfection.”

You tilted your head, your expression turning thoughtful, and Hotch swore he could see the wheels turning in your mind. After a moment, a soft smile curved your lips, and with a gentle shrug, you murmured, “It’s fine.” Your voice was calm but sure as you shifted closer, your right hand delicately intertwining with his left. The book in his lap sat forgotten, replaced by the warm weight of your touch.

Hotch couldn’t help the soft snort that escaped him, though it was more fond than anything. He shook his head, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Good to know my flaws aren’t total deal-breakers,” he quipped lightly, his tone teasing, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him.

Your thumb brushed over the back of his hand, the touch so light it sent a wave of warmth straight to his chest. “Not even close,” you said softly, almost as if you were reassuring him.

As your fingers lingered against his, the air between you seemed to shift. It wasn’t just about the touch anymore, it was the way you were looking at him. There was something new in your eyes, a quiet realization, like you’d found something you hadn’t been expecting.

“Aaron?” you whispered, his name slipping from your lips so softly it felt like a secret. There was a vulnerability in your voice that caught him off guard, gentle but unshakable. “What are we?”

Hotch blinked, unsure how to respond.

Colleagues?

Friends?

Much more than that, he realized, but how could he put it into words?

This was something so new. Something he wasn’t ready to label just yet.

“Partners,” he said quietly, feeling the weight of the word settle between them. It was simple, but it felt right.

Partners, in every unspoken sense of the word.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and impossibly soft, brimming with something he couldn’t quite define. It made his chest ache in a way that was almost unbearable. “You’re my boyfriend?” you asked, your voice tender, as if the idea was the most natural thing in the world.

Hotch felt the air leave his lungs. He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly as he tried to find the right words. He knew what he wanted, what he felt, but he was certain you didn’t feel the same way, at least not when everything was clear and steady in the light of day.

“I hope you forget what I’m about to tell you,” he said, his voice low and trembling despite his best effort to keep it steady. “But… sometimes, I wish I was.”

Your gaze softened at his confession, your lips parting slightly as if the words had unlocked something inside you. For a moment, he thought you might drift off again, the haze of sleep pulling you back under. But then you blinked, slow and deliberate, your hand still lightly resting in his. Your thumb moved, tracing a faint circle on the back of his hand.

“Then why aren’t you yet?” you asked, your voice carrying the soft lilt of sleepiness but with an edge of curiosity that struck him to the core.

Hotch froze. The question hung in the air between you, impossibly fragile and yet so heavy it pressed against his chest. His heart skipped a beat, and he suddenly felt raw, exposed in a way he wasn’t used to. He met your gaze, his dark eyes softening, his defenses crumbling down without even emitting a single sound.

“I’m not sure the ‘sober’ version of you would agree with that,” he said, his tone laced with equal parts vulnerability and longing. His lips quirked into a faint, rueful smile. “And even if you did… it’s complicated.”

You didn’t look away, your sleepy smile only deepening as if his words had unlocked some hidden courage in you. Your gaze dropped briefly to his lips before returning to his eyes, your voice dropping to a whisper so soft it felt like a secret shared in the stillness of the moment.

“But I really want to kiss you right now,” you confessed, your voice laced with raw honesty, the kind that sent a shiver down Hotch’s spine.

His breath caught, his heart thundering in his chest as he fought tooth and nails to keep his composure. He should have pulled back, created some distance, but he couldn’t move. Not when you were looking at him with that soft, dreamy sincerity that left him utterly defenseless.

“You really are bold, aren’t you?” he muttered, shaking his head, though there was no mistaking the warmth in his tone.

But even as he spoke, something in him shifted.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Hotch brought your hand - the one still intertwined with his - up to his lips.

When his lips brushed against your knuckles, it was featherlight, barely a kiss, but the tenderness of it made your breath hitch.

It was an old-fashioned, almost chivalrous gesture, but somehow it felt perfect, like the most natural way to convey everything he couldn’t yet say aloud. The warmth of his breath lingered on your skin, and even in your hazy state, he knew you felt something as well.

As he pulled back, his hand lingered, still cradling yours, his dark eyes met yours, holding them for a moment longer than usual, as if he were silently asking if this was okay.

If this was enough.

Or if it was too much.

You sighed softly, your eyelids fluttering closed for a moment before you whispered, “I really like you, Aaron.”

“I like you too,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady, though his heart was anything but. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But let’s make sure you still like me when you’re not under anesthesia, alright? And even if you don’t…” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “I’ll always be here. You have my word.”

You nodded in agreement, your hand still resting gently in his. Hotch couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips as he returned to the book, his voice low as he began to read once more.

As he read on, he noticed your breathing grow slower, and before long, you were asleep, your head tilting against his shoulder.

Hotch stopped reading and let out a soft, relieved breath.

There was something about the way you’d fallen asleep on him that felt right, like the world had momentarily shifted.

He could still feel the heat of your hand in his, your fingers intertwined with his in a way that seemed so natural, so unforced.

He glanced down at you, his heart skipping another beat as he watched you sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this connected to someone.

To be fair he did, but still - this felt different.

As you continued to sleep, your breath steady, Hotch allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability. He wasn’t sure what the future would hold, especially when you woke up and all the anesthesia-induced softness would fade, but for now, he would cherish this quiet moment with you.

It wasn’t long before the door clicked open, and the soft but familiar voices of Rossi and Gideon filled the room. Their footsteps were quiet, as if they were approaching a crime scene instead of the sight before them: you, still fast asleep, leaning against Hotch’s shoulder, your hand loosely clasped in his.

“Everything okay?” Gideon asked, his voice calm but carrying the undercurrent of concern he never had to spell out.

Hotch glanced up, his expression carefully neutral, though the rapid beating of his heart betrayed the calm facade. “Yeah,” he said as he looked down at you, still peacefully asleep, your breathing soft and even. “She’s fine now.”

Rossi stepped closer, taking in the scene with an exaggerated grin. “Well, well,” he said, his tone playful as his eyes landed on you curled up against Hotch’s shoulder. “Look at this. Aaron Hotchner, human pillow extraordinaire. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Hotch shot him a look, but the hint of a smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “She drifted off like that,” he replied, aiming for professionalism but falling short as he glanced back down at you. The way your hand was still loosely intertwined with his wasn’t exactly helping his case.

Rossi raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “Drifted off? Sure. But you didn’t exactly move, did you? What’s next, Hotch? Tucking her in?”

“Rossi,” Hotch warned, his tone flat, though the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

“Oh, wait!” Rossi’s grin widened as he pointed to the book resting on Hotch’s lap. “You’re already reading her a bedtime story, aren’t you? Nietzsche, no less. Real romantic, Hotch.”

Hotch sighed, shaking his head as he adjusted slightly, careful not to disturb you. “Do you have a point, Dave?”

“My point,” Rossi said, smirking, “is that you’re not fooling anyone. Honestly, it’s kind of adorable.”

Hotch found he much preferred that adjective when it came from your lips - even if it was accompanied by you absolutely roasting him for his pronunciation.

If he had to be humiliated, at least it sounded charming when you did it.

Before Hotch could retort, Gideon cleared his throat, cutting through the humor with a look that immediately sobered the room. “Aaron,” he said quietly, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “You’ve been sitting there for hours. Are you alright?”

Hotch stiffened slightly, his composure faltering just enough for the other two men to notice. He shifted in his seat, adjusting the way your head rested on his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he said, but the faint waver in his voice betrayed him.

Gideon’s gaze didn’t falter, he stepped closer, his tone quiet but resolute. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering down to your sleeping form. “It feels like it was.”

Rossi sighed, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. “Hotch, you didn’t cause this. You got her here. That’s what matters.”

“Barely,” Hotch murmured, his voice strained. The image of you lying so still, so fragile, flashed through his mind again. He tightened his grip on your hand, as if anchoring himself to the present moment. “If I’d been faster-”

“If you’d been faster, what?” Gideon interrupted, his voice sharp but not unkind, cutting through the cloud of guilt that hung over Hotch like a weight. “Do you think you could’ve single-handedly stopped what happened? That you could control the universe?”

Hotch didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as the familiar ache of self-recrimination clawed at him. The words he wanted to say lodged painfully in his throat, and for a moment, the room seemed unbearably heavy.

Gideon sighed, the sharpness in his tone softening into something gentler, more understanding. “Aaron, I need you to hear me. The world is chaos. We do the best we can, but we can’t stop it all. What matters is what you do afterward. And you?” He gestured lightly toward you, still curled against Hotch’s side. “You didn’t give up on her. That’s what counts.”

Rossi chimed in, his voice lighter but no less firm. “And judging by the way she’s practically glued to you right now, I’d say she agrees. So when she wakes up, just let us know. We’ll be out here waiting for updates.”

Hotch managed a faint smile at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Rossi noticed, of course, and leaned in slightly, his grin turning into something more genuine. “You know, Aaron, if anyone deserves to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, it’s you. But maybe let her carry a little bit of it for you next time, yeah? I think she’d be more than willing.”

Hotch’s gaze flicked downward to you, still asleep, your hand resting lightly in his. He swallowed hard, unsure how to respond.

Gideon, sensing the moment, clapped a hand on Rossi’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said with a hint of amusement. “We’re hovering. He doesn’t need two old men breathing down his neck.”

Rossi gave a theatrical sigh, standing up straight and shooting Hotch one last pointed look. “Fine, fine. But for the record, you owe us details later. Especially if this turns into something interesting.”

Hotch rolled his eyes, though the faintest twitch of a smirk tugged at his lips. “Don’t you two have better things to do?”

“Paperwork,” Rossi replied with a wink, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Speaking of which…” He stepped closer, holding up two thick stacks of case files. “Yours and hers.”

Hotch blinked, looking at the towering pile in Rossi’s hands. “You brought paperwork now?”

“Of course,” Rossi said, his grin widening. “Why waste time? And before you even think about it, don’t go filling out her share too. I’ll know. Your handwriting’s painfully neat. Dead giveaway.”

Hotch opened his mouth to protest, but Rossi raised a hand to cut him off. “Listen, Aaron, I get it. You’re a perfectionist, and you care. But trust me, if you do double the job, she’s going to know you didn’t let her handle her own part. And that? Not a great move. She’d probably chew you out once she’s back on her feet.”

Gideon, leaning casually against the doorframe, nodded in agreement. “Dave’s right,” he said, his tone calm but pointed. “The last thing she’d want is to be treated like she’s fragile. Like a victim. You know as well as I do, she values her independence. Let her keep that.”

Hotch frowned slightly, glancing down at the files in Rossi’s hands. “I wasn’t planning on treating her like a victim.” he said quietly, though his voice carried the faintest thread of defensiveness.

“I know,” Rossi said, his tone softening just a fraction. “But you’ve got a tendency to overcompensate when you’re worried. It’s not a bad thing, Aaron, it just means you care. A lot. But let her be the one to decide how much help she needs. Alright?”

Hotch glanced between the two men, his expression softening slightly. He knew they were right, but it didn’t make it any easier to sit back and do nothing while you recovered. “I get it,” he said finally, his voice low. “But it’s hard not to want to help.”

“And you are helping,” Gideon said, his tone measured. “Just by being here, Aaron. She’ll appreciate that more than you realize.”

Rossi, never one to let a moment stay too heavy, clapped a hand on Hotch’s shoulder. “And if you’re feeling too helpful, you can always do my paperwork instead. That’ll keep your hands busy.”

Hotch let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Nice try, Rossi.”

Rossi grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Well, we’ll leave you to it, then. Just remember: no doubling up. You’ve got your own pile to deal with.”

Hotch nodded, his grip on the files tightening slightly as he glanced back at you, still peacefully asleep against his shoulder. The softness in your features, the even rhythm of your breathing - it was still a reminder of just how close he’d come to losing you.

The two men turned to leave, but Hotch’s voice stopped them just as they reached the door. “Jason?” he called, his tone quieter now.

Both men paused, glancing back at him. “Yes?” Gideon replied.

“Thank you,” Hotch said simply, his voice carrying a sincerity that didn’t need elaboration. He looked between them, his composure briefly slipping to reveal the depth of his gratitude. “To both of you.”

Gideon gave a small nod, his expression softening. “Anytime, Aaron.”

Rossi smiled, his hand already resting on the doorframe. “Well, come on, Jason,” he said, his tone light as he gestured for Gideon to follow. “Looks like it’s just the two of us now… and all that paperwork.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long, their unintended double meaning sinking in. Gideon raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “Dave,” he said slowly, “you might want to reconsider your phrasing.”

“What?” Rossi asked, genuinely confused for half a second before the implication hit him. A sly grin crept across his face. “Oh, don’t tell me. You think I’m sweet on-”

Gideon held up a hand, cutting him off with a knowing look. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Rossi, undeterred, chuckled as he threw an arm around Gideon’s shoulders, pulling him into a half-hug. “Come on, partner,” he said with exaggerated warmth. “Let’s tackle this paperwork together. You know, make it a night to remember.”

Gideon sighed, shaking his head but unable to keep the faintest smirk from tugging at his lips. “Always a charmer, Dave, I’m telling your wife.”

If only you had been awake as well…

As the door clicked shut behind them, the room fell quiet again. Hotch glanced down at the files in his lap, then at you, still curled against him. He sighed softly, shifting just enough to make sure you were comfortable without waking you.

“Not fragile,” he murmured under his breath, almost as if reminding himself.

His hand brushed lightly against yours, and for a moment, he let himself relax. When you woke, there would so much to talk about, but for now, he was happy to simply be here, knowing you were safe.

The soft rhythm of your breathing shifted, and Hotch noticed instantly. His attention snapped to you as your head stirred slightly against his shoulder. Your eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused at first, but the fog of anesthesia burned away with startling speed.

And then came the realization.

Your head was on his shoulder.

Your hand was intertwined with his.

The shock hit your face like a lightning bolt, and within seconds, you shot upright, yanking your hand away so fast it was a miracle you didn’t sprain something. You moved like his touch had electrocuted you, a mix of horror and mortification flashing across your features.

“Oh my God.” You sat up even straighter, as though sitting at attention would somehow erase the fact that your entire body had just been resting against his.

Your face flushed a brilliant, almost comical shade of red as you babbled, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you, I swear.” You flailed for the blanket, your hands tugging at it as though it were your last line of defense against the crushing humiliation.

Welcome back, Philosopher.

Hotch leaned back slightly, his lips twitching at the sheer drama unfolding in front of him. He hadn’t expected this level of theatrical self-reproach, but honestly, he couldn’t say he was surprised. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice far calmer than yours and laced with just the faintest hint of amusement. “You looked comfortable. How are you feeling?”

Comfortable?

You practically gawked at him, your expression hovering somewhere between mortified disbelief and outright horror.

Comfortable?

As if you hadn’t just violated every boundary you thought existed in your professional relationship. The nerve of him, to sit there, completely unfazed, while you were spiraling headfirst into the depths of social hell.

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, you let out a flustered groan and buried your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare,” you muttered, your voice muffled by your palms. “This is hell. Feels like I’m stuck in my own infernal loop.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, narrowing your eyes slightly in a half-hearted attempt at wit. “Waking up on your shoulder, really? I don’t think I was ready to see your face that close first thing when I woke up.”

Hotch’s lips twitched as he fought back a grin. “I believe it’s my duty to be the first face you ever see, given that I’m your emergency contact,” he replied with an exaggerated shrug. Then, with a teasing glint in his eye, he added, “Though, let’s be honest - I’m the one who should be shocked here. Why me and not Peter?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and attempting to brush off his question. “It’s easier for the bureaucracy,” you said breezily, though the flush in your cheeks betrayed you. “Definitely nothing sentimental, partner.”

Hotch’s smirk widened, the teasing gleam in his eyes sharpening. “Oh, you were definitely sentimental before, though,” he said, leaning back slightly. “I’ve got the receipts to prove it.”

You groaned, clearly trying to brush past his comment. “Please don’t tell me I started speaking in Slovenian under anesthesia again,” you said, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters.

Hotch’s smirk grew, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh no, even better,” he said smoothly. He tapped the book resting on his lap - Nietzsche for Stressed People - and your eyes immediately widened, horror mixing with bewilderment as you registered the title.

Exactly what he hoped for.

“You don’t remember?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. “And that wasn’t even the best part. You told me to read this to you. Begged me, actually.”

Your jaw dropped.

For a moment, you were too stunned to respond, your mind grappling with the sheer absurdity of his claim.

Where was all your philosophy now?

Where was your quick wit to rescue you from this intellectual assault?

Finally, you pointed an accusatory finger at the offending book. “This?” you said incredulously, your voice rising in disbelief. “This… oversimplified travesty? I’d sooner join a Nietzschean death cult than beg anyone - especially you - to read that garbage to me!”

Hotch chuckled, clearly reveling in your reaction. “Well, you did,” he said smoothly. “And not just once, you were very persistent.”

“Impossible!” you shot back, throwing your hands in the air as if appealing to some invisible jury. “Nietzsche already sounds like a cheap philosopher trying to sell used-car slogans. Why in the world would I beg for an even more watered-down version of his nonsense? And for stress relief?” You pointed at the title again, your disdain palpable.

Hotch leaned back in his chair, utterly unfazed, his grin widening with every word. “Your words, not mine,” he said with a shrug. “Though I’ll admit, that’s exactly the reaction I expected from you.”

His grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, clearly enjoying himself. “But you did say - and I quote - that my voice was perfect for reading Nietzsche. Something about my consonants having a perfect ‘roughness’”

Your face burned with indignation. “I did not!” you snapped, though the way your voice wavered slightly betrayed a seed of doubt.

“Oh, you absolutely did,” he countered, raising the book in mock triumph. “You were very detailed, in fact. Said the way I said ‘Nietzsche’ - wrong, by the way - sounded so elegant it gave the whole thing a ‘melodic’ quality.”

Your head tilted back in exasperation, and you let out a groan loud enough to echo off the walls. “You’re messing with me. There’s no way I’d stoop so low as to say anything remotely positive about him. Nietzsche,” you added with a flourish of disgust, “is a blowhard hack who built his entire philosophy on misogyny, elitism, and insufferable word salads. He’s the philosophical equivalent of someone saying, ‘Actually,’ at the start of every sentence.”

Hotch burst out laughing, clearly unable to hold it back anymore. “Now that’s the reaction I expected,” he said, his tone smug. “You’re exactly as predictable as I thought.”

Your glare shot to him, sharp enough to cut glass. “Excuse me? Predictable?”

“Absolutely,” he said with a calmness that only further fanned the flames of your indignation. “That’s why I bought this in the first place. I knew it’d drive you up the wall.”

Your jaw fell open again, and for a moment, words failed you - again.

Recovering quickly, you crossed your arms over your chest, your glare sharpening as it zeroed in on him. “Let me get this straight,” you said, your tone deadly serious. “You bought an oversimplified Nietzsche book specifically to irritate me?”

Hotch tilted his head, an expression of exaggerated innocence plastered across his face. “Well,” he said slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, “I’d say it’s working perfectly.”

“You-” You jabbed a finger in his direction, your cheeks still pink with equal parts embarrassment and fury. “You are a menace, Aaron Hotchner. A calculated menace.”

Hotch smirked, clearly unfazed by the accusation. If anything, he seemed proud of it. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he spoke in a low, teasing tone. “But you begged me to read it to you,” he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Which makes you my accomplice.”

You scoffed, practically sputtering as you pointed a defiant finger at the offending book. “I was drugged,” you shot back, your voice dripping with indignation. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I’d been even remotely sober, I’d have burned that thing before letting you read a single word of it.”

Hotch laughed, a deep, warm sound that only served to stoke the fire of your irritation. “Duly noted,” he said, lifting the book slightly before setting it aside with deliberate care. “But it’s staying on my desk. You know, just in case you find yourself needing a little Nietzsche to calm you down.”

Your eyes narrowed further, your arms crossing tightly over your chest. “If you think I’m letting this slide, you’ve got another thing coming. Prepare yourself for some German existentialism. I’ll quote Heidegger so much you’ll start questioning the meaning of every chair in your office.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Hotch replied smoothly, his smirk widening. “In fact, I might even get the audiobook version next time. I hear it’s narrated by someone with a particularly ‘buttery’ voice.”

You let out an exasperated groan, burying your face in your hands as if that would shield you from the relentless teasing. “This is a nightmare. I knew it was hell the second I woke up on your shoulder.”

“And yet,” Hotch said, his voice light and thoroughly amused, “here you are, still stuck with me. It must be fate.”

You dropped your hands just enough to shoot him a glare, though the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed you. “Fate is a lousy matchmaker, you’re lucky I don’t have the strength to leave right now.” you muttered.

Hotch chuckled again, leaning back in his chair with the kind of smug satisfaction that could make you want to throw the nearest Nietzsche book at him. “Then maybe Nietzsche was right,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

You grimaced, practically recoiling at the words. “Don’t you dare quote him at me,” you snapped, pointing an accusing finger in his direction. Your lips twitched, betraying the amusement you were desperately trying to suppress. “Nails on a chalkboard. Please, anything else.”

“Anything?” Hotch’s eyebrow arched, and the glint in his eyes made your stomach drop. He leaned forward slightly, his tone dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Oh, Y/N, when will you learn technicalities are important? So, should I start with the part where you told me I was ‘handsome’, multiple times?!”

Your gasp was so dramatic it could’ve earned you a standing ovation.

Your hand flew to your mouth as you stared at him in mock horror. “I’d never,” you declared with as much conviction as you could muster. But the way your voice wavered, tinged with panic, made your denial sound a little less convincing.

“Oh, I wish I were making it up,” Hotch said, his grin widening like a cat toying with its prey. “But no, you were full of compliments. Called me handsome. Adorable. Pretty. Charming. And…” He paused for effect, his voice dropping lower. “Said you loved lawyers. It was probably the anesthesia,” he said, laughing openly now, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “But whatever the reason, it was very… entertaining.”

You let out a long, exasperated groan, burying your face in your hands like it could shield you from his teasing. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?” you muttered, your voice muffled but still filled with resignation.

“Not a chance,” Hotch said, his tone entirely too cheerful for your liking. He leaned back in his chair, clearly reveling in your misery. “But don’t worry. I’ll be merciful, this time.”

You peeked out from behind your hands, your eyes narrowing into a glare that could cut steel. “Merciful?” you repeated skeptically. “Oh, forgive me, Your Honor, for I didn’t realize mocking me relentlessly counted as mercy.”

“It’s all about perspective,” Hotch replied smoothly, shrugging as if it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. “Besides, you’re a Nietzschean now. Surely you can handle the struggle.”

Your groan was so loud it could’ve registered on the Richter scale. “This,” you said, pointing at him with an overly dramatic flourish, “is exactly why nobody should ever trust a lawyer.”

“And yet,” he shot back without missing a beat, his grin unfaltering, “you declared your love for one. Repeatedly.”

You groaned again, dragging your hands down your face like they could somehow erase the memory of his words. The faintest twitch of a smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and of course, Hotch noticed. His smirk deepened, that maddening glint in his eyes growing sharper.

“Face it,” he said, leaning forward just enough for his voice to drop into that infuriatingly calm and self-assured tone. “You adore me, Nietzsche and all.”

“God help me,” you muttered, shaking your head in defeat. “This is actually worse than Nietzsche.”

“God is dead,” he replied smoothly, quoting Nietzsche again, his smirk growing impossibly smug.

Your eyes narrowed, and you leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees as you mimicked his tone. “You know,” you began, your voice dripping with faux seriousness, “with all this quoting and smug superiority, maybe you should just replace me as the official philosopher of the BAU. Who needs my PhD when we’ve got you, Nietzsche Jr.?”

Hotch let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not a chance, Philosopher,” he replied, his voice steady and full of amusement. “You’re irreplaceable. But I do appreciate the suggestion, it’s nice to know you recognize my potential.”

“Oh, I recognize something, alright,” you shot back, raising an eyebrow. “And it’s not potential. It’s your very lawyerly ability to twist anything into a win for yourself.”

He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as he grinned at you. “Call it a skill set,” he said smoothly. “You’re just mad because you’ve spent months trying to out-argue me, and here I am, quoting Nietzsche to your dismay.”

You buried your face in your hands with a groan, though a muffled laugh escaped you despite your best efforts. “Hell isn’t fire and brimstone. It’s you with Nietzsche.”

Hotch laughed softly, and for a moment, the teasing glint in his eyes softened, replaced with something warmer. “Not hell, Philosopher,” he said, his tone dipping into something quieter, gentler. “Just your partner keeping you grounded.”

You glared at him, but you couldn’t stop the reluctant laugh that slipped out. It was infuriating, it was exasperating, and it was absolutely, unmistakably Hotch. “Grounded, huh? More like dragging me into an existential crisis.”

“Exactly,” he said, his smirk returning. “That’s what partners are for.” He saw your eyes drifted to the side table, landing on the rather ominous pile of paperwork stacked neatly to the side.

“What is that?” you asked, your tone a perfect blend of suspicion and exasperation, though you already knew the answer.

Hotch followed your gaze, his smirk returning like clockwork. “Ah, that,” he said nonchalantly, gesturing toward the stack. “Your welcome-back gift from Rossi and Gideon. They wanted to make sure you didn’t feel left out.”

You let out an exaggerated groan and let your head fall back against the pillow. “Apparently, everyone just loves me,” you said, dripping with sarcasm. “What a touching display of affection. Truly heartwarming, nothing says ‘we’re glad you’re alive’ like a mountain of bureaucracy.”

Hotch chuckled, reaching for the stack and flipping open the top folder with mock seriousness. “Oh, look at this,” he said, his tone carrying a teasing edge. “An incident report… about you. How poetic. You should be flattered, not everyone gets their own paperwork pile.”

You glared at him, though it lacked any real venom. “Flattered? Please. If they loved me so much, they’d have done it for me.”

“Careful,” Hotch said, raising an eyebrow and holding the folder in front of him like a weapon. “Say another word, and I’ll fill out every single one of these on your behalf.”

Your eyes widened in mock horror. “Don’t you dare,” you shot back, pointing a warning finger at him. “I’d rather suffer through it myself than let you turn it into some twisted legal thesis.”

He shrugged, his smirk growing. “I don’t know… my reports do get glowing reviews from the higher-ups.”

You groaned again, dramatically draping your arm over your eyes. “Let me at least pretend to be a martyr for five minutes,” you said with a heavy sigh, your free hand resting over your heart. “Sacrificed at the altar of documentation.”

Hotch laughed, setting the folder back on the stack as he leaned back in his chair. “Noted. I’ll make sure to let everyone know how valiantly you suffered,” he teased. Then, softening slightly, he added, “But don’t be too proud to ask for help. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.”

The banter faded into a comfortable silence, the room settling into a peaceful lull. You glanced at him then, your eyes softening as you spoke. “Thanks for staying, Hotch,” you said quietly, the humor fading from your tone. “I mean it. I know you didn’t have to.”

His smirk softened, replaced by an expression of quiet sincerity. “It was the least I could do,” he replied, his voice steady but laced with something deeper.

You noticed the way his gaze dropped slightly, his dark eyes avoiding yours as he stared at his hands resting on his lap. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, tinged with raw emotion.

“You really scared me,” he admitted, the words landing heavier than you expected. “You… you were actually dead for a few moments.” He paused, his breath hitching slightly as he tried to steady himself. “I couldn’t bear the thought of all your endless research, all your questions, just… stopping. With all those answers left unspoken.”

Your chest tightened, your heart aching at the weight of his words. “Aaron…” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He shook his head, the faintest trace of a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s okay now,” he said quietly, his voice steady but betraying a thickness that hinted at unshed tears. “You’re here, and that’s what matters.”

Your throat tightened as you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly over the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t mean to-”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he interrupted gently, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours. There was something raw and unguarded in his gaze, damp but steady, holding a depth of emotion that left you momentarily breathless.

The silence between you lingered for a moment, heavy but never uncomfortable. Then, Hotch tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied you. “Just tell me,” he said, his voice quiet but deliberate, “did you get any answers?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. Slowly, you shook your head. “No,” you admitted, your tone calm despite the weight of the subject. “But that’s okay. It’s never about the answers.”

Hotch’s expression softened, his curiosity evident as he leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low, his focus entirely on you.

“It’s about the questions,” you explained, your voice slipping into that familiar, thoughtful tone he recognized so well, the one you used when you were diving headfirst into your work. “Philosophy doesn’t give you answers. In fact, it doesn’t even try.”

That sounded like hell to him, but maybe if you were there by his side he might even start to enjoy the process.

You paused, your gaze softening as you looked at him. “Philosophy makes you challenge the question itself, as if asking, ‘Why are you even asking this? Is this the right question to begin with?’ It’s not about solving the puzzle at all. It’s about the act of puzzling over it. That’s where the beauty is.”

Hotch sat back, his dark eyes searching yours, a quiet understanding dawning in his expression. He let out a soft breath, his lips curving into a small, reflective smile. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, though his tone was warm, almost teasing.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “It’s not, really. It’s liberating. Answers are… final. But questions? They keep you moving forward. They keep you alive.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting to meet yours again. “I think I get it,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know if I could handle that kind of uncertainty. I like knowing where things stand.”

“Which is why you’re a lawyer,” you replied, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Everything has to fit into neat little boxes for you, doesn’t it?”

Hotch smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching as he shook his head. “And you’re the philosopher, questioning if there’s even a box standing there in the first place.”

You both chuckled, the shared laughter easing some of the tension that had lingered between you. For a moment, it felt lighter, like the weight of the day was finally starting to lift.

But then Hotch’s expression softened, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. He hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to say what was on his mind. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter, tinged with a vulnerability that caught you off guard. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re my emergency contact too.”

You blinked, his words sinking in as you studied his face, the sincerity in his dark eyes leaving no room for doubt. “I am?” you asked softly, the playful edge in your voice replaced by something gentler.

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. For a long time now.”

Your chest tightened, emotions swirling inside you - gratitude, surprise, and something warmer, something that made your heart skip a beat. Did he feel the same way you did? “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch’s faint smile widened, and a teasing glint sparked in his eyes. “I didn’t think I needed to,” he replied, leaning back slightly as if savoring the moment. “You know, it was easier for the bureaucracy.”

Your jaw dropped, and you immediately narrowed your eyes at him, recognizing the echo of your own words thrown back at you. “Oh, very funny,” you shot back, though you couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Did you seriously just use my own line against me?”

He tilted his head slightly, his grin growing. “It felt appropriate,” he said, his tone light but carrying a warmth that made it impossible to stay annoyed. “After all, I figured it wasn’t anything sentimental, partner.”

You let out an exaggerated scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you fought to keep the smile from breaking through. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

“Only when they’re warranted,” he replied smoothly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “And in my defense, it was a good line.”

“You know, repurposing my own words isn’t clever, it’s derivative,” you shot back, though you couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You might think it’s witty, but all you’ve done is recycle my brilliance.”

His smirk grew, and he tilted his head as if considering your argument. “Recycling brilliance is still brilliance,” he countered, his tone as smooth as ever. “And technically, isn’t philosophy itself just building on the ideas of others? Derivative by nature, wouldn’t you say?”

Your mouth opened, ready to retort, but you paused, narrowing your eyes. “That’s different,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “Philosophy is about expanding thought, not reusing it to make bad jokes.”

“Bad jokes?” he repeated, feigning offense as his eyebrows lifted. “I thought it was an excellent joke. Besides, I was a prosecutor. I could hold you on this point for days.”

You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes at him as determination flared in your chest. “Hold me for days, huh? Well, let’s see if you can hold up under the weight of your own flawed logic,” you challenged, sitting up straighter. “Philosophy is about questioning assumptions, not recycling them. Your little quip? It’s not expansion, it’s plagiarism.”

Hotch’s smirk deepened, and he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Oh, I disagree,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm. “Philosophy thrives on reinterpretation. Every great thinker - Plato, Aristotle, Kant, even your best friend Hegel - they all built on the work of those who came before them. I’d say my adaptation of your words follows a long tradition of intellectual discourse.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how quickly he’d turned your own argument against you. “That’s a stretch,” you countered, though your voice lacked some of its earlier confidence. “Using my words to make fun of me isn’t ‘intellectual discourse.’ It’s… petty.”

“Petty?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Or pragmatic? You’re a formidable opponent, why wouldn’t I use the strongest tools at my disposal?”

Your jaw dropped slightly, and you scrambled for a counterpoint. “That’s - no. That’s not the same as reinterpreting philosophical ideas! You didn’t add anything meaningful to the conversation. You just-”

“Turned your own logic on itself?” he finished for you, his smirk widening. “Exactly. Which is precisely the point of Socratic questioning. To challenge and destabilize assumptions. Seems to me I’m following your philosophical playbook perfectly.”

Since when did he know about Socratic dialectics?

You let out a frustrated huff, leaning back against the bed as you glared at him. “You’re twisting the argument.”

“I’m clarifying it,” he corrected smoothly. “You said repurposing ideas isn’t clever. I countered by showing that reinterpretation is the foundation of philosophical thought. You might not like the application, but the principle holds.”

You groaned, throwing your hands up in frustration. “That is not the same thing! Philosophy expands understanding, it doesn’t... lower the bar for comedy.”

“Are you saying I lowered the bar?” he asked, feigning hurt. “Because I distinctly recall you smiling at my ‘derivative brilliance’ earlier.”

“That was pity,” you retorted quickly, though the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“Pity or not, it counts,” he said smoothly, sitting back with a satisfied look. “And for the record, your counterargument so far has been entirely ad hominem. If we were in court, you’d be losing.”

“Court isn’t real life, Hotchner,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “Out here, people care about substance, not legal technicalities.”

“Substance?” he echoed, his smirk widening. “You’re defending philosophy, an entire field built on debating the substance of things that may or may not exist. Meanwhile, I’ve just proven that my joke exists and has substance because it elicited a response from you. Case closed.”

Your mouth opened, a retort forming on your lips, but nothing came out. His argument was airtight, and you hated how much sense it made. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.

“And yet,” he replied, leaning back with a triumphant grin, “you keep debating me. What does that say?”

“That I’m persistent,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “Not that you’re right.”

Hotch chuckled, shaking his head with that maddeningly self-assured smile. “Persistent, sure. But right? Absolutely. Even you can’t argue with the strength of my logic.”

You groaned dramatically, throwing your hands in the air in mock surrender. “Fine, you win this round. But don’t get used to it.”

“I’m already used to it,” he replied with a smirk that practically radiated smugness. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep giving you chances to catch up. It’s the least I can do.”

You pointed at him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much, Hotchner.”

“Of course I am,” he shot back, leaning forward slightly. “It’s not every day I get to witness you admitting defeat.”

“Admitting defeat?” you scoffed, sitting up straighter. “Please. This is just a tactical retreat. You know, like when a general steps back to regroup before utterly annihilating the competition.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Is that so? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like a full surrender.”

“You’re unbelievable, Aaron,” you muttered, shaking your head, though the laugh bubbling up from your chest betrayed your irritation. “Unbelievably infuriating.”

“And yet,” he countered, his tone smooth, “you keep coming back for more. What does that say?”

“That I have the patience of a saint,” you replied without missing a beat, grinning despite yourself.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression softening just a fraction, though the teasing glint in his eyes remained. “Or that you secretly enjoy this just as much as I do,” he said, his voice dipping slightly. “Admit it, Y/N - it’s never dull with me around.”

You scoffed, leaning back and crossing your arms. “Fine, you’re entertaining in a ‘lawyerly’ kind of way. But don’t get a big head.”

“Oh, too late for that,” Hotch teased, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “But don’t worry, I’ll leave room for you to catch up in the next debate.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to keep me on my toes.”

He shrugged, his smirk softening into a warm smile. “What can I say? You make it fun, partner.”

---

taglist: @beata1108 ; @cuddleprofiler ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

AAAAAAA FUN FACT - 'Nietzsche for Stressed People' is a foreshadowing for 'Hegel For Dummies' in the next chapter

#aaron hotchner #hotch #hotch x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader

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bloody-cupcakes · 2 months ago

Note

can you do some joe goldberg whump headcanons?? maybe with love or an x reader

A/N: yeah of course! I chose to do x reader since that's what I write for my blogs haha

Tw: yandere/dark content, gender neutral reader, obsessive behavior, stalking, kidnapping, murder, slight gore/injuries mentioned (both on accident and intentional), drugging, emotional manipulation/gaslighting, blackmail, Stockholm syndrome implied at the end

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First of all, know that he never actually wants to hurt you. He doesn't enjoy seeing you in any kind of pain, or hearing your muffled cries through the gag as he punishes you for whatever it is that you've done wrong this time. He loves you, and he just wants what's best for you after all

He only stalks you out of a need to know where you are at all times, just so he can be sure that you're safe. What would he do if something happened and he wasn't there to protect you? He'd never be able to forgive himself for it, hence him memorizing your entire schedule off the top of his head

Anyone who he deems as toxic or unworthy of being in your life is instantly gotten rid of, though he does feel a bit of guilt when you inevitably find out and call him a monster for it. I mean, it's fair enough, but it still hurts to hear from you of all people

"Baby, baby, can't you see? I did this for you," he does his best to reassure you, but that only makes your panicking get even worse. To be fair, you did wake up in a glass box with an accidental cut on your head from where he slammed you into the wall in a state of blind rage upon him realizing you knew what he'd done, so he could understand your fear. He just wished you'd stop staring at him like he was some sort of a monster when all he wanted to do was keep you safe

He tries to give you some space in hopes that it'll help, but as your silent (and sometimes not-so-silent) resentment begins to grow he becomes more desperate and needy. Everything he does is for you, and this is how you treat him?

Of course he can't help but adore you regardless, which is why he hates having to pin you down and whack at your ankles and knees with the hammer he uses for his book restorations. "If you're going to act like a brat, I have to treat you like one," he mutters softly while you sob in his arms after, barely able to walk after the "punishment" you'd received from him

Something you're made well aware of early on is just how much he loves you (or claims to anyway) but you soon realize that's not enough and that you have to somehow find it in you to love him back. There is no other option if you want to make it out of this alive, but how could you ever love a murderer?

It takes a while, but eventually you behave well enough over time to be able to convince him to move you out of the cage and to his apartment as long as you promise to continue being good. You try to run away that same night, and back to the basement you go, along with a brand new welt on your head from where he had to knock you out in order to get you down there

You beg over and over to be let out, and he promises he will on the condition that you'll let him give you an IV drip full of something that'll keep you feeling complacent and numb (a drug he got courtesy of Paco, who stole it from his mom for Joe's own private use)

He doesn't like keeping you drugged up, but if you insist on trying to escape then there really is no other solution, now is there? Besides, he likes being able to hold you at night and much rather prefers to keep you in the comfortable environment of his place anyway

At first you flat out refuse, but finally you reluctantly agree to his conditions, unable to bear peeing in a bucket and sleeping on the floor any longer. It felt dehumanizing, like you were nothing more than a pet kept for his entertainment. At least his apartment had a real bed and a bathroom

The drugs he put you on made you feel light and free, and it was much easier for you to obey when you were dosed up with them. Things seem to be doing okay until he discovers you'd somehow switched the specially made liquid IV full of drugs with plain water, which resulted in you attempting to leave yet again. God, when will you learn that it's never going to work out for you?

This time when you wake up in the cage, you find yourself covered in blood and lying next to the dead body of your old best friend. Joe simply watches as you frantically try your best to resuscitate the already rotting corpse with several different versions of CPR to no avail

"What have you done?" You scream hysterically, your eyes wide and frightened as you look down at the carnage you found yourself in, your clothes stained crimson red in a manner that almost seemed to mock you

"Next time you pull another stunt like that, it'll be someone you truly care about who's in there with you," he states in a way that's almost cold despite the somewhat sad look in his eyes. He really didn't want it to have to come to this, but you forced his hand. "Now you're going to help me get rid of the body, or I'll have to punish you even worse than that, do you understand?"

It was then that you knew there would be no escape. He'd always find new ways to torture you, mentally and emotionally if nothing else, and each time you stepped out of line you'd only end up getting more injured from it. Not to mention he had an ample amount of planted evidence in order to frame you if he really wanted, so naturally the only thing you could do was agree

That night you found yourself back in his small apartment, wrapped up snugly in his arms as you laid in bed together. The drugs had you feeling much more calm just like usual, and you almost felt bad for everything you'd put him through. "I'm sorry," you slurred while glancing up at him, your eyes droopy from the stolen medication you were on

He just shook his head at your apology, leaning down to place a light kiss to the tip of your nose. "No, baby, don't apologize. It's okay now, I forgive you," he gently promised you, glad that you weren't trying to fight him and his affection anymore

"Mgrh... love you..." came your mumbled reply as you buried your face in his chest. You loved him. You really, truly did. He'd gotten you to see just how much he truly cared, and you loved him for it. A smile graced his lips as he tugged you in a little bit closer. It was then that he decided no matter what the cost, he was going to keep you forever, not that you seemed to mind. He was glad the two of you were finally on the same page for once

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queenie-ofthe-void · 5 months ago

Text

Steddie soulmate drabble (shared pain) || 3.9k words || rating: E || tags: homophobic slurs, period-typical homophobia, physical and emotional distress, panic attacks, Canon-divergent soulmate AU, Eddie Munson Whump, Steve Harrington Whump, one brief sex scene (so so brief) between Steve and the girl he brought to the basketball game in S4

Eddie experienced his first soul pain at twelve years old. Younger than most, but not worryingly so. The concern was the intensity of the pain. His momma held him tight, shushed him as he cried about how he feels all alone, doing her best to reassure him that loneliness wasn’t his and that she would never hit him. She held the frozen bag of peas to the blossom of red on his soft, round cheek and rocked him until he fell asleep in her arms.

The pains continued, giving him headaches on and off for years. He always wondered what his Half was going through for Eddie to have this much soul pain before puberty, but he grew used to it, stashing tiny vials of aspirin in his backpack or jacket pocket. The intensity was never as bad as the first time, eventually decreasing to a dull ache when they cropped up. His momma told him stories about people who could temper their pain to spare their other half, a difficult feat for even adult souls who’d spent years bound together. It was more likely the pain for his other half was dulling over time. He hoped it was true, but couldn’t push away the uneasiness he felt lying in bed each night and knowing the feeling wasn’t his.

Eddie was fourteen the first time he felt his own pain connect to his Half. Daddy called him a fag and locked him in his room for the weekend with nothing but the snacks and water bottle in his backpack. Unlike a sharp slap or the break of a bone, the pain of hunger was slow to build. Eddie still felt the tell-tale pop in the back of his mind as his stomach cramped. Unexpectedly, he also felt something almost akin to surprise riding the coattails of the pain. When the surprise faded into a distant comfort, he couldn’t object. Eddie knew this wasn’t normal, and decided from then on out to keep his soul pains a secret.

After his momma died, and his daddy grew drunk and violent, Eddie couldn’t stop his pain from connecting like he knew his Half could. Even after he’d moved in with Wayne, everything from the smallest shove to hushed slurs passed through the invisible bond, and even though pain connections can’t be controlled, most people only sent their most intense pains. It felt like he sent everything. Any little thing that set him off, the signature crack followed by soft comfort settled in his mind.

The only consolation was that he felt less and less of his Half’s pain. Eddie wished that’d meant his Half was happy, with no pain to speak of. Between the dullness of the sensations when he happened to notice, and the immediate comforting response he received at his own suffering, he doubted that was it.

At sixteen Eddie had started looking into what it meant to experience some sort of response after connections, but couldn’t find anything in the low budget collection of soulmate information at Hawkins’ Public Library. Most likely on the banned book list, he figures, since that’s something kids are supposed to learn at home.

Eddie couldn’t help wondering if the stories about Empaths were real. Rare, with absolutely nothing to do with pairings, it’s rumored Empaths experience the emotions of anyone physically close to them, but more importantly, are able to control the intensity of their own emotions and pain as how it’s experienced through their bond. Eddie’s couldn’t find anything about actually sending feelings through the bond as some kind of response. But like with his Daddy, he knows what happens after asking too many questions, so he keeps it to himself.

Eddie’s almost eighteen when there’s an intense, piercing crack behind his eyes. He’d been on his way back from the picnic table out behind school when the sudden pain had him curled up on the forest floor completely out of breath. It took him a few moments to get his bearings back, but he managed to walk to the van and get home.

Wayne made him soup that night, let him put whatever he wanted on TV as long as he held the bag of peas over his bruised eye. At least it was light in color, barely noticeable, and would most likely fade by morning. However it was only a few hours later when shot off like a bullet from the couch, falling to the carpet on his hands and knees. He could hear Wayne saying something to him, could feel the gentle circling of his uncle’s hand on his back. None of it mattered.

Eddie was filled with adrenaline. He’d never had a panic attack before, but his heart pounded as his breaths came in short spurts, the pungent fear squeezing his stomach. His hands vibrated and he clutched the carpet in a white knuckle grip to stave the phantom sensation. After what felt like hours, entirely wrung-out, Wayne let him have two shots of whiskey before climbing into bed.

It was quiet for another year. Unless, of course, he counted his own soul pains that crossed over, which he tried not to. Eddie’s emotions felt more in control of him than the other way around. Pressed into lockers, a scuffle at the picnic table with Hagan, being roughly kissed and then immediately knocked to the ground by Hargrove. It all connected. He tried to temper it, to be strong like his Half, but he always failed. Eddie was a coward, too scared to handle his pain alone. Like clockwork, the warm reassurance of love was quick to follow.

It was November 1984 the first time Eddie thought he was going to die. The panic set in, but unlike a year ago, it didn’t go away. He paced the living room, violently wiping tears from his face because even though the pain wasn’t his, the distress was so palpable he broke into cold sweats. Eddie did everything he could to think of to stave off the adrenaline– jumping jacks, whipping his hands around like a mad-man, screaming his voice hoarse.

Uncle Wayne suggested exercise, reminding him most athletes’ Half’s were people with an abnormal intensity of emotions and chronic pain, since it helps them process the constant stream of excess energy. So for the first time in Eddie Munson’s life, he went for a run.

They started out at a jog, but it wasn’t enough. It felt worse than curling into himself on the ground like a pillbug. The only relief he felt was at a dead sprint, able to focus on the burn of his underutilized muscles. They ran until the adrenaline trickled from his system, and as always, was followed with love and comfort.

Halfway through their third lap around the park, an intense dread hit Eddie so abruptly he fell to his knees and vomited. They’d just made it back inside when Eddie’s vision went white. He came to only a few moments later, as Wayne hauled him across the kitchen and dropped him onto his bed. He held his mouth closed tighter than a vise, keeping every sob and groan deep inside himself to stop it from exploding out of him. Worried he wouldn’t be able to stop sobbing once he started. Wayne watched in horror as purple bloomed across Eddie’s face in real time, like a dye spreading under the skin. He placed a cold, wet cloth over his nephew’s eyes.

Early into the morning, once the crying stopped, the migraine leveled out, he followed his uncle out onto the front porch to share a joint. The swelling in both eyes went away after two days, and he went back to school as usual.

He noticed Harrington looked pretty fucked up, definitely worse than Hargrove. A panicked, fleeting part of Eddie’s brain worried Hargrove could be his Half, but he knew better. There’s always at least some amount of chemistry and attraction between soulmates, and all he needed was the one, ill-fated kiss to remind him his Half was still out there. Kudos to The King’s Half, however. If The Hair himself wasn’t at the hospital, then his Half surely would be. With a face like that, he can only imagine the pain Harrington’s soulmate had to manage during that fight.

It’s the fourth of July, and it’d been almost eight months since the last time he experienced this level of pain. Not his own, of course. No it never seemed to be his own when he’s left gasping for air, nails clenched into Wayne’s hand in the back of an ambulance they can’t afford.

He felt the bruises explode across his face, on his sides, behind his eyes. A sharp stab of pain in his neck lit up every nerve in his body. The howl ripped from him was grotesque, animalistic. His back arched up from the bed, thrashing his limbs into the metal bars of the stretcher until the medics did their best to restrain him. A pinch on the back of his hand. The world started to slow until he was wrapped in heavy darkness.

Four days later there were still yellow, mottled stains on the sides of his ribcage and dark bags under his eyes. A routine of Tylenol during the day and painkillers from his own stash at night helped. Every night, Eddie layed in bed and silently cried. Their pain mixed now and the thought haunted him as much as it comforted. He only wished he could help his Half the same way they always soothed him.

The guilt of his failure to help ate away at him, so it connects. Of course Eddie couldn’t control his emotions enough to spare the person who’s actually hurting, injured with no pain meds to help them, if Eddie had to guess. To top it all off, the cherry on the shit cake was that there's still the warm comfort at the back of his mind. His Half was living in excruciating pain, yet used what little energy they had left to help him with his.

Eventually, Eddie had asked Wayne about different types of connections between Halfs. Not surprisingly he knew a bit more about it than the library, and didn’t hit him for it like his Daddy.

“Each Half is meant to balance out the whole. Most people live somewhere near the middle, mild pain and mild emotional distress.” Eddie nodded, rapt with attention as Wayne continued. “But there’s always gonna be people at the fringes, the extremes. Like how I told ya about athletes usually being paired to trauma survivors. Why d’ya think you’re always so damn depressed after your incidents?” When Eddie had mentioned the soothing presence, Wayne had replied, “yep, sounds like an Empath,” like it was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Wait,” Eddie interrupted, “so the only reason I’m so emotional is because my half is an Empath? Or is it because they get hurt all the time. And if I'm so emotional, does that mean they're athletic?” Questions flooded his mind before Wayne cut him off.

“Could be because you were so young for your first connection. Could be because the severity of their pain made you feel it more. Or, maybe you were born that way, made that way for each other– destiny and all that.”

The pain lessened. The comfort remained. And Eddie felt the whisper of love each morning he woke up and every night before he fell asleep.

~~~ ~~~

Hands underneath Brenda’s shirt, her tongue moving across his bottom lip, anticipation glistens across Steve’s open chest as he grinds down into her. She moans into the kiss and runs her finger tips over his shoulders, grazing her nails down his back. Goosebumps erupt over his skin. He’s panting into her open mouth when his thrusts turn erratic, desperate and rushed. Her legs wrap around him, she crosses her ankles to pull him in closer and a moan crawls from the depths of his chest. His abs clench, hurtling towards his climax when he’s interrupted by the signature pop of a soul pain behind his eyes.

A cold sweat travels down his spine, adrenaline punching him in the gut. Horror claws Steve’s throat, he can’t seem to catch his breath as he hurriedly pulls out of her and falls to the floor. She’s saying something he can’t make out through the screaming urge to leave, run, hide. With enough faculties to grab his clothes on the way out, he dashes into the night where the chilled March air cools his sweat soaked skin. Distress clouds his mind on the drive home, so he pushes comfort, pleading with them to relax, breathe. The pain fades, but only slightly.

The next day, Steve parks outside of a boat house. He doesn’t know Eddie Munson well, outside of the table top tirades and the glowing accolades from Dustin, Lucas, and Mike. They’ve never been friendly, even sometimes slightly antagonistic when Munson’s not satisfied with ranting about the government and decides he needs an actual face to point the finger at. No one better than The King, apparently.

Steve played the role of snotty royalty to appease his shitty friends, but Eddie’s rants were contagious and always left Steve buzzing and manic. Of course Steve had thought about it before. Let himself wonder if his Half was some nice, pretty suburban girl, or if his Half was actually a crazed super senior he had absolutely nothing in common with. It was easier to consider the residual energy just a side effect of being an Empath, and not because he could actually feel Eddie’s emotions in his own subconscious.

Robin told him about a Zine where she’d read it was possible for Empaths to absorb emotions from people in the same physical space as him, but they would have to be very close by and the emotions much stronger than normal. Which, in Steve’s mind, explained Munson to a tee. The guy always made sure to wander across the jock’s table, where his emotions were highest, typically with annoyance and disdain. Did Eddie’s eyes linger a bit longer on Steve than Tommy or the other athletes? Maybe. Maybe not. Steve did his best not to think about it too much.

Right now, with the tip of a broken bottle grazing his neck, he’s failing miserably at not thinking about it. Panic seeps out of every pore in his body. Adrenaline chokes him like it had the night before, but this time it’s from both himself and his Half. It’s too much. Steve can’t focus, can’t hear anything Dustin’s saying. There’s a sharp poke, then a trail of wet on his neck, and Eddie gasps. His grip loosened just enough for Steve to tilt his head away, readjusting his hold on Eddie’s sleeve, where his fingers accidentally brush against cold, pale skin.

The panic gives way to euphoria. Steve breaks out into a fit of giggles, and morphs into hysterical laughter. He sounds completely unhinged, now doubled-over and furiously wiping his misted eyes with his free hand. Because his other hand has clamped itself around Eddie’s small wrist. The fizzing sensation like tiny bubbles flows from where they’re joined. The tingles climb his arm, root into his chest, and sprout in the back of his mind.

Steve’s overcome with the hiccups. Robin’s rubbing small circles into his back and he works towards matching his breaths to her counts. It’s enough to pull his focus back to reality.

He is Steve Harrington. He’s in Reefer Rick’s boat house with Robin, Dustin, and Max. The Upside-Down is probably back. Something wet drips down his neck. The dock is rough beneath his knees, even through the denim. His back aches where it hit the wall. And Eddie Munson is his Half.

Eddie is crying. Steve registers the shock, the guilt, the despair at the back of his mind. Eddie’s guilt– iit’s always guilt. It dulls his own joy, but just a little.

Tentatively, Steve pushes comfort. To his delight, Eddie gasps again. His big, dark eyes lock onto his, and Steve can’t help but smile. He knows now isn’t the time to talk, that there’s so much more happening to Eddie than just finding his soulmate in a rundown boathouse on the edge of town. But they’ve come so far, been through so much that Steve decides they can spare a moment, just for them.

He cups the back of his hand behind Eddie’s neck before releasing his wrist, unwilling to lose contact, and guides his Half into his lap. The guilt spikes. Steve knows Eddie doesn’t want to be here, with him, on some level. But Eddie crawls between his legs, pushes his face into Steve’s neck and inhales. The crush of Steve’s grip calms him, and panic eventually subsides. It’s quiet. Steve looks to find Robin corralling the kids towards the door. She throws him a thumbs up as she closes it behind her.

He pushes to her too, and he feels her relax in return.

Eddie mumbles something, but it’s muffled into his neck. Steve leans back as he scruffs his Half’s hair, pulling him away just far enough to make eye contact. The poor boy still hasn’t stopped crying. Steve’s still pushing, pushing love into him.

“I’m sorry. Steve, I’m so sorry,” Eddie sobs. Steve watches as Eddie rubs his dripping nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket, the snot smearing with the drag instead of absorbing into it. Steve uses his own free arm to wipe Eddie’s nose for him which earns him a pinched expression and a small, awkward chuckle. “That was disgusting.”

Steve smiles. “I’ve seen worse.”

Eddie’s eyes dart away, and guilt spikes again. Steve gently swipes his thumb under his eyes to catch the stray tears. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in there.” He taps on the back of Eddie’s head.

“You– you’ve been through so much. Like, so much awful shit, Steve, and I don’t even know. I just–” Eddie pauses, scrubs his hands over his face until Steve pulls one away, slowly guides it toward the side of his own neck–skin to skin– places the tip of Eddie’s thumb in the cradle of his jaw. Momentarily entranced, Steve squeezes the back of Eddie’s neck again to regain his focus.

“You just, what, Eddie? You’re going to be ok, just tell me.” He pushes. Eddie shudders, the effect intensified with proximity.

“See! That, exactly that. You always comfort me when I need it. When my dad kicked me out, anytime Wayne and I argued, every time I got shoved into someone’s locker. You were always there, just wrapping me up in love. Which is such fucking shit.” Eddie’s cold huff of laughter is wet and self-deprecating and Steve hates it. Doesn’t have to feel it in the back of his skull to know Eddie’s full of misery. “All I could ever give you back was shit. Just anger, frustration, depression and fucking teenage angst. I tried so hard to hold it back, like I knew you could. I tried so fucking hard, Steve, to send you anything good, like you always did for me. And all you got was my bullshit.”

Steve’s own eyes water as Eddie dissolves back into a fit of sobs. He tucks his Half’s head back into his neck as he rocks them back and forth. Struggling with his own thoughts, Steve chooses each word slowly and carefully. “Eddie, I felt everything. Your happy moments might not have been as strong as your bad, but they were still there. Like how I know Hellfire plays Friday nights, and I always thought I felt great on Friday nights because I finally got a break from the kids. Or how my best games were always after you’d do your little cafeteria table speeches, because it filled me with so much energy I would practically vibrate. Every single day, I’d feel little pops of bubbles that could only be you. You were always the best part of my bad days, Eddie.”

He feels raw, laid bare and exhausted as Eddie looks up to stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “You knew? You knew it was me the whole time?” His voice croaks, and Steve makes a mental note to get him some water when they leave.

Smiling, he grazes Eddie’s sweat and snot and tear-soaked bangs off his forehead. “I had a hunch. I just–”

“Just what?” The swell of heat behind Steve’s eyes pinpoints Eddie’s anger, rejection, and more guilt. Always guilt. “You were just hoping you could go as long as possible without mentioning it. Hoping maybe you were wrong, and your soulmate wasn’t the satan-worshiping, drug dealing Freak of Hawkins?”

With one hand still woven into the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck, Steve uses his other hand to cover Eddie’s mouth, and he’s thrilled to discover his hands almost completely wrap around his head. He pushes hard again. Eddie squints, glaring at him over the ridge of Steve’s pinky finger, but Steve still feels him relax, so he counts it as a win.

“I didn’t want to drag you into my bullshit.” The pinprick sensation of curiosity heightens and he answers before Eddie can even ask. “You know exactly what bullshit. That’s why I’m the one who should be sorry. Fuck I can’t– I can’t imagine how all of that must’ve been for you. How painful it was, especially when you didn’t know what was happening, or why. You were forced to bear through all of my shit and just hope it would end.”

Eddie gently pried Steve’s hand from his mouth and eyed him warily before using Steve’s own sleeve to wipe at the boy’s tears. “Steve, what happened to you?”

Steve sniffles before he places a feather-light kiss to Eddie’s brow, reveling in a champagne pops of love and awe. “I’m sorry, baby, but probably the same thing that’s happening to you right now.”

A heavy silence settles between them. Steve feels a separate, more distant curl of anxiety in the back of his mind and knows they’re running out of time. Robin can only keep the kids distracted for so long. Steve pushes more comfort at her, receiving her expected impatience in return.

“Come on,” Steve says, rising to his feet and he reaches down to help Eddie up as well. “You can tell us what happened, and we’ll fill you in on the rest.” He takes Eddie’s hand as they walk towards the boathouse door. No use in forcing him to sleep here when Steve’s house is always empty.

“What about us?” Eddie’s voice is timid, but still hopeful.

(Continue for one-sentence hurt/no comfort)

Steve smiles, squeezing his Half’s hand before softly kissing his knuckles, cool metal rings grazing his chin. “After this is over, we’ll have all the time in the world.”

~~~

The pain is Eddie’s, sharp and piercing in places that bleed the most. It’s agony and it’s death, but he only feels a surge of love as he falls to darkness.

#not only can they feel each others' pain but they actually get each others injuries #couldn't help it with that last sentence and i'm not sorry about it #also i'm pretty proud that i kept it down to one sentence. i could've wrung that scene dry with how much angst I could suck out of it #i'm sick (again! wtf i feel like i was just sick)#steddie soulmate au #steddie fic #soulmate au #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fic #steve's an empath #queeniewritesstories

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saffusthings · 5 months ago

Text

You Know You're My Saving Grace

oscar piastri x personal assistant!reader

summary: the one where he comes when she calls. word count: 17.6k (i'm so sorry) warnings: descriptions and talks of abuse, trauma, disassociation, shock, other abuse aftermath, please don't read if any of this stuff is not the vibe, whump, poorly editing writing a/n: this is my first time doing something like this, so comments/feedback would be much appreciated! and let me if anyone wants a part two, bc i'm kinda getting the vibes for a multi-part fic lol

The sound of his ringtone feels louder and louder until finally, Oscar realizes it’s not just in his dream. Blearily, he blinks awake, before reaching across the bed to pick up his phone to check who the hell decided it was a good idea to call him in the middle of the night.

“…Hello?” he asks, voice heavy with sleep. Oscar is a man who knows the value of good sleep - he can’t imagine who’d be calling him at this hour.

He squints, vision bleary from his state of half-wakefulness. Huh? If the car had an issue or if he had a meeting, couldn’t she just wait until morning to brief him?

“Hello? A- Are you there?” she asks, voice hushed.

“Yeah, I’m here. What is it?” Oscar says with a yawn, now more awake, and propped up on his elbow in the bed. He reaches around, turning the bedside lamp on.

“I’m really sorry to disturb you but-”

Her hushed voice is interrupted by the sound of shouting in the background. When the booming voice finally stops, it’s punctuated with the sound of something shattering.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Oscar says quickly, his tone no longer groggy as his mind begins to put the pieces together.

“Are you alright? Where are you right now?” Oscar asks firmly.

“Shit- I’m sorry, but-” And something else shatters. Suddenly her voice becomes a lot more hushed and a lot more hurried.

“Are you safe right now?” He sits up fully in bed now. He gets out of the bed and heads over to the window, looking down at the sidewalk below to check to see if her car’s here by any chance. No such luck.

“Can you come pick me up? It’s kind of an emergency.”

“Okay, take deep breaths. In and out,” he says, trying to keep her as calm as possible. “Now, where are you?” He haphazardly shoves his head into the first shirt he finds, before slipping into his shoes and swiping up his keys. Once he has the address, he’s quick to run from his apartment to his parked car.

“I’m on my way, so don’t hang up on me, okay?”

“Y- Yes, yeah.”

“Good,” Oscar replies, making sure to keep his voice steady, acting as the levelheaded one. “I’ll keep you talking until I get there, okay?”

“I- I’m not sure I understand, Sir.”

“I need you to stay on the line for me so that I can hear you and keep you safe,” Oscar instructs her, peeling out of the parking lot and speeding through the empty streets.

“I- I’m okay,” she tries in a delayed attempt to reassure him. She’s his assistant, after all - she’s the one meant to be helping him. Though she’s only a year younger than him, she always strives to fulfill her role well, and tries to give her 110%.

Oscar lets out a sigh as he keeps driving. “…Just, stay with me, okay? I should be there in a few minutes.”

There’s some more yelling going on in the background, and it seems marginally closer now. Her throat feels so tight that she doesn’t even register her boss’s voice through the phone.

Oscar immediately calls out her name, his tone sounding a bit more sharp as he raises his voice a bit. He needs her to focus on his voice.

“Hey, talk to me, are you there?”

“Y- Yes.” Her voice shakes when she speaks.

“Now I need you to do something for me, can you do that?”

“I need you to get yourself into a room, any room, and lock the door, okay?” Oscar says, searching for her address amongst the row of houses lining the block. Different homes line the quiet suburban street, darkened windows and porch lights indicative of their sleeping residents.

“I’m in the corner of my bedroom,” she informs him. “I can’t lock the door or-”

“Okay, that’s fine. Now I want you to just stay there, don’t move and stay on the line, I’m almost there, okay?” he reassures. Why won’t this car go any fucking faster?

Finally, he slides into the parking right outside the house. He gets out of his car, and heads up the driveway and to the front door.

“Be careful-” she warns, and that’s all he hears before he hears a shout, and then the line goes dead.

“No, no, no, no,” Oscar mutters to himself, his heart rate increasing and his pace quickens as he runs up to the front door. He tries the door handle, before realizing it’s locked. Without thinking, he steps back, before ramming his body against the door in an attempt to force it open. It budges, but only slightly. It does however seem to attract attention, as the yelling emanating from inside seems to come to a halt.

Oscar steps back again, taking in a deep breath. Years of physical conditioning and resistance training means he’s strong enough to break the door down, but he’d probably wake the whole neighborhood up if he does. So, not efficient.

He quickly scans the windows on the first floor, before he spots a small window on the side of the house. Though it's hard to tell in the dark, its position raises his hopes that maybe luck will be on his side. Without wasting another second, he walks over to the window and tries to push it open. It slides open silently, and Oscar quickly pulls himself up and into the house.

He keeps his movements quiet and careful, eyes scanning the house that’s engulfed in darkness.

It’s then that he’s met with the realization that there’s not one, but two shouting voices - but none of them seem to be the familiar voice of his assistant.

Where the hell is she?

Oscar’s heart begins beating even louder. They don’t know he’s here, but he can still hear shouting from upstairs. Keeping his footsteps light, Oscar slowly heads up the stairs, stopping to listen for anything before proceeding further.

He hears the sound of something thump against the wall with force.

Oscar winces as he hears it again, feeling his adrenaline spike. Exhales leave his lips in the form of carefully controlled puffs as he forces his heartbeat under control. Worst-case scenarios flash in his mind, and then he’s quickly taking the stairs two steps at a time as he makes his way to the upstairs hallway.

Halfway up the stairs, she pauses to listen, he finally hears the sound of twin pairs of footsteps retreating. As he cautiously walks through the hallway, the shouting gradually gets louder as he begins to approach its source. He finally comes to a stop in front of a door, which has faint light spilling from underneath it. Risking being discovered by an unfamiliar face, he whispers, “Hey, you in there?” He reaches for the door handle and tries to push it open.

He sighs in relief as the door opens, as his eyes quickly adjust to the dark. Scanning the room, his gaze finally falls on her, still sitting in the corner. The shadows only reveal her silhouette, but he knows it’s her. Oscar quickly walks into the room, over to her, and crouches down to her level.

There’s a shattered lamp nearby, pieces scattered on the floor. She’s sitting in the corner, curled into herself, her head tucked in.

He sits down right in front of her, placing a hand on her knee. “Hey,” he says, his voice gentle and soft. “It’s me. I’m here now.”

She’s trembling when he approaches. Barely concealed cuts and bruises litter her body - deep purple blooms and angry white scratches peeking out from beneath sleeves and her collar and the rest of her exposed skin. He looks closer to see whether the mark around her wrist is really the print of a hand, but the sleeve of her shirt conceals the rest of it, leaving him uncertain.

His eyes roam over her now visible injuries. The sight alone is almost enough to make him forget where they are, but reality persists. He squeezes her knee gently.

Startled at the touch, she jerks her head up with wide, wild eyes.

He came.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, trying to get her to focus on him. “Look at me. I’m here now,” he says, his tone gentle. He carefully moves his hand to cradle her face, tilting it up as his eyes search hers.

“Hey.” Her voice comes out shakier than Oscar is used to.

The sight of her is jarring - the shivering woman crouched before him looks nothing like the coworker he saw mere hours ago. His eyes move over her face again, taking in every little detail, his eyes lingering on the cut near the corner of her lip for a millisecond longer than usual.

“Can you stand?” She nods rapidly, even as her legs shake.

“Alright, come on,” he says, now standing up and holding a hand out for her to take. As soon as her fingers touch his, he feels like all sorts of red alerts go off in his head - she’s cold.

He can easily pull her to her feet with just a light tug, as he helps her up from the corner she was huddling in. He keeps a gentle grip on her as he looks her over again. Now that she’s in a standing position, he notices how her shoulders slump forward, as if she’s instinctively doing whatever she can to make herself smaller. He can only assume it’s because she’s trying to make herself less visible, as if she’s scared of being seen. Or worse.

“Can you walk?” he asks again, gently.

Seeing her boss, seeing Oscar here - feels surreal.

He notices how she’s still refusing to look him in the eye, as if on instinct. Instead, her eyes are focused anywhere but on his face.

“Hey, eyes on me,” he says, lifting a hand to gently grip her chin and turn her face to his. Suddenly brought back to some semblance of focus, she quickly nods. It feels easier than words at the moment.

Now that her eyes are on him, he takes advantage, as he attempts to assess her state. Her eyes are wide, and he can see the slightest shaking in her hands.

“You’re freezing,” is the first thing he says, noticing how cold her skin feels against his palms.

“They’ll come back,” she rambles hurriedly. “They’ll come back and they’ll-“

He can hear the rising panic in her voice, as he tries to think of a way to calm her down.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers firmly, his hand moving to her arm, giving it a slight squeeze to get her to listen to him. “They’re not gonna come back. I’m here, okay?”

The sound of distantly approaching footsteps interrupts him, accompanied by hushed voices. Oscar’s eyes widen in alarm, as every part of him goes rigid. Those must be the people she was referring to earlier, and he’ll be damned if they come back here. His hands instinctively move to her back now, as he pushes her behind him. He shakes his head as he moves so that he’s blocking her completely from their view. His mind works quickly, as he tries to think of a way out of here.

“Be quiet,” he tells her, his voice hushed. “I’m gonna get us out of here, okay?”

She nods silently.

Oscar then starts going over all the potential exits in his head - the windows, stairway, the front door. He knows that the window is too small, and the front door would have them walking right into them.

That only left the stairs. Shit.

He turns around partially so that he’s facing her again, his eyes flickering over her quickly to check for any new injuries.

“You’re able to run?” he confirms, his voice hushed to keep it from being overheard. She nods rapidly in agreement, desperate to do anything to make the dream of getting out of here come true.

That’s good enough for him, as he gently grabs her wrist and pulls her behind him. Frankly, the man has no idea what he’ll do if she’s not able to keep up, but he sneaks over to the bedroom door, quietly opening it so that he can peek out.

She listens for a moment. “They’re downstairs. In the room right under this one.”

A small plan starts coming up in his mind, as his expression morphs into something more serious.

“Okay,” he starts, as he takes a glance back at the stairs. “When I say ‘go’, I want you to run down the stairs. Go, and don’t stop. I’ll be behind you, okay?”

When she shoots him a wary look, he’s quick to project that collected, self-assured image that he’s well known for.

“Just trust me.”

He can hear the footsteps in the room down below moving around, as the voices get slightly clearer, meaning they’re getting closer to the stairs.

She swallows hard. It does nothing to quiet the loud hammering of her heart in her chest. He sees the look in her eyes, and he can clearly tell how terrified she is. It’s up to him to gently push her in the direction of the door.

“It’ll be okay - trust me,” he says softly, hoping it's enough to reassure her for this moment as he readies himself at the bedroom door.

He can hear the voices more distinctly now, and his pulse spikes up anxiously. He’s got to do this right, otherwise they’ll never have another chance. For a moment, everything falls silent, and the only thing either of them can hear is their own heartbeats as it threatens to beat out of their very chests. They wait there, poised to leave, their breaths held.

“Okay, go,” he says firmly, as he practically throws her out of the bedroom door and into the hallway.

He’s out right behind her, running down the hallway. He can already hear the voices in the room below turning to confusion as they hear footsteps. It’s in that moment that he realizes that he’s still gripping her wrist, and he mentally berates himself that that’s the only thing he can do.

It feels like everything is moving in slow motion as they bolt down the rest of the stairs. She can feel her legs and her heart is hammering in her chest and she’s not sure she’s ever been so afraid in her life. But Oscar Piastri is here, and he acts like he knows what he’s doing, and so she does the scary thing and follows his lead.

Despite how hard they’re running, it still feels like they’re not moving fast enough, as he can hear the sound of the door down below swinging open. His grip on her wrist tightens as he practically yanks her to the front door, throwing it open with his free hand. Desperation fueling his every move, he pushes her out and follows right behind her, fighting every urge to look back.

He’s never been more thankful to see the sleek metal of his car as he practically pulls her over to it. Throwing the passenger door open, he gently shoves her into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind her. Instincts override all else as hops into the driver’s side of the car, starting his engine.

Everything’s in flashes - Oscar’s grip yanking her along, the hard pavement beneath her feet, the night wind whipping in her hair, the rapid thumping of her frenzied heart.

He can barely focus on anything besides getting the hell away from that house, as he pulls the car out, driving as carefully as he can without drawing attention to them. Now that they’re seated, she finally takes a few shaky breaths, trying to allow her brain a moment of reprieve so that it can catch up.

He glances over at her. In the artificial lighting of the car. There’s a beat of silence throughout the car, no noise other than the sound of the engine, until he speaks up,

“You okay?”

She nods dazedly. His eyes move back to the road as he grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his eyes not leaving the road. He takes another left turn.

“Yeah,” she breathes. Her voice still doesn’t sound like her usual self when she speaks, but Oscar is glad that she’s at least saying something.

Having a moment to breath turns out to be both a blessing and a curse as her thoughts begin to run haywire. God, why did she bring him into this whole mess? She had tried calling the McLaren front desk but no one answered, and so Oscar’s was really the only other option whose number she knew by heart.

He takes another glance at her, noting her fidgety hands, and his tone softens again as finally catches his breath.

“Can I see your hands?”

“M- My hands?” She looks up at him with wide eyes.

His eyes linger on her face for another second, taking in the wide-eyed, somewhat startled expression.

“Yeah, your hands,” he clarifies, his tone a bit more gentle. “Lemme see ‘em, yeah?”

She nods once in quick agreement, but is so out of it that she forgets to actually give him her hands. He reaches over, gently taking one of her hands in his much larger ones. He runs his thumb over her fingers and knuckles, taking a closer look at her hands now. They’re shaking violently in his grip, though that’s probably from the adrenaline and panic rushing through her body right now. His face falls the moment his eyes land on several of her knuckles. Some are badly bruised, and some more have small scrapes and cuts on them. He’s actually surprised that there’s no blood.

He gently runs his thumb over the scraped knuckles, his fingers slightly curling around her hand.

“Ouch,” she says, voice sounding more faraway than it should. “I think that hurts.”

“Yeah, I’d say it hurts,” he responds gently, still continuing to gently run his thumb over the scraped knuckles on her hands. It then that he spots a nasty bruise on the back of her hand, which is in stark contrast to the surrounding skin.

His eyes narrow when he sees the obvious shape of a handprint.

Coming to the same realization, she steals her hand away, tucking it back into its sleeve. Since when is the car so cold? He glances over at her, but her eyes are averted from him, looking out the window.

There’s an unsettling feeling in his chest when she tucks her hand into her sleeve, as if she’s trying to hide it, and he knows why.

She holds her hands tightly together, as if desperately trying to warm them. Or to stop them from shaking. It’s unclear which of those it is.

Perhaps it’s both.

Oscar lets out a quiet sigh of relief when they arrive at his street, but he’s still focused on her.

He takes one hand off the wheel.

“Hey - listen to me, alright? We’re here now, and it’s gonna be okay,” he says as he tries to park the car. “That’s all you need to focus on, okay?”

“My heart…” she trails off. “It’s beating really fast.”

Instead, he responds with a soft, “Yeah, I know. I know. You’ll be okay, though, alright?”

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, alright?” he says, his other hand still on her shoulder.

“We’re gonna get out of the car, and I’m gonna take you upstairs, and we’ll get you all settled, yeah? And we’ll get some ice and stuff on those hands of yours, and we’ll just take it easy, yeah?”

Directions help thought. The way he talks her through it… it gives her things to focus on, details to center her attention toward. She nods, looking up at him.

“Let’s go,” he offers gently.

She nods, allowing him to guide her. It feels a little bit like a lighthouse in a storm - your sole light, sole direction in the midst of the chaos and turmoil of everything else. She looks up dazedly at her lighthouse as he pulls her gently out of the car.

Her lighthouse happens to have kind brown eyes.

He manages to unlock the door and push it open, and he holds it open for her to enter in before him. “Don’t go anywhere yet, alright? We gotta get some ice and antiseptic on those hands of yours first.”

“It’s nice,” she comments softly, looking around. She's been here before, of course - bringing him files he forgot late at night, waking him up when he overslept for a meeting, delivering his trainer-approved meals for the week so he can stock up his fridge.

But never like this. She’s only ever been here as his personal assistant, not like… this.

Surveying the room, she notices things she hadn’t had the time to notice before. His apartment is more just plain simple then it is minimalist, but there’s still the odd touches here and there to make the place more personable. Throw blankets folded haphazardly on couches, potted plants stacked into a bookshelf by the window, a stereotypical wall of photos - there’s bits of Oscar’s touch scattered across the space. The air itself smells like dishwasher steam and some warm candle she can’t discern the name of.

He smiles, gently squeezing her wrist, tugging her to make her follow him to the bathroom. The light flicks on as they walk into the bathroom together, and he immediately steers her over to the small sink.

Shades of charcoal contrast with white porcelain, making up the picture of the bathroom. There’s a hand towel hanging embroidered with a little whale on it, and a ‘rustic’ looking soap dispenser that turns out to be plastic upon closer inspection. As she notices the cool overhead lights, she feels warm hands guide her to stand in front of the sink, before gently letting go of her wrist so he can reach over to pull out the first-aid kit that’s likely been sitting there since his mother snuck it into his things.

“Keep your hands up underneath the faucet,” he instructs, opening the box and quickly finding the antiseptic before turning his attention back to her. She audibly grimaces at the feeling of the freezing water seeping into her skin. The water pressure falls against her bruises and washes into the small cuts littered about her hands as well.

“Shit-” she winces.

He gently wraps a hand around her wrist again, tilting her hand from side to side to get the water flowing over all the scraped and cut parts of her hand.

She immediately goes to pull her hands away from the stream of water, but his grip around her wrist doesn’t let her pull back by much.

“It’s too much, please, s’too much-“

The movement that she makes to pull away has his grip on her hand tightening slightly to keep her still, not letting her jerk her hand away like her instincts want her to.

“Hey, hey, no,” he says, his tone still soft and gentle. “I know it hurts, but I gotta do this, alright?”

His hand continues to hold hers in place, the water continuing to run over her cuts and scrapes. She whimpers in pain, still fighting him to pull her hand away. The unwanted tightening of his grip also reminds her of the events of tonight - a person’s hold on her that won’t go away even when she tries.

Immediately, her body responds by trying to pull back even more.

His eyes widen when she suddenly jerks back to pull her wrist back hard, as if she’s trying to fight him away. Instinctively, his other hand goes to gently grip the underside of her forearm, in an attempt to get her to stay still.

“Hey - hey, we’ve gotta stay still, alright?”

“Let go of me,” she thrashes, trying to peel his hand off her. “Get your hands off me!”

Her struggle has his concerned expression growing more and more worried. He’s trying to calm her down, he really is, but the cuts need to be cleaned, so he has no choice but to tighten his grip on her.

“You need to stay still,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady as she continues to struggle. “I need to get your hands cleaned and antiseptic on them, alright? You’re making this more difficult-”

“Stop!” she practically shrieks, voice hoarse. She scrambles away from him, prying his fingers off her in her panic and backing against the wall of the bathroom like a frightened animal. “Don’t touch me!“

When she finally manages to jerk her hands out of his grasp and back up against the wall, he can practically feel a pit form in his stomach. He immediately holds his hands up, as if in surrender, but still takes a step towards her.

“Stop! Stop!” she cries. “P- Please, please don’t do this.”

Caught off guard, his eyes widen and he holds his hands up again, simultaneously taking small, careful steps towards her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells her, keeping his voice soft and gentle, but firm enough that it’d incline her to believe him.

She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, her lungs gasping in quick bursts of air. Her chest is heaving wildly as she struggles to just breathe and her eyes are wild as they dart around the room, refusing to focus on anything.

When Oscar looks at her - wild eyes, flushed skin, and frantic breathing - it’s difficult for him to not go over to her to hug her, to comfort her in some way, but he’s afraid of spooking her even further than she already is.

“Hey,” he says again, trying to get her attention again. “Hey, look at me, okay?”

He waits for her eyes to shift towards him, which takes longer than he’d like it to, but he can’t push her. Her panic is high and he has to take this carefully and gently.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Alright? I swear. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe, alright? You’re safe.”

Her eyes flicker towards him again, and he takes another step towards her, only for her to jerk away again and press more firmly against the wall. Her irises reflect an even greater degree of panic now, and the pit in his stomach deepens.

“Hey,” he says again, a bit more firm this time. “Hey, look at me. I need you to trust me, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

He takes another step towards her again, trying to keep his stature as non threatening as possible, while keeping his tone firm, but gentle.

He wants to reach out and pull her into a hug. He wants to wrap his arms around her and soothe her, and promise her that he’ll keep her safe. But she’s pressed so hard against the wall like she’s trying to fuse with it, that he doesn’t want to risk sending her into a panic attack by touching her.

“Alright,” he murmurs, as he takes another step closer, closing the distance further. “I’m gonna try something, alright?”

He waits for her to respond, but all she does is look at him, wide eyed. He takes that as permission enough to continue, and slowly reaches out, gently gripping her wrists.

She clenches her eyes shut, trying to fight her breathing into control. He tries not to use his full grip on her as he gently takes hold of her wrists, but the way she turns her head away, as if she’s bracing herself for something, as if she’s scared he’s going to hurt her, makes that tightness in his stomach worsen.

She nods, a tad slower this time. Her heart is still thudding against her rib cage, but warm, honey-brown eyes meet hers.

He takes a deep breath, the kind that’s meant to release some of that live wire feeling from his muscles, his thumbs still soothingly stroking the inside of her hands as he speaks. “I’m not going to hurt you, alright?” he says again, his tone quiet, but firm. “I need to get your hands cleaned. D’you trust me?”

A beat of silence.

“I’m gonna bring you to the sink, alright?” he asks quietly, continuing to state his actions aloud in advance. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I just need to clean your hands because there’s blood all over them. You trust me?”

After a moment of her eyes flitting across his face, she gives him an almost imperceptible nod. Despite the firm grip around her wrists, she focuses on remembering that this is Oscar.

Oscar Piastri.

The same Oscar that ran late to meetings because he kept stopping to pet street cats while they were in Jeddah.

That Oscar.

Careful not to let go of her or make any sudden movements, he slowly starts to tug her towards the row of sinks, taking baby steps so as to not startle her again.

He takes careful note of how she responds when he phrases it as a question - like she’s somewhat included in the decision-making process, that it’s not just being done to her. He can see that maybe some of the tension in her body has left her and she’s not as taut as she had been against the wall, but something in his gut tells him they’re far from being out of the woods yet, and he needs to proceed carefully.

“We’re here,” he says quietly, as they reach the sink. He turns on the water, making sure it’s warm, but not too hot, before he looks towards her again.

She’s still breathing pretty heavily, but her panicked eyes have cleared somewhat, as if she’s not quite as panicked as she was before.

“We gotta get your hands cleaned up, alright?” he says again, as he turns to look back at her. “Will you let me clean your hands?”

Slowly, her face turns towards him, her eyes still a bit out of focus. He swallows hard. “Hey,” he says, his tone gentle and quiet. “I’m gonna touch your hand now, alright?”

She moves her head in a single nod, and it’s all he needs, and he slowly eases one of her wrists from his grip. He gently, slowly, carefully turns one of her hands so that her palm is facing up, so he can start cleaning the blood off of it.

“W- Will…?” she tries to ask, but her voice comes out shaky and hoarse.

“Will it hurt?” he asks, finishing her question for her. At her slow nod, he gently shakes his head no, as he continues to hold her wrist with one hand, and starts softly wiping the blood away from her injured hand using a clean bit of tissue with the other.

“No, I’m being very careful,” he assures her, his tone soothing. “I’m very gentle, I won’t hurt you, yeah?”

She watches carefully as he works. He’s surprisingly careful and gentle, taking care to pay attention to each and every part. The lighting of the bathroom paints him as a portrait, his eyebrows scrunched, his lips pressed together in concentration. Smooth fingers delicately dance across the skin of her hands, wiping them with feather light touches.

He can feel her gaze on him as he works at gently wiping the blood off her hands, keeping his pace slow and steady. Each movement is careful and precise, and he does his best not to hurt her more than she probably already is as he cleans the blood and dirt off her skin. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to distract her, but every so often, his gaze sneaks up to glance at her face anyway.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into the late hours of the night, sat atop the surface of his bathroom sink. “For coming tonight.” Oscar had never even considered a universe where he didn’t. Of course he’d be there. “Of course, anytime," he tells her. “But you know you don’t have to thank me.”

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand, she doesn’t know that she’s so much more than just his assistant, and that he cares more about her than just as the person who brings him his coffee and files his paperwork.

He mutters under his breath, his hand holding her chin. “You’re not just my assistant, alright? You’re so much more than that, you’ve always been more than that to me.”

Her brows furrow, trying to understand. “I mean, I’d like to think we’ve become friendly over the past two years-“

Friendly. Friendly. It’s so much more than that.

“Friendly,” he laughs, practically mocking the word. “That’s not even close to what I mean, and I don’t think you’re stupid enough to not know that.”

“Unless you’re trying to call me stupid, I’m not sure I’m understanding what you’re saying.”

“You’re not stupid,” he sighs. “I’m trying to tell you that I care about you much more than just my assistant. How do you not get that?”

There’s a beat of silence where she tries to process the words, turning them over in her mind as she analyzes them. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, her tone polite. “That’s kind of you to say.”

Kind to say? Kind?

It feels dismissive, like she doesn’t quite believe him. But the truth is - he’s not being kind, he’s trying to tell her the goddamn truth, and she doesn’t believe him.

Her eyes scan his face, looking for any indication that he isn’t being truthful. She knows his tells by now - almost two years of paying attention to him when he lies to get out of an interview or when he fibs about how late he’ll be to the meeting. She knows these habits of his, his little quirks.

She knows him.

He nods, his eyes holding her gaze.

The fog of night settles around them like a haze, silent and ever present. Looking at his face, pale skin reflecting moonlight and irises dark with exhaustion, he appears like a dream. When he’s stood before her like this, after everything that unfolded tonight, time seems to transcend reality.

“Thank you,” she whispers, throwing her arms around him. She almost doesn’t care that her dislocated shoulder is screaming in pain - she adjusts it marginally to make it a bit more comfortable. She hugs him in gratitude, eyes closed so the tears of relief don’t slip out.

He freezes as soon as her arms go around him, stunned, but his body quickly catches up to his mind. His arms wrap around her immediately, like it’s an instinct. One of his hands slides gently up her back to rest against the back of her head, holding her to him. “You don’t have to thank me,” he manages to gasp out, his words choked, as he tightens his grip on her.

When she goes to pull away, it’s almost like he’s acting on autopilot, like his body is just moving on its own, without regard for reason. He gently grasps her arm again, his fingers wrapping lightly around her wrist, and he gently pulls her back towards him, his other hand resting gently but firmly against her hip.

Oh.

He has her against his chest again, her smaller frame held against his, and his brain registers just how good this feels, how right it feels - having her in his arms like this.

If she could just get her heart, that has randomly decided to beat out of her chest, to calm down, then maybe she’d be able to speak. She’s breathing fast, her heart beating a mile a minute against his chest.

Then, he does the stupidest thing in the whole world when she starts to speak, something he’s been silently wanting to do for months now. He bends down, ignoring her starting words, ignoring absolutely everything but the fact that he wants to do this, and finally closes the rest of the gap between them. His lips press against hers, silencing the rest of the words she’d been saying.

She’s stunned. Her brain is somehow working both too fast and not at all at the same time. What the fuck just happened?

She freezes in place, completely still.

He freezes as soon as he breaks the kiss, realizing in a flash that he just kissed her. His assistant.

He kissed her. He had kissed the woman who basically helped run his entire life for the last two years, the woman who probably had no idea how he feels about her, and still thinks they’re just boss and assistant. Perhaps not his best work.

His brain scrambles, trying to come up with some sort of an explanation, anything to justify what he just did.

Immediately, he’s desperate to hear her voice, to prove to him somehow that he hasn’t just ruined everything. He needs her to say something that will indicate that things won’t be horribly, terribly awkward between them after this.

She tries her hardest to come up with something to say – she really does. But she keeps coming up empty. So instead, she follows the next impulse her brain comes up with: she pulls him closer by the shirt and kisses him.

Oh. He sure as hell wasn’t expecting that.

For a single beat, he’s frozen, stunned, like his mind can’t really comprehend what’s happening. Then, all at once, his whole body reacts. He responds in record time, calloused hands cradling both sides of her face as he kisses her back. He kisses her with fervor, with a passion that he’d been holding back for months, ever since he realized that he had feelings for her. The kiss is desperate, as if he’s afraid he’s going to never be able to kiss her again, as if this is his one and only chance at having her like this, in his arms, against his body.

She pulls away out of her body’s need for oxygen. Stupid oxygen.

When she does pull away, she looks up at him, tentative, hesitant – she both needs to and is scared to see how he will react.

He groans as she pulls away from him, and his lips automatically try to follow hers as she moves, as if he’s unwilling to let her move away from him, as if he needs her to always be this close to him. When she finally does move away from him, his arms automatically loosen their grip around her, though his hands stay on her. He looks down at her, his breathing coming in short pants, and he can’t help the look of awe that appears on his face.

She ends up being the first to speak. “That was-“

His brain automatically tries to finish her sentence for her - he’s spent so long with her, working with her, that it’s almost second nature to him now, to try and finish her sentences when she can’t find the words.

“A mistake?” he supplies, his tone suddenly hesitant as he watches her. Part of him knows that it’s true, that this shouldn’t have happened, that he shouldn’t have kissed her.

Another part of him doesn’t give a damn.

“Oh.” Truthfully, that wasn’t what she was going to say. In fact, if it were up to her, there was a high likelihood that she would have said it was nice. Really nice.

She had never kissed anyone before, but if every kiss was just as spectacular for everyone as this one was for her, then she could certainly see the appeal. That certainly doesn’t seem to be the case for Oscar, however.

Subconsciously, she pulls back, away from him.

“No,” he says, his hands immediately moving to grab her again, to stop her from pulling away. He gently tightens his grip on her, wrapping his arms around her, and pulls her back against his body.

“It’s just that-“ he starts again, trying to find the right words, “You’re, well, you’re my assistant. You work for me.”

“Yeah,” she breathes half-heartedly. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

Oscar can hear the resignation in her voice, the disappointment. He hates that he put it there, but he can’t help the feeling of relief that washes through him as he realizes just how okay she is with the fact that he’s her boss.

“I’m just saying that it’s-“

His brain scrambles for the words again, his mind trying to think of some sort of excuse, some sort of reason why she, his assistant, is here in his arms, why he’s holding her against him.

“It’s alright,” she says, trying to steady her voice as she slinks out of his arms. “I understand, it was a mistake for you.“

“No, it wasn’t a mistake!” he protests, his tone sounding more insistent than he’d intended it to. He mentally smacks himself - he’s the one who started telling her that it was a mistake, why in hell is he sounding so mad now that she’s agreeing with him?

He reaches out, wrapping a large, strong hand around her wrist.

“I’m trying to explain myself and I’m doing a shit job at it, aren’t I?” he says, his voice half amused and half frustrated.

“Yeah,” she laughs lightly, breaking some of the awkward tension. “Yeah, you kinda are.”

Some of the tension between them does ease - her laughter is a good sign, he thinks. She’s relaxed enough to laugh with him, and so he can breathe a little easier.

“It’s just-“ he starts, trying to think of the best way to try and explain. He can’t say I’ve had feelings for you for months because he’s not sure she feels the same way.

She watches him fumble over his words for a minute, first trying this sentence then that. After a moment, some deity has mercy on him, and she decides to help him out a little.

Her hand, gentle, barely there - goes to rest on his shoulder. She’d squeeze his shoulder reassuringly if everything wasn’t broken or bruised right now. Instead, she settles for rubbing it gently up and down against his arm.

“Breathe. Tell me what’s going on in your head,” she offers gently, her kind eyes looking up at his.

She’s the only one who knows him like this, he thinks. The only person in the world who would know when and how to give him a moment to collect his thoughts, knows how he prefers green tea or energy drinks instead of coffee, knows what his tells are.

He looks at her and finds the same kind face that become an integral part of his life and function over the last two years. Sure, it looks a bit different, with the cut on her lip and the bruise peeking out of her hairline - but the face is the same one that’s been unbearably patient with him on hard days but also kept his ego in check on the good days.

God, the timing may be awful, but… it’s her.

Her hand, small and gentle, rests gently on his shoulder, rubbing it up and down to help soothe him and calm his mind, and it works.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he gathers his thoughts - he has to tell her something, something that’ll let her know that what just happened was more than just some sort of a “mistake”, that there was something behind it.

“Talk to me,” she prompts him quietly.

He takes another deep breath, opening his eyes to look down at her. Her hand is still on his shoulder and he lets the feel of it ground him. He hesitates for a beat - he isn’t sure how she’ll react to what he has to say - but he has to say something, and so he decides to just speak and not think.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he says, making sure to keep his tone firm, like what he’s saying is absolute fact.

“Okay,” she acknowledges, tone carefully neutral. There’s a pause there, a moment for him to think. A small, kind smile appears on her face, trying to reassure him. She can clearly see there’s something else he’s trying to say - he’s just having trouble finding the words.

“C’mon, you know the drill. Talk to me, even if it’s messy. And then…” she takes a deep breath, as if to steady herself. “And then we can figure it out from there.”

It’s what they always do - whenever he’s excited about an idea or rambling about a theory or trying to figure something out, this is what they do. She lets him ramble to her about it, no matter how disorganized or chaotic or downright crazy he feels he sounds. And then, they parse through the craziness together. It’s gotten to the point where people around the paddock joke that she’s the one who can understand what he’s saying when he’s like this - Lando will often drag Oscar over to her office before a meeting to have his ideas “translated from yapanese” for the team to understand.

He looks down at her, at that kind, familiar smile of hers, and he feels something in his chest relax and loosen. He knows how this works, how they work, and he lets himself fall into the familiar rhythm of it all, even if this is different than every other time they’ve discussed ideas or ranted about something - this is foreign territory, and that makes this all the more scary.

He takes another deep breath, looking down at her, and he just… speaks.

“That thing that just happened,” he starts, his voice still firm and insistent, even though his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. He looks down at her, and he makes sure that she’s not just hearing his words, but also listening to them.

“It wasn’t a mistake. It was…“

He hesitates again, struggling to find the best words to explain why he did what he did.

“It was…?” she tries to prompt. However, she’d be lying if she said her heart wasn’t also frozen in anticipation.

“…A confession.”

He says the word with such finality, as if now that the word has been spoken, it’s the absolute truth - as if it can’t be denied.

“A… confession?”

Her question makes him falter - he can’t quite read her tone, can’t figure out what that question means.

She can’t be that stupid, he thinks - she’s smart, one of the smartest people he knows - there’s no way she’d be that confused by the concept of someone confessing to someone else, so he can only assume that she’s asking him why he’s confessing.

Instead, what she does say comes completely out of left field for him.

“Look, it’s been a long night, and…” she trails off. It seems it’s her turn to search for the right words now. “And I get it. People do weird things when emotions or adrenaline is running high. I get it, I do.”

There’s a pause before she continues, finally settling on what it is she’s trying to say. “So I’d understand if that’s what this is. Was. Is. Whatever.”

His brain stalls when she speaks.

No, he thinks, no. That’s not what this is, this isn’t just some sort of “adrenaline rush”, this has been building up between them for at least a few months now, if not longer.

He stares at her, frozen as he tries to figure out what to say - how does he convince her that this is more than just a stupid thing caused by adrenaline?

“I- I’m giving you that out, I guess,” she finally says. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”

God, why the hell does it feel like her heart has suddenly forgotten how to do its job, beating irregularly instead?

She’s giving him an out - she’s saying that if he wants to just sweep this whole thing under some rug, she’ll believe him. She’ll believe him if he says it was just a moment of “weakness” or “high emotions”. That maybe that’s all it really was.

God above, that’s the last thing he wants - he’s spent the last month trying to keep his hands to himself, trying to keep his feelings in check…

“Hey,” she calls softly. Her voice sounds a lot less scared, a lot less uncertain than she feels. “I need you to talk to me, yeah?”

He looks down at her - her tone is still gentle and reassuring, telling him that she’s open to listen to him, that she wants to listen to what he has to say. It takes a lot for her to speak this clearly and calmly, especially given everything that’s happened, he imagines.

He reaches up and gently wraps his fingers around her wrist again - he needs to touch her, needs to feel her, needs to know that this is actually happening, that this isn’t some weird fever dream. She winces as his fingers wrap perfectly around the hand shaped bruise that’s already developing around her wrist. She tries to bite back the grimace before it slips out, but it’s still there. He instantly notices her wince, her grimace barely suppressed, and his hold loosens on her wrist almost instantly.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, his eyes scanning over the bruise that’s already forming around her wrist, anger flaring through him as he looks at the angry, dark mark. He gently prods at the bruise, testing to see just how bad it is.

“It- Shit- It’s okay, I should’ve been more careful.”

His jaw clenches when she winces again when he pushes against the bruise, and all he wants to do is go find her parents and beat the ever-loving crap out of them for having the audacity to put their hands on her like this.

He’s careful when his fingers brush over the bruise, his touch light as his fingers ghost over the injury.

“…You were saying something?”

Damn.

She’s so damn calm at the moment, and it’s making this all the more difficult for him. It would be easier if she was crying or yelling, because he knows how to handle those outbursts, but damn, she’s so put together right now.

His gaze softens as he looks down at her, his hand moving from her wrist to cup her face.

“You have to know,” he says softly, his voice steady, “that wasn’t a mistake.”

She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her eyes look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate.

He knows that he should probably take a step back, give her some space as he tries to find the right words to help her understand, but he just can’t make himself do it. He keeps his hand on her face, thumb gently stroking over her cheek.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he repeats again, his voice still soft and firm. “It wasn’t an adrenaline rush. It wasn’t a-“

He almost says he didn’t mean to do it, but the words feel like a lie. And he’s tired of lying.

“I- I’ve wanted to do it longer than I can remember,” he admits, his voice quiet. “And I don’t know if that makes me a horrible person or not, but that’s the truth.”

He watches her face, searching for a reaction, trying to figure out how she’s processing all of this. He hates the fact that she’s so stoic, so neutral - it’s not her. She’s expressive and animated and she’s always letting him know what she’s thinking.

She leans a little bit closer to him. Her eyes flit upwards, meeting his, before looking back down again, to where they’re both standing just inches apart from each other. They’re now standing so close to each other that she can feel his warm breath mingle with her own.

Then, she kisses him.

He’s frozen when he feels her breath ghost over his lips.

He’s not expecting her to kiss him, not after everything he’s just said. He’s expecting, if anything, for her to step back, to tell him to give her a minute to cool down. But, when her lips brush against his, it takes him a few seconds to register what’s happening. Once his brain does catch up, his reaction is immediate. His hand gently grabs her face, pulling her back in as he kisses her back.

The initial kiss this time is awkward, hesitant, clumsy. It has all the trademarks of someone who hasn’t really done this before. But it works nonetheless.

Her soft lips brush against his – once, twice. Right after is when she finally puts her poor heart out of its misery, and tilts her face ever so slightly so she can press her lips against his, her eyes falling closed.

The feeling of her lips against his is like electricity - he feels goosebumps erupt on his skin, and he lets out a low sound from the back of his throat as he responds to the kiss. He gently cups her face, tilting her face up more, wanting more - needing more contact, needing to feel her and taste her.

She can taste him. He tastes like saliva and jaffa cakes and that little bit of toothpaste from when he probably brushed before bed. It’s so uniquely him that she fears she could get high on it.

The sound she makes when he deepens the kiss a little, his tongue slipping into her mouth, is a muffled thing, almost a whine. His brain is struggling to process everything that’s happening - it almost feels like he’s drowning in her, slowly drowning in everything that’s her. When they finally pull apart for air, their gazes are immediately drawn to one another.

His hand lingers on her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip - he can’t help the way his eyes are glued to her face. He tries to sort through the thoughts in his head, but most of his brain is just completely shut down right now, trying to process the fact that she kissed him.

She was the one that kissed him - she initiated, she made the first move.

“That was…” she trails off, breathless. Something akin to molecules of light dance in chest thrumming in her veins and tickling her fingertips.

He nods slowly, his lips curving into a small smile before he lets out a soft huff. “I didn’t expect you to make the first move," he admits, his voice quiet. “I actually thought you’d be mad as hell.”

“I kissed you back before too,” she reminds him.

He lets out a soft huff of laughter, his smile widening.

His gaze is still focused on her face, and his thumb brushes over her jawline in a soft, soothing gesture.

“That you did,” he agrees softly. “Why?”

“Honestly?” she asks.

“Honestly,” he affirms, his smile still on his face, his gaze still on her. He gently grabs her chin to ensure that she’s looking at him as he waits for her response - and so he can look at her.

“Because when you kissed me I was caught off guard, and so I just froze like an idiot,” she rambles. She takes a deep breath, trying to be a bit more calm and collected. “Because it felt like the right thing to do. And honestly?” she pauses. “Because it felt really, really nice.”

The confession makes his smile widen into a grin.

“Oh did it now?” he asks, his voice quiet. His tone is teasing, almost sly as his hand moves from her chin to her neck, his hand wrapping gently around it.

“It felt nice?” he repeats, his thumb gently stroking over her pulse point.

She hums thoughtfully. “Enough that I did it again.”

“You did,” he says, his grin never leaving his face.

He takes a step closer, his hand on her neck gently pulling her closer, his body now pressed against hers. “I think you need more experience though,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. “You should probably… practice. Frequently, if possible.”

“Yeah? You think so?” Her smile is small and weak, but it’s there.

“Oh absolutely,” he agrees. He loves the fact that he’s the one who’s making her smile when a minute ago, she was trying so damn hard to stop crying.

“I think it’ll help you… perfect your technique,” he says, his voice quiet as he moves his hand from her neck to her hair, playing with the strands of hair. She shuts him with another kiss - this time, her lips lock firmly against his, her hands splayed out flat against his chest.

This one takes his breath away.

His response to the kiss is immediate, nearly automatic. His hand in her hair moves to her waist, pulling her closer as her hands make contact with his chest. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat - almost a moan - as she kisses him, as she’s pressed up against him.

“…How’s that for technique?”

His brain takes a few seconds to turn itself back on - he’s practically stupid after that kiss - but he eventually manages to put together a response. He lets out a soft laugh, his hand moving from her waist to her hip, holding her close against him.

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, his voice slightly rough. “That’s a good technique, yeah. But I think you might need a few more… practice rounds. To truly get a feel for it.”

“Oh? Sounds serious.”

“Very serious,” he says, his voice still hushed, his fingers now tracing soft lines up and down her hip. “It’s important to be well-practiced in this skill.”

His hand moves from her hip to wrap around her waist, grabbing her more intently, his hand spanning the entire width of her waist.

“And I don’t mind providing the… equipment you’ll need for more practice.”

“Hmm,” she hums, pretending to consider it. “I could be talked into that. Maybe over coffee…?”

His grip on her waist tightens - just briefly, just for a moment - at her words. His brain is struggling to put words together right now, and the idea of coffee with her doesn’t help. He’s trying to get his head to stop spinning, and the last thing he wants to do is say something stupid, but all he can think about is her - the feel of her, the taste of her lips.

“Yeah,” he manages, his voice still hushed. “Yeah, coffee. Coffee sounds nice.”

She gives him a small smile. It's faint, but at least it's there.

Standing close to him, she lets her bods lean in against him. Her head falls against his chest as the two stand there in his bathroom. Silence envelopes them, allowing her a moment to breathe. It's been a whirlwind of a night, with both highs and lows.

He lets her lean against him, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him, his other hand moving to gently cup the back of her head, his fingers gently stroking her hair.

He’s silent as well, his chin resting on her forehead as his hand strokes her hair. He’s not thinking, not really. He’s just existing, just… feeling the comfortable weight of her against him.

“Sit down on the counter, yeah?” he says, his voice still soft. “And take your shirt off, I need to see the damage.”

"No."

His hand that’s been gently stroking her hair stills at her response. “Why not?” he asks, his voice still soft and gentle. “I won’t hurt you, I just want to check you over.”

"I'm not taking my shirt off," her voice shakes. Oh, right.

He realizes the issue. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on her face. “But I’ll have to patch you up, and I can’t do that with your shirt on. Just your top half, yeah? I won’t look at anything else.”

"I..." her voice quivers, as she tries to think of a way out.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed or scared,” he says quietly. “It’s just me. There’s nothing I haven’t seen,” he assures her. “I just want to fix you up a bit. That’s it. I won’t look anywhere else.”

"It- It's not that..." she eventually stammers out.

“Then what is it?” he asks, his voice still soft and gentle. “You can tell me.”

"I, uhm, can't?" she says awkwardly so it almost sounds like a question.

“You… can’t?” he asks, a frown settling on his face as he tries to work out what she means. “What do you mean, ‘you can’t’?”

"My left shou-" she grimaces in anticipation of what she's about to tell him. Fuck this.

His frown deepens at her grimace - a sense of foreboding and worry sets in. “What’s wrong with your left shoulder?” he asks quietly, dread already building inside of him.

"My left shoulder," she tries again. "I can't, uh, move it much."

It's dislocated, she should tell him, but she can't seem to bring herself to say the words.

His heart nearly stops in his chest at her words. God, what have her parents done to her?

He tries to keep his voice calm and even when he responds, but it’s a struggle. “You can’t move your left shoulder at all?” he asks quietly.

"Just this-" she says, demonstrating by moving her arm about four, maybe five inches off her side. She winces when her shoulder screams in protest.

“Your shoulder is dislocated, yeah?” he asks, trying to keep the worry and dread out of his voice. “That’s why you can’t move it?”

"Yeah," she answers..

“How do you know it’s dislocated?” he asks quietly, his voice still steady.

“Not my first rodeo,” she says, an attempt at humor to break the tension. He desperately wants to ask who did it, what happened. He doesn’t want to press her for the details now, when she’s in enough pain as it is.

He’s silent for a moment, trying to figure out the best strategy to take her hoodie and shirt off.

“Alright,” he says eventually, his voice soft. “I’m going to take your hoodie off, yeah?”

Hesitantly, she nods.

He hesitates for a moment himself, worried that he’ll do more damage to her shoulder - but there’s no way around it.

He gently grabs the hem of her hoodie, and starts to carefully pull it over her head. A slight gasp escapes his throat as soon as her bare arms and collarbone are revealed.

“Ahh!” She bites her lip, trying to muffle the sound as white hot pain shoots up through her shoulder at being moved.

His hands release the hoodie and pull back the minute he hears her gasp, his jaw clenching to stop himself from swearing. His eyes roam over her collarbone and arm, taking in the deep bruises and angry red scratches.

She’s biting her lip so hard she’s worried it’ll split open again. Fuck, moving that shoulder hurts. She’s trying her best to contain it, but hot tears prick at her eyes.

Oscar’s gone concerningly still in front of her.

The moment the hoodie finally comes off and he’s left with the full view of her body, the breath gets stuck in his lungs. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t bruises and scratches and scars. God, the sight of it feels like a damn sucker punch to the chest.

He wants to say something, anything - but he’s so incredibly angry that words just don’t come. He’s paralyzed by anger for a moment, before he’s able to pull himself together - but the fury is still there. The sight of her bruised, cut and beaten body in front of him, her arms covered in scratches, her collarbone a mess of deep purple, and her lip split… it’s a rage he’s never really experienced in his life. He has to take a deep breath to keep himself composed.

Once it’s finally off, she lets go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Immediately, her gaze goes to Oscar’s face to note his reaction.

He does his best to keep his face neutral, although his expression still betrays a hint of anger and outrage. He doesn’t want her to know how much it all angers him - because, knowing her, she’d try to say it wasn’t as bad as it looks or that it’s not a big deal.

But to him it is. It’s the biggest deal in the world.

She sits before him now in just a bra and pants, and his eyes take the opportunity to scan over the upper half of her body. He takes note of each detail - the bruise beneath her hair line, her split lip, the one around her wrist.

Scanning lower he finds more. When he finally takes a look at her torso, he has to try and force himself not to visibly react.

It isn’t easy.

There’s a nasty bruise on one side of her collarbone, he briefly wonders how much force it actually takes to bruise a person’s collarbone. He sees the shoulder he’d reset for her - it looks sore still, but it seems to be doing marginally better.

But what his gaze lingers on is the parts he didn’t get to see before - the deep blue mark that blooms on the left side of her rib, the deep red scratches on her side and her forearm that were previously concealed by the hoodie.

He lets his eyes linger over each bruise or injury that he finds. Every single one of them makes him angry again - that somebody put their hands on her body, left their mark on her skin, hurt her.

She can feel her heart rate spike when he moves closer, but she does her best to stay perfectly still for him. Seeing the way she tenses up and her heart-rate increases, he knows that she’s scared.

This is why I hate your parents so much.

“Lean back on the counter,” he instructs, his voice still soft. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She pulls in a tight breath, like both inhaling and exhaling hurt too much with the pain shooting through her arm.

He’s completely focused on her - all he cares about right now is getting her shoulder back in the right place and getting her patched up. He watches as she struggles to breathe through the pain, and it hurts him. It hurts him that he can’t do anything to help her, that he can’t take the pain away.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says quietly, both for his benefit and hers. “Just lean back for me, yeah? Don’t worry about anything else. Just let me look.”

She leans back - gradually, as if it hurts her to move every centimeter. A shaky exhale finally escapes her once she’s leaned all the way back.

He takes a moment to survey her collarbone - it’s even more bruised up than he had originally thought. His eyes linger on one particular spot that looks an awful mix of pinks and deep purples, and he wants to rage until his vocal cords give out. But she needs him to be calm and logical right now, so he pushes down the anger as much as he can.

His eyes next move to her shoulder, and he grimaces slightly. The joint is visibly swollen, and it’s clearly out of place. A wave of nausea overtakes him as he thinks about how much pain she’ll be in when he moves it.

“I’m gonna have to move it into the right place,” he says quietly. “It’s going to hurt - but try and relax for me, yeah?”

Nodding, she takes a shaky breath. It’s then that she speaks up, voice strained.

“Could you… could you talk?”

He’s a little surprised by her request, but he understands why she wants it. Any sort of distraction will take her mind off the pain, so that’s exactly what he’ll do - he’ll talk. “Yeah,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on her face. “What d’you want me to talk about, exactly?”

“Anything,” she mumbles. “Just… Just talk.”

He hates that he’s about to cause her even more pain, but he knows there’s no way around it. The longer they wait, the more it’ll hurt in the end.

One of his hands reaches out and cups her cheek, gently stroking her bruised skin. “I’m going to count from one to three, yeah?” he tells her, his voice still quiet. “And on three, I’m going to move your shoulder back into place. Ready?”

She nods.

“Okay, here we go,” he says, his voice still soothing.

He places his other hand on her upper arm to get a good grip.

“One,” he begins slowly, his eyes fixed on her. “Two…”

He notices the way she’s tensed up against the counter, bracing herself for the pain. “Relax,” he instructs quietly, his thumb rubbing her cheek. “Just listen to my voice. Don’t think about anything else. One more counting till three, and then it’ll be done. Deep breath. Ready?”

Once he’s satisfied that he’s given her enough time to mentally prepare, and now it’s time to finally deal with her shoulder.

“Just listen to my voice,” he tells her again, his hand still gently stroking her cheek. “Okay, one… two-“

She nods. She’s just begun to inhale, when-

Without any further warning, the muscles in his arm tense as pushes her shoulder back into place.

“Shit!”

He’s never heard her scream like that before. His heart clenches in his chest at the pain she’s in, the way she’s screaming, the way he’s caused her even more pain.

“I know, I know it hurts but it’s done now,” he says quickly, keeping his voice soft. “It’s over, okay? You’re okay. Just breathe.”

She chokes out a dry sob, until it finally devolves into short whimpers of pain. He hates this so much. He hates the fact that her shoulder is in so much pain, that she’s sobbing, that he had to be the cause of it.

“You’re okay,” he repeats again, trying to reassure her. “It’s over now. I know it hurts, but it’ll get better. I promise.”

She falls limp against him from the exertion, as the whimpers meld more into soft murmurs, her breath hitching as her body adjusts to the relocation of the joint.

As her body slumps against his, he brings his other arm around her, gently guiding her into his chest. He holds her against him, hoping that the physical contact will reassure her.

“You’re okay,” he repeats again, speaking into her hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just breathe for me.”

She continues to whimper in pain, the soft whimpers being the only sound in the bathroom. Oscar feels as a few stray tears fall against the fabric of his shirt, wetting it.

His heart clenches in his chest at the feel of her tears. He can’t even begin to imagine how much pain she’s in.

“I know it hurts,” he repeats quietly, bringing one of his hands up to gently pet her hair. “I know it hurts, love. But it’s almost over, I promise. You’re doing so good. Just breathe for me, yeah?”

She gives him a weak nod. Feeling a bit more settled at that, she resumes leaning against him. Eyelids droop, heavy with exhaustion - it has been a long night.

He feels the way she’s gradually going limp in his arms. He understands that she’s been through enough tonight. “Let’s at least get you seated, yeah?” He suggests quietly. “You look tired. We need to get you taken care of and then you can rest, alright?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, nodding into his chest.

Her voice is soft when she speaks, like a cool balm. “I am sorry.”

He almost laughs at the absurdity of that statement.

“Don’t apologize,” he replies, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“For throwing this all on you, I mean. I… I should’ve thought twice before putting all this on you – I know it’s a lot. I didn’t mean to bring you into this mess when I called you tonight, and that’s on me,” she explains.

How is she even worried about him right now? How? He almost wants to laugh, she’s so ridiculous. “Don’t you dare apologize,” he mutters, gently tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Don’t- I- God, you have absolutely no reason to apologize, alright? So just... stop.”

“You’re upset,” she replies, observant. “Maybe I’d even say angry, if I didn’t know you any better.

He tries to find an argument against her claims - he tries hard. He tries to deny it, at least a little bit, to make himself seem better somehow. But he can’t, and she’s too observant to let him slip one past her anyway. “Maybe angry is a generous assessment,” he admits, his jaw clenching again.

Her eyes are drawn to his face, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I’m pissed,” he finally responds, his voice still somewhat restrained. “God, I’m pissed. I’m angry. At them - at your parents.” His eyes dart to hers to check her reaction, to see if he’s crossed a line.

“You have no idea how angry I am, actually,” he continues, his frustration rising more and more by the second. “I am… furious. They laid a fuckin’ hand on you.”

She listens to him while she reaches out to gently clasp his hand in her own, bringing it closer to her, guiding him to rest his palm in the space between her fractured collarbone and where her bra covers her chest. His hand is placed directly over where her beating heart lies.

“Do you feel that?” she asks softly, looking up at him.

He nods wordlessly, his anger and frustration momentarily subsiding to give way to the feeling of her heart beating. Her pulse is thumping against his palm, her heart racing beneath the skin of her chest, and all he can do is watch her intently.

“I’m here,” she whispers, brushing a loose lock of hair back from his forehead. “I’m alive, I’m okay.”

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the moment she touches him. His shoulders sag as he lets out a breath, his hand gently rubbing the skin where her heart beats as if it would help soothe his temper.

“You’re not okay,” he replies quietly. “You’re... the opposite of okay, Y/N. I don’t know why you’re trying to pretend like you are.”

“I’m alive,” she counters gently. He wants to argue - he wants to tell her that being alive doesn’t mean being okay. He wants to insist that she’s not okay, to try and convince her that she’s been hurt, that she-

But he knows that it’s a pointless exercise. She clearly refuses to admit there’s a problem. Instead, he shakes his head in frustration before gently shifting his hand to graze her injured ribs.

“You’ve made your point, Oscar,” she concedes quietly, wincing at the contact - a very real reminder of the damage done.

He knows he’s won the argument, but he doesn’t quite feel victorious.

“So why are you still pretending like you’re okay?” he asks, shifting to sit on the bed next to her.

“I felt bad for making you worry. I feel relatively okay, I mean.” She pauses for a moment, and her voice gets quieter.

“When I called you tonight…” The way she suddenly drops her voice has his jaw clenching again.

“What about it?” he asks, trying to keep his voice patient. It’s like he wants to hear what she has to say but is also dreading the answer at the same time.

“When I called you tonight…” she says, trying desperately to make sure her voice doesn’t shake. “It was because I thought I was going to die.”

There. It’s out in the open now.

“I called the front desk at MTC first, and then my friends, but it’s the middle of the night, so naturally, they didn’t pick up. Yours is the only other number I know off by heart.” She exhales, letting out a soft chuckle. “I guess I’ve had to call you so much for work that dialing your number was muscle memory.”

She takes a deep shaky breath, before continuing. “So yes, I know things are bad. God, you don’t think I know that? Of course I do. But right now I find it hard to throw myself a pity party when I’m so fucking grateful to be alive, to have gotten out, to be here.” With you. To be here with you, she was going to say.

“So, there it is,” she mumbles. It’s there, out in the open for him to hear and dissect and know. The confession is a lot to take in, especially coming from her. She’s always so collected, so composed, so good at keeping a cool head. He takes a moment to try and process everything she’s just told him, his mind struggling to grasp the reality of it all.

“You-” he begins, still struggling to find the right words. How do you tell someone that you’re glad they’re not dead?

He eventually settles for reaching forward and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her to him gently for a careful hug.

“I..“ he begins, stumbling over his own words as he struggles to get his mind to form a coherent sentence. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m so goddamn glad you’re here,” he finally manages to say, resting his forehead against hers.

Foreheads touching, his face so close to hers… the moment is quiet and intimate. It makes her glad she’s alive, that she didn’t die before she could experience this with him, that she’s here with him now. Her eyes are closed but a few tears of relief slip past anyways. The feeling of her tears against his skin nearly breaks him in half, and it’s everything he can do to reign in his own emotions right now. Just hold it together for her. That’s all he has to do - just hold it together long enough for her.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers as her tears wet his skin. “You’re safe now. I’m... I’m here, and you’re safe.”

“God, I was so scared, Oscar,” she cries quietly, shaking against him. Her words and her sobs send a sharp stab of pain through his heart, his arms clenching a little more, holding her a little tighter.

“I know, I know,” he mutters, his own voice shaking as he fights to maintain his composure. He can’t break down when he needs to be strong for her. “But it’s okay. You’re here, and you’re okay, and you’re safe.”

It takes a few minutes of reassurance before he feels like her crying is slowing. Her body is still shuddering in his arms though, and he lets her cling to him, letting her bury her face in his shoulder. His hand finds its way to the back of her head and he runs his fingers through her hair, trying to provide any comfort he can.

Finally, once she settles, her sniffles tapering off into what resembles normal breathing, Oscar tilts her head up to look at him. He notes the exhaustion in her face, in her body. It’s been a long night, for both of them.

“You need sleep,” he mutters quietly, his hand still tangled in her hair.

“Can’t,” she mumbles, giving him a small, lazy smile. “My really hot nurse won’t let me rest until he’s patched me up or something.” He rolls his eyes affectionately at her, unable to help a smile rise to his lips at her comment.

“Very funny,” he mutters, shifting his hand around to rub her jaw gently between his fingers. “Let’s get you cleaned up, smartass.”

“Least m’your smartass,” she mumbles under her breath, before carefully sitting herself upright again so that he can finally finish patching her up.

“You think I’d let anyone else call me a hot nurse?” he retorts, pushing himself up and standing in front of her. He takes a moment to study her body – all of her body – in front of him, trying to take stock of the damage.

“Would you?” she asks curiously, her head tilted drowsily.

His eyes take in the way she looks; disheveled, he concludes. Her hair is completely ruffled, the skin of her stomach littered with scratch marks and bruises, and god, those dark blue marks on her chest and collarbones - he has to push down the anger that threatens to rise to the surface again.

“No,” he replies after a moment, his eyes roaming over her body again. “Absolutely not.”

“Yeah?” she smiles softly, a glimmer of something sparkling in her eyes before she tilts her head back, closing them. He continues to work on her when he hears her mumbling.

“I think I like that.”

“Which part?” he asks, his voice soft as he wipes at a particularly bad-looking scratch. “Me not letting anyone else call me a hot nurse, or the fact that you’re the only one who does?” he teases a little as he continues to gently clean her.

She winces at the feeling of antiseptic against her cuts.

“Hmm, both,” she hums.

His heart leaps at her words, a little thrill of excitement rushing through his gut. He tries to hide the way his cheeks warm at that, busying his hands with cleaning a particularly ugly scratch on her collarbone. “And what if I also said you’re the only one I’d call my smartass?”

She audibly hisses at that one, her collarbone sensitive from the fracture. Trying to relax a bit, she focuses her mind back to his question. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement, gently pressing another piece of gauze against the cut.

“I’ll be your smartass if you’ll be my dumbass,” she offers.

He actually laughs at that, a bright sound in the dark room. “I’m a dumbass, huh?” he asks, looking up from his work to smirk at her.

“My dumbass,” she corrects, “if this deal of ours works out.”

A small, happy smile rises to his lips at her words.

“Your dumbass,” he echoes, his heart fluttering again.

Your dumbass.

He could probably get used to that. He continues to work over her skin gently, carefully cleaning each bruise and scratch. “You know I don’t like sharing, right?” he says after a minute, breaking the silence with a hint of possessiveness in his tone. His face is twisted in careful concentration as he works, only pausing to smile or laugh or react to her comments.

She likes his smile, she decides. And perhaps his hair, too.

“Good,” she replies. “Me neither.”

“Goodnight” he says quietly, before slowly taking a step back and switching off the lights. He heads towards the door, quietly switching off a bedside lamp on the way out.

“If you need anything, just let me know,” he says, pausing by the door to throw a glance over his shoulder.

“…Osc?” she squeaks out, voice small. At the sight of Oscar about to go, leaving her on her own in this dark and foreign room - even if it is Oscar’s - has her heart beating a little harder in her chest. After everything that happened tonight, being left like this has something resembling fear melting her chest like hot wax.

This room is dark and foreign to her - she doesn’t have the layout memorized, or the exits, or hell, even the light switches. Which means that if she were to be in danger again–

“Yeah?” he prompts gently, his voice quiet in the dark.

“Do you…” she hesitates, before finally deciding to just do it. “…Could you stay?”

He pauses for a moment, the request taking him a little by surprise. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice quiet. “Of course I can stay.”

The anticipatory tightness in her chest loosens a bit at that.

He walks around to the other side of the bed before slowly slipping under the covers next to her. He tries not to think about the feel of her body heat next to his, as he adjusts his position slightly to try and give her as much space as possible.

She lays there for an unknown amount of time, but sleep eludes her. For some unknown reason, despite having the longest night of her life and being exhausted beyond belief, her body feels as taught as a live wire.

Still, she tries to even her breathing as a sleeping person would, making an effort not to keep shifting around. There’s a high probability Oscar’s asleep, and she doesn’t want to disturb him.

Oscar is, in fact, not asleep.

He’s acutely aware of her body next to his, every little movement, twitch and twist of her body. She’s trying to stay as still as possible, and for a minute he wants to point out that she doesn’t have to, that she can make herself comfortable - but then she lets out a small sigh of frustration, and he decides to say something instead. “Can’t sleep?” he dares to whisper, breaking the silence.

She freezes at the sound of his voice. Shit.

“Yeah,” she admits, voice small. “You?”

He gives a small shake of his head, keeping his voice low like .

“Nah,” he says, his voice a little groggy, “I’m awake.”

For a long moment, silence falls between them again. He can literally feel how tense she is.

After a long moment passes, she asks, “Why?”

That actually gets a small snort out of him. “Could ask you the same question,” he retorts quietly, shifting slightly in the bed. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Unh unh,” she tuts in denial. “I asked first.”

He chuckles quietly at her response. “Can’t shut my brain off,” he finally relents, keeping his voice quiet as he tries to answer her question. The comfort of night embracing them like a favorite blanket has a way of loosening people’s tongues. “Too much thinking going on up there right now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before he speaks again, his voice soft and gentle. “Can I ask you something?”

She hums drowsily, granting him permission.

He hesitates for a moment, trying to find the right words to phrase his question. “Why did you ask me to stay?” he finally asks, not sure whether he’ll get an honest answer from her or not.

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“I won’t think it’s stupid,” he reassures her quietly, shifting in the bed next to hers. “Just… tell me, alright? Please?”

She’s grateful she’s still turned away from him at this point.

“It just…” she trails off awkwardly, unsure how to explain. “I dunno. Just thinking about being here, on my own, after everything that happened at home…”

She shrugs. “Even thinking about it made me feel… kinda like antsy? I don’t know how to explain.” She huffs in frustration, trying and failing to find words that sound more coherent than whatever the hell this response has been so far.

“You… you make that go quiet.” She mumbles quietly. And then, even quieter: “You feel like… like safe, I guess.”

Oh.

He’s honestly a little stunned, at both her admission and her choice of words.

You make that go quiet.

You feel like safe.

After silence takes the place of any audible response from him, she painstakingly makes the effort to turn over so that she can face him in the dark.

“Is that… weird?” she asks nervously.

“No,” he rushes to reassure her, his voice quiet and a little strangled with emotion. “No, it’s not - I just…”

He trails off for a moment, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I just wasn’t expecting that to be your answer,” he admits hoarsely.

“Oh,” she replies dumbly.

He’s glad he’s lying in the dark right now.

She’s turned over to face him, and the thought that she’s laying a mere few inches away from him, with a bruised and battered body and telling him that he’s her comfort, is both the most amazing thing he’s ever heard and also so painful his chest physically aches.

He clenches a fist around the sheets.

“You want to know what I’m thinking?” he finally asks, taking the opportunity to shift the conversation away from her question.

“Always.”

“That if I ever met your parents,” he finally admits, his voice pained and his breath hot against her neck, “I’d probably break their goddamn jaws.”

She winces at his words. She turns away from him.

He immediately grimaces at her reaction, sitting up slightly in the bed as he sees her turn away from him. “No, don’t turn away,” he says quickly, his hand reaching out reflexively to grasp at her nearest arm.

He gives her arm a little shake. “Hey. Look at me,” he instructs, his voice low.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she replies coldly.

He falters for a moment, taken aback by the coldness in her voice. “And why’s that?” he questions, still reeling from her immediate retreat.

“Because I am tired,” she deadpans.

There’s a long moment of stunned silence as he processes her response, and then she hears his bed creaking faintly before his voice rings out in the dark.

“Come here,” he orders quietly.

“Why should I?”

“Because I said so,” he replies, his voice still quiet.

He shifts on the bed, moving closer to her. “Come here,” he says again, a hint of gentle firmness in his voice. Disguising it as stretching, she moves marginally closer to him. The second she shifts closer to him, he takes action, moving until he’s directly behind her. He scoots closer to her, his body curled protectively around hers, and wraps an arm around her torso.

“There,” he murmurs. “That’s better, right?”

She lets out a small huff. Just because being in his arms is surprisingly warm and comfortable and soothing doesn’t mean she’ll just forget what he said about her parents.

“It’s… fine,” she lies through her teeth. He needs to know that the matter isn’t resolved that easily.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it is,” he replies sarcastically, not falling for her half hearted attempt at indifference.

“I know -” he lets out a quiet huff, his arm tightening around her before he even speaks. “- sorry for saying that. I didn’t mean to…”

“I- “

For once, he’s at a loss for words, his thoughts swirling around in his head.

He did mean the words. They were true for a reason, after all.

“Don’t -” he finally tells her. “- Don’t you dare feel sorry for them, you hear me? Just- just don’t, alright?” He shifts, moving his face away from her neck to speak. “You don’t need to feel guilty at all for the way they’ve treated you, and for the shit they’ve put you through,” he says fiercely.

She sighs exasperatedly, letting her eyes fall short for a moment.

He knows she’s not as receptive as he’d hoped, but he can’t stop himself from spitting out the next few words like a curse. “I don’t care that they’re ‘family’, or that they’re your parents - because they’re abusing you. They’re hurting you in the name of ‘tough love’ or whatever shitty reason parents think they have for treating their kid like that,” he all but growls out in the dark.

After a beat of silence, she asks quietly, “…Would you ever like to hear me say that about your own parents?”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Once, twice, and maybe even three times, until finally, he manages to force out a response. “…That’s not the same,” he tries, and immediately wishes he had just kept his mouth shut. He sighs, swallowing hard before mumbling out a confession - “It’s just…“

He presses his face into her neck again, his breath coming in heavy, uneven puffs as he struggles to keep himself together. “They’re supposed to protect you, goddammit,” he grits out against her skin.

“Yeah,” she agrees softly.

“They’re supposed to care about you,” he all but mumbles into her skin, his fingers tracing circles mindlessly against her stomach as the angry words spill out.

“Okay.”

“It’s not ‘okay’,” he grits out.

He tightens his arm around her, shifting slightly until he’s got a thigh over her legs as if he’s holding her in place.

“You’re not the one who’s wrong here,” he adds, frustrated with the fact that she’s the one who’s bruised but he’s the one who’s getting choked up.

“Let it out,” she encourages softly, gently stroking her thumb across his cheekbone.

Goddamn it. Something about the way she says it, like she’d be willing to share the burden of the sky if that’s what he needs - it gets to him. He’s trying to be the strong one here, the one who’s supposed to be protecting her - not the one on the verge of a goddamn breakdown. But she’s just too damn sweet.

He lets out a quiet huff and buries his face in her neck again. “Okay,” she agrees. “Whatever you need.”

“Stop with the agreement thing,” he mumbles into her skin, his voice frustrated even though it’s lacking the edge from before and more filled with emotion.

He swallows hard, his hand tightening momentarily on her stomach. He’s angry at himself for so many reasons.

He’s angry that she got hurt and he can’t take away her pain. He’s angry that he’s got a goddamn lump in his throat right now because he can’t handle seeing her hurt. He’s angry that he’s the one getting emotional when she’s the one who’s supposed to be falling apart.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she coos softly, using her hand to gently guide his face out of the crook of her neck so she can actually look at him. “What is it? What’s going on in that head of yours, hmm?”

Those eyes are really going to be the death of him. He swallows hard, shifting slightly so he’s facing her a little better.

“I’m not supposed to be the one falling apart right now,” he admits, his voice coming out quiet - so quiet that he almost hopes she misses it. “It’s not… it’s not going how its supposed to go.”

“Oh?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, his fingers tapping uselessly against her stomach.

“It’s not going how it’s supposed to - you’re supposed to be the one falling apart, and I’m supposed to be the one picking up the pieces,” he mumbles out, his voice still quiet.

“But now I’m the one on the verge of losing it, and you’re being annoyingly sweet and supportive and nice and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

“Okay,” she tells him, her voice all level and sure and reassuring. “Okay, that’s okay.”

He takes a shaky breath, and it’s taking everything in his power to not bury his face back into the crook of her neck because the feel of her skin against his might actually help.

“No-“ he shakes his head, his voice quiet again. “It’s not. It’s not okay. You’re supposed to be the one falling apart right now, but I’ve got… I’ve got this damn knot in my throat and I can’t tell if it’s anger or guilt or something else-“

“Breathe, Oscar. You gotta breathe for me, okay?” she says, gently rubbing her palm up and down his sternum in what she hopes is a soothing motion.

She doesn’t know that the gentle touch against his skin is a little too much right now, the feel of her palm across his bare skin and her voice in his ear and just the sight of her looking at him with that kind look in her eyes is making his head spin.

But he does as she says - tries to steady his breathing, letting it out in slow, even puffs as her palm moves up and down his chest. “There we go,” she says, giving him a drowsy smile. “Just like that, yeah? You’re doing so well f’me.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, clenching his jaw for a moment because of the way her words make something in him flutter. “That’s not helping,” he grits out, his voice coming out a little rough as he takes another slow, shaky breath.

“Alright,” she says, her hand stopping its movements. “Okay, I’ll back off.”

“No, no-“ He shakes his head quickly, his fingers grabbing her wrist to bring her hand back down against his chest.

“Just- Keep going,” he says, his voice coming out gruff and quiet. “Don’t- don’t stop that, just-“

He swallows hard, closing his eyes for a moment. She can probably tell he’s still a little shaky, but she listens to him as her palm tentatively starts moving over his chest again, and she lets out a soft exhale. He closes his eyes when he feels her hand on his chest, a slow exhale of breath leaving his lips involuntarily as her palm glides across his skin.

He lets go of her wrist and moves closer, his head dropping against her shoulder, and mumbling into her skin. “M’sorry. I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “This is dumb. I’m freaking out over nothing.”

“Is that what you would tell me if the roles were reversed?”

“No,” he responds, almost immediately.

He would tell her that she had every right to feel what she felt, and he would pull her close and tell her that she should let him help carry the burden, and he would do anything to keep that sweet, broken look off her face.

“Then I need you to believe me when I say – I get it. I understand why you’re freaking out – anyone in your position would. You can’t be calm and collected 100% of the time, and no one expects you to. No one.”

Her hand traces broad strokes around his body - across his chest, over his shoulder, up to his cheekbone. She finds herself playing with the locks of hair that keep flopping onto his forehead.

He tries to steady his breathing as her hand continues to glide gently over his body, the touch of her fingers against his skin and the feel of her body so close to his is making his head spin all over again. He feels himself shiver as her fingers brush over his cheek and through his hair, leaning into the touch. “How are you always so goddamn patient with me,” he grumbles, lifting his head slightly to look at her.

She shrugs.

In the sacredness of whatever this bubble is that exists here and now, the words slip past her lips before she can even think of stopping them.

“It’s like breathing.”

She’s really going to be the death of him one day. The fact that she doesn’t even need to think about it just makes him want to pull her close even more and press messy, thankful kisses against her skin. He swallows back the urge instead, trying to regain some of his composure. He lifts his head, taking her in as she continues to gently trace her fingertips over his face.

“You’re thinking something,” she notes, fighting back a yawn.

Her words drag his attention back up to her face, and he can’t help a small, lopsided smile at the fact that she’s tired right now because of how well she knows him.

“Is it that obvious?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe not to other people. But to me it is.” She gives him a small smile. “My whole life revolves around knowing you.”

He’s almost certain that he stops breathing for a moment, because her words are like a punch to the chest for multiple different reasons. Of course he knows how much of her work life centers around him, but it's the way she says it.

It means that she knows him better than anyone.

And, when paired with the fact that she’s half-naked - in his clothes, no less - and just inches away from him right now it just makes it even harder to control that flutter in his chest.

She brings him back to the present. “But I need you to talk to me,” she says, tentatively trying out the pet name again after he’d said no earlier. “Need you to tell me what you’re thinking so we can figure this out, yeah?

He pauses for a moment, then speaks, his voice low and coming out a little grumbly.

“If I tell you, you’re not going to like it.”

“Maybe. But keeping it in will only make it worse, won’t it?” she smiles sadly.

She waits for him to continue, her fingers slowly tracing the skin of his jaw. She can basically see the thoughts rushing through his head. He leans into the touch a little more than he means to, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to get the words out.

“It’s just…” he repeats, his voice coming out gruff as he swallows again. “It was so hard to stay calm, alright? I was trying so fuckin’ hard to stay calm, but Christ, you just…”

He takes a shaky breath. Before he can continue, she speaks.

“You did so well. You kept your cool, you were exactly what I needed when I called you to come get me tonight.”

“Oscar, you need to get it out of your system. I know you’re angry. Your allowed to be, as long as…” she pauses, taking a steadying breath. “Just… talk to me.”

He glances at her again, gauging how she’s reacting before he continues. He takes a shaky breath, swallowing hard.

“It’s just…” he repeats, his voice coming out barely a whisper now. “When I saw you… and all the… the marks, and the cuts, and the… the scratches-“

He breaks off abruptly, trying to regain control of his breathing. His fingers start tapping restlessly against her stomach again, trying to soothe himself.

“It just made me so… angry. And the fact that they left these goddamn marks on you- goddammit, you don’t understand how hard I had to resist just punching a wall right then and there.”

She nods in understanding, tucking herself a bit closer to him by leaning her forehead against his chest.

He lets out a shaky breath as she leans against his chest, his arms instantly wrapping around her, pulling her close - his grip isn’t hard enough to hurt her, but it’s tight enough that he has her completely pressed against his body. One hand comes up, reaching up to grab gently at her hair, guiding her even closer to him.

“I’m sorry I put you through that,” she mumbles, voice weary, against the fabric of his shirt.

He makes an instant noise of protest at the apology, shaking his head.

“No,” he says, almost sternly. “No, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, alright? None of it is your fault. ”

The emotions that have been curling in his gut like a hot coil fuel the stem of his words. “They’re idiots,” he continues, the word spoken fiercely. “They have no idea how goddamn lucky they are to have you as a daughter, and even less of an idea about what they’ve just done to you.”

His hand in her hair continues to brush through it, almost on autopilot, trying to soothe her and him. Oscar is surprised when instead of staying silent or outright refuting what he’s said, he finds her mumbling against his chest.

“I guess so.”

He glances down at her when he hears her speak up, a little surprised to actually hear that she agrees with him. He pauses, then continues combing through her hair - she hasn’t complained yet, so he doesn’t stop.

“You guess so?” he says, gently pushing her. “You guess so? You’re so goddamn good, you have any idea how many people would kill for someone like you?”

“It's not that big a deal,” she murmurs.

“It is,” he shoots back immediately, a fierce bite to his tone. “It is a big deal. Don’t- don’t do that, alright? Don’t try to brush it off and pretend like you’re not the best thing that’s ever happened to me - to anyone.”

“I’m your assistant,” she says with a small smile, as she tries to stifle a yawn. With each blink she sees less and less of Oscar’s silhouette in the dark of the room, her eyelids heavy with sleep as she’s trying her best to stay awake to listen to what he has to say.

Oscar’s jaw clenches at the sound of her holding back a yawn - she’s probably exhausted and in some kind of pain, and that’s not even considering the emotional trauma she’s just been through tonight - and yet here she is, still trying to stay awake.

He glances down, noticing her eyes keep drifting closed, and he lets out a huff. “You’re much more than my assistant,” he mutters. “More than I deserve.”

He looks down to see what she has to say in response.

Only to find her fast asleep, passed out from exhaustion.

The warm cocoon of Oscar’s arm, the steady lull of his heartbeat, and the rhythmic feeling of his fingers running through her hair was enough to help her loosen up enough to finally fall asleep, it seems.

He looks down at her with a little smile - even asleep, she still looks like a goddamn angel.

He’s not expecting to sleep any time soon, he’s had enough caffeine on top of the adrenaline still pumping for him to be completely wired. So instead he just holds her - her face pressed in between his chest and shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, his eyes focused on the ceiling.

Part 2

a/n: if you stayed this far, thank you so much! i'd love to hear what you thought of it :) and credit to @saradika-graphics for the lovely dividers!!

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #formula 1 fic #saffu's works #this took me so long #i think ive read this too much #oscar my beloved #they're in love your honour #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri fluff #hurt/comfort #hurt/aftermath #tw: domestic violence #tw: abuse #tw: panic attack

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