ladylibby

[ladylibby]

Would That I'd Loved

Masterlist

Summary: You were a lady's maid in love with the prince of Rohan. He was a mortal in love with an elf princess of Rivendell. You were each destined for heartbreak, and when it came, you found each other. Bonded in heartbreak over your lost lovers, you and Aragorn forge a friendship which will change each of your lives forever, seeing you through the end of war, and into a time of peace. When the time comes for you to return to your homeland of Rohan, you must discover whether a heart as devoted as his can ever truly love again.

(A/N: I rise from the dead as Aragorn from the river!! I rewatched all three LOTR films after New Years when they were re-rereleased at my local theater, and became possessed with the idea of this story. I really enjoyed writing it, and imagining how good life might be if men were as kind and honorable as Aragorn of Gondor...sigh. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!)

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, sexual content (oral sex, unprotected sex)

You took little notice of the future king of Gondor when first you met him. During his first days at the Golden Hall of Rohan, you were hardly aware of yourself, let alone the presence of a ranger, elf, dwarf, or wizard. Rather, you were consumed with grief, as you sat by the cold, pale body of your prince, your love, your Théodred. 

Dead, gone, taken from this earth, taken from you. You wept enough tears for a lifetime, feeling yourself become hollowed out and haunted by the time the King – now freed from his spell – rushed in to find his son dead. He fell to his knees, grasping at the hand you did not already hold, and wept, as you had. When he looked up, you expected to be bellowed at, thrown out, or otherwise scorned, but for the first time you seemed to understand one another. You had both lost the one you most loved. 

Still, you were not allowed a place in the funeral procession. You insisted on dressing Lady Éowyn for the ritual, despite her protests that you should rest. Your hands moved as if on their own, your body operating on memory as your thoughts lay elsewhere. You did not want a place in the ceremony, the rights of the wife were never yours, why should you adopt the traditions of a widow? You preferred to stand among the crowd of commoners – for that’s what you were – cloaked in black, feeling outside yourself. 

Lady Éowyn’s song brought you back, into your mind and body. As the tomb shut, so did the part of yourself which whispered you could not go on. You could, and you would, for the sake of your lady, your land, and yourself. But you knew, locked away underground, your heart would forever lie, never to be uncovered again. 

When the King’s order came, for the evacuation to Helm’s Deep, you felt relief. With every step you took away from his grave, you grew more yourself– or the self that you would henceforward be. 

It was during the pilgrimage that you first truly noted the ranger. You could not help but notice him, considering Lady Éowyn’s blatant fascination. When she was not trailing him like a curious child, she was observing him from afar, and when she was not observing him, she was whispering to you what she had learned about him. 

Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Dúnedain ranger, blessed with a long life. Heir to the throne of Gondor. Raised by elves. Gave his heart to one, an elvish princess, who loved him in return but not enough to keep from taking the journey with her people, leaving him and Middle Earth behind forever. You could see, without her reporting, that he was heartbroken, handsome, and kind. A dangerous combination for your lady to admire, she who had yet to experience the excruciating wonder of love. 

You first spoke to him out of pity. Lady Éowyn had brought him another of her attempts at cooking– a fired flatbread turned nearly into charcoal. Distracted by a question from one of the many children who idolized her, she turned from him before he was forced to eat the bread under her gaze. 

“Here,” you spoke softly, coming to his aid, “Give that to me.” 

Bewildered, he allowed you to take the charred mess, and accepted the golden-brown piece of your own bread that you offered instead. 

“Eat it, quickly, or she will notice the difference,” you whispered, dropping the burnt one to the ground and crushing it under your heel where it would undoubtedly blend in with the ground.

He watched you with surprise and what seemed like a hint of amusement, but quickly shoved the food into his mouth as Lady Éowyn turned.

“Oh!” She smiled to find you there. “My lord Aragorn, allow me to introduce my attendant, and oldest friend.” 

You curtseyed and bowed your head as she relayed your name to him, biting back a smile as he struggled to finish swallowing the bread. His cheeks had a faint blush and his voice was slightly hoarse as he finally repeated your name with a respectful bow. 

You wondered what he had been told about you. Though you pretended not to hear, you were well aware of the gossiping whispers– the manish maid, the prince’s whore, the Lady’s pet. You wondered if the King had warned him away from you. Lady Éowyn was again pulled away by the children, this time dragged further towards some interesting insect on the hillside. 

“Thank you,” his eyes were as soft and kind as his voice when he turned to you. “For the rescue and the bread.”

“I am at your service, my lord.” You should have left it there, as formality required, but you added: “I tell her she will only get better if she practices, but that is advice she only takes when it comes to wielding a blade.” 

He looked at you again with that look of surprise and amusement. “And do you wield a blade as well?” 

“I should hope you never have to find out, my lord.” You replied with a smile, and then remembering your place, “Excuse me, I should return to my lady.” 

“Of course.” 

You did not speak again until after the battle. Though it lasted only a night, you felt as though you’d endured another lifetime. You went into the caves with Lady Éowyn, feeling oddly calm at the prospect of almost-certain defeat. Though you would have preferred to fight, as Lady Éowyn had taught you (partially for your own protection, partially so she’d have someone to practice her swordswomanship with), you knew better than to challenge Theoden’s order. You were glad of your choice when an orc found its way to the caves, having broken through the gate and slipped past the soldiers in the chaos of battle. 

Lady Éowyn taunted him away from where the women and children cowered, and you leapt onto his back, driving the long dagger she had given you, the one you kept always at your belt, hidden under your skirts, repeatedly into his neck until he fell. 

You had not acted with glory or acclaim in mind, you had not acted with much thought at all, but to protect the others– your people. All the same, the whispers of your name adopted a new shape. Some still believed you an unsavory creature, too wild, abnormal, disruptive. Yet still others seemed to finally see why honest, brave, dear, dear, Théodred might have come to love you. 

At the celebration in the Golden Hall, many of his friends and soldiers approached you with congratulations and condolences alike, expressing admiration for your bravery and sharing stories of their love for the lost prince, of his own strength and goodwill. It was the sweetest sort of torture. For while they spoke, he lived, in the gleam of their eyes and the smile on their face and the still-fresh memory shared. And when they moved along, leaving you to your solitude at the edge of the hall, he died a new death, all over again. 

You slipped out of the hall, into the night, and set yourself down on the veranda overlooking the wandering hills of the kingdom. The grief settled new and heavy in your chest, a quiet kind of pain burrowing itself into your body as you remembered his face and his voice and his hands and his embrace. You remembered racing your horses to the river, walking through the village together, talking for hours, laying under the stars on nights such as this. You sat until the sounds of cheer faded into silent slumber and quiet whispers. 

“Will you not sleep?” 

You jumped, even at the softness of Aragorn’s voice. He stepped so lightly, moved so silently, you did not hear him approach.

“I apologize, I did not mean to startle you.” His expression was regretful. You began to stand, intending to curtsey, but he held out his hands to stop you. “Please, stay. I am not fond of formality.”

“Nor am I.” 

“I have noticed.” He smiled, and you felt strangely proud, rather than the shame that you ought to have felt at such an admission. “May I join you?” 

“By all means.” 

He settled down to sit beside you, his presence quiet and calm. You sat for some minutes together, watching the light beyond the mountains beginning to lighten with the coming dawn.

“You did not answer my question.” 

“I’m sorry,” you turned to him, your eyes adjusting from having looked so long at a distance. “I have forgotten what it was.” 

“I wondered why you do not rest.” He said, “It has been a long night and day for all, but particularly for you, having exercised your strength and valor in the attack.” 

“I could ask you the same.” You returned, “And with greater reason– I merely slew one orc. You, my lord, must have fought hundreds yesterday, and all after having survived a deadly fall. If either of us should not be avoiding sleep, it is you and not I.” 

He was silent for a moment, unable to argue, until: 

“It is not sleep I avoid,” he admitted, “But the dreams that come when I do.” 

Somehow, though he gave little indication, you understood– he did not dream of injury or terror or battle, or the things of his everyday life that would haunt another’s sleep, but rather of the soft, wonderful, lost things of his love. You’ve had the same dreams, every time you’ve slept since Théodred’s funeral. 

“I do not mind the dreams.” You said, “It’s the waking from them that I dislike.” 

You heard his short exhale– as if in realization.

“Yes, exactly.” He falls silent again for a while. And then: “Were you betrothed to him?” 

He had been told, then, something of the truth. From whom, however, you were not sure.

“No.” Your answer was quiet, “No, he would not have married me. For all he loved me, I would never have been allowed to become his queen.” 

“Why not?” 

You could not help but laugh, though the sound carried little humor. “You and I may have little care for formality, my lord, but many others do. It is the law, in some cases, and in Rohan the heir to the throne cannot marry an untitled, common woman.” 

“You are without title, perhaps, but I doubt anyone would call you common.” 

“I can only hope you intend a compliment.” 

“I– Forgive me.” he seemed flustered for a moment, “I meant no offense. I only mean there are few who would take on an orc with nothing but a dagger. Man or woman. You’ve shown an uncommon amount of courage and heart, was what I should have said.” 

Then it was your turn to be flustered, grateful in the low light that he could not see you blush at the praise. 

“Thank you, my lord.” 

“Aragorn.” He corrected, “As neither of us stand on formality, when among friends, at least, I would be called by my own name.”

You smiled. “Are we friends, then?” 

“If you will accept me. You seem a valuable friend to have.” 

“As do you, Aragorn.”

His name felt odd in your mouth at first, but not in a bad way, just unfamiliar. He smiled at your use of it, and you decided you would just have to grow accustomed to saying it aloud. You both turned back to the horizon, where the orange and pink of sunrise were just beginning to show beyond the mountains.

“It is a strange thing,” he spoke again, his voice tinged with sadness, “Loving someone when you know, all the while, they will never be able to give themselves to you as fully as you give yourself to them.” 

“For something so foolish, it felt truly noble.” You smiled ruefully, “What is a more righteous motivation than love? What pain, even inevitable, is not worth a fleeting taste of happiness? I should think my former self ridiculous now, but I cannot seem to regret it.” 

“No, I would not change it, if given the chance.” 

You hesitated a moment, holding the question on your tongue before giving over to your curiosity. “What was her name?” 

“Arwen.” 

You repeated it softly. “How long has it been since you lost her?” 

“A matter of weeks.” 

“Does it get any easier?” You asked, trying to keep the desperation from your voice. “This pain?” 

“I doubt it will ever fade entirely,” he said, “But yes, I believe it does.” 

“If there is ever anything I can do, any service or favor, to aid you, do not hesitate to ask.” You said, “I find I can bear it more easily when I am working to ensure the safety and happiness of my friends.” 

“Lady Éowyn is one such friend, I imagine.” 

“The very best. I have known her since I was a small girl, when I was brought to attend to her after she and Lord Éomer came to live here.”

“She speaks highly of you.”

“I am happy to serve her, though I think of her much as I would think of a sister.” You mused, and then turned to face him more fully. Taking in your more serious expression, he held your gaze, listening closely. “To that end– I ask that you are careful with her. She admires you deeply, Aragorn, and if you encourage her, it will quickly become love. I suspect, if you and I are alike, that you cannot love another as you loved Arwen, that your heart will never fully be your own again, never whole to give to another. You are an honorable, kind man, Aragorn, by no means unworthy. But Éowyn deserves someone who will worship her, devote himself completely to her, love her with all his being. You and I well know the agony of loving someone who cannot return that love in equal measure. If I can spare my lady that pain, I must try.” 

“I did not have the pleasure of knowing Prince Thèodred,” he said, though it was not the response you expected, “But he grows in my esteem the more I know of you.” 

“How so?” You looked at him, finding his features soft in the glow of dawn as he turned to look out at the mountains again.

“He must have been the very best of men to earn the love of a woman such as you,” he spoke softly, and then added: “I will discourage Éowyn as gently as I can.” 

You were spared the expectation of a response by the burst of noise and chaos from inside, where you would soon find Pippin meddling in matters he should not, but you knew, as both you and Aragorn leapt up to provide aid, that this friendship would change the course of your life.

Indeed, for having spoken so little yet said so much to one another, from that moment on you seemed to understand each other. He knew, somehow, your ulterior motive for accompanying Lady Éowyn to the encampment. He caught you, stashing away the armor and helmets which would conceal your and Lady Éowyn’s identities when you rode out with the Rohirrim on the day of the battle.

“I hoped I would have the honor of seeing your skill with a blade.” 

You startled again, but this time when you turned to face him, he seemed more amused than apologetic. 

“King Theoden does not share your hope, so I trust–” 

“I promise not to breathe a word,” he held a hand over his heart, “So long as you promise to return in one piece.” 

“I will do my best.” You noticed then that he was fully dressed, with his horse at his side, despite the late hour of night, “And will you do the same?” 

He bowed his head. “I will try.” 

You nodded your acknowledgement, and expected him to be on his way– except he lingered a moment, watching you carefully. 

“Is something the matter?” 

He rested his hand on the hilt of the rather large sword at his hip. “You did not ask where I was going.” 

“I thought you would have told me, if it was something I needed to know.”

“You do not question my leaving on the eve of battle.” 

“I don’t know why or where you go, Aragorn, but I do not question your integrity. If you leave, you leave for a reason. And you have promised to return. Anything more would likely lead me to worry over things which are not in my power to control.” 

He laughed softly at that, his face breaking into an utterly disarming smile. 

“If only half the world shared your view of things,” he shook his head, “We would not have so many problems.”

“Perhaps.” You could not help but smile in return, “Or perhaps we would only have different problems.”

He hummed, and then his smile faded as he seemed to remember the severity of the moment, and whatever task it was that drew him away. You thought he would take his leave, but instead he moved closer and took your hand in both of his own. His skin was rough and calloused, but his hands were warm and his touch was gentle. 

“Take care,” he said, squeezing your hand, and saying your name softly. And with that, he withdrew, mounting his horse and urging it through the crowd of soldiers and tents. 

Much as you respected him, much as you valued your newly-forged friendship, you had little time to think of Aragorn until the sight of him, charging into battle with an army of specters at his command brought him sharply into focus once again. 

You and Lady Éowyn rode into battle as planned, with the young hobbit Merry added to your clandestine force. You charged with less fear than you imagined, consumed as you were with adrenaline and a deep desire to honor your lost love, to save the land and the people he had died trying to protect. You slashed with your sword and bashed with your shield, shouting out to Lady Éowyn to maneuver with you as you circled and flanked the orcs together. 

When the Oliphaunts joined the fray, you found yourself separated from Éowyn and Merry, veering in the opposite direction from them to escape being crushed under the beast’s massive foot. You continued fighting on your own, galloping quickly between the beast’s legs and slashing at its skin, trying to slow its approach. Moments later, your horse was felled by enemy arrows, and you just managed to jump off and hit the ground in a rough roll before your horse crushed you with its weight. 

You narrowly escaped a blade to the face as you lifted your shield and jumped to your feet, striking and parrying against an orc twice your size. He drove you backwards as you dodged, until your leg caught on a corpse and sent you tumbling onto your back. You just managed to raise your sword, stabbing him through the stomach as he lifted his own blade above his head, preparing to bring it down in a final blow. Unable to pull your sword free, and with his dead weight tipping forward, you had no choice but to relinquish the weapon and roll out of the way. 

Before you could push him over and try to get your sword back, another orc ran at you with a shrill battle cry. You hurried for your dagger, resigning yourself to an unfair fight against his razor-edged weapon. But just before your blades clashed, he was quite literally sliced in half. 

Aragorn had done it, without breaking his stride and without noticing either the orc he had killed or the friend he had saved, as he continued running. You stood still, shocked not only by his sudden appearance, but more so by the horde of green phantoms battling beside him. You pushed your helmet from your head in an effort to see the vision before you, unobstructed and real, as the armies of Sauron were defeated in a matter of minutes. 

As the field began to grow quiet, you turned and began a frantic search, your heart plummeting as you caught sight of a familiar head of blonde hair lying motionless on the ground. You ran to her, leaping over bodies and debris until you fell to your knees at her side, lifting her into your arms. You saw the King behind her, pinned beneath his horse. His eyes were open, unseeing, already dead. Your stomach turned as you lifted Éowyn in your arms, noting her closed eyes and still-pink cheeks.

“My lady?” You called, touching the side of her face, “Please you must wake up. Éowyn, you cannot leave me too.” 

She was not bleeding, but her arm was bent and cradled against her chest, marked with strange black lines. Leaning your head down and pressing your ear to her chest, you could hear the faint beat of her heart. You turned and shouted as loud as your voice could carry, to anyone who might listen. 

“Help! A healer! She needs a healer! Someone, please help!” 

A woman’s voice was, thankfully, more noticeable among the cries of the wounded and dying. Éomer came first, crying out in grief and betrayal. Aragorn followed soon after, calmly instructing Éomer to help him carry her, redirecting the now-King of Rohan’s anguish into purpose. 

You trailed behind, reporting what little you knew of her injuries. Entering the gates of Gondor, taken to the healers’ hall, you listened and aided Aragorn as he treated her, explaining in his calm, quiet way that her injuries proved she had slain the Witch King, an unbeatable foe, and in doing so, had demonstrated more valor and bravery than any man. Éomer, at least, remained silent and kept whatever disapproval he felt for her presence on the battlefield silent, though it was not hidden from his expression. 

When Aragorn and Éomer withdrew with the other leaders, you sat by her side, dabbing a cool, clean cloth to her forehead and speaking soft reassuring words as she slept. You told her of your pride in her victory, of your belief in her strength, of your need for her recovery. 

You were in the midst of describing the elegant, high-ceilinged hall she lay in, when Aragorn returned. His face was washed of grime, his hair held back from his face, and his torn, dirtied ranger garb changed for the emblem of Gondor. 

“We will ride for the Black Gate.” He told you. “My friend climbs the peak of Mount Doom seeking to destroy the Ring of Power. I have sent a message to Sauron, a falsehood which will divert his attention from my friend to us.” 

“His attention as well as the full force of Mordor’s power.” You pointed out. “What of your phantom army?” 

“They were released of their bond to this plane.” He shook his head. “If my friend does not succeed, this will have all been in vain regardless.” 

“If he is your friend, he is surely capable.” Your assurance was not an empty one– you felt the certainty in your chest. “What can I do?” 

“I would have you ride with me.” 

“But I am not Rohirrim. And I cannot pretend this time–” 

“Not as one of the Rohirrim. I would have you by my side, as a King’s hand. A warrior of Gondor.” He said. “Though if you wish to stay, to remain and watch over Lady Éowyn, I understand. We face almost certain death, yet I would– your presence would be a great benefit.” 

You stood, and bowed your head. “I will go with you.” 

A hint of a smile, soft and sad, played at his lips. He nodded. “Thank you.”

You were fitted with a vest bearing the white tree, as well as given a new horse and sword. So attired and mounted, you joined the contingent of remaining soldiers. You nearly took a place among the other soldiers of Gondor, until caught your eye and tilted his head for you to join him. 

Feeling the heat of a small army of curious gazes at your back, you urged your horse to a stop at Aragorn’s right, between him and where Éomer rode with Merry. You kept your back straight and your gaze ahead, refusing to let your self-consciousness at this new position sway you from facing the battle ahead.

Indeed, as you began to ride, feeling the power of the animal beneath you and the wind in your face, the matter of custom and the consequences of breaking it no longer mattered. When the gate opened and Sauron’s forces surrounded you, all that mattered was fighting for the future of Middle Earth. 

And that meant protecting Aragorn. 

When the troll shouldered forward, aiming its massive sword at him, you could not let him stand alone. You cut down an orc, and then yet another to reach him, lifting your blade to block as he dodged, and then the two of you began an odd sort of dance, turning and whirling around each other as you traded blows against the troll. Ultimately, you killed it, scrambling up the armor at its back and slitting its throat at the place between its helmet and its armor. 

Its body fell, and you with it, but Aragorn helped you up. He spared you a nod of gratitude, which you returned, and then your dance continued, the two of you pressed largely back-to-back, turning and striking out in an arc as more enemies approached. 

Soon enough, though, it ended. His friend succeeded, and the mountain erupted in a great explosion, the eye of Sauron collapsing, and his armies retreated or otherwise found themselves swallowed by the fissures opening up in the earth of Mordor. 

As the rhythm of battle faltered and slowed, as your allies cheered victory, you began to realize something wasn’t quite right. A terrible pain made itself known to you, cutting through the waning adrenaline, and you touched a hand to your left side, just above your hip. Your palm came away a bright, wet red. 

The realization of it, more than the injury itself, left your ears ringing and your knees weak. You were dimly aware of Aragorn turning to you with a joyous smile, his expression fading as you looked at him with a distant, blank expression. The last thing you remember was him reaching for you as you fell.

When you woke, you were not in the healers’ hall. You lay on the softest bed you’d ever felt, though the comfort was a small offset from the throbbing ache at your side. Someone touched a cool cloth to your head, and you turned toward the soothing sensation with a quiet noise, blinking your heavy eyelids open. 

“Thank goodness, you are awake.” 

You recognized Èowyn’s voice before your bleary vision cleared enough to focus on her. She smiled down at you, tears shining in her eyes. In the next moment, she turned and spoke to someone standing beyond your view. 

“Send for the King.” 

You tried to swallow, finding your throat dry as the dunes. She seemed to understand, and helped you carefully to sit up, lifting the edge of a cup of water to your lips. With the aid of water, cool and refreshing, you found your voice again. 

“Are you well, my lady?” 

“Such a question, from one who has just woken from grievous injury,” she shook her head, but continued smiling, “Now that you are alright, I am perfectly well.” 

“Your arm?” 

“Marked forever, I’m afraid,” she pushed up her sleeve to show the black lines you’d seen before, “But otherwise healed.”

“How long—”

You could not finish your question, as the sound of rapid footsteps echoed down the corridor beyond whatever room this was, drawing Èowyn’s gaze from you. You turned your head that way, in time to see Aragorn rush through the doorway. 

His eyes found yours, gaze hopeful and then relieved as he saw you sitting up and able to look back at him. He exhaled a deep sigh, and came to kneel at your side, such that you were now flanked by your dearest friends. 

“Thank the Valar,” he reached for your hand, brushing a soft kiss to the back of your palm as he searched your gaze. “How do you feel?” 

“As though I’ve been stabbed.” You smiled gently, “But well enough.” 

“You have been asleep for three days.” Èowyn said. “We were beginning to worry you would never wake.” 

“I suppose I needed the rest.” You admitted, thinking about what little sleep you’d had in the days before the battle. “I am sorry for frightening you.” 

“Do not apologize,” Aragorn squeezed your hand gently, “We are simply glad to see you recovering at last.” 

“Your Grace, pardon me.” A voice spoke from the door, and you saw a squire in the doorway, looking to Aragorn.

“I must go,” Aragorn said to you, getting to his feet again, “But I will look in on you again soon.” 

“Do not rush yourself. Surely I won’t have gone anywhere.” 

He smiled, and to your surprise, bent to kiss your forehead. The touch of his lips sent a comforting warmth through your body, like being draped in a soft blanket. 

“I hope not.” He said, and then took his leave. 

Over the coming days, you slowly recovered. You took sips of water and broth, and then bites of bread as your strength and appetite returned. Èowyn held your arm as you walked slowly around the Citadel of Gondor, taking longer and longer routes each day. 

You were often joined by Faramir, young Captain of Gondor, and clearly enamored with your friend. You liked him, he was kind and steadfast, and clearly prepared to worship Èowyn as she deserved. You found excuses to sit for a while by the white tree and rest, while they wandered away on their own. It was soothing to your own heartbreak, in a way, to be assured of your friend’s happiness in love. 

Aragorn visited you often, but never for more than a few moments at a time, occupied with the business of rebuilding his newly-claimed kingdom. However short, his visits always left you in better spirits. 

The day before his coronation, you were finally able to take a proper bath, having been rid of your bandages the day before. You washed yourself and inspected the long, red scar above your hip before dressing in one of the gowns provided in the wardrobe of your room. It, like all the others that hung there, was finer than anything you’d ever owned before, and seemed to you more fit for a lady such as Èowyn, than for yourself. 

As you brushed through the wet tangle of your hair, a knock sounded at the door. 

“Come in,” you called, setting down the brush and standing to see Aragorn stepping inside. “I wondered when I would see you today.” 

“I apologize, it’s been a busy morning.” 

You waved your hand. “You are a busy King. You have no obligation to me.” 

“I disagree.” He smiled softly. “That is why I came to see you.” 

He looked so unlike the man you first met, dressed in fine robes, his hair and face clean of dirt and grime, yet he still looked like himself. This is who he will be, you supposed. Aragorn King. 

“I wondered about your plans to return to Rohan.” He continued, “Faramir says he will go with Èowyn after they are married, and Èomer comes to Gondor for the coronation and wedding alone, before he returns to his own throne. Now that you are recovered, I wondered if you desired to return home with them.”

You faltered, hesitant in your response. You knew, without consideration, that you did not wish to return to Rohan. Much as you loved Èowyn, much as you respected Èomer, you felt lighter and more yourself these last weeks in Gondor than you ever did in Rohan. Whatever home there was, lay with the people, rather than the place. 

“If you do not wish to return,” Aragorn continued in your silence, watching you carefully, “I offer you a place here, among my court. I will need advisors I can trust, and I am in particular need of an expert on Rohan. I asked you to ride with me as the King’s hand, and I would have you keep that position if you choose. You could keep these rooms, or choose new ones in the Citadel, though you would be free to travel as you saw fit, and you would be afforded the respect and rank of one occupying your title.” 

A weight settled in your chest, warm and certain— a debt of gratitude. You stepped forward, closer to where he still stood in the doorway, and knelt. 

“My king,” You bowed your head, “I pledge my service, my honor, and my life to you–” 

His hand on your chin, lifting your face to meet his gaze as he stood above you stopped your oath short. 

“I need only your continuing friendship.” 

“You have it.” 

He placed his hands on your arms, guiding you to stand. 

“You must only accept my offer if it is what you truly wish. I would not have you stay here out of some perceived duty.” 

“I wish to stay, and I wish to aid you in whatever way I can.” You promised. 

He smiled, finally, and you felt joy light your body from within. 

~

Spring arrives like a long exhale, the sun warming the air as a breeze blows across the land and the flowers begin to bloom once more. The season has come and gone three times already since the end of the war, but this one feels different– rather than signaling the end of the cold darkness, this time the sun shines on a new beginning.

Minas Tirith, rebuilt to the last stone and restored to its long-lost glory, shines upon the mountainside, illuminated by the rays of sunshine. The people of the city can feel its blessing, throwing open windows and pausing at the tower edges to tilt their faces up into the light, remembering again the simplest joys of life. The inhabitants of the citadel are no exception. 

You emerge from the halls of the citadel, taking a deep breath of your own. Given a short reprieve from your duties, you take a moment to look out at the mountains of Mordor, once so dark and foreboding, now spotted with green and the glint of running rivers in the distance, through the elegant, twisting branches of the White Tree. It won’t bloom for weeks yet, but the warmth in the air heralds the beginnings of buds in the coming days.

“I should have known I would find you here.” Aragorn says, smiling in amusement as you startle at his sudden presence. 

“Your Majesty,” you curtsey and bow your head before rising with a small smile of your own, keeping your address formal with so many guards nearby. “I should have known you would not shed your ranger’s stealth, even on such a day as today.” 

“And what such a day is today?” 

“A peaceful one, your grace.” 

He hums, looking out at the view you were admiring, drumming his fingers absently over the hilt of Andúril at his side. You have not seen him since this morning, when you took your morning ride across the fields together, as you do every day before breakfast. He has been in meetings with other advisors since, while you attended to some business in the lower city.

“Will you walk with me?” He asks, “As it is such a day, I could use the fresh air and your counsel, if you will give it.” 

“I cannot control the air, my king,” you say. “But I would never deny you my counsel.”

Aragorn sets a slow, steady pace around the courtyard, and you fall into step by his side. The occasional gust of wind, sharper and colder at this height, pleasantly offsets the heat of the sun. 

“I think of riding to Rohan,” he says, “An unofficial visit, staying there three days at the most, just myself and you, my lady, should you desire to go.” 

You have not returned to Rohan – to your home – since you left it four years earlier. You know much of the goings on in the kingdom from the letters Lady Éowyn writes to you, of her brother’s leadership, her marriage to kind Faramir, of the hope and life returning to your people. And, most recently, of news that she will soon bear a child, and bring joy to the Golden Hall once more. She writes of events you are sad to miss, stories which fill you with nostalgia for your own happy youth, but at the same time, reminds you of your grief. You cannot imagine joy in the Golden Hall in Thèodred’s absence, nor do you desire to face his grave again. 

But, as you turn your face to study Aragorn’s profile, the neat trim of his beard, his long hair pulled back from his kind face, just beginning to show a few hairs of gray, you consider why he should ask you to return with him. The weight of the crown is heavy, you know, especially for one who felt he did not deserve to wear it, and grows perhaps heavier as his old life fades into this royal existence. His fellowship, his friends, are all gone– except for you. 

The hobbits returned to the Shire, Gimli to the mines, Legolas to the forest, and while they visit, it is not the same as trekking across the land together. Gandalf came for one last goodbye, just a month ago, before taking his final journey to the Grey Havens. His departure brings enough pain on its own, but yet adds a reminder of Aragorn’s greatest loss— his own love having left for those same lands. You should not be surprised, then, that he seeks the comfort of old friends and battle comrades, that he should want to visit them without the pomp and circumstance of diplomacy, that he should wish your support and company in the journey. 

“I would go with you anywhere you asked, my king.” 

He stops and turns to you, placing a gentle hand on your arm. His soft eyes, full of care and concern, search your face.

“I would not ask you to endure pain, or push yourself beyond the bounds of reason to serve my whims. I only ask because I would always rather have you near, but I could bear the separation if you would not choose to go.” 

“The pain is unavoidable.” You dare to cover his hand with yours, “But now there is joy as well– of friendship, and of new life to come. And your company will, as it always has, soothe me and give me strength.” 

He smiles softly, warmly, and squeezes your arm. “Just as yours brings me peace and comfort.” 

“Then it is decided: we shall ride to Rohan.” 

Over the three-day journey, you and Aragorn speak little. The silence is not full of tension, but rather the quiet that falls between two people who don’t need words to speak to one another. He keeps pace with you, knowing to follow the natural-born rider to her home. At night, making camp under the stars and the shadow of the Misty Mountains, you move around each other like practiced dancers, building the fire, unrolling the bedding, staring up at the stars. 

You watch him come alive in a way you haven’t seen in many years, appearing relaxed and at ease among the wilderness. You feel the energy of the air and the ground beneath your feet, but with every step closer to Rohan, your body grows heavy with dread. 

When the Golden Hall comes into view, settled atop the distant hill, a shiver runs down your spine. Memories flash through your mind— of a golden-haired youth sharing your first kiss, of laughter and careless joy, of whispered confessions and secret comforts. 

“Do you wish to turn back?” 

Aragorn’s voice brings you from your thoughts as you realize you’ve slowed your horse to a stop. You look at your friend, seeing nothing but concern and care in his gaze. 

“No,” you shake your head, “No, I’ll be alright.” 

“At any moment, if you change your mind, we will go at once.” 

You give him a soft, grateful smile, and nod your thanks. Before you can change your mind, you click your tongue and urge your horse forward. 

Èowyn and Faramir stand waiting for you at the edge of the village, and you are dismounting your horse before it comes to a stop in your rush to embrace her. She holds you tight, crushing you against her body, despite your concern for the noticeable swell of her stomach. 

“I have missed you fiercely.” She says, pulling back to look at you.

“And I you.” 

Aragorn and Faramir clasp each other’s arms, sharing greetings and grins before you swap, wrapping your arms around Faramir while Aragorn takes Èowyn’s hands and kisses her cheeks. 

“We are glad to see you,” Faramir says, holding your upper arms. “She would have run from the Golden Hall as soon as she saw your horses approach, but for my insistence we walked.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” You smile, looking at your longest friend, “Do you remember, Èowyn, when I told you not to run from the stable to the Hall, but you did not listen? You tripped and fell and went without a front tooth for weeks.” 

She laughs, “I did not take to being ordered about by anyone other than myself.” 

“You still don’t.” 

“Nor should she.” Faramir agrees. 

“Shall we walk to the Hall?” Èowyn asks, “My brother is eager to see you as well.” 

“After you,” Aragorn gestures, and you follow them up the hill, leading your horses. 

Your heart begins to pound as you approach the burial ground, seeing the earthen mounds of each tomb looming ahead. Èowyn speaks of something as she walks in front, holding her husband’s arm, but you do not hear. You force your gaze ahead, refusing to look as you pass. 

Aragorn’s hand, warm and reassuring, settles against your back. You glance at him, managing a small smile, as the ringing in your ears dissipates somewhat. He holds a silent question in his gaze, and you shake your head, feeling more yourself as the graveyard falls behind, and the Golden Hall looms closer. 

“I’m alright.” You murmur. 

He nods, running his hand along your spine once before withdrawing his touch. 

Your horses are taken to the stable and your bags to your rooms, and then you follow Èowyn and Faramir into the throne room. Èomer sits, talking with a few of the Rohirrim, but stands and dismisses them as soon as you enter. 

To your surprise, he greets you first. While an informal visit, you expected Aragorn to receive the honor of the King’s greeting before you. 

And yet Èomer takes your hand and kisses it, saying, “I’m glad to see you returned home, my lady.” 

He leaves you to your bewilderment as he embraces Aragorn, clapping him on the back and welcoming him to Rohan. 

You shortly excuse yourself to change out of your riding trousers into something finer. Èowyn accompanies you to your rooms— her former bedroom. 

“How odd to return here as a guest, instead of a servant,” you muse, “To call this room my own for a time when I used to sleep on the floor of your dressing room. And what a strange greeting from your brother!” 

“Strange in what way?” 

“I’m sure he has never addressed me with such warmth before in my life. And to do so first, before greeting the King of Gondor— if Aragorn were not so gracious, it could be considered a grave slight.” 

“Perhaps Èomer could not always address you with the warmth he felt for you.” 

You hum, uncertain, but unwilling to dwell too heavily on the consequences of your change in position. You turn to your friend and a more pleasant topic. 

“Now, tell me everything I have not already learned from your letters.” 

You talk of her health, her excitement for the child to come, her love of Faramir, her time spent training the Rohirrim, her continuing nightmares of the creature she slew, her fears that the peace will not last, and her joy to see you again, losing track of time until Faramir appears in the doorway to summon you both to dinner. 

You are again surprised to be seated directly next to Èomer, on the right side, between him and Èowyn, while Aragorn sits on the left, between Èomer and Faramir. And again, Èomer is far more attentive to you than you recall in his past behavior, asking how you’ve been enjoying Minas Tirith and what your duties entail as the King’s counsel. You converse politely, telling him you feel quite at home in Gondor, that you spend your days reading about Gondor and Rohan’s histories, speaking with scouts and knights, and advising Aragorn. 

When he asks if you missed Rohan while you were away, your voice sticks in your throat for a moment before you say: 

“I have missed my friends dearly, and always think fondly of the times when I was happy here.” 

Èowyn takes your hand and squeezes it gently, smiling at your answer. 

“I hope you will be happy here again, my lady.” Her brother adds. 

“Thank you, King Èomer.” 

You glance past him, wondering if Aragorn had heard any of your conversation, and see your king engaged in some discussion or another with Faramir, probably about Gondor and how the kingdom has fared in the captain’s absence. You find, though he sits mere feet away from you, that you miss Aragorn. You have not spoken to him directly since before you and Èowyn went to your rooms. You’ve grown accustomed, over the years, to seeing him and speaking with him many times throughout the day, every day, even for just a moment at a time. You are not exactly lost without the contact, but you do feel…put off. 

It’s a relief when he knocks on your door later that night, as you are preparing for bed. 

“Come in,” you call, wrapping a shawl around your shoulders to cover the skin left exposed by your nightgown. You can’t help your smile when he steps through the doorway. Aragorn is also dressed for bed– in a loose shirt with its ties undone at the neck, falling open to show his collarbone and upper chest. His feet are bare, as well, which you find strangely endearing. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in an age, though it’s only been a few hours.” 

“I understand.” He steps closer, and his eyes are soft as they search your face in the gentle glow of the few candles lit around your room. “I wanted to see how you were.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, letting out a deep breath. “Unfortunately, that is not a simple task.” 

He settles next to you, quiet and calm, as always, ready to listen. 

“It is easier, I think, returning as something other than I was when I left. I much prefer who I am now to who I was then. And yet…” You begin, trying to find the right words to describe your feelings, “So little has changed here. The rooms, the traditions, the people, they are all the same. Apart from the fact that he is not here. And I don’t– I don’t mourn him anymore. I haven’t, not for years, but it feels wrong somehow to be here without him. Perhaps it is a weakness. I spent many happy years here before he loved me, but somehow I cannot do it now.” 

“Having loved and lost is not the same as having never loved at all. It is not a weakness, but a strength, that you did so and yet remain kind and true and brave.” He speaks softly, taking your hand and tracing the lines of your palm with a calloused fingertip, “Your role has changed, yes, but these hands are the same, your heart is the same, your soul is the same as it ever was.” 

“But I feel…so much more than I was. Like I am truly whatever self I have always been. I am satisfied with my life in a way I never could have been before.” You sigh, unable to find the right words, “I know I wouldn’t feel this way if he had lived.” 

“Perhaps it is a comfort to know you would not have known of this alternative, had he lived.” Aragorn offers, “It is a path not taken, and therefore not known.” 

“You’re right, of course.” You let out a soft huff of laughter, “Dwelling on it will only make me unhappy, no matter how I think of what could have been. I had better dwell on what could be.” 

“Anything is possible.” He agrees, squeezing your hand. “You yourself are an example.” 

You turn your head to smile at him with affection. “As are you, my king.” 

He holds your gaze with an expression you cannot read– not closed or guarded, but rather heart-wrenchingly open, soft and intimate as he looks at you. For a moment, you feel yourself drawn closer to him, as if by magical force, urging you to press your body against his own. Until he drops his gaze to your hand, still held in his. 

“You should rest,” he says, and then lifts your hand so that he can brush a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I wish you a peaceful sleep.” 

“You as well,” you say, feeling strangely light-headed as he stands and moves to the door again. “Aragorn–” 

He turns back, his hand on the frame. 

“Would you like to ride with me in the morning? As we usually do?” 

His smile is soft, but his eyes are delighted as he nods. “I would like nothing more.”

“Excellent.” You return his smile. “Good night, then, Aragorn.” 

“Good night, nin rís.” 

He closes the door before you can ask what the elvish words mean, but you resolve to find out during your ride in the morning. Except, as dawn begins to break and you make your way to the stables to meet him, you find you two are not the only ones preparing for a morning ride. 

“Good morrow,” Èomer calls out your name, already saddling his horse in the stall next to where Aragorn is greeting his own, “Perhaps you’d like to join us on a morning ride.” 

You meet Aragorn’s gaze, and he gives you an apologetic look. Knowing Èomer as you do, you have little doubt Aragorn was given much choice in the matter of the other king’s inclusion. 

“I would, yes.” You make your way to your own horse, “Thank you, King Èomer.” 

“Oh, just call me by my name,” Èomer scoffs, leaving his horse to join you in your stall. “It’s all fine and good to be formal at the banquet, but we’ve known each other since we were running around bathing in the lake in nothing but our skins. I’m no more king to you, than you are servant to me.” 

He winks, and then sets his hands at your waist, lifting you up into the saddle. You’re taken aback by all of it– his words, the wink, and the sudden physical handling, such that a furious blush rises to your face and you can hardly look at anything but your horse’s mane, despite hearing Èomer chuckle as he returns to mount his steed. You glance at Aragorn, watching him lift himself gracefully into the saddle, though his expression is guarded and his eyes troubled. You don’t know why, but you feel a pang of guilt strike through your chest. 

Èomer leads the way, and you follow, painfully aware of Aragorn’s silent presence at your side. Èomer keeps a running commentary as you ride, pointing out all the landmarks and places of note in his memory. He has either forgotten or doesn’t care that Aragorn has visited Rohan over many more decades than Èomer has lived, and likely knows the terrain even better than the king himself. 

“Here is the favorite meeting spot for you and my cousin, if memory serves.” Èomer says as you approach the river, and your stomach churns. “I used to cover for Théodred with my uncle. You hold many fond memories of this place, I imagine.” 

He addresses the final sentence to you, adding a clear second meaning to his words. Again, your face feels unbearably warm as blood begins to rush in your ears. You can feel Aragorn looking at you, but you cannot bring yourself to return his gaze. 

“I am growing tired,” you say, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. “Perhaps I will go back.” 

“I am happy to accompany you, if Aragorn wishes to continue riding.” Èomer looks to the king of Gondor, but Aragorn has already turned his horse and guided it to your side. 

Your friend’s voice is measured, but with a certain edge you’re not used to hearing as he says: “I think it best that we turn back now.” 

Back at the Golden Hall, you feel no better, your body restless and your mind disoriented by the emotions battling in your chest. As if sensing your distress, Aragorn places a firm hand on your lower back, grounding and stabilizing you with his touch just beyond the entrance to the banquet hall. 

“Perhaps you should lie down,” he suggests, “I will have breakfast brought to you in your rooms.”

“I will bring it myself,” Èomer asserts. 

“That’s not necessary, truly, I think if I just sit and have something to eat–” 

“Nonsense! You look as though you will faint any second.” Èomer argues, striding over and lifting you into his arms without another word. 

“King Èomer!” You let out an embarrassingly youthful shriek of surprise as he begins to carry you down the corridor, past many wide-eyed, gawking courtiers and servants. “I can walk perfectly well!”

You squirm and twist to look over his shoulder at Aragorn, who remains where he stood, eerily still and with the same guarded look on his face. 

“Whatever is going on–brother! What are you doing?” Èowyn, alerted by the ruckus, hurries around the corner from the banquet hall and chases after you, catching up as Èomer shoulders into your room and deposits you onto the bed. “What is the meaning of this brutish behavior?” 

“Brutish? I’m being helpful!” He argues, “The lady could barely stand for fatigue.” 

“That is not true.” You sit up and swing your legs back over the side of the bed. “I was merely tired. I am perfectly well, apart from a bruised ego after that display.” 

“Brother!” Èowyn punches him hard enough in the arm the sight makes you flinch. “You have embarrassed my dearest friend!” 

“I was being chivalric!” 

“Perhaps your chivalry is misplaced.” Aragorn’s voice is uncharacteristically cold from where he stands in the doorway. He softens as he moves to your bedside, holding out a goblet and a heavenly-looking piece of bread. “Here, some water and something to eat.” 

“Thank you,” you accept them, taking a sip of water and then stopping short of biting into the bread when you feel three pairs of eyes all watching you at once. You sigh, and then exclaim. “I am fine!” 

“Out, at once!” Èowyn ushers her brother toward the door, “You only distress her further, you oaf.” 

“But–” 

“Call on her again later. Leave her be now.” 

Their voices fade down the corridor, and you are left with at least a bit of peace. 

“I will leave you to rest,” Aragorn says, making for the door as well, and leaving your heart leaping with desperation. 

“Aragorn, wait–” To your relief, he does so, immediately. “I don’t– I’m not sure what has gotten into Èomer.” 

“I am quite sure.” His gaze goes somewhere distant and his voice is cold again, but only for a moment before his eyes find yours, and he is warm and gentle once more. “But you need not worry about that now. Just rest, nin rís.”

Again, he leaves you with those words, but no understanding of their meaning or significance. You eat the bread, feeling sullen and agitated, finish the water, and then pace out of your room, seeking fresh air and female company. 

You find Èowyn on the veranda, in her favorite spot overlooking the village, and entice her to walk with you. You consider telling her about the morning ride and the elvish words Aragorn uses with you, but decide against it. Èomer is her brother, and she could not be impartial in her advice. As for the elvish, it feels too personal to share with another, despite your curiosity. 

Instead, you tell her about Minas Tirith, and all you have learned from making it your home over these last four years. You tell her of the library, where you would live if you could, of the secret passageways you’ve discovered in the Citadel, and your favorite tea shop in the city, with the best view of the mountains beyond. The walk and the conversation do you much good, and this time Èowyn tires before you. You accompany her back to the Hall, where she will take her rest, before you settle in your own favorite spot on the veranda, with a view of the misty mountains stretching before you. It’s the same place you sat on the night of the celebrations after the battle at Helm’s Deep. The same place where your friendship with Aragorn began. 

You think about how you were tortured by grief that night, how you asked him if the pain would ever fade, and now it has. It is not gone, but it has dulled and settled such that you no longer feel it constantly. You thought, then, that your loss and grief would be the ending, that you might go on but you would never truly live again. Instead, it opened up a path to happiness and possibility you could never have imagined before. 

The sound of your name draws you from your thoughts. You turn and stand, finding yourself face to face with Èomer. He looks oddly unsure of himself, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Are you feeling better?” 

“I am, yes.” You nod, “Thank you.” 

“Good, I am glad.” He clears his throat, and steps closer. “I wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior. If I added to your distress—”

“You acted with good intentions.” You offer a reassuring smile, “Though I generally prefer to be asked what I need, rather than having it decided for me.” 

“Indeed.” He smiles, and you see a bit more of his usual confidence coming back into his posture. “I will remember that.” 

“And are you well, Èomer?” You ask, “I realize I have not asked you how you have been faring these last years under the crown of Rohan.” 

He laughs lightly, “As well as I imagine your friend Aragorn does. I would always rather be free to ride and travel with the Rohirrim as I once did. But I feel I have risen to the position as best I can. Though it can be lonely, at times.” 

“Your sister and Faramir do not provide you with companionship and counsel?” 

“They do,” he concedes, “But not the kind I desire.” 

He meets your gaze with a gleam in his eye that makes cold realization settle in your stomach. “I see.” 

“Then you cannot be surprised when I ask whether you would consider returning to Rohan more permanently— as my wife.” 

Your heart stutters and drops, any words you might have conjured in response dissipating into thin air with your utter shock. 

“Surely, you have noticed my attempts to court you since your arrival. They were not, I assure you, purely performative. I have always admired you, though from afar, as you were coveted first by my sister and then my cousin. I understand very well the appeal of your strength and intellect, as well as your grace and beauty.” He professes, “Now that you are titled as well, I wish to give you what my cousin could not: your rightful place as queen of Rohan.” 

You open and close your mouth, searching for the right words to stop this, but he continues before you can grasp them. 

“Our union would of course delight Èowyn to no end. You two would at last be sisters in earnest. And, I know in my heart, that I would be happier with you at my side. You do not, perhaps, love me now, but I believe in time you may develop affection for me. And, as I expressed my hope last night, you will make new memories, happy memories here again. Although you would, of course, be allowed to visit Gondor and your friends there, perhaps every few years or so.” 

“I— this is—”

“It is much to take in, I know,” he steps even closer and takes both your hands in his, “But it was always the plan, always meant to be. Thèodred intended you for me. As soon as his father ordered him to wed, I was to ask for your hand and secure your place and safety in his stead. Had he not died, I imagine it would have happened soon after. We anticipated Thèoden’s announcement any day. But that is all past now, and we must look to a different future, one with you at my side as I guide and protect these lands.” 

It’s all wrong. You feel sick. You might be sick, if you stand one more moment listening to these shocking declarations and unsettling revelations. That your favorite place, the place where your greatest happiness began, should be tainted by this, makes your stomach churn and your head dizzy. 

“Forgive me, I must go.” You manage, your voice breathless, “I need— I have to think.” 

He frowns, but does not try to stop you as you pull your hands from his and hurry to the steps and take the path down toward the village. 

“I will await your answer, my lady!” He calls after you. 

You pick up your pace, and as soon as you are past the first buildings of the city on a hill, you begin to run. You race down towards the edge of the wall, your feet thundering, just barely keeping from tumbling headlong down the path. You run, panting for air, for sense, for reason, until you reach the burial ground. There, you slow to a gasping stop, in front of the tomb you thought you’d never look upon again. 

“How could you?” Are the first words you manage, angry, through heaving breaths, “How could you have planned, in secret, to give me away for safekeeping, like some prized possession, rather than a thinking, feeling, human being?” 

The only answer you receive is a gust of wind, rustling the flowers blooming above the grave. You begin to pace. 

“I can imagine your answer— that you would not have me sent away, that you would not see me heartbroken and alone in the face of your marriage, but you did not ask me. You decided, with someone else, what was best for me. You robbed me of my choice, of my heart, of my voice. You acted out of love, I know it, but what sort of love is that? That you would rather have me near, miserable and married to a man I did not love, than set me free?” 

You fall to your knees, feeling that grief open up all over again, tearing through your body. 

“Had you lived, I would—” You stop abruptly, a new realization settling within you, soothing the ache of grief at once. “I would still have gone with Aragorn. Had he offered the same place, the same friendship, I would rather have taken it than remain suspended here, loving but not loved as I should have been.” 

You pause, feeling a certainty swelling in your chest, warm and familiar, but finally taking recognizable shape in your mind. 

“I love him, in a way that is wholly different from how I loved – how I will always love – you. I am happy in this life, away from Rohan. I am happy at Aragorn’s side. I am content with his friendship, his company, his respect, though I would do anything or go anywhere he asked. Because he asks, he wonders, he seeks my opinion and consent. He sees me, he respects me. And that is enough.” 

You remain, for a while longer, knelt before Thèodred’s tomb, lost in silent contemplation. Your mind turns over old memories and new meanings, familiar feelings with new names, old dreams and new possibilities, until the sun falls beyond the hill and you are cast under the shadow of the burial mound. The breeze blows through again, and this time you shiver against the chill in the air. You rise on stiff knees, press your hand once to the cold metal of the tomb door, and then make your way back to the Golden Hall. 

Night has fallen fully by the time you arrive, and Èowyn rushes from the veranda to pull you into a tight embrace the moment she sees you. 

“Where were you? I woke and you were nowhere to be found, and then my brother said you’d run off without a word–” 

“Èomer asked me to marry him.” You tell her, and her mouth snaps shut. “I wanted to see Thèodred before I gave him my answer.”

“And what is your answer?” Èomer calls, having stepped out onto the veranda while his sister ran to you. You see Aragorn behind him, leaning back against the outer wall, his face concealed in shadow. You pull away from Èowyn’s embrace, stepping forward to face the king of Rohan. 

“I cannot marry you, Èomer.” You say, your voice strong and clear, “Though I am honored by your offer, and hold you in high esteem, I have no desire to be your wife, or your queen.” 

His face darkens, “But Thèodred–” 

“Could have bestowed a title upon me and married me himself.” You point out, “But he did not. Nor did he consult me in the decision to promise my marriage to you. He is gone, and his promises are nothing but words now, as I well know.” 

“This is your home. Your duty is to serve and protect your land to your every ability.” 

“Rohan has not been my home for some time.” You say, “I am a lady of Minas Tirith. I am counsel to the King of Gondor. Whatever home I had here remains in the love of my friends, and nothing else.” 

Èomer remains silent, his jaw clenched as tightly as his furrowed brow. Finally, he gives you a curt nod. 

“I understand you perfectly, my lady.” His words are low, forced through clenched teeth, “You will always have the love of your friends, and be welcome here as a guest anytime you wish. I assure you, I will never trouble you with the offense of such an offer again.” 

He bows his head once and then turns to stalk inside. You look to Èowyn once more and take her hands. 

“I am sorry if this upsets you, I imagine you would have preferred I said yes.” 

“No!” She shakes her head, “I would never wish you the unhappiness of marrying for duty, rather than love. I should have liked to call you sister, but I never thought–” She glances at the veranda, and then lowers her voice, “Let us take supper in my rooms tonight, and talk together in private.” 

You agree, slightly confused at her intentions, but willing all the same. Seated comfortably together by the fireplace, you ask her to continue her thoughts from earlier. 

“I knew Èomer admired you, but I didn’t expect him to ask you to marry him. I thought he would be discouraged by Aragorn.” 

“By Aragorn?” 

“That Aragorn loves you,” she says, as though that should be the obvious reason. 

“He loves me in friendship, as you do, perhaps–” 

“Oh, you do not see.” She covers her mouth a moment in surprise, “But I thought you knew. It’s so clear– but then I suppose one cannot see their own face until someone else holds up a mirror.” 

“What are you talking about?” You ask, feeling a desperate urgency for her explanation. 

“I should not have said–” 

“Tell me, please.” 

She sighs. “Aragorn is in love with you. I do not know for how long, but I first noticed it after you were injured in battle. He tended to your wounds and healed you with a desperation I could barely stand to watch. And the way he cared for you while you slept displayed the deepest devotion. A devotion which continues to this day in the way he looks at you with such tenderness and feeling– I thought you knew.” 

“I did not realize…” you hold your hand over your heart, feeling it pound in your chest, “I thought– surely, he cannot love again, after he gave his heart to another?” 

Èowyn smiles at you sadly. “You gave your heart to another once. Have you loved again?” 

You find yourself beginning to laugh and cry at once. “Yes. Yes, I have.” 

Her expression crumples and she begins to cry as well, pulling you into a tight embrace. 

“I wish you happiness, my dearest friend,” she whispers fiercely, “All that you deserve.” 

You stay with her for some hours more, talking and planning, discussing how you will visit again when her baby is born, and how she and Faramir will finally return to Gondor as soon as the child is old enough to travel. You remember your childhood games and stories and she allows you to dress her hair for bed, as you used to, provided she is allowed to do the same for you, if to much less success. 

It is late when you return to your rooms, but you wait some time longer, in case Aragorn will knock on your door again. Soon enough, you grow too tired to wait, and resolve instead to speak with Aragorn on the journey home to Gondor, and having settled your plan in your heart, manage to settle down to sleep for the night. 

In the morning, you encounter Aragorn in the corridor as you both step out of your rooms to walk to breakfast. 

“Good morning,” you greet him, trying to fight an unusual feeling of shyness in his presence. 

“Are you well?” He asks, and the concern in his gaze, same as it always was, is so clearly more than you ever realized. 

“Very well,” you answer honestly, “And ready to return home.” 

He looks down, and you see a hint of a smile on his face at your reference to Gondor, before he nods. 

“I thought we might leave after breakfast,” he says, “Unless you wish to stay longer.” 

“No, I am eager to be on the road again.” 

He holds your gaze a moment, and you wonder if he can sense the double meaning in your words, though you had not intended to imply anything other than your wish to leave.

“As am I.” He agrees simply, and you walk to the banquet hall together. 

At breakfast, Èomer largely ignores you, which you don’t really mind very much. You talk with Faramir, whom you haven’t seen much of yet during your visit. He’s pleased with your promise to visit again when the baby is born, and expresses his gratitude that Gondor remains looked after by someone like you. He and Èowyn see you and Aragorn off, and you hold Èowyn as close as you can as you say your goodbyes. 

“Write to me and tell me everything that happens,” she whispers. 

“I will.” You promise, and she pulls back to kiss both your cheeks. 

You climb onto your mare, and with a final wave, set off towards home with Aragorn. You decide to wait to ask him about his feelings until you make camp for the night, but are still more talkative during the ride than you were on the way to Rohan. You point out various places you and Èowyn used to play, and the plain where she taught you your skill with a sword, and ask him in return about his memories of Rohan. He tells you, gesturing to an outcropping where he met Thèoden’s father, the river he once tracked a stag along, and the hilltop at the edge of Fangorn forest where he momentarily believed he had lost Merry and Pippin. 

As night falls, you grow nervous, and keep yourself busy with the tasks of making camp– watering the horses, gathering firewood, rolling out the bedding to lay just right among the uneven ground. Èowyn made sure you left with enough provisions for a week, though your journey would only take three days at most, and you eat a hearty supper by the fire. 

You sit beside him, your backs to the sheer rock of the misty mountain, watching the flame flicker and dance. Finally, you cannot hold your tongue any longer. “Aragorn, I wondered…when you said you knew what had gotten into Èomer, were you anticipating his proposal?” 

“I observed his romantic intentions toward you,” he says, “But I did not know if he would make you an offer. Did you know of his arrangement with Thèodred?” 

“No,” you laugh, “If I had, I would have hit both of them over the head until they saw sense.” 

He chuckles, “Of that, I have no doubt.” 

You hesitate a moment before continuing, “I thought– it seemed to me rather like you were bothered by Èomer’s attentions to me. Was I right in thinking so?” 

He glances at you, and then looks back at the fire. “I felt he was taking liberties with you, and asserting control over your person in ways I did not think right. And I worried you would feel pressured to accept him, that you would find yourself in an unhappy position out of duty or obligation.” 

“Are those the only reasons?” 

He looks at you again, and holds your gaze, searching for the meaning behind your question, an expression of equal parts hope and anguish on his face. 

“Aragorn,” you say his name softly, “What does nin rís mean?” 

His expression turns shameful, and he shakes his head. “It was a selfish impulse to use those words. I should not have indulged in it.” 

You reach for him, taking his hand in yours and lifting it to your mouth so you may press a kiss to the back of his palm. Holding his gaze, you ask again for him to tell you the meaning.

His eyes glow soft and reverent as he looks at you and finally says: “My queen.” 

Your breath leaves you in a soft, surprised exhale. He waits, still and silent, likely expecting your rejection or rebuke, while you try to find the words which will properly capture the depth of feeling you carry for him. In the end, words are not enough. Instead, you lean forward and press your lips to his. 

It’s a short kiss, barely a brush of your mouth against his, before you begin to pull away. But before you can go far, the hand which you do not already hold has lifted to cradle the back of your head, guiding your lips back to his. This kiss is different, deeper, more electrifying. You let go of his hand to press yourself closer, resting your hands on his chest as his free hand wraps around your back, pulling you into his lap. You kiss him with all the breath in your lungs, pulling away with a gasp as his lips move to your jaw. 

“Nin mel,” he says, kissing your jaw, and then under your ear, “My love.” 

You repeat it back to him, your hands rising to bury your fingers in his hair. His hand slides from your neck to the top of your shirt, pulling the string until it falls open to your sternum. 

“Nin emel,” he murmurs, and kisses you there, “My heart.” 

You fall backwards onto the bedding, pulling him with you until his weight is pressed above you. Your hands tug at his shirt, yanking it up his back and stomach until he sits back and pulls it off in one graceful motion. He lowers himself to you again, and you run your hands over his warm skin, over his scars, and duck your head to kiss the place over his heart, whispering, “Nin emel.” 

He kisses your mouth again, deeply, desperately, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to slide over your lower belly and ribs. You flex your stomach to sit up, and he pulls back enough to help you take off the shirt. Your nipples, already tightening in arousal, harden against the cold air, and you drop your head back with a moan as the chill on your skin is offset by the heat of his hands and mouth. He takes his time moving down your body with his kisses and caresses, making you squirm and sigh and scratch your nails against his scalp. 

He looks up at you as he reaches the scar that runs across your side, earned for protecting his life, and the emotion in his eyes is almost too much for you to bear. He brushes his fingertips against it, and then his lips. 

“Nin rís,” he says again, moving back up to kiss you properly. 

You wrap your arm around his back, pulling him down and pressing your skin against his, wanting him impossibly close. He touches your cheek and then grasps your hip as you arch your body and press against where you can feel his desire hard and hot and waiting. 

He breaks the kiss and moves back down to your hips, pulling your riding breeches and undergarments off at once. You expect him to follow suit with his own trousers, but instead he lifts your right leg, resting it over his shoulder. He turns his face to kiss your knee, and you brace yourself on your elbows, sitting up to ask him what he’s doing when he leans down and presses his face into the apex of your thighs. Your arms give out and you fall back with a shocked, pleasured cry, as he begins to lick and suck and kiss and press his tongue inside, and it is new and different from any of your intimate experiences before, but so so good. 

“Aragorn–” you gasp, reaching for something, anything to anchor yourself, and find his hair between your fingertips. He groans against you, and you cry out again at the sensation. 

He continues for what seems like an impossibly long time, teasing and tasting, before he reaches his right hand down and presses one finger, and then another inside of you, stroking them back and forth with the rhythm of his mouth. 

“Oh–!” You feel yourself working up to something you thought you could only provide for yourself, that peak of pleasure approaching steadily, “Please, I–” 

You reach it, and plunge over the edge, gasping for breath as your heart hammers and your hips twitch. He remains at his task until your spasms still, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. Only then does he pull away and return to you, smiling against your mouth as you crush your lips to his. 

“I did not know that was something you could do,” you breathe, “Or that I could like it so much.” 

“I will have to do it often, then.” He promises, kissing you again, and only renewing your desire. 

When you press your hips to his, this time he does as you would expect, and finally unfastens his trousers. You reach for him immediately, pleased at the way he groans and presses his face into your neck as you stroke and lightly squeeze. 

“No more of that now,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours as he gathers your hands and presses them down beside your head, your fingers entwined with his. “I need you.” 

“You have me.” 

His expression shifts from soft desire to determined need, and he lets your hand go long enough to guide himself to you while your legs fall open around his hips. He returns his hand to yours as he presses inside, murmuring elvish words you don’t understand as you cry out in pleasure and squeeze his hands, feeling him fill you completely. He pauses, opening his eyes to search your face. 

“Are you well?” He asks, though his voice is strained. “Does it hurt?” 

“I would be better if you moved, nin mel.” 

He says something else in elvish then, and pulls his hips back before sliding in again quickly, making you both moan. He doesn’t stop after that, finding a steady rhythm with his hips, pounding into you over and over again, bringing pleasure with every drag against your inner walls, every nudge against your softest, innermost spot. You press your lips to his jaw, scrape your teeth against his throat, praise his name in his ear, and generally encourage him until he rips his hand away from yours again to touch you where you’re most sensitive, rubbing tight, fast circles there until you’re crying out at another wave of pleasure within a moment. Soon after, his hips falter in their rhythm and he speaks your name in a broken murmur, filling you with sudden warmth and satisfaction as he slows to a stop inside you. 

Aragorn kisses you again, slow and sweet, unhurried. It feels like a lover’s kiss, and you return it, feeling your chest swell. He pulls out of you, soothing your hiss of discomfort with another kiss, and reaches for his discarded shirt, using it to clean the mess now dripping between your legs. Wordlessly, he lies down beside you and takes you in his arms, pulling the blanket over both of your bodies. He presses a kiss to your head, and you fall asleep to the steady thump of his heart. 

In the morning, you bathe together under the falls at the side of the mountain, not far from where you made camp the night before. The water is too cold, and there is still too far to ride for you to give in to any ideas that the sight of Aragorn’s bare body in the full light of day arouses. Besides, the gentleness with which he pushes your wet hair away from your face, and traces the thin, winding line of your scar is far better. 

Cleaned and dressed, you continue your journey homeward, and there is something in the air between you, a connection and a comfort which comes from voicing things unspoken, and coming to know one another in every possible way. 

“I did not think this was possible until I spoke to Gandalf for the last time.” Aragorn muses as you ride together, side by side, “While I knew I felt something for you from the moment you took that burned bread from my hand, I never thought I could call it love until my old friend told me: ‘There are as many forms of love as there are stars in the sky. Limiting yourself to just one provides a poor view of the world, indeed.’” 

“That is beautiful.” You say, and then laugh to yourself after a moment, “I did not know until Èowyn told me you loved me two days ago.” 

He looks entirely taken aback.  

“She is more observant than we give her credit for.” You add, “Although truthfully, I think I might have figured it out if I hadn’t been so afraid of letting myself love you. I worried I would find myself in the same position all over again, of loving someone who could not love me in return.” 

“It is not the same,” his voice is insistent, and you find him looking at you with urgent earnesty, “You must know, I love you as I have loved no other.” 

You feel your chest swell and your heart beating hard as you hold his gaze. “And I you.” 

You ride on, and talk of other things until it is time again to make camp for the night. Again, you build a fire and lay out the bedding and eat your supper. This time, you lean against his chest, with his arm wrapped around you, as you watch the flame and he smokes his pipe, sitting together in quiet contentment. 

But again, your curiosity breaks the spell. You shift, sitting up and turning to look at him. He meets your gaze, his own filled with such open warmth and love it makes your heart ache. 

“Tell me,” you fiddle with the ties of his shirt, and then look up at him, “How would one say ‘my king’ in elvish?” 

His eyes widen, and his cheeks darken with a blush. You smile at the evidence of your effect on him, and playfully steal the pipe from his lips, taking a puff of it yourself while you wait for his answer. 

“Nin aran.” He says, his voice quiet and slightly hoarse. 

You snuff out the pipe and set it aside before climbing into his lap and draping your arms around his shoulders. 

“Will you lie with me again tonight, nin aran?”

His arms wrap tight around your waist, crushing you close against his chest. “I will do whatever you ask, nin rís.” 

And he does– bringing you pleasure three times over in one night, and caring for you with impossible gentleness in the aftermath. You don’t fall asleep right away this time, instead holding onto the arm he lays across your chest, drawing little circles and patterns onto his skin as you stare up at the stars. 

“I did not know it could be like this, either.” You speak softly, feeling the warmth of his breath on your temple before he lays a soft kiss there, “With Thèodred it was always more painful than pleasing, at least for my part. And he never…” 

“Tasted you?” 

You blush, still unused to the activity, though you were already quite fond of it. “No, never.”

“I feel badly for him then,” Aragorn shifts, leaning over you slightly and you can see his smile, “For you are the finest thing I have ever tasted.” 

Your blush deepens and you find you cannot hold his gaze, but this only seems to encourage him as he laughs and leans down to kiss you. That, at least, you are able to return. 

The next day, as you draw within a few miles of Minas Tirith, you find yourself growing melancholy. You don’t want this delicate routine to end, the simplicity and happiness of spending your days riding with Aragorn, your nights in his arms, and every moment in his company. While you don’t doubt his love, or your willingness to maintain this new stage of your relationship, things will necessarily change the moment you return to the citadel. 

“Nin mel,” he calls to you, and you realize you’ve ridden ahead as he slows his horse to a stop by a small pond, fed by a brook trickling down from the mountain, “Let us stop for a moment.” 

You turn around and return to him, dismounting and letting go of your horse as it drinks from the pond beside his. 

“I thought we should speak more…specifically, before we return home.” He says, and then steps closer to take your hands in his. “I do not use the name nin rís lightly. I would have no queen, no wife, but you. That however, is no condition of my love. I will have whatever you wish to give me of yourself, be it your consent to be my wife, a place in your bed, or simply the knowledge that you love me, I will be honored.” 

“Aragorn,” you begin. 

“Do not answer yet,” he pleads, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before he lets go of your hands and lowers himself to the ground before you, palms set on his knees as he looks up at you like you are a god and he is but your subject. 

“I kneel before you, the woman I would cross mountains and oceans for, the woman who could command me to battle or to bed, the woman I would gladly kill and die for, the woman who I will live for. I pledge my sword, my honor, my life, and my heart, to you.” 

Smiling, though you feel tears beginning to press behind your eyes, you reach out and tilt his chin up to look at you, as he once did to you, all those years ago. 

“I would have only your love.” 

“You do.” He lifts his hand to yours and turns his head to kiss your palm, “As long as I live, you have my love.” 

You kneel now as well, and press your other hand to his cheek. “I would have no king, no husband, but you.” 

His smile is the most beautiful smile you have ever seen, just before he wraps his arms around you and holds you close. You press your face into his shoulder, breathing him in, and thanking the Valar for all that came before which allowed you to find this moment, this happiness, now. 

#aragorn #aragorn x reader #aragorn x you #aragorn fanfiction #lotr #lotr fanfiction #lord of the rings #lord of the rings fanfiction #aragorn smut #reader insert #ladylibby

[ladylibby]

Ring of Fire - I.

Masterlist

Summary: Thirteen years after the second Quarter Quell, District Twelve has yet to see another Victor, and Haymitch has yet to see a reason to smile. That is until your name is drawn, just a week before your nineteenth birthday, and both your lives change forever.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, trauma

You read once that children used to look forward to summer. In the old world, the one that came before Panem and the war between the Capitol and the Districts, summer brought warmth and fun and freedom and time to grow and play. The lengthening daylight, the melting snow, the fields and flowers growing all meant hope. 

But as long as you’ve been alive, summer has always meant death. 

Because when summer comes, so does the Reaping. And the Games inevitably follow. 

You woke on the morning of the Reaping for the 63rd Hunger Games with a knot of dread in your stomach that has only grown heavier and heavier, settling like a rock as you stand in the bright sunshine, awaiting the names of the tributes. 

Ahead of you, standing with the younger girls, your sister Sage turns to look at you. You offer as much of a smile as you can manage, giving her a nod of encouragement. 

It’s her first Reaping, along with her twin brother, Amos. You turn to find him with the boys, though he looks resolutely ahead at the stage where the mayor recites the history of the Games. 

Seeing them apart, separated, on the precipice of something so horrible, leaves an ache in your chest. They’ve always been close, but lately it’s rare to see them apart, their hands held tight together, finding strength in each other. They’ve been that way since Pa died during the cold months. 

Because winter means death, too. 

Sickness and starvation creeping in, without the meager crops of the warm seasons, was what took Ma first. She was still weak after Sage came into the world the wrong way around, tearing out after Amos and leaving Ma a ghost before she was even gone. 

Twelve years later, Pa disappeared in the blink of an eye, executed for trying to sell contraband to the wrong sort of Peacekeeper. One minute he was there, kissing your head as he left to check his game traps in the woods, and then he was gone. 

Aleen came in his place, with the sad news and a promise to look in on you. To help, as much as she could. 

“It’s okay.” You mouth to Sage now, as much for yourself as for her. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

The odds are as much in her favor as they can be. Both she and Amos only have their names written once this first year. Yours is written thirty-four times after five years of applying for tesserae for your family. You just have to survive the odds stacked against you, just this last year, before you’ll be free. 

Free to apprentice with Aleen, to become a badly needed second midwife for Twelve, to have a chance at supporting your family with more than just the scraps you scavenge and trade in the Hob. A chance to help the women of your district, like you couldn’t help your mother. 

Your heart pounds and the knot of dread twists even tighter as Mayor Undersee steps to the side and reaches into the glass bowl. You hope and you pray, for the name to be anyone’s but your sister. 

“The female tribute from District Twelve is,” he unfolds the paper, “Y/N L/N.” 

The breath stalls in your chest and the world goes silent, until you hear your sister’s voice. 

“No.” She warbles, small and desperate.

The sound has your feet moving, instinctively pressing closer. You stumble and shuffle past the others, feeling the cold mix of relief and pity in their gazes. 

“It’s okay,” you say aloud, meeting her wide-eyed, terrified gaze as you pass, “It’s okay.” 

This is not the first time you’ve had to look your baby sister in the eye and tell her what you wish someone would tell you. This is not the first time you’ve had to lie to protect her. 

You walk up the steps to the stage, forcing your gaze to your feet to keep from tripping as the sight of your own shocked, terrified expression on the large projector screen overwhelms you. 

As you take your place next to the mayor, you see Amos, his expression pinched and his hands clenched in the way that means he’s trying not to cry. He’s done that since he was four. 

You take a breath, quick and shallow, the knot of dread releasing into nausea as the mayor reaches for the other bowl and you stare at your little brother, willing the card to say anything but his name. 

“Felix Leavenworth.” 

You exhale, hating the relief you feel, but feeling it all the same, as you watch a boy you recognize– one of Amos’s classmates, just as young and undeserving of this fate. He walks closer until you can see the tears in his eyes and the tremble in his hands. You don’t want him to die, either.

But you cannot leave your siblings to starve. You cannot leave them alone in the world without someone who knows which songs will get them to sleep, how to season the rabbit so that they’ll eat it, or which stories about Ma and Pa to tell to keep their memories alive. 

You feel as if you leave a piece of yourself behind when you say goodbye. 

“Water the garden like I showed you. You’ll have food to eat from the harvest.” You tell them, trying desperately to say everything there is to say in the three minutes you’re allowed. “Trade my clothes, Ma’s jewelry, whatever you can for food in the winter. Go to Aleen. Aleen will help you, but you have to take care of each other.” 

“You’ll come back.” Amos says, determined despite the tears now running down his face. “You’ll win, and you’ll come back.” 

“You have to come back.” Sage pleads, clinging to your neck. 

“I’ll try. I promise, I’ll do my best.” You say, feeling your throat closing up with desperation. “I love you both. I will fight for you. Always.” 

The door opens. “Time’s up.” 

“No, no, no, you can’t leave. Please!” 

You grab them tight and kiss each of their heads and say what Pa used to say: 

“Be good. I’ll be back soon.” 

As they’re dragged out the door, one screaming, the other silent, you drop your head in your hands and sob, praying that what you’ve said isn’t another lie. 

~

Haymitch skips the Reaping. He hasn’t been to one in thirteen years, and this year is no different. 

Besides, he had to fortify himself for the train ride. Feeling the quiet hum of power, the flashing speed of the landscape disappearing outside, it always makes him feel like he’s hurtling towards his death all over again– a death that never came, and yet kills him a little bit every day. 

He holds his left hand to his stomach, over that phantom pain, stretching his right hand out to catch the wall as he sways for a moment, off-balance enough without the train shuddering. He managed to limit himself to finishing off a half-empty bottle of wine before getting on the train, if only for knowing the bar in the dining car is always well-stocked with the harder stuff. 

The Capitol has some virtues, after all.

The carriage door opens with a hydraulic rush, and he shoulders through the doorway. Haymitch freezes for a second when he realizes he’s not alone. They aren’t supposed to be here. The last two years, the tributes never really came out of their rooms until they reached the Capitol. 

Clearly, this year will be different. 

The girl doesn’t look much like a girl– all tall, poised, and beautiful. She can’t be more than eighteen if she’s here, but she has the manner of a woman, a girl grown up too soon. The boy is a boy, no doubt about it. Skinny, small, probably picked at his first Reaping, chosen to die before he has a chance to grow up. She has her hand on the boy’s shoulder, sitting close with her head bowed, an intent expression on her face. He looks at her like she holds the secrets of the universe in her hands. 

This is dangerous, the kindness of her touch, the vulnerable trust written across his face. Caring can keep you alive, but it will also get you killed. 

Haymitch has always believed the Reaping is rigged (beyond just putting kids’ names in more than once), and these two look primed and ready to lift hopes and break hearts across the Districts when they inevitably die horrible, violent deaths.

And they will die. They always do.

He should just grab the bottles and slink back to his room. If they don’t talk first, then he doesn’t have to say anything. He doesn’t have to acknowledge his role in all of this– the pied piper leading the children to slaughter. 

But the woman – the girl – she, meets his gaze with a kind of expectation, a mix of hope and demand and his mouth opens on its own. 

“Whatever you think you know, trust me, you don’t.” 

She sits back, her spine straightening and her gaze narrowing, while the boy shrinks further, hugging his arms around himself. 

“You’re Haymitch?” She asks, but it doesn’t sound like much of a question. 

“The one and only.” He turns his back to her, picking up a heavy crystal tumbler glass, dropping in some ice and then pouring about four fingers of whisky. 

“Tell us, then.” She says, “Tell us what we need to know.” 

“Look, kid,” he takes a big swig and then swings around to face her, “It’s about more than telling. I can say all kinds of things, teach you everything there is to know about the Games, but you won’t get out of there alive unless you know what to do.” 

“Find shelter, water, food.” She says, “Outlast as many as we can, and fight if we have to.” 

She’s off to a better start than most. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Y/N.” 

Pretty girl, pretty name, that’s how it always goes. 

“You’re from the Seam?” 

She nods. He nods back, slower, taking another drink. He’s not sure why he asked, other than that he can picture her running through the same trees as he did, hearing the mine whistle each day, watching the daily trudge of fathers and scrimping and scraping of mothers. There’s a hunger in her eyes, a determination that he recognizes. 

“Surviving in Twelve isn’t the same as surviving in the Games.” He says, “Getting out of the arena is the easy part. Turning the odds in your favor before you go in is the hard part.” 

“Like cheating?” The boy looks appalled. 

“It speaks.” Haymitch raises his eyebrows, taking another sip. “I prefer to call it strategy. Get the people to love you, to root for you, make them want to do anything to make sure you’re the one walking out a victor. Reputation. Image. Performance. That’s what matters. No one cares, unless you can give them a good show.” 

The boy goes pale enough for Haymitch to count each freckle on his face. But the gears are already turning in the girl’s head, Haymitch can see it. She’s a smart one. Not to be underestimated. 

“Family.” She says, eyes bright, “Felix’s mother and a father. My younger sister and brother. We’re fighting for them anyway, as well as ourselves. We’ll look selfless…noble, if we make it about winning for our loved ones, about going back to the people– the people we’re leaving behind.”

She covers the falter well, hiding the raw emotion as soon as it emerges, but Haymitch notices. 

“No parents?” He asks.

She shakes her head. 

An orphan left to raise orphans. Tale as old as time. 

“It’s a good enough place to start,” He says, his throat feeling dry. He knocks back the rest of the whisky, and then turns to exchange the glass for the bottle. “We’ll talk details tomorrow. That’s enough mentoring for today.” 

Even as he turns and walks back through the door, hearing the rush of air behind him, all he can see is her determined gaze. 

~

When you reach The Capitol, it feels like stepping onto another planet. Everything is shiny and white and clean, made of stone and metal and glass, stretching up higher than any tree you’ve ever seen. Even the people look different, they walk with a slow, unhurried grace, dressed in clothes of the finest fabric, dyed every color. Some, like your stylist Chrysanthemum – who purred, “You must call me Chrys, darling.” –  have augmented their hair colors and facial features. Chrys has bright green hair, worn long and slicked back against their skull, and pointed ears with piercings all the way round. 

You’re grateful, even through the humiliation and pain of being scrubbed and waxed and plucked and picked within an inch of your life, that at least your face is still yours at the end of the process– just cleaner and more beautiful than you ever remember seeing it before. 

Everything is unfamiliar, from the food to the furniture to the clothes, and you cling to the two things you know: your schedule, and the people from Twelve. Every day, you follow the same routine– training with the other tributes in the morning, and training with your mentor in the afternoon. Evenings are free for tributes to do what they like within the Tribute Building. You hear the Careers talking sometimes, about whatever fun they’d gotten up to the night before, but you can’t imagine doing anything but resting while you can. The days are exhausting, enough that you’re actually able to sleep most nights. 

In the morning training sessions, you and Felix keep to yourselves. Haymitch insisted you shouldn’t focus on any skills you already have, not wanting to make yourselves targets. Instead, you try to learn what you can, from camouflage to fishing to wound triage. During the morning sessions, you and Felix stay away from each other as well, not wanting to project any kind of alliance to the others. Still, you keep a protective eye on him throughout the mornings, wincing when he falls from the climbing ropes and grinning with pride when he successfully starts a campfire. 

He’s nowhere near a match for the Careers. Neither are you, really. Their presence overwhelms the training center, with their cheers and jeers and shows of physical intimidation. The girl from One and the boy from Two are clearly the most skilled. The girl, Silk, moves like a dancer, but fights like a killer, dropping and pinning any of the trainers she spars with. The boy, Cassius, is huge for a seventeen year old, big and broad and muscular. He destroyed a punching bag on the second day, and left you watching with wide, terrified eyes. 

Apart from the Careers, the other tributes mostly keep to themselves. Some show off more than others, like the boy from Five and girl from Seven, he’s a deadshot with a crossbow and she can dismember a training dummy with an ax in five seconds flat. The two tributes from Three are quiet, unassuming, but you’ve noticed them creating tools out of seemingly random items, like a water filtration device from mesh, charcoal, sand, and a plastic bottle. The girl noticed you watching, on the third day, and you hesitantly offered a smile. She smiled back. 

She’s older than Felix, but younger than you. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. Her hair is dark and cut close to her scalp, sleek and spiky. The next day, she offered to show you how to make a slingshot out of sticks and rubber bands if you showed her how to set a snare. 

You did, and learned her name is Ava. Her counterpart is Theo, who’s thirteen and still round-faced and childlike, his eyes twinkling with excitement when he explains how the holographic projections in the arena work. 

You’re wary of making an alliance, other than with Felix. It could be helpful, at first, but you know you can’t truly trust anyone. And the idea of having to turn on a friend…it seems better not to make friends at all. 

In the afternoons, you and Felix train together with Haymitch in the private gym designated for Twelve. Over the days spent training, you’ve learned a lot from Haymitch– more than you ever expected. The more time you spend with him, the more you realize the complexity behind the reputation. He hasn’t been as drunk as you expected. Yes, he always has a drink on hand, but he’s also always alert and engaging, seeming to use the alcohol as more of a crutch than a complete escape. 

Although from what you’ve learned about his games, you wouldn’t blame him for wanting to drown it all away. You looked up the footage that first night on the train, unable to sleep for the grief and anxiety and determination vying for dominance in your chest. You were only six when he was Reaped and put in that arena with twice the number of tributes at just sixteen. You were too young to watch at the time, but that night you watched, unable to look away, as he suffered and fought and survived, playing the game his own way. 

You didn’t tell him what you’d seen, but you approached him with greater understanding after that. You came to realize the sarcasm, the splash of whisky in his coffee, the guarded expression in his eyes, it’s all a part of the strategy– it’s how he survives. And at the end of all this, you and Felix should be so lucky as to be like him. A miserable, prickly alcoholic by the age of thirty– but alive. And still fighting. 

That’s what he’s doing, in his own way, fighting for you and for Felix. 

Training you, schmoozing with sponsors on your behalf, talking through your assessments of other tributes for possible allies, you imagine it can’t all be easy for him, but you need all the help he can give.

“The Gamemakers will call you in, one at a time, and assess you. Going in district order, you’ll be last,” Haymitch explained, leveling his gaze directly at you, “So you have to make an impression.”

You showed him what you could do– run fast, set traps and snares, and throw knives with decent accuracy. Haymitch watched with eyebrows raised and arms crossed. 

“Where’d you learn that?” 

“Pa– my father, he taught me. He used to take me hunting and trapping.” 

Haymitch’s eyebrows lowered, and he nods in understanding before his lips quirk and he asks: 

“He ever teach you to fight?” 

You shook your head, and he beckoned you forward, the two of you standing across from each other on the training mats. He showed you a fighting stance, making you mirror his lifted arms and wide-set legs before moving over to gently adjust your left leg back and lift your right elbow higher. Then he returned to his original spot and told you to attack him. 

You hesitated a moment, glancing at Felix standing wide-eyed off to the side, before you rushed your mentor. You were flat on your back with his forearm pressed to your neck in less than a minute. He rolled off of you and helped you up, only to flip you over his shoulder and onto your back again, leaving you winded and bewildered. You grew frustrated then, but focused, hooking your foot around his leg and knocking him off balance enough to launch yourself at his torso, gaining the upper hand for maybe a minute before he had you pinned again. The two of you continued like that until you were sticky with sweat, tapping out only when you noticed Felix had fallen asleep on the sidelines, and you guiltily insisted Haymitch give him a turn. 

Today, on the last day of training before the evaluations tomorrow, you’re determined to prove that you’re ready. You’re fighting Haymitch, same as before, but this time he holds a dulled training knife in his hand, slashing and jabbing at you in a close range. You duck and dodge and grapple for the blade, grabbing and twisting his wrist while slamming a knee into his stomach, satisfied by the rush of air exiting his mouth. The knife drops and you swipe his leg out from under him, pushing forward with your own weight to slam his back into the mat, pinning his arms with your knees.

He told you not to hold back, that no one will be holding back in the arena, so you don’t. Besides, you’re starting to suspect he enjoys the fighting. He always seems more alive afterwards, more alert and awake, despite the bumps and bruises. He smiles, wide and bright, better than those sarcastic smirks, whenever you get a maneuver right, whenever you gain the upper hand. Like now, as you grab the knife and press the fake blade to his throat, a proud grin spreads across his face. 

You can’t help your own smile growing, a product of your success and the exercise endorphins releasing in your brain. You shift to free his arms from under your knees as you catch your breath. His hands lift to your hips, and he pats your left side. 

“Nice moves there, hotshot.”  

“Thanks,” you breathe, mindlessly placing your palm on his chest for balance as you sit up, shifting your weight more heavily onto his hips.

His hands tighten suddenly on your hips and you inhale sharply, heart pumping as you half-expect another sparring match to begin, but he just lifts you off of him and sets you down on the mat. Haymitch clears his throat as he sits up with his legs bent, his arm resting casually over his knees, though his cheeks are noticeably flushed.

“Are you alright?” You ask, confused. “I didn’t– did I hurt you?” 

He lets out a short laugh, pushing his hair back away from his face, and gives you a grim sort of smile. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Don’t worry, kid.” 

You feel a flash of annoyance at the nickname. It’s a reminder of your situation, of your fate. You are not a child, and yet you are helpless, at the mercy of the Capitol and its games.

“I’m almost nineteen.” You say, regretting the pathetic statement the moment it leaves your mouth. 

“What?” 

“I’m not a kid.” You don’t look at him, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. 

There’s a pause, and then he says: “When’s your birthday?” 

You don’t know why you brought it up anymore, or why he cares enough to ask, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “In five days.” 

 Haymitch doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. He knows as well as you do that five days from now, though you’ll be too old for the games, you’ll be in that arena all the same. You take a deep breath, forcing the hot bite of tears away, and look at Haymitch. 

“It’s Felix’s turn.” You hold the knife out, the handle turned towards him, and he takes it. 

You and Felix switch places, and you stretch on the sidelines, watching as he gets pummeled every time, the same as every day before. Haymitch glances at you every once in a while, and you ignore his gaze, knowing his expression is fraught with understanding– you’re ready, but Felix is not. And as you watch Felix’s small, lanky body overpowered easily by Haymitch’s strength and experience, you feel a sense of calm decision settle in the back of your mind. 

You are not a child, but Felix is– just like Sage and Amos. Just like those sweet children you’re here to save, to secure their future. Felix has a mother and a father, who live in a house in town instead of a shack in the Seam with cracked walls, unlikely to starve or freeze through the winter. Felix is a child, but he has a good and kind heart. He’s a soft soul. If he goes home with the winnings of a Victor, he can share his security with Amos and Sage. He can make sure they have a house and parents and enough food and warmth to ease the pain of losing a sister. 

So you have a plan. You’ll help Felix survive– teach him what you know, protect him in the arena, get him as far as you can in the Games. And at the end, Felix will win, one way or another. He has to.

~

Even as Haymitch drains what’s left in his flask, he knows there’s not enough alcohol in Panem to make the tribute interviews bearable. 

The new face of the Capitol, Caesar Flickerman, is about Haymitch’s age, but seems almost inhuman, vapid and overly cheerful as he chatters on and on to a parade of children on the verge of a horrible, gruesome death. Haymitch watches the rest of the audience more than the interviews, evaluating their interest, their investment, and looking for potential available sponsors. 

By the time the male tribute from District Eleven is wrapping up, the crowd is flagging, losing interest and murmuring distractedly. Haymitch shifts in his seat, feeling a pang of nervousness, feeling a twist of worry for her. 

He knows he shouldn’t, she’s doing well– better than any tribute he’s seen in years. She knocked it out of the park yesterday, scoring a ten in the skill evaluations. No tribute from Twelve has broken above a seven in the last decade. Haymitch was so excited he could have kissed her. He didn’t, obviously, but he could have, he was just so proud. 

But as Flickerman announces her name, gesturing off-stage for her entrance, Haymitch holds his breath. The crowd applauds and she emerges, stepping gracefully up onto the stage and taking Flickerman’s hand with a smile, and Haymitch’s breath leaves his chest in a rush. 

She’s stunning.

Her stylist, for all their questionable personal taste, knew exactly what they were doing with her. The natural beauty he couldn’t help but notice even when she was coal-smudged and starving is accentuated by subtle, smoky makeup and hair styled meticulously to look effortlessly simple. The kicker is the dress, a sleek, flowing number with shifting, swirling colors of black and ember, the allure of her fire rivaling the sparkling gems and gold of District One. Haymitch feels himself leaning forward with the rest of the crowd, drawn in and captivated, just like everyone else, as she sinks elegantly into her chair. 

“My goodness,” Flickerman fawns, “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you look absolutely gorgeous. Doesn’t she?” 

The crowd erupts into even louder cheers and applause, jumping at the chance to be involved, to be noticed. Get in line, folks.

“Oh,” She flushes, looking genuinely – but not unpleasantly – bewildered at the attention, “It’s all due to my stylist, really.”

“Beautiful and humble,” Flickerman grins, “Are there any virtues you don’t possess?” 

“Oh, plenty.” She laughs. 

“Do tell.” 

Haymitch leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of his mouth. Careful, kid. 

“Well, I’m an overprotective sister, certainly.” 

Good start. 

“That doesn’t sound like a fault to me.” 

“Trust me, Caesar, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my family, including–” she smiles, her eyes twinkling, “One time, throwing snowballs at a bobcat.” 

“Now that is a story I have to hear.” The host turns to the audience again, “Don’t you?” 

The crowd cheers again, eager and engaged, while Haymitch just shakes his head and grins, sitting back in his chair as she begins to speak. 

Here we go…

“It was winter, about five years ago now, so I was fourteen and my sister and brother were only seven. Our father was out, fixing up a neighbor’s roof that had collapsed during the last snow storm.” She’s a good storyteller, setting the scene as the room falls into an entranced hush. “I was finishing up my chores while the kids played in the snow outside, thinking everything was fine until I realized it had gotten quiet out there. Too quiet. I went to the door and looked out, planning to call for them, when I saw them standing still and staring off toward the woods. I looked where they were looking and I saw it. A bobcat, not a big one, but it must have been desperate and hungry if it had wandered so close to town.” 

“Hungry enough to eat a seven-year-old?” Flickerman murmurs. 

“Exactly.” She nods gravely. “I thought– well, I guess I wasn’t really thinking. I just knew I had to get the thing away from my siblings. So I start screaming and gathering snowballs and throwing them, figuring I’d either scare it away or turn its attention to me long enough for the kids to run and get help. Luckily, a snowball or two to the face seemed to scare it more than make it angry, and it ran off back into the woods, never to be seen again.” 

“Oh, brava,” the host applauds, and the crowd joins in– even Haymitch, though he’s clapping more for her performance than the story itself. He couldn’t have coached her to do better if he tried. “There must have been snowballs in that evaluation room yesterday, for you scored a ten. A ten! The highest score for a tribute from your district in over a decade. Your parents must be very proud of you.” 

“I think they would be.” She smiles wistfully, and Haymitch can tell she knows what she’s doing now, pitching her tone to the perfect level of regret, without becoming melodramatic. “But they’ve both passed on, now. I’m the only family my brother and sister have left.” 

A gasp and murmur runs through the crowd, the plush and privileged people of the Capitol imagining the hardship of this brave, beautiful girl raising her brother and sister, forced to leave them behind as she faces death.

They have no idea.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry to hear that.” Flickerman pats her hand. “And what are your brother and sister’s names?” 

“Amos and Sage.” 

“Amos and Sage,” Flickerman echoes, smiling thoughtfully, “And is there anything you’d like to say to them, if they’re watching right now?” 

“Yes.” She nods, and then shifts to speak directly to the audience, to one of the many cameras hidden hovering in the dark theater. “I miss you both, more than I can say, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you. And I promise I’m going to fight for you, for as long as I can.” 

Haymitch can tell she chose her words carefully, but the emotion underlying it all is real. He can see and hear and feel the love she carries for those kids, and the heartbreak of leaving them behind. 

The rest of the room feels it too, quiet and somber as she turns back to Flickerman. Haymitch even hears a few sniffles among the audience as Flickerman takes her hand and kisses the back of her hand. Creep. 

“What a moving message,” he says, “I think I speak for all of us when I say we wish you the best of luck, and hope to see you reunited with your family soon. What do you say, folks? Can we give it up one more time for the beautiful, the lovely, Y/N L/N!” 

The crowd erupts again, clapping and cheering and whooping, and for the first time that night– getting to their feet for a standing ovation. 

Atta girl. 

Pride swelling warm in his chest, Haymitch stands and takes advantage of the fanfare and distraction, shuffling his way out of the row and down the aisle. He shoulders through the side door and navigates to the backstage hallway, arriving just a moment before she comes through the door from the stage as Flickerman announces the boy next. She looks stunned, her expression strained and slightly frightened as an usher holds the door open for her. 

When their eyes meet, she visibly relaxes, and she smiles. “Haymitch.” 

His pride swells even bigger, and he steps forward and sweeps her into a hug. She wraps her arms around his neck, squeezing him back. 

Jesus, she even smells good.

Her stylist must have spritzed her with some kind of fancy perfume, but somehow it smells exactly like those beautiful blue flowers that only grow in District Twelve in the summer. 

“Was I alright?” She asks, pulling away and searching his face with anxious desperation. “I feel like I blacked out.” 

Haymitch cuts her off with a gentle hand on her arm, “You were fucking brilliant.” 

She beams. “Really?” 

“Forget the sponsors, I think you just got all of Panem behind you for this thing.” 

She sighs, relieved, and then her eyes widen and she spins around. Haymitch follows her gaze to the hologram projection of the stage, presenting the live interview feed. This time Haymitch sighs, and not in relief. 

“How have you found our Capitol, Felix? Is it everything you ever dreamed it would be?” 

“Yeah, it’s great!” the boy bobs his head, looking visibly terrified, “But—um, I guess, I haven’t seen much of it? We don’t—we don’t really leave the tribute building. Training, and stuff.” 

Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Training and stuff.’ Jesus.

“Of course,” Flickerman says, smiling diplomatically, “And what will you do if you win the games? With the world at your fingertips, what would you reach out and grab?” 

Haymitch hears Y/N inhale and hold her breath. He watches the boy on the screen, fidgeting and frightened. 

Come on, come on, pull it together.

“I don’t—um, I just want to go home.” He looks tiny and terrified, more pathetic than pitiful, “I just want to see my mom and dad again.” 

“Dammit.” Haymitch shakes his head, pacing away in frustration.  

“Haymitch.” 

He stops, turning at the feeling of her hand on his arm, gripped tight. 

“Haymitch, listen to me.” She looks intense and powerful, enough that Haymitch feels himself snap to attention. “Whatever sponsors I get, throw them to Felix. Tell them it’s for me if you have to, but send whatever he needs. I’ll find him in the arena and protect him, I’ll make sure he survives.” 

Haymitch can barely believe what he’s hearing. 

“I’ll talk to him tonight, and explain,” She continues, a frightening certainty in her gaze. “If he wins, if I make sure he’s the last one, then Amos and Sage can live with him and his parents. I’ve seen them, they’re nice people. They’ll take care of my brother and sister.” 

“No,” Haymitch shakes his head, turning to face her, “What— you can’t guarantee any of that. And— that's beside the point— why would you— don’t— don’t you–” he grits his teeth, grabbing her shoulders, trying to make her understand, “You have a real chance here. You can’t give it up.” 

He shouldn’t care. Caring gets other people killed. Caring gets you hurt. Haymitch learned that lesson too many times– with Maysilee, with his mother, with his sister. He’s made a point of not caring. Keeping himself at arms-length. Keeping things professional, not personal. Except now, after more than ten years, he’s gone and put a crack in the walls he’s worked so hard to build, just to see a glimmer of light that will only be snuffed out in a matter of days, maybe even hours. He squeezes her arms tighter, feeling it slip out of his grasp– his control over the preparation, the strategy, the only thing he can offer. All because she can’t see the value of her own survival. She can’t see how in this never-ending cycle of power and abuse that no one ever wins, she has the most potential to put the odds in her favor of anyone he’s ever seen. 

“I’m not giving it up.” She shoves his hands away and crosses her arms, “I’m giving it to Felix. He’s just a kid. He deserves a chance to live.” 

“And you don’t?” 

His chest squeezes as she holds herself tighter, her eyes shining with the desperate helplessness of a kind soul trying to do the right thing in the face of an impossible choice. 

“I can’t just let him die.” She shakes her head, pushing past him to walk down the hall toward the dressing rooms, effectively ending the discussion. 

Haymitch just stands there, watching her go, feeling the world spinning out of control around him. 

But I can’t let you die, either. 

~

On the morning of the Games, you feel oddly calm. Unlike the Reaping, when you were haunted by a creeping sense of doom, now you’re resigned. You will die. You will not live to see your home, or your family, again. But you will not die in vain. You will fight, and you will survive, to protect your friend, and in doing so, you will protect your brother and sister, too. That knowledge, that purpose, is what provides your sense of calm, your sense of focus, as you prepare to face your death. 

They separate the tributes from each district for final preparations, the Peacekeepers injecting each of you with trackers to monitor your location and vital signs before escorting you into a small, white-walled room beneath the enormous arena. You knew Chrys would be waiting for you, but you’re surprised to see Haymitch as well, leaning against the smooth metal table that has your arena uniform folded on top of it. 

You glance back at the faceless helmets of the Peacekeepers, but they don’t react to the sight of your mentor, simply turning around and taking their stations outside the door as it shuts with a hydraulic whoosh. You turn back and give Haymitch a questioning look. 

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you, but–” 

“What the hell am I doing here?” Haymitch finishes for you, his mouth quirking up into a smile. 

“Yeah.” You nod, distracted by Chrys lifting your uniform from the table. 

Haymitch straightens up and shifts out of their way. He opens his mouth to reply, when Chrys clears their throat and shoots him a look. He rolls his eyes, but turns to face the other direction, talking while Chrys helps you strip out of your clothes and pull on the uniform. 

“Mentors are allowed to give last-minute advice.” Haymitch explains, and you watch his hands fidget at his sides, realizing this is the first time you’ve seen him without a drink handy – even during training, he always had a bottle of “diluted” water nearby. “And before you get on to me about seeing the kid, I already talked to him before you left. I impressed upon him the importance of getting away from the cornucopia and finding somewhere high and out of the way to hide and wait for you. The same goes for you, hotshot. Don’t risk the bloodbath for weapons, just get the hell out of there and find food, water, and shelter. The longer you last, the less people you’ll have to kill to get what you need. Look– this is ridiculous, can I turn around now?” 

You give Chrys a questioning look. They sigh, but tell Haymitch it’s fine. He turns around as Chrys fits a big heavy coat over your shoulders. Your uniform is layered, with soft-lined skin tight trousers and an equally fitted long-sleeve shirt under thicker, waterproof pants and the fur-lined, hooded coat on top. You wear thick-soled boots and fleece-lined gloves, both as pristine white as the rest of the ensemble. You’re too warm in the small, underground room, but you imagine the arena above must be unforgivingly cold. 

You’re already thinking through the possibilities. From the concerned, focused look on Haymitch’s face, he is too. If there’s snow, you’ll have trouble finding food, though it’ll be easy to track animals, it’ll be hard to hide your own tracks from other tributes. Likewise, you’ll be hard-pressed to find shelter, or dry firewood. That’s if there’s trees at all, and it’s not a bare tundra leaving you completely exposed for the ensuing bloodbath. 

“It’s almost time.” Chrys reminds you, not unkindly, as they zip up your coat and brush invisible specs of dust from the sleeves before stepping back. 

Your curated sense of calm falters, cracking under the sudden reality of this– the uncertainty of everything except your own death. A lump forms in your throat and your eyes burn with unwanted tears as you force a shaky breath in and out. 

“Hey, look at me.” Haymitch moves in to occupy the space Chrys just left, his hands gently grasping your shoulders, and you force yourself to focus on his face. His eyes are a soft, gentle blue, the pale skin around the corners just starting to crease. For all of his moods and grumblings, he’s still young— a decade older than you, but not yet old. His hair is too long and too lanky, but not yet gray. His grip is strong, his hands warm even through the material of your coat. He is young and alive. Fighting and surviving and playing the game. The game you are about to enter. 

“You fight. You survive. You don’t give up.” He sighs, looking down for a second before meeting your gaze again, “But I want you to know that no matter what happens, I’ll make sure Amos and Sage are looked after. I’ll make sure they’re alright.” 

You hear a hydraulic sound, looking to your left to see the door opening to the large plastic chute that will take you up to the arena. 

“Time to go.” Chrys says, sounding close to tears as they step up behind Haymitch’s shoulder. “Good luck, darling.”

Your hands shoot up in desperation, your chest tightening as hard as your grip on Haymitch’s wrists.

“You have to swear—”

“I swear.” He pulls you in against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around your back, his voice steady and serious. “I’ll take care of them. I promise.” 

You can only nod once into his shoulder, feeling the ends of his long blonde hair tickle your cheek. You inhale deeply, your chest aching to find he smells like home, like pine and woodsmoke. You exhale and force yourself out of his still lingering grasp, turning around and stepping into the tube. The door shuts and seals, and you exhale as the platform begins to rise. You can feel Chrys and Haymitch watching you, but you can’t let yourself look back. Instead, you lift your head and take one more deep breath before you enter the arena.

The sky opens above you and cold air floods in, waking every nerve in your body. You’re blind for a moment, disoriented by the pure white light all around. You blink furiously, and your eyes slowly adjust. You’re surrounded by white snow, reflecting the bright sun above. In front of you, the hulking form of the cornucopia sits, its wide mouth pointing slightly to your left and the tail pointing to the sky, the sunlight beaming off of the concave metal in all directions. Squinting against the glare, you turn your head to see the other tributes fanning out in a circle to either side of you. 

“Welcome, tributes, to the 63rd annual Hunger Games.” A disembodied voice booms through the air, as a projected countdown clock appears in the sky, ticking down from twenty-four. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

24

Your heart pounds as you quickly scan the other tributes, trying to find Felix, glancing back at the clock. 

23

The boy from Ten is to your left, and the girl from Four is to your right. 

22

You see Ava, three platforms away to the right, and Theo two more past her. 

21

Felix must be on the other side of the cornucopia, obscured by the massive structure. 

20

You force yourself to breathe. To trust that he’ll turn right around and run away, that he’ll hide and wait for you to find him. 

19

From where you stand, you’re at a good enough angle to see inside the cornucopia, though the various offerings spill outwards, placed on the ground or on short white columns extending a few yards beyond the mouth of the cavern. 

18

Lying on the ground closest to you, but not close enough, you see a backpack. It’s zipped shut, but you imagine it’s filled with useful supplies. 

17

Further away, but still outside the shadowed interior of the cornucopia, you see a set of hunting knives, tucked neatly in a leather carrier, displayed on top of a column. 

16

Squinting, you can just make out part of the treasure trove set deep inside the cornucopia. The gleam of weapons, the outline of backpacks, the edge of shelves likely containing food, medicine, and clean water. 

15

You turn your attention to the wider arena. The cornucopia is in a clearing of sorts, with a forest of tall conifer trees surrounding your circle of tributes like a dark, snow-dusted wall. 

14

The shape of a mountain rises in the distance beyond the cornucopia, the forest thinning towards the rocky peak. 

13

Behind you and off to the right, you can just make out the glint of water through the trees. 

12

It’s probably a river, given the freezing temperature. A still body of water would likely be frozen over.

11

If you run back that way, and follow the flow upstream, it’ll likely lead you to the mountain. 

10

If Felix runs the way he should, he’ll be running to the mountain. Maybe he’ll be able to climb a tree or build a shelter. 

9

The tributes nearest to you are looking around, surveying, planning, just like you. The boy from Ten seems intent on the cornucopia, but the girl from Four keeps looking over her shoulder. 

8

If she goes for the river, you’ll have to outrun her. Or divert your path to avoid her. You won’t fight unless you’re attacked. Unless you have to.  

7

Across the circle, by the tail of the cornucopia, you see a flash of movement, your brain barely registering that a tribute is stepping off the platform before— BOOM! 

6

Your ears ring with the shock of the explosion, eyes wide as you stare, stunned at the gruesome splatter of blood, flesh, and ice. You shake your head and stretch your jaw, the ringing in your ears subsiding enough for you to focus.

5

You watch cracks spread from the site of the explosion, splintering across the ground, exposing clear blue water beneath. The tributes nearest the explosion crouch and wobble on their own platforms, bewildered not only by the blast but by being suddenly surrounded by water as the frozen lake is revealed. 

4

Those tributes will have to swim rather than run. The others…you look around again, heart racing and adrenaline pounding as you realize most of the tributes are still distracted, stunned by the explosion and confused by the water, staring at the explosion site. Giving you an opening. 

3

It’s risky. You could slip. You could fall through. You weren’t even going to go for it anyway. But you feel the impulse tugging deep in your gut, your instincts saying you can make it. 

2

You bend your knees, setting your sights on the backpack. Haymitch’s face flashes in your mind, the knowing, warning expression saying “Don’t you do it.” You take a breath, and think: “I’m sorry, Haymitch.”

1

You run, your boots thankfully finding traction on the thin layer of snow covering the ice. In your periphery, you see others moving, though you can’t tell if they’re running closer or running away. You drop your weight and slide the final few feet to the backpack, grabbing it and leaping back up in the same moment, veering to your right and making a break for the far edge of the platform circle. 

Another tribute is heading your way, approaching from the left, and you push your legs harder, trying to run faster. 

“Drop the bag, Twelve!” 

You don’t waste your breath on a response, slinging the strap over your shoulder as you sprint for the perimeter. You break past the line of now empty platforms, feeling the sharp burn of the cold air in your lungs, hearing the footsteps still pounding behind you. Your heart stops and the air rushes out of your chest as a body collides with yours, sending you down hard into the snow. You roll onto your back, just raising your arms in front of your face when the other tribute is on top of you, throwing wild desperate punches. You block one to your head, but have to bite back a groan as he catches your ribs. You fight back, kicking at his stomach, when he lets out a choked noise and stills, his whole body weight slumping on top of you. 

A cannon booms in the distance. Shoving and panting, you scramble out from under the body, barely recognizing him as the boy from Eleven, his eyes wide and glassy with a knife embedded in his spine, before something rushes through the air and you just manage to dive to the right, narrowly avoiding a knife to your own neck. 

You shuffle backwards, eyes wide with panic as you see Cassius standing in the distance, getting ready to throw another. You roll and get your feet under you, sprinting for the trees again, zig-zagging to throw off his aim. Still, within seconds you feel a slice of cold against your right arm, watching the knife hit the ground just beyond the treeline. 

Breaking through into the forest, you slow just long enough to grab the blade, snatching it and nearly dropping it just as fast, but forcing your cold fingers to grip the handle as you bob and weave through the trees. You reach the river, hearing distant shouts and screams, another cannon, and then another. The river is wide and fast, the rushing of water drowning out the sounds of the carnage behind you. You run along the bank, moving upstream, until you see enough snow-covered rocks jutting out above the water for you to cross, and you skid to a stop.

Heart pounding, you back up a few paces before taking a running leap. As you land, your left foot slips on the rock and almost sends you into the frigid water. You cry out, feeling your adrenaline spike as you regain your balance. You pause, trying to calm down, to catch your breath, as you gear up for the next jump. Taking a deep breath, you leap again, your knees wobbling but not giving out as you land on the next rock. The other bank is closer now, but too far to reach with one jump. Two smaller rocks stand between you and the other side, neither large enough for you to plant both feet at once. You breathe again, and then hop your right foot onto one, pushing off to land your left on the other before launching your body at the far shore. You hit the ground, driving the knife into the snow and dirt below as an anchor to pull yourself away from the water and fully onto the bank.  

Rolling onto your back, you stare up at the sky, the steely blue just visible through the thick, needle-covered branches of the trees surrounding you. You allow yourself to catch your breath, to feel your heartbeat slow from its frantic, panicked rhythm, blinking up at the criss-cross of branches above you. 

Finally, as you start to feel the cold air again, you sit up, and notice for the first time that you’re bleeding. There’s a gash on your right arm where the knife must have grazed you, blood staining the once pristine, now torn, white fabric of your coat. It’s not deep, and it’s not bleeding fast, but you know you can’t leave the cut to get infected. Still, you’re too out in the open to stop and deal with it now. You get to your feet and yank the knife from the ground with your left hand, tucking the blade carefully into your belt. 

You move away from the loud rush of the river and further into the cover of the tree line, walking parallel to the water as you continue upstream towards the mountain. Three more cannons fire, one soon after you start your trek, and then two in quick succession about an hour later. The career pack is probably already on the hunt. Picking up the pace, you reach the mountain before sundown, the terrain getting steeper. 

While you want to find Felix as soon as possible, you have no way of knowing whether he’s still alive until the announcement of the fallen after nightfall. Besides, you’ll be no use to him if you drop dead from exhaustion or frostbite before you track him down. So you find a tall, sturdy tree beside a rocky outcropping, and jump from the top of the rocks to the lowest branches before climbing up as high as the boughs will still hold your weight. 

You settle on a thick branch with your back to the tree trunk, and finally open the backpack. Inside, you discover that you risked your life for a metal cup, a length of rope, a roll of bandages, a thin woolen blanket folded into a tight square, and a needle stuck into a spool of thread. 

Wincing, you pull off your coat, keeping it carefully tucked between your back and the trunk of the tree as you numb the gash on your arm with snow from a neighboring branch and then slowly, painstakingly stitch the wound with the needle and thread before wrapping your arm in as little of the bandage as you can. By the time you’ve finished, your muscles are heavy and aching with exhaustion. You slip your coat back on and zip it up, lash yourself to the tree with the rope, and cover your legs with the blanket. You pull the hood up to shield your head from the cold, and lean back against the tree. 

You lift your head at a soft, repetitive tone, lowering your hood to better peer through the trees at the small parachute floating towards you. Reaching out, you grab the small metal capsule attached to the strings. The noise stops as you twist open the lid to find a small container and a note. You open the container first, finding a creamy salve inside. You close it again, and read the note.  

You suck at sewing. Use this next time. - H

A breath of a laugh leaves your lips and you shake your head, smiling for a moment before packing the salve and the note away for later. Just after you lean back against the tree, you jolt at the loud, swooping melody of the Panem national anthem echoing through the air. Looking up through the sparse tree branches above your perch, you see the seal of Panem projected onto the domed sky of the arena. 

Anxiety swirls in your stomach as you watch the photos of the fallen tributes flash one by one. The boy from Seven. The boy from Eleven. The girl from Four. The boy from Nine. The girl from Eight. The girl from Ten. The boy from Six. The girl from Six. The seal flashes again, and the music ends. The sky returns to darkness and the twinkling of false stars. 

Eight tributes are already dead, and sixteen are still alive. Felix survived. Somewhere out there, your friend is waiting for you. With that knowledge soothing your worries for the moment, you allow your eyes to close, your head resting against the tree. 

Hours later, you wake, not to the artificial sunlight of morning, as you expected, but to the sound of a cannon. Heartbeat picking up, you peer through the pre-dawn light at the ground below and the treeline around you, ears straining to hear voices or footsteps. 

Nothing. 

Carefully, you untie your bandage and apply the salve, closing your eyes at the cool, pain-relieving sensation, before covering the wound again. You untie the rope next and pack both it and the blanket away, shouldering your backpack again as you clamber back down to the ground. You break off a thin, low-hanging branch, and pull out the rope again, using it to tie the branch to the back of your pack, hanging loosely upside down so the needles swing and drag on the ground. You walk a few steps and then look back, pleased to see your footsteps brushed away. Hopefully eluding anyone trying to track you, you continue hiking uphill. 

By the time the sun is shining over the mountain, the river is no longer a river so much as a series of small streams cascading in the same direction. The terrain is less forested, and rockier, making your view of the arena wider, but your visibility more exposed. 

You take a break to rest and plan your next move, sitting on a rock next to one of the small streams feeding the river below, filling your tin cup with cold water and taking a drink. After walking for hours, you haven’t seen any edible vegetation, just snow and pine and rocks. You’ll have to set traps or hunt– without the ability to forage, the gamemakers must have included some small game. Even if there’s deer out there, you won’t be able to do much with just your knife. You’re thinking through the logistics of trying to catch fish in the river when a twig snaps behind you. On your feet in an instant, you face the sound, pulling the knife from your belt and holding it ready. 

Scanning the snowy, tree-dotted incline, you see the shoulder of a white coat peeking out from behind a trunk. The tribute’s not a Career, if they were, you’d be dead already. They’re further up the mountain, which means they probably weren’t following you. 

“I don’t want to kill you,” you call out, “But if you come any closer, I will.” 

A hand lifts in a show of surrender, but the person doesn’t move to reveal their face. Instead, a hesitant voice calls your name. 

Your heart thumps. “Felix?” 

“No,” Theo’s sweet, round face emerges from behind the tree, “But I can take you to him.” 

It could very easily be a trap. Theo’s smart, and when the aim of the game is to be the last one standing, his unassuming appearance doesn’t equate harmlessness. Still, he and Ava were both kind to you during training, and there are a lot of tributes left in the competition less friendly than yourself. 

You keep him at a distance, your knife still held at the ready and your senses alert as you follow him up and across the snow ridge past the trees, and then back down a few yards to a rocky outcropping. 

He explains as you walk, seemingly oblivious to your distrust, that he and Ava ran from the cornucopia together and headed for the mountain, where Theo quite literally ran into Felix, the two boys knocking each other to the ground. Ava, he said, suggested the alliance, and the three of them continued up the mountain together. 

“We found it right before dark,” Theo says, as he approaches the outcropping, “It’s still a work in progress. Actually, I was supposed to go out and get more firewood, but I think they’ll be happier to see you.” 

He moves an innocuously placed cluster of pine branches aside, and reveals an opening in the outcropping, just big enough to walk through sideways. Theo stares at you for a second, waiting. 

“After you, Theo.” 

“Right. Yeah.” He goes first, and you follow, turning back to pull the cover over the entrance again. 

You shuffle through the opening for a few steps before entering a small cave, illuminated and heated by a fire in the center, with Felix and Ava sitting on either side, their heads turned to the entrance at the sound of footsteps. 

“Look who I found!” Theo announces, stepping aside so they can see you.

There’s just enough time for you to drop the knife before Felix is slamming into you, his gangly arms wrapped tight around your torso, trapping your own arms against your sides. The relief hits you even harder, putting an ache in your chest as you rest your cheek against the top of Felix’s head, your throat tight with emotion as you say: 

“It’s good to see you too.” 

~

Every victor is broken in one way or another. No one survives the Games intact. No one is the same, no one is just fine, no one fully puts themselves back together again. It might be self-inflicted scars to recreate the ones healed and disappeared by the stylists after being extracted from the arena. It might be pills, a colorful array of uppers and downers made available by access to the Capitol. It might be alcohol, to help you forget, to help you sleep, to numb…everything. Most hide their vices, at least from the public, trying to maintain the strong, sparkling image of Panem’s heroes.  

Haymitch made drinking a part of his persona. It fits the dry cynicism that’s been a part of his personality long before his name came up on that little white card thirteen years ago. It complements the dirty, rugged, scrappy image of District Twelve. 

And drinking helps, even in the ways it hurts. The nights he passes out after finishing a bottle, his sleep is deep and dreamless, free from the nightmares. In the morning, a small, sick part of him welcomes the pounding headache as a continuation of his punishment, a part of the never-ending repentance for what he’s done. 

Normally, he’s at his worst during the Games. The past few years, he drinks and half-watches until both tributes are dead, usually gone in the first hours, maybe days. The longest he’s had to wait was six days, during the 59th Games, when the boy made it into the final five before getting his entrails ripped out by a mutt. Haymitch barely sleeps while the Games are on, knowing no amount of alcohol will save him from the dreams. Once both tributes are gone, he climbs onto the train back to Twelve and stumbles back into his house, where he’ll stay until the next summer when he’ll fall apart all over again. 

This year is different. He’s not sober, that’s for sure. After watching her run for that goddamn cornucopia and nearly get herself killed in the first five minutes, he knocked back an entire glass of whiskey in one breath. But Haymitch is keeping himself together more easily than he ever has before. He has no choice, really, but to stay present and focused, in case she needs him. In case they need him.

Admittedly, the boy impressed him. He played it smart, running for the mountain, making allies instead of just relying on Y/N to come save him. The boy even made a fire to keep him and his little friends warm when neither of those District Three brainiacs could figure it out. 

Now, they’ve got a good thing going, the four of them. A little survival camp, and the Capitol elites are eating it up. He sits in the VIP viewing room, surrounded by other mentors and all the potential sponsors, watching as they’re drawn in by the alliance of four just as much as the violent exploits of the Careers. Haymitch feels the pull of appeal himself, unable to keep his eyes off the screen monitoring his tributes. 

There’s something sweet and entertaining about their little group. Haymitch feels the warmth of pride and amusement as he watches Y/N step easily into the role of leader. She teaches them whistle signals to let each other know it’s one of their own approaching or if there’s danger nearby, and institutes a rule of two to keep anyone from wandering off alone. They boil snow into drinking water and trek down to the river, where Ava and Theo put together a kind of water trap that catches two fish in the same amount of time it takes Y/N and Felix to set up snares in the woods to be checked the next morning. 

They sit around the fire and eat and drink, safe and warm for the moment. The viewing room is quiet, enraptured with their bittersweet conversation, knowing just as well – perhaps better – that this happy survival is fleeting, but enjoying it all the same. 

“What’s your favorite food back home?” Theo asks. “Mine is the orange sweets we get for the winter holiday. My dad always brings home a big bag and hides them around the house for us to find. I hide mine under my pillow and save them until spring.” 

“I like those too,” Ava agrees, “But my favorite is strawberries in the summer. My mother grows them in our garden and I pick them and eat them right off the plant. My brother thinks I’ll get sick from the dirt, but it’s good for building antibodies in our immune systems.” 

Felix’s voice is quiet, “Chicken and carrot soup. Mama always makes it when I’m sick. She brings it to me in bed and sings to me afterwards to help me fall asleep.” 

“Bread,” Y/N says, glowing soft and golden in the firelight, “We could never afford enough flour to make a real loaf, so we made flatbread at home. But my father would save up in springtime and buy a big loaf of bread from the bakery for my birthday.”

For the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, Haymitch knows exactly what to do. Her admission could not come at a better time, with tomorrow marking five days since the last day of training. Haymitch stands, ready to charm and cajole, but the sponsors are already approaching, their eyes full of vague emotion, but ready and eager to support his plan. 

The next morning, Haymitch stands with his arms crossed as he watches the screen with anticipation. Y/N is the first to wake, quietly moving to check outside the safe haven of the cave. Haymitch shifts his weight from one foot to the other and then back to the middle as he watches her hear the parachute, looking up to find it floating through the sky. She walks over to where it lands in the snow, clearly puzzled by its larger size compared to the first one, the silver capsule reflecting the pastel pink of the early morning sky. Haymitch lifts his hand to cover his mouth as she opens the lid. 

His heart pounds as she drops down on her knees in the snow right there, her eyes wide as she takes in the loaf of bread. As she reads the card, Haymitch whispers the words printed on the note, wanting them said even though she cannot hear him. 

“Happy birthday, kid.”

A big, beaming smile spreads across her face, more beautiful than the sunrise behind her. Haymitch feels his own smile grow, his fingers pressed to his lips as he watches her look up towards the sky as she says: “Thank you.”

The sponsors clap, chattering and smiling in self-congratulation, but Haymitch knows she was speaking to him. The feeling in his chest is dangerous, this kind of glowing satisfaction at having caused the joy painted across her face, the yearning ache to do it again, to do anything to see her smile again. It’s dangerous, and he knows it, but he can’t help but feel the delight that comes from bringing her happiness. 

Because it can’t last. 

While the little group of survivors enjoy their bread for breakfast, planning to check their traps and gather more firewood, the Career pack are out hunting. Haymitch is assured, somewhat, by the distance between the Careers and his tributes, the former fanning out from the cornucopia through the woods and the latter on the far side of the mountain, but he knows it’s only a matter of time until the Gamemakers intervene. 

That time comes late the next morning. The Careers have cut the tribute number in half, systematic and ruthless as they tracked footprints in the snow and followed plumes of campfire smoke above the treeline as the other tributes tried desperately not to starve or freeze to death, only to be killed in a desperate frenzy. The Three-Twelve alliance heard the cannons throughout the day before, on-edge, but unwilling to abandon their camp. Haymitch nodded with unconscious approval as Y/N insisted they shouldn’t split up for anything, even in pairs, and maintain a watch rotation overnight. 

All four of them are at the river, Ava and Theo checking the water traps while Y/N resets a snare and Felix holds a dead squirrel like he’s not sure what to do with it. She notices the tremor first, making the rope line tremble and shake. She looks up, probably assuming it’s just wind, and then sees the cloud of white at the top of the mountain. Haymitch’s heart plummets as her eyes go wide with terror. 

“Run!” She screams, grabbing Felix’s arm and dragging him downhill towards the others. “Go! Now!” 

Even in the snow, she’s fast, catching up with Ava and Theo and then overtaking them, leading their desperate charge through the trees. Haymitch can’t sit still, his knee bouncing and his hands clenched tight together in front of his mouth. He watches the avalanche gaining on them, the cascade of snow and rocks growing bigger and faster with every passing second. 

“We can’t outrun it!” Ava shouts. 

She’s right. They won’t make it. Not all together, with Theo lagging and Felix only keeping up because of Y/N’s iron grip on his wrist. 

“The trees! Find a big one!” Y/N locks onto a tall, thick pine tree up ahead, “There!” 

She skids to a stop next to it, crouching down with her fingers laced together above her knee. 

Haymitch scrapes a hand over his face. Come on, come on.

Felix gets the memo, though, and she boosts him up, then Ava. When Theo stumbles and falls, a few feet away, Haymitch is on his feet before he can think about it. 

“Get up, Theo!” Her voice is high and desperate, “You can make it!” 

Theo is up, struggling through the snow.

“That’s it, Theo! Come on!” Ava and Felix are already halfway up the tree and still climbing higher while Y/N remains on the ground.

Start climbing. Haymitch can feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Start climbing that fucking tree.

Haymitch lets out a short exhale as Y/N jumps and grabs the first few branches, climbing up a few feet. His breath catches when she stops, wrapping one arm around the trunk and reaching down with the other to haul Theo up to the first branch with a strained cry. 

Go, go, go. 

She starts to climb, moving faster than is probably safe, but he doesn’t care as long as she gets as far away from the ground as she can. Theo tries to keep up, but it’s clear he’s never climbed a tree in his life, and Haymitch knows the kid’s doomed a second before the avalanche hits. 

The wall of snow and rock slams into the tree, and they wrap their arms and legs around the trunk, holding on for dear life. But Theo is still too low. The wave of white engulfs him, and he’s gone. The blast of the cannon is barely audible over the rushing roar of the avalanche. The surviving three look down with horror and grief, holding on for dear life even as they process their first acquaintance with loss in the arena. 

Big as it is, the tree is no match for the strength of gravity which gathered the flow of rock and now, the pine begins to crack and bend against the continued pressure. Haymitch shakes his head. He watches Y/N look around, before settling on the dense forest continuing downhill. 

“We have to jump!” She shouts. 

Haymitch nods, his head bobbing mindlessly. Good. Okay. Fuck.

“What?” Felix turns as white as the snow below. 

“When it starts to fall, we jump for the next tree!” She shifts carefully, getting ready as the tree creaks and starts to tip further, “Get ready– now!” 

They launch themselves out of the tree, slamming into the next trunk and sliding, grabbing desperately at branches until they’ve each found a grip. Haymitch forces a slow exhale through his nose, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. 

This new tree holds steady, and they cling for dear life while the avalanche slows and finally subsides, the forest returning to its former quiet stillness. Haymitch returns to his seat, slumping down in exhausted relief as the tributes begin to climb back down to the ground. 

He should have known better than to believe it’s over. 

Ava, climbing from the highest point, with a steady stream of tears probably blurring her vision, reaches for a weak limb, gasping as it snaps and sends her tumbling down. Haymitch winces as she breaks through another branch, and then hits another– this one more solid than herself, and cries out in pain before finally hitting the snow below. She half-sobs, half-screams, but doesn’t move, while Y/N and Felix scramble down to reach her. 

Oh shit. Haymitch sits forward again, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes in Ava’s wide, panicked eyes.

“It’s okay,” Y/N tries to soothe her, running to kneel at her side, taking her hand. “You’re going to be okay. Breathe. Just breathe.” 

“I can’t– I can’t feel anything,” Ava pants, “My legs– or my– I can’t– I can’t move my arms.” 

Y/N and Felix exchange a look of horrified understanding. Y/N doesn’t let go of Ava’s hand. 

“I think you hit your back. Your spine. It could be temporary paralysis. I’ve heard of it with miners back home. We can lift you, carry you somewhere safe, and– and wait it out. Maybe they’ll send something– some medicine, or something.” 

“Mm-mm.” Ava presses her lips together, shaking her head. “You should go.” 

“No, Ava. No.” Y/N’s voice trembles, and Haymitch’s heart aches. “We can’t just leave you here.” 

“I’ll only slow you down.” Ava says, her own voice growing more certain. “I’m– I’m not going to make it. I can’t fight, I can’t run. It’s over.” 

“Don’t give up.” Y/N shakes her head, “You can’t– you can’t just–” 

“It’s easier this way.” Ava sniffles, smiling, “Now I won’t have to fight you. And you won’t– you won’t have to kill me.” 

Haymitch can see the sobering determination returning to Y/N’s gaze. It’s the same look she had in her eye the night of the interviews, a look that could make him agree to do anything, everything she asks. She nods and lets go of Ava’s hand, standing up again. 

“It was never going to be okay. From the moment they read our names, nothing was ever going to be okay.” Ava says, with an unsettling look of calm, turning her gaze upwards towards the sky.

Y/N and Felix leave her, wandering aimlessly away from the desolation of the mountain. They don’t see Ava die, hours later, after slipping into unconsciousness on a bed of snow. To the viewing room, the only sign that she isn’t just sleeping peacefully is the sound of the cannon, leaving the sponsors unusually silent as they take in her pale, lifeless image. 

Haymitch drags himself upstairs, only to sits slumped against the plush couch in the District Twelve penthouse, his chest and throat tight as he watches Y/N and Felix huddled beneath the blanket from her pack, sheltering for the night under a hastily built lean-to made from fallen trees by the river. Felix shivers and cries quietly, but Y/N just holds him, her eyes wide and glassy as she stares out into the darkness. Haymitch falls asleep soon after she does, his dreams are haunted by her expression, by the morbid resignation in her face, and all the ways he might lose her tomorrow. 

He wakes up to a fire in the arena. Set by the Gamemakers in the forest on the far side of the cornucopia, it kills two of the Careers and leaves the remaining two— Silk and Cassius, sprinting for the frozen lake. 

Haymitch decides not to bother with the viewing room, unwilling to look away from the projection screen even long enough to take the elevator downstairs. The sponsors probably wouldn’t appreciate his wearing yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, anyway. And he knows something’s coming— there are only five tributes left now, the Careers, Y/N and Felix, and the girl from Seven. The Gamemakers will want to push them together, to force the final conflict. 

His suspicions are confirmed by the appearance of the mutts. Giant, terrifying birds somewhere between eagles and hawks, with long sharp talons and hungry, hooked beaks. Y/N notices them as they circle above the forest in an ominous flock, but they’re too high in the sky to be identified for what they are— danger. 

“Get out of there.” Haymitch pleads aloud in the empty suite. “Go, just go, please–” 

The birds see the girl from Seven before his tributes do, perched high in a tree with her ax ready to fly as soon as she has a clear shot at Felix, one bird dives first, and the rest of the flock follows. She has no chance, screaming and flailing in vain against three of the giant beasts. The rest of the flock streak through the trees, like taloned missiles honed in on his tributes.

“Run.” Y/N grabs Felix’s coat and drags him away from the direction they’d been heading, away from where Seven’s screaming has stopped and the cannon has boomed. She shoves him ahead of her, pulling the knife from her belt. “To the lake– go!” 

Even sprinting, they can’t outrun the birds, and Haymitch feels his heart pound with terror as two of them sink their talons into Y/N’s back. She screams, and Haymitch wishes he could do anything to stop it. The birds don’t attack with their beaks immediately, wings flapping in an attempt to slow her down, and the small opening allows her to twist herself out of the backpack and her coat and throw both backwards, bewildering them briefly, as she keeps running. 

When they reach the treeline, Felix trips over a fallen branch hidden beneath the snow. Another bird is at his feet in an instant, its talons trapping his boots and its beak tearing at his legs. He screams and cries out, and for a second all Haymitch can see is Maysilee, picked apart by a Gamemaker’s mutated bird thirteen years ago. He feels sick, but he can’t look away— he won’t, not when Y/N is skidding to a stop by the lake and running back to him. 

Her knife held ready, she swings and slashes, frantic and desperate. Blood sprays and feathers fly until the bird stills and she’s wrenching its corpse off and dragging Felix to the edge of the lake, leaving a trail of blood in their wake.

She stops by the edge of the lake and puts herself in front of him as he shakes and sobs, waiting for the birds to attack again. Instead, the flock rises from the trees and takes off, flying back towards the mountain. Haymitch feels dread settle in his stomach like a heavy stone, knowing that if the birds have served their purpose, then the final confrontation is looming. 

Still, Y/N turns toward Felix and drops to her knees, hands trembling as she tries to help him. His gangly legs are a mess of ripped fabric, torn flesh, and steadily seeping blood. The boy sobs sound more like desperate gasps for air as tears stream down his face. Y/N reaches for the backpack, only to remember it’s lying on the forest floor, torn to shreds. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re gonna be fine, Felix. I’m just going to get the medicine and the bandages, okay? So just– just stay right here, and I’ll be quick, I’ll be right back, and we’re gonna— I can— you’re gonna be okay.” 

The boy grabs her arm, forcing out the words between gasping sobs, looking for all the world like a frightened child. “Please don’t go.” 

“Felix, I have to—” 

She dodges at the last second, barely aware of the knife before it grazes her cheek and lands in the snow behind her. Then she’s standing and leaping over Felix, trying to shield him, as Cassius and Silk run towards them. 

Haymitch stands too, restless and terrified as he watches her face her death. She won’t be able to take them both in at the same time, but if she throws her knife it’s one shot and then no weapon whether she misses or not. Either way, the odds are no longer in her favor. 

Cassius pulls back to throw another blade, and she makes a choice, hurling her only weapon at his head. His throw skews wide, missing her, because her own knife has embedded itself in Cassius’s throat, his body convulsing as it falls, blood spurting from his neck, staining the ice a deep red. The cannon booms, and Silk screams rushing straight for Y/N. The Career seems to forget the crossbow she’d been using since the cornucopia bloodbath in favor of pure, physical vengeance. Y/N is slow to react, eyes wide with horror at the sight of Cassius’s corpse, just managing to lift her arms in self defense before Silk slams into her like a brick wall. The force of the impact and the combined weight of their bodies is too much for the sun-warmed layer of ice on top of the lake, and they break through and plunge into the freezing water, dropping out of sight beneath the surface. 

The sudden silence is deafening, and Haymitch cannot move, even to breathe, as he prays for the first time in his life, bargaining with whatever possible power exists beyond this world to endure anything, any pain, any hardship, any grief, other than this loss. 

A cannon fires. And then another. 

“No.” the word leaves his mouth, halting as his breath stutters on a sob, his chest constricting and his vision tunneling as the old familiar, yet newly heart wrenching despair floods in. 

When her head emerges from the water, his relief feels like salvation, silent gratitude uttered to whatever force has answered his plea. As she drags herself out of the lake, her lips blue and gasping for air, he realizes that the force, the miracle, is her. 

“Felix,” she coughs, spitting water onto the snow, her limbs trembling as she crawls toward the boy. 

With a sinking heart, Haymitch understands what she will find. He wishes he could run to her, turn her away, protect her from this, at least. But he can’t. Instead, he can only stand aside and watch, one arm wrapped around his torso and his other hand braced over his mouth, as she reaches the still, lifeless body. 

“Felix,” her voice is soft, pleading, as she leans over him to find Cassius’s knife, the one which missed her, sunk between Felix’s ribs, the boy’s open, unseeing eyes turned to the sky. “No, Felix, no, no, no, no–” 

The word is broken by a sob, repeated incoherently as she weeps, lifting his listless body to wrap her arms around him, her hand held tight to the back of his head, tucking his face against her shoulder as she rocks back and forth, her words shifting to a desperate, hysterical repetition of “I’m sorry,” over and over and over again until a Capitol hovercraft is landing in front of the trees beyond, and the video feed cuts out. 

Haymitch blinks rapidly, the ache in his heart giving way to a desperate urgency. His pulse pounds in his ears as he hurries around the sofa, sprinting for the penthouse door, throwing it open to find two Peacekeepers waiting. 

“Haymitch Abernathy,” the one on the left says, “Come with us.” 

He’s ushered down the corridor and into the elevator, and then up to the roof and onto a hovercraft. The Peacekeepers are stoic and silent and any other day he’d give them a hard time, try to rile them up a bit, but not today. His knee bounces the whole ride to the medical complex, his strides long and quick down the hallways to the Victor’s suite. 

“We had to sedate her. She kept fighting, she didn’t want to leave the…” the doctor clears his throat, “The body. We’re treating her injuries currently, but it’s usually helpful to see a familiar face when waking up in recovery.” 

Haymitch nods. The doctor leaves Haymitch to pace, waiting to be let into her recovery room. He runs a hand through his unwashed, unbrushed hair, wishing he’d swiped a bottle from the penthouse before he left. He’s contemplating the merits of asking a nurse where he might find a drink around here, when the doctor returns. 

“You may go in.” The doctor holds the door open. “She should be waking up any moment now.” 

Haymitch walks into the room, his heartbeat speeding up as he sees her– unconscious and lying in a hospital bed, but alive and real and right in front of him. It feels like his legs move on their own, carrying him to her bedside. 

They’ve cleaned the blood and dirt from her skin, patched and bandaged the cut on her cheek and the gash on her arm. Over the next few days, they’ll cover the scars with special creams and ointments until they disappear completely, and all that she’ll have left are her memories. Her hair is dry, and she’s clothed in a thin white hospital gown and covered in a warm blanket, the heat in the room on high. Haymitch is glad for it, even if he’s too warm in his rumpled vest and jacket, happy to endure his own discomfort if the blue tint on her lips will go away. 

Lips that part with a harsh gasp as her eyelids flutter and she sits bolt upright, hands clutching at the blankets and legs thrashing as her eyes open, her gaze wide and disoriented. Haymitch closes the remaining distance between himself and her, holding his hands out but not yet touching her, as her wild, desperate gaze locks onto him. 

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay.” He says, keeping his voice low and calm. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s okay.” 

Her chest heaves as she blinks rapidly, her knuckles going pale as she grips the blanket in her fists. She holds her jaw tight, brows furrowed, trying to hold on. 

“Haymitch,” her voice is rough, broken on a sob as her control crumbles, tears welling up in her eyes and streaming down her face. 

An army of Peacekeepers couldn’t stop him as he steps forward, sitting on the edge of the bed as he pulls her into his embrace. She wraps her arms around his chest, her fingers twisting into the back of his shirt. He holds one arm tight around her middle and lifts the other to the back of her head, cradling the base of her skull as she presses her face into his neck. 

“It’s not okay.” She lets out shuddering gasps between the words, “It’s not okay.” 

“I know, angel.” Haymitch says, his voice as soft and heavy as his heart while he holds her closer, pressing his lips to the side of her head, “I know.”

#haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch abernathy #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfiction #reader insert #ladylibby

[ladylibby]

Lima-Oscar-Victor-Echo (LOVE) | Part 2

Masterlist | LOVE Part 1

Summary: Hangman thought she might yell at him, he thought she might cry, he thought she might walk away, hell, maybe she’d even come at him fists swinging– he deserves it all. But to…to think that he’d done no wrong at all, that she was at fault for expecting common decency from him, that she could think the shit he pulled was all just part of his nature, inexplicable and unchangeable, is so so much worse. When she turns away without waiting for him to speak, busying herself with someone new on the other side of the bar, he doesn’t try to follow her this time. He picks up his beer and makes his way over to the pool table, needing to regroup. This is bigger than an apology, bigger than an explanation. He has to prove himself. But how?

(Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader; Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Original Female Character, callsign: "Alpine")

(A/N: I decided to split it into its original two parts, so here is the sequel, set two and a half years after the events of part one! Enjoy!)

Rooster feels like the luckiest man in the world, as he takes Alpine’s hand and the two of them walk towards the bar together. He can feel the slightly cold press of her ring against his palm, and he feels the same surge of excitement and joy he always does at the reminder of what’s still to come. 

It’s a simple silver band with a single oval cut diamond set on top. The ring was his mother’s, worn on her hand for the few happy years his father was alive. She moved it to a chain on her neck after the accident, keeping it close to her heart. In the weeks before she died, she took it off and gave it to her son, telling him to save it for someone who turns his world into music. 

And six months ago, when Alpine was on leave and he’d snuck her onto base and into his tiny room at the barracks, he’d dropped down on one knee and held it out for her, asking the question he’d been holding onto since the week they met— since everything began to feel like a melody. 

He won’t pretend the proposal wasn’t a practical move in addition to an expression of love and commitment. In the Navy, married couples get more benefits, more accommodations, more opportunities to be assigned together. And he’s excited to wake up next to her more than a few mornings every couple of months. He’s excited to sit across from her, in-person and not over Skype, and memorize all the beautiful features of her face, watch them change and age over their years together. He’s excited, eventually, to leave active duty and embark on whatever they’ll do next. He wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up as a highly decorated admiral and he’s just the retired captain standing behind her grinning like an idiot. 

Maybe even with a little hand clasped in his, belonging to a small child standing and watching their mother. Maybe a little boy with her nose and his eyes. Maybe a little girl with her smile and his sandy hair. Maybe one of each. 

It all starts tomorrow. Tomorrow, they will be married. Tomorrow, she will be his wife and he will be her husband. After tomorrow, the long-distance dance they’ve been navigating for the last two years will be over. They’ll settle into their new assignments in Norfolk and their new life together. 

Together. It’s such a simple concept, yet to have it be finally real after spending the last two years apart more often than not, feels almost too good to be true. Just slightly unreal. He squeezes her hand and leans over to kiss the side of her head, marveling all over again at how he could have found someone so beautiful and brilliant to be his partner. 

Light and noise, both warm and bright, spill out from the windows of The Hard Deck, and he smiles at the hand-written sign hung on the front door:

“No Admittance Except on Party Business”

Rooster watches Alpine smile at the subtle touch – a reference to her favorite book series, as they slow to a stop outside the door. He turns to face her, rubbing the smooth metal of her ring with his index finger. 

“Ready?” He asks. 

She nods, squeezing his hand. “Ready.” 

He leans down – he can’t help himself – and kisses her. It’s soft and short, he knows they can’t afford to be too late without arousing suspicion, but it’s grounding and reassuring and makes him almost wish for tomorrow to come sooner. 

But he knows it’ll all be over before he knows it, so he pulls back enough to plant one more kiss on her forehead before turning to the door in front of them. He pushes it open, and they walk inside, hand-in-hand, together. 

*

Alpine has always been place-based. Not entirely, of course– she loves people and interesting objects and nature most of all, but she’s always felt a connection to location. All those other things, people and objects and nature, are all associated with place. Memory, connection, feeling, it stems from placement, from being rooted somewhere, even for a moment. 

The Hard Deck is one of her favorite places. Not just because it’s where she met Bradley, but because of the times in her life she’s spent there, the events and adjustments and self-discoveries that were made in and around the beachside bar. This weekend will be yet another life-changing event to add to the list. 

She still can’t quite believe she’s about to get married. In some ways she still feels like a kid. There’s no way she’s old enough to get married, right?  

Except that as much as Alpine sometimes feels like she never grew up, she did. And the longer she spends in adulthood the more she realizes that everyone feels this way– this disbelief at growing older, at reaching milestones that once felt a lifetime away. Everyone feels a little left behind, a little blindsided, and no one really knows what they’re doing. So she accepts the uncertainty and discomfort, grounds herself in the moment with the warm and comforting feeling of her fiancée’s hand in hers, and faces the next phase of her life. 

She wasn’t quite expecting the party to be so crowded, considering most of her friends are Bradley’s friends too, but this is a startling visual indication of how extensively loved they are. Filling up the bar tonight are one or two of Bradley’s high school best friends whom Alpine has only met over FaceTime, a handful of his pals from UCLA where he’d kicked around after Maverick pulled his papers (it’s a sore subject, so he sticks to stories about the good times on campus with his buddies). There’s her parents, her brother, her childhood best friend Finn, and her core college group and their respective partners. There’s Penny and Amelia and Maverick. 

And of course, there’s the squadron. They were only stationed together for a month, but those few weeks of training and that single, life-changing mission were enough to bond them together for life. 

Now, she can see Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, Phoenix, and Bob all gathered around the pool table (big surprise there), almost like nothing has changed in the two years since they all separated. Although one look at the man beside her, knowing that tomorrow she’ll be able to call him her husband, is enough to prove just how much everything has changed. 

A bell rings, cutting through the hum of conversation. 

“Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between,” a voice from the bar announces, “The guests of honor have arrived.” 

Everyone shifts and turns to look at the door, cheering when they see Alpine and Bradley. He lifts their joined hands in a victorious gesture, whooping along with everyone else, but she needs a drink before she can handle this volume of attention at such a short distance. 

Luckily, the shuffle of people allows her to see the bar and the woman in front of it who just turned the spotlight squarely on Alpine and Bradley. Y/N smiles, a little mischievous, her eyebrows lifted in challenge and amusement. The other people go back to talking and laughing while Alpine pulls her fiancée along behind her as she approaches the bar– and her best friend.

Alpine lets go of Bradley’s hand in order to hug Y/N, both women wrapping their arms tight around the other, rocking side to side as they embrace. Y/N always gives good hugs. 

“Hello, darling.” Y/N says. 

Alpine hums, squeezing her tight before letting go. “Hi.” 

Y/N turns to Bradley with a grin. “Big Bird.” 

“Y/N.” He returns, scooping her up in a brief hug. 

When they pull apart Y/N puts her hand on Alpine’s arm and asks: “Drink?” 

“Please,” Alpine nods. 

“Whatever you want, I’ll make.” Y/N lifts up a section of the bar top and moves into the middle space, leaning her elbows on the counter, “Although if it’s sex on the beach, you two are on your own.” 

Bradley laughs, winding his arm around Alpine’s waist as he says, “Just a beer is fine for me.” 

“Rum and coke.” Alpine says with a smile. 

“Throwback to spring break. I like it.” Y/N smiles back, “Coming right up.”  

After Bradley slipped that beautiful ring on her finger and they agreed they wanted to get married in San Diego, Alpine knew exactly who she would call to be their boots on the ground for preparation while she and Bradley were still on base, thousands of miles away. 

Alpine didn’t want to impose or cause stress, but Y/N insisted it was fine– she’d been in a similar role a year earlier when her mother and Maverick got married. Still, Alpine made sure she and Bradley did all the planning and ordering and paying, while Y/N went about taste-testing and reporting back, sending invitations and organizing RSVPS, and coordinating delivery locations for the vendors. 

Y/N also insisted, however, on planning tonight’s pre-wedding party. In lieu of a rehearsal dinner, Alpine and Bradley wanted a night to celebrate in a more relaxed way, before all the big traditions and photographers and the pressure to remember everything and treasure everything. 

Tonight, they want a night to just be, to have fun without any pressure of everything being perfect. Tonight, it’s about fun. It’s about excitement. It’s about celebrating love. 

Bradley picks up his pint and presses a kiss to the side of her head, rubbing his hand up and down her side. 

“Ready to party, baby?” He says, his voice teasing. 

She turns her head, kissing him briefly and feeling the subtle tickle of his mustache. 

“Hell yeah.” She says, grabbing her glass and taking a sip of the cold, bubbly drink. 

“Have fun, kids!” Y/N calls after them as Bradley’s hand moves from Alpine’s waist back to her hand, their fingers lacing together as they head off to say hello to all their favorite people. 

Jake is late. 

He wouldn’t have been late if he hadn’t spent half an hour trying to figure out what to wear. His leather jacket seemed too douchebag-y, but just a tee shirt and jeans was too casual. Sweatpants or joggers and a pullover would make him look like some twenty-something fuckboy, but slacks and a sweater would both be too warm and make him feel like he’s playing dress up as a middle-aged homeowner. In the end, he decided on jeans and an olive green henley, though he spent at least another minute and a half debating whether to unbutton just the top or the top two buttons on the shirt. 

He wouldn’t have been late if he hadn’t taken the long, scenic route with his windows rolled down, trying to stay calm and keep his head on straight. The long drive down the beach didn’t help all that much, because he just ended up spending the whole trip thinking about the last time he’d cruised down this coast, with an old blanket covering his backseat and memories of her crowding his mind. 

He wouldn’t have been late if he hadn’t stayed in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, wrestling with the decision to go inside. He sat in his car at first, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, watching the happy, soon-to-be-married couple walking hand-in-hand through the parking lot in his rearview mirror. At least they were late too. Eventually, he got out of the car, determined and motivated, and made it about three feet before he pivoted and started to retreat, only to shake himself out of it and head back towards the bar. He ended up pacing outside for a good five minutes until the front door opened and two people he didn’t recognize stepped out to share a vape pen. Not wanting to look like an idiot or a criminal or a creep, he managed a tight-lipped smile to each of them before moving to the door as if it had been his intention all along, pushing it open and stepping into the warm, noisy bar. 

He pauses on the edge of the party, his hands shoved into his pockets, taking in the space. It hasn’t changed in two years, no matter how much he has. He spots the squadron over by the pool table, of course, and the happy couple talking to Maverick and Penny. 

Catching motion by the bar out of the corner of his eye, he turns his head in time for a small group to step away from the counter and reveal her. The person he’s been most dreading to see and yet the only person he wants to see tonight. 

She looks the same, but different. 

Her hair is the same, so is her smile, and he even recognizes the dress she has on. But she holds herself differently. Not completely changed, but she seems more confident, more at ease. He wonders if it has to do with her success, of selling her screenplay — and watching the final film make millions. She’s probably already working on the next script. 

All of a sudden, he feels the full weight of it, of how much his knowledge of her and the reality of their estrangement puts a strain of longing in his chest. He’s totally fucked, and it’s entirely his own fault. 

Still, he straightens up and pulls his hands from his pockets, wiping his clammy palms against his jeans. He takes a breath, watching as she turns to the other side of the bar to help another guest, and walks up to the counter. 

Y/N hasn’t seen him yet. Or if she has, she hasn’t registered that it’s him. She’s probably just clocked him in her periphery as some other guy waiting for a drink. He leans one elbow on the bar, angling himself sideways, trying to look casual. He straightens up immediately, feeling like a cartoon simply captioned: “asshole.” He leans both elbows on the bar, facing it straight-on, but then hates the way he’s essentially sticking his ass out behind him and stands up straight again, flattening both palms against the wood. He looks to his left, trying to gauge what the other people by the bar are doing, what their stances look like.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up.” 

His head snaps forward, his right elbow buckling for a second before he recovers, lifting his hands off the bar and instinctively returning them to his pockets. 

She doesn’t look mad. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t. Then again, maybe two years was enough time for her to get over it all. Maybe there wasn’t anything for her to get over in the first place. Maybe he’s just overestimating his own importance in her life. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. 

“Come on now,” he scoffs, managing what he hopes is a cool smile, “I wouldn’t miss this.” 

“Of course not.” She returns his smile, but he doesn’t like the way she’s smiling at him like he’s an old dog who just won’t learn to sit and stay and she’s decided to live with him running around and breaking things, pretending that none of it matters. 

When it does matter. It matters. And he doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t know if he should start, here, in the place where he broke everything and now they’re surrounded by friends and family and this whole weekend isn’t about them, anyway, so he just stands there until her smile changes to a knowing yet questioning expression. 

“Your usual?” She prompts, and the question makes his chest squeeze tight around his heart because he missed her. 

“Yeah,” he says, strangling the word with his voice before clearing his throat. “Please.” 

She turns away to pour him a pint and he can’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed that she doesn’t try to make small talk. When she turns back, she sets the beer on the counter. She doesn’t hold it out, she doesn’t slide it closer, leaving no opportunity for any accidental physical contact, even just a brush of the hand. 

“Here you go.” She says, and he waits for a joke or a comment or any sign of how things used to be– but everything is different. 

His throat feels tight as she turns to get someone else’s order. She shifts back in his direction to pour another beer, and he takes a quick fortifying sip from his own pint glass. If he wants to say what he needs to say, then he has to say it now. 

“Hey, listen,” he clears his throat, part of him shoving the words out while another part tries desperately to keep them in, “So I wanted to, uh, to apologize.” 

She doesn’t look away from the pint she’s pouring, but he sees her grip falter on the lever, the flow of amber liquid stuttering for a second. 

“For what happened,” he continues in a rush, searching for better words and coming up with yet more inadequate expressions of his guilt, regret, and deep longing to have her forgiveness and friendship again, “For what I did. And…before. Not all of it– but I mean, most of it, because I was–” 

“It’s okay.” She interrupts him, and he’s almost relieved except for the look on her face– that tired, resigned expression again. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

She moves to set the beer down in front of its owner, and he muscles his way past a few people to stay in her sight-line. He opens his mouth to argue, to try again, to insist, because he really, really does have to apologize. 

She continues before he can speak, “I knew how you were…I should have anticipated– look, we never made any promises, and you were pretty clear about your priorities. I shouldn’t have expected anything from you. So it’s fine. It’s okay. Really.” 

He knows he looks like an idiot, staring at her with his mouth still open, unable to come up with a single thing to say because out of everything, he never expected this. 

He thought she might yell at him, he thought she might cry, he thought she might walk away, hell, maybe she’d even come at him fists swinging– he deserves it all. But to…to think that he’d done no wrong at all, that she was at fault for expecting common decency from him, that she could think the shit he pulled was all just part of his nature, inexplicable and unchangeable, is so so much worse. 

When she turns away without waiting for him to speak, busying herself with someone new on the other side of the bar, he doesn’t try to follow her this time. He picks up his beer and makes his way over to the pool table, needing to regroup. This is bigger than an apology, bigger than an explanation. He has to prove himself. But how?

He makes it about three quarters of the way when a hand claps over his shoulder. 

“You made it!” 

Jake turns to find Rooster grinning at him, Alpine tucked close to his side like always. He hasn’t seen Rooster since his transfer four months ago, and he hasn’t seen Alpine since her last visit to base when he helped Rooster sneak her in and out of the barracks. 

“Of course,” Jake says, clasping Rooster’s free hand and bumping their shoulders together. “It’s a big night.” 

“Hell yeah, man,” Rooster crows, lifting his beer in a half-toast. “I’m getting married!” 

“Cheer up about it already.” Jake jokes before leaning over to kiss Alpine lightly on the cheek. 

“He’s excited.” She says, nudging Rooster. 

Rooster turns to her, leaning down and pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m going to marry the hell out of you tomorrow.” 

She grins, tilting her face up to kiss him. Rooster immediately wraps an arm around her back, pulling her closer as he deepens the kiss.

“Ugh,” Jake scoffs, “Don’t you have any respect for public decency?” 

Without breaking the kiss, Alpine lifts her hand, extending her middle finger in Jake’s direction. He shakes his head, chuckling as he sidesteps them and continues on his way to the rest of the squadron, feeling a twinge of envy in his chest. 

*

Y/N knew Jake was coming. But she didn’t know how it would feel to see him again. She told herself that she wouldn’t feel anything, that she was actually over it.

But she’s not. At least not entirely. It’s not anger or sadness swirling in her stomach, but something else. Something else fluttery and nervous and wounded, yes, but also somehow relieved. As much as she blames him, she also missed him. As much as he hurt her, she still worried about him. As much as she wished things had gone differently, she’s glad to see him again. 

He looks different, but the same. 

She doesn’t let herself look at him often, feeling stiff and trapped in her own determination to be ambivalent and aloof. To at least seem over it, even if she’s not. Still, when she does happen to glance past the pool table, she gets a flash of his smile or the pinch of his dimples and she feels like she’s had too much caffeine, her ribs tight around her heart and lungs. 

He looks good– like always. It’s annoying, and unfair, how someone could be as sunkissed and chiseled and dimpled as he is. The lines around his eyes are deeper though, and his smiles are less frequent, and more genuine than all those charming smirks and suave grins she remembers. He seems more thoughtful, more internal, actually listening to his friends as he jokes and teases and jostles with them. 

Y/N shouldn’t be surprised, she supposes, after the occasional updates from Alpine and Rooster. She knew that he’d been assigned to the same base as Rooster after the mission on North Island. That they finally buried the hatchet and even became each other’s wingmen– and apparently, best friends. Enough that Rooster asked him to be best man, alongside herself as Alpine’s maid of honor. In the two years since Y/N has seen him, Alpine says Jake has been getting better, being a better friend and a better person and even a better pilot. 

Obviously, he has changed. Not completely changed, not pretending to be something he’s not, but grown and developed into a new version of himself– more centered, more calm, more mature. The Jake she met two years ago would never have apologized for a one-night-stand. He would have reveled in it without shame or remorse for its effect on anyone but himself— in fact, that’s probably what he was doing the night he disappeared without a word or a second glance. 

She’s not ready to handle…whoever he is now. 

Hearing him say “I’m sorry” did nothing to ease the odd feeling in her chest. Truthfully, it was never an apology that she imagined, lying awake at night. It was always something more, a confession and explanation of that look behind his eyes and the evenings spent at the bar and the dancing and all the things he made her feel. 

But it was never real. He just admitted he never meant any of it, and now he even regrets everything that happened between them. And she forgave him, just like that, just to try and forget the way it left a sharp pain between her ribs. 

It’s hard to forget, though, no matter how hard she focuses on filling pints and mixing cocktails and pouring shots until Maverick and her mother appear on the other side of the bar. 

“Close up for the night,” her mother encourages, “Enjoy the party.” 

“I am enjoying the party,” Y/N insists. 

“You’ve been working the whole time.” Maverick says. “Take a break.” 

The drink orders have slowed down in the last hour, considering the lengthening hour and the contained number of people in the bar. She decides not to argue– it’s pointless against her mother, anyway. Y/N lifts the bartop and steps out, hoping to find someone she knows on the side of the room furthest from the pool table when Rooster unplugs the Jukebox. 

He stops the music in the middle of “American Pie,” earning a mix of groans and excited murmurs from the assembled party. 

Y/N leans back against the bartop, watching as he pulls Alpine behind him on his way to the piano. He sits on the bench and she sits next to him, their sides pressed together from leg to shoulder. He begins to play, his fingers pressing the slightly out of tune keys, swaying from side to side as a simple, head-bopping melody begins. Alpine ducks her head, shaking her head and smiling as she recognizes the song: “You’re All I Need to Get By.”

“Like the sweet morning dew,” Rooster croons, “I took one look at you, and it was plain to see, you were my destiny.” 

Y/N smiles, the tightness in her chest relaxing as she watches her friends– happy and in love. 

“I will go, where you lead, always there in time of need,” Rooster sings, “And when I, lose my will, you’ll be there to push me up the hill!” 

Alpine joins in on the lead up to the chorus, singing along with a grin. 

“There’s no– no looking back for us! We got love, sure ‘nuff that’s enough!" They look at each other as they sing, matching smiles, “You’re all– you’re all I need, to get by.”

The rest of the party gravitates closer to the piano, nodding along, smiling with the couple, laughing as Rooster changes some of the lyrics: “Like a Rooster protects his nest,” and puffs out his chest a little in pantomime. Alpine sings with him again for the final chorus, leaning her head against his shoulder as they hold the final note. 

The bar erupts into applause and cheer, and Y/N claps with them, grinning at the knowledge that Rooster’s only just getting started. He goes through “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” “When I’m Sixty-Four” and “Sweet Caroline,” which his changes to “Sweet Alpine,” before he grins and runs a finger down the length of the keys before starting up the grand finale, rattling the keys like an old saloon pro. 

“You shake my nerves and you write on my brain!” He sings, “Too much love drives a man insane!” 

Alpine and a few of the pilots join in, “You broke my will, oh what a thrill!” 

The rest of the bar catches on quickly, shouting out along with Rooster: “Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire!” 

Y/N grins, watching Alpine dance in her spot on the piano bench as Rooster plays and sings, throwing his head back dramatically on “kiss me, baby” and “hold me, baby!” She should have known to keep her eyes on the happy couple, but something moves her gaze to the left and her eyes meet that familiar green-eyed gaze. 

Jake’s not singing along, and he has a peculiar look on his face. Not smiling, but not severe or sad. He looks thoughtful, and a little strained, as though trapped by his own thoughts as he looks at her. She expects him to look away, to pretend it was just a passing glance or that he wasn’t looking at her at all. But he doesn’t. He holds her gaze, his expression turning more unreadable by the second. 

She doesn’t like the way her stomach flutters to know he’s looking at her, unashamed. She doesn’t like the way her own expression is likely not as neutral as she wants it to be, probably betraying the mix of emotions in her chest. She doesn’t like the way it feels, just for a second, like that night she thought things were going to change for the better, before he proved her wrong. 

“I want to love you like a lover should, you’re fine, you’re so kind. I’ma tell the world you’re mine, mine, mine!” Y/N looks away, managing a smile as Rooster reaches the end of the song. “Come on, baby! You’re driving me crazy! Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire!” 

~

Alpine wakes up early on the morning of the wedding. 

She doesn’t mean to– in fact, after the late night last night and considering the long day ahead, she should probably try to fall back asleep and get more rest. 

But she has this feeling…it’s not quite nervousness and it’s not quite excitement– it’s the sense of impending change, of approaching a milestone, of hurtling towards a new phase of life. It’s electrifying and intimidating and there’s no way she’s going to be able to fall back to sleep now that she can count the number of hours until she gets married on her fingers. 

Alpine lies on her back and holds her hand up in front of her face, looking at the engagement ring in the morning light. It’s a beautiful ring, and a precious heirloom, the memory of both of Bradley’s parents. 

For the last six months, it’s been off of her hand more than on it. Between pulling on and off flight gloves, going for sweaty workouts, and the general uncertainty of military service – especially as a pilot – the last thing she wanted to do was lose the ring. So unless Bradley was visiting, she kept it safe and secure in a box in her room in the barracks. 

After today, once she has her own smooth wedding band, she’ll hang the engagement ring on a necklace like Bradley’s mother did. To keep it safe and close to her heart, a reminder of the past while the ring on her finger will promise for the future. 

That thought, of the future, so long and completely unknown, has that feeling returning to her chest– the tightness, the ticking of a countdown, the creeping closer to a point of no return, for better or worse. 

Alpine drops her hand, grabbing the top edge of the blanket and pulling it back as she tries to quietly slip out of bed. 

She doesn’t make it very far, just managing to sit up and plant her feet on the floor before she hears the sheets moving behind her and a long, strong arm hooks around her waist and pulls her back into bed. She smiles, laughing a little as Bradley drags her body close, pressing her back against his chest. 

He hums sleepily, nudging his nose between her shoulder and the side of her neck. His breath tickles against her skin and she shivers, twisting around so they’re nose-to-nose instead. 

“Hey,” she whispers, smiling. 

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, his voice still gravely from sleep. 

“Go back to sleep,” she encourages, lifting her hand to brush through his wavy hair.

He shakes his head, bumping his nose against hers. “If you’re awake then I’m awake.” 

Even after two years together, he still makes her stomach flutter. She slides her hand to the back of his head and leans in for a kiss. His arm tightens around her, pressing her body against his as he returns the kiss. 

And then he inhales sharply and pulls away, eyes wide. 

“What? What’s wrong?” She asks, worry flaring in her chest. Surely her morning breath isn’t that bad— no worse than his, anyway.

“We’re getting married today.” He says, with soft awe. 

“Oh,” she sighs, and then laughs a little in relief. “Yeah. We are.” 

In one fast, smooth motion, he locks his arm around her and rolls so her back is pressed into the mattress while he hovers above her. 

“You’re going to be my wife.” He grins, “And I’m going to be your husband.” 

He looks so cute, smiling wide and bright, and she can’t help but smile too as she says: “Yup.”

He leans down and captures her lips again, more intensely this time. She’s just starting to part her lips to deepen the kiss when he pulls back again, moving his mouth to trail down her neck. 

“And we’ll get to do this for as long as we both shall live.” 

She exhales shakily, relieved as the feeling disappears from her chest, replaced by the sensation of his lips against her skin. She tangles her fingers in his hair and tugs lightly, pulling him back up to kiss her, hoping that the feeling of him, of having him as she has always had him, will help. 

*

Rooster’s not sure he’s ever been happier than he is today. 

Maybe he was this happy on the last day he remembers being with his father, sitting on top of the piano and singing with him and Uncle Mav while his mom laughed and smiled at them from across the room, but that day is stained with all the heartbreak that came afterwards. 

Today isn’t even over yet, and it’s already shaping up to be the best day of his life. 

He woke up next to the most beautiful woman in the world, who also happens to be the love of his life, made love to her, and now he’s drinking coffee in the kitchen of a fancy beach house, watching the morning light glow across her skin as she looks out the window at the ocean, counting down the minutes until he can put a ring on her finger and call her his wife for the rest of his life. 

He’s drawn from his thoughts when his phone buzzes on the counter in front of him. He picks it up to see a text from Hangman. 

Captain Ugly | 8:47 a.m. | do u know where i can find Y/N?

“Beautiful,” Rooster calls, and Alpine looks over her shoulder, “Where’s Y/N this morning?” 

“Probably at the house. She said she was planning on helping with set-up before the lunch.” Alpine says. 

Rooster nods, looking back down at his phone to reply. 

Big Bird | 8:48 a.m. | Try Penny and Mav’s place. 

“Why do you ask?” Alpine asks, moving back over to the other side of the counter. 

“Hangman’s looking for her.” 

As if on cue, his phone buzzes again. 

Captain Ugly | 8:48 a.m. | thx 

Alpine’s expression turns curious, and slightly suspicious. “What for?” 

“Maybe they’re doing some maid of honor and best man thing.” Rooster suggests, “Like writing a toast or planning a bit or a song or some shit like that.” 

“Oh god I hope not.” Alpine blurts and then starts to laugh. “Can you imagine?” 

Rooster starts to laugh too, trying to picture Hangman and Y/N getting through a speech together, or, god forbid, a choreographed dance. It would be hilarious, definitely, but also chaos. 

“Yeah…maybe not.” 

“But actually, is he trying to hook up with her again? Or is he serious this time?”

 Rooster saw the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his friend’s face at the bar last night while he was waiting for Y/N to notice him. Hangman had a similar look on his face three weeks into being stationed on the same base as Rooster, the day he pulled Rooster aside and apologized for all the shit he’d said and done and waited to see what Rooster would do— punch him out, or forgive him. Rooster did both. And they’ve been friends ever since. 

He also knows Hangman has never gotten Y/N out of his head. Rooster knows the feeling— ever since he met Alpine, not a day has passed that he hasn’t wanted to spend by her side. But unlike Rooster, Hangman ran away from that feeling, and only with some coaching from his wingman has he come to terms with the idea that running would only only hurt both of them more. 

“I know he wants to make things right.” Rooster says, “I know he cares about her. I think he always has, but he’s not playing games this time.” 

“I just hope he knows what he’s doing.” She sighs, “He’s my friend now too, but if he breaks her heart again I will fuck him up myself.” 

“And I’ll back you up.” Rooster promises. 

“Who said I need your help?” She teases, crossing her arms. 

He smiles, holding his hands up in surrender. 

“I’ll cheer you on, how about that?” 

She nods in approval. “That’s better.” 

*

Jake feels like he’s walking onto a movie set when he gets to Penny and Mav’s place, following the various decorators and carpenters around to the back patio. 

He looks around for Y/N, unable to find her on the temporary dance floor, arranging flowers, or setting up the tables for the reception. 

He turns toward the water and sees where they’re setting up the altar on the beach. It’s simple, a white wooden arch wrapped in elegant gauzy fabric that blows in the breeze. Y/N stands in front of it, her back to him, in denim shorts and a flowy green top, and he swears his heart stops for a second. 

But then she moves, tilting to the side to look at the arch before saying something to the person holding the left side, directing them this way and that until it’s settled the way she wants it. He takes advantage of her distraction, psyching himself up as he starts making his way across the sand towards her. 

The woman holding the left side of the arch notices him first, smiling and nodding her head towards him. 

“Is this the groom?” 

Y/N turns around, an expression of confusion turning quickly to surprise and then dropping into forced neutrality. 

“The best man, actually.” Jake says. 

“The bridal party doesn’t have to get ready until noon.” Y/N says. 

“I know.” Jake holds her gaze, “I came to help set up.” 

Something flashes across her face, an expression much closer to dread than he’d like, before she settles back into careful impassivity. 

“It looks good guys, thank you.” Y/N says to the others, and then gestures for Jake to walk with her as she heads back toward the house. He falls into step with her easily, bolstered at least momentarily that she isn’t shoving him into the ocean. “So, you want to do wedding stuff?” 

“I’m the best man, aren’t I?” he says, trying to sound playful, “I’m supposed to help out.”

She looks at him again, and he meets her eyes, hoping she can understand the plea he’s not quite willing to say aloud. 

“Okay,” she says, like she’s still expecting him to bail after five minutes. “Mike could probably use a hand setting up the chairs.” 

He grins, his mind already spinning with potential jokes and lines and segues to get her to talk to him, to hear him out, to get to know the new him, when a burly, older guy hands him a heavy stack of folded wooden chairs and nods toward the beach. 

“Alright pretty boy, let’s go.” 

Jake reluctantly follows Mike away from Y/N, setting up the chairs in front of the wedding arch. He lines up the chairs in record time, hauling them over from the stack by the house four at a time. Mike grumbles and realigns each one slightly, but seems satisfied with Jake’s help, and Jake eagerly escapes back to the patio. Y/N is hooking up her phone to the speakers by the dance floor when he arrives. The other staff have all finished and left, it seems, because she’s alone. 

Jake’s impromptu weight-lifting and the ever-rising late morning sun have left a sheen of sweat on his skin, and he pulls the bottom hem of his shirt up to wipe his face. As he drops the fabric again, he catches her gaze dropping quickly back to her phone– evidently she’d noticed his presence just in time to get a glimpse of his abs. Honestly, the move wasn’t intentional, but he’s gratified to know he still causes that look on her face– not quite blushing, but still obviously attracted and embarrassed at being caught. 

“See something you like?” He asks, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

“No.” She answers too easily, and while she might be lying, the implication that she simply doesn’t like him has Jake sobering instantly. 

“It looks great.” He says, gesturing vaguely around the patio, “All of this.” 

“The bride and groom picked everything out,” she shrugs, “I’m just making sure it’s all in the right place.” 

“Sure,” he nods. 

A beat of silence passes as she scrolls through something on her phone – maybe a playlist – and he can feel her searching for a semi-nice excuse to get rid of him.

“It’s nice to see them happy.” He rambles, “Rooster and Alpine. Seeing them, spending time with them, uh, it’s helped me a lot. They’re good at…talking and shit. Honestly, I didn’t think they’d last three months long-distance, but here we are. It really—” he swallows thickly, feeling pathetic. “Really makes you think.” 

She looks up at him then, a quizzical expression on her face.

“Think what?” 

“Maybe it’s not so hard.” He says, and the words tumble out ahead of his thoughts, “The whole relationship thing. When you…find someone worth…talking things through with.” 

His heart sinks as she looks away again, blinking rapidly down at her phone, and he knows he said the wrong thing. Again. 

“Shit. This is why you’re the writer and I’m not. I don’t…I don’t know how to say what I want to say.” He sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I mean, how the hell did you write a whole movie, sweetheart? I can’t even string a sentence together when it counts.” 

She looks up again, eyes wide this time. “You saw the movie?” 

He doesn’t like how shocked she looks. “Of course I did. It was amazing. But of course any movie that’s yours would be fan-tucking-tastic.”

“It’s not really my movie.” She crosses her arms, that adorable half-pleased, half-embarrassed expression on her face. “I mean, once I handed over the script it was more the director’s thing.” 

“No, it was yours. I could tell. I could…hear your voice in it.” He insists. “And it was fucking good. Except that it made me cry. So fuck you very much for that, sweetheart.” 

He felt like an idiot, sitting in that theater, wiping the tears off his face like a kid watching some Pixar movie. But he also felt so proud of her at that moment because she did that. Her words brought him — and the rest of the theater — to tears with her story. 

A smile tugs at her mouth, but she points at him in warning, “Don’t bullshit me.” 

“I’m not bullshitting,” he insists, holding his hands up, “Honest to god, Y/N, you made me cry like a baby in public.” 

“Was it the part with Jackson’s dad?” She asks, giving him a tentative look. 

His chest tightens and he falters at the accuracy of her guess— that she would remember, that she would know, after all this time, exactly where his soft spot lies. He nods. 

“I’m sorry.” She says. “If it helps, writing it made me cry, too.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” He shakes his head. “You’re a great writer.” 

“Thank you.” She says softly, looking down at her hands fidgeting with her phone, and when she looks back up his heartbeat kicks up again, because it’s the same look he’d get at the bar, listening to music and cleaning for hours, the look he's been dreaming about for two years.

*

Y/N doesn’t know what she wants. At least when it comes to Jake Seresin. 

Part of her wants to avoid him and all the stomach twisting, contradicting feelings his presence inspires. Part of her wants to sit down and talk to him for hours about everything they’ve missed in each other’s lives in the last two and a half years. Part of her wants to go back to the time before she knew him. Part of her wants to kiss him. Part of her wants to grab him by his stupidly broad shoulders and shake him and shake him and shake him. 

The truth is, she doesn’t have any right to want anything from him. She never did. And while she appreciates his attempt to apologize, to take responsibility, to say what she’d hoped for so long to hear– he’s not the one at fault. At least not completely. He’s responsible for his actions, but never for her feelings. 

He takes a step closer, and she wants to run to him and stay away from him at the same time. 

“Can I help with anything else?” He asks softly, like he’s afraid to scare her away.

“I just need to test the speaker volume.” 

“Here, I’ll stand over at the end and see how it sounds.” 

He backs up to the far end of the dance floor and then gives her a thumbs up. Giving up on her selection process, she just hits shuffle on the Alpine + Rooster wedding playlist. 

“Play That Funky Music” begins to play, relatively quietly, and Jake gestures for Y/N to turn the volume up. She turns the control dial slowly, a little bit at a time, until he holds his palm out, gesturing for her to stop. 

She watches, with a mix of confusion and amusement as Jake starts to nod along to the song. Then his shoulders start to move, along with his hips, and before she can believe her eyes, he’s doing possibly the dorkiest dance she’s ever seen. It’s all bending knees and swinging arms, like he’s trying to turn into a helicopter or learn karate or possibly some combination of both. 

Y/N covers her mouth with her hand, though it does little to smother the laughter bubbling out of her chest. Her reaction only seems to encourage him, because he grins and starts to dance his way closer. 

“What are you doing?” She laughs, edging backwards as he approaches. 

“Testing the music.” He says, bobbing his head like a turkey, “I’d say it’s working.” 

“I don’t know about that.” She argues, ducking around him before he can corner her, backing out onto the dance floor. 

“Try it out yourself then.”

She obliges slightly, nodding her head and doing a little side-stepping. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he grins, “Get into it!” 

In addition to his arms akimbo, ass-shaking spectacle, Jake starts to sing. “Play that funky music, white boy, play that funky music right! Play that funky music white boy, lay down the boogie and play that funky music ‘till you die.”

It’s clear that out of the two of them, Rooster is the singer and Jake is…well, not the dancer, either. But his performance is enough to rid Y/N of any lingering shame, and she dances with him, shaking out her hair and moving her hips and sliding the soft soles of her tennis shoes across the smooth floor. 

Jake whoops and cheers and continues his own dorky display, drifting closer but never enough to touch or get in her space– they both know if he does, the moment will be ruined. 

Though the moment ends soon enough anyway when Y/N catches a glimpse of someone standing in front of the sliding back door, having just stepped outside. She stops dancing and immediately rushes back to the control center to turn off the music. Jake straightens up as she passes him, turning to watch her with concern and confusion. 

“Hey, what’s–” 

“Hey Mav,” Y/N calls to her stepfather as he walks over towards the dance floor, “We were just testing the speakers.” 

“I can see that.” Maverick says with a small amused smile, nodding to Jake. “Hangman.” 

“Maverick.” Jake nods back, and Y/N notes the slightest hint of red on his cheeks. 

Maverick looks out at the back yard and then at her again, smiling. “It looks great.” 

“That’s what I said.” Jake agrees, earning an unreadable look from Maverick. 

Y/N takes a breath, managing a smile. “Well, let’s hope it goes even better than it looks.” 

Maverick turns back to Y/N. “I was just heading to the store to pick up ice and extra napkins and I was hoping you’d come with, if you’re free?” 

“Oh,” she glances at Jake, and finds she doesn’t want to leave anymore, but turns back to her stepfather, knowing he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t have a reason, “Yeah, sure, we were just finishing up anyway.” 

“Great.” Maverick smiles, holding up his keys, “Let’s ride.” 

“I’ll see you at noon?” Jake asks as she starts to turn away. 

She nods, and he nods back, looking for a moment like a lost puppy as he watches her follow Maverick inside. 

 To her relief, they take her mom’s SUV instead of Mav’s motorcycle. Mom loves it, but Y/N always feels like she’s seconds away from death when Maverick takes her anywhere on that thing. 

He keeps the radio on during the short drive to the store, and they chat a little about the wedding while they load up the ice and the packs of napkins and a few bottles of extra sunscreen — “melanoma is no joke, kiddo,” Maverick insists — into the car. Driving back though, Mav switches off the radio and takes a breath. 

“Uh oh,” Y/N braces herself, “What’s up? You okay?” 

“Me? I’m great.” He says, glancing at her as he pauses for a stop sign. “It’s you I’m worried about, kiddo.” 

“What? Why?” 

He gives her a more pointed look. “You’re jumpy. You’ve been tense all week. It’s because of Hangman, isn’t it?” 

“Why— it has nothing to do with Jake. I don’t—” 

“Y/N.” Maverick cuts her off, his tone telling her he’s having none of it. “Jacob and I have a lot in common. Including spending too much time at the bar trying to get the attention of a smart, pretty bartender. And then fucking everything up.”

“Mav, seriously—”

“I’m not proud of the guy I was when I broke your mom’s heart. It took a hell of a lot of work to get myself to a place where I felt I even deserved to look her in the eye again, let alone earn her forgiveness. But I did. And it was because she was willing to give me grace, and give me a second chance.” 

“This is different.” Y/N says, her voice tight around the lump in her throat. “You always loved mom. You just didn’t know how to leave…He never loved me.” 

“I was in that bar two years ago, too, you know. I know he snuck out after curfew to help you close up every night. And I saw the way he looked at you— same then as he did today, watching you dance.” Maverick sighs, pulling into the driveway and putting the car in park. “I don’t know what happened between you, or what he did, but I just don’t want you to miss out on a second chance.” 

He pats her knee and climbs out to unload the ice before it melts. Y/N can only sit in silence, processing her stepfather’s advice. 

~

Alpine sits at the vanity in Y/N’s childhood bedroom, in the house that came to feel like a second home to her in college, lost in a sea of her own uncertainty. She doesn’t know what to do. Her feelings are all mixed up and conflicting and it all feels like too much. The possibilities are endless, good and bad, and they stretch before her, starting from the moment of her soon-to-commence wedding in an overwhelming matrix of criss-crossing paths, twists and turns and she’s starting to feel like maybe she should just turn around all together and give up.

“Hey,” Y/N pauses her work on styling Alpine’s hair, putting a gentle hand on her friend’s arm. “You okay?” 

Faced with the question, Alpine feels a sudden rush of tears pressing hot behind her eyes. She blinks rapidly, trying to clear them, and nods. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Really?”

“Just a little nervous, I guess.” 

“Yeah, that’s completely valid.” Y/N assures her, “It's a big day. But you’re going to be fine. Amazing, even. Once it’s all happening, you’ll forget about the worries and just enjoy yourself.” 

Alpine nods, but doesn’t respond, trying to swallow the lump in her throat, trying to break free from the paralyzing anxiety trapping her like a vice.  

“Hey,” Y/N sets her hand on Alpine’s arm. “Oklahoma.” 

Alpine stills at the sound of their code-word, the one that means: tell me what’s going on, and be completely honest. 

She takes a big, deep breath. When Alpine meets her friend’s gaze, the tears start to fall as she voices her fear:

“What if this is a huge mistake?” 

“The wedding?” Y/N looks shocked, clearly searching for the right thing to say. “I mean– do you think it’s a mistake? It only matters what you think. If you don’t want to do this, then we’ll call it off, but…what’s going on? Did something happen?” 

“Not exactly. Not yet.” Alpine rakes her hands through her hair, trying to marshall her thoughts well enough to express them. “Just– isn’t it too soon? I feel like maybe we’re rushing into this.” 

“You’ve been together for over two years.” 

“But most of it’s been long-distance. We haven’t…we haven’t even lived together. Not really. What if I can’t stand the way he loads the dishwasher or he doesn’t like that I walk around without a bra most of the time?” 

“Okay, no,” Y/N says, clearly trying to make her laugh, “He’s going to love that.” 

“That’s not the point though– we don’t…we’ve been together for two years but we don’t know how to be together. We’ve been living independent lives in completely different places. What if we don’t know how to put it all together?” 

“You won’t know until you try.” 

“But we don’t have to get married first. Right?” Alpine feels slightly breathless, tears of desperation gathering in her eyes. “Because if it doesn’t work it’ll be a legal thing as well as an emotional thing and I just think maybe we didn’t think it through enough, maybe we–” 

“Okay, okay,” Y/N interrupts the start of her spiral, placing her hands on Alpine’s knees. “I understand. I hear you. But…you can’t just move in together, right? Isn’t it a thing with your different assignments or deployments or whatever? Part of the reason you were going to get married is so you can live together, right?” 

She is right. Alpine drops her face into her hands, the tears starting to fall now. “Fuck.” 

“Hey, okay, you still don’t have to get married.” Y/N says, “But– if you do, and things go bad in a year or even in ten or twenty years from now, yeah, divorce is a hassle and it’s a legal and emotional thing, but it’s not the end of the world. It’s not a sign of failure.” 

Alpine looks at her, trying not to lose it and ugly-cry, but struggling to keep the roiling, bone-shaking waves of emotion at bay– desperate for something to hang onto, something to pull her back from full breakdown.  

“I’m serious,” Y/N insists, “I saw my parents go through that. Getting divorced was the brave thing. It was the right thing for them. For them, staying together would have been a failure, because it would have been a choice made out of fear– fear of embarrassment, of admitting their mistakes, of facing the unknown. They would have been miserable if they stayed together.” 

Alpine takes a shaky breath, feeling a small sense of calm from Y/N’s reasoning. Divorce is a legal construct, just like marriage. They’re really only symbols with certain physical attachments and consequences. At the heart of both are people and relationships, which grow and change regardless of documents signed or belongings shared. 

“The thing is,” Y/N continues, speaking carefully, “I really don’t think you and Bradley will be miserable together.” 

Alpine takes another breath, deeper this time, more steady, as she turns her thoughts away from the uncertain future and focuses on the certainty of the present– how much she loves him, despite her fears; how much he loves her, showing it by making her laugh and smile and feel good about herself; how the much, how completely the anxious, overwhelmed feelings had all faded this morning when he held her. 

“He adores you.” Y/N says, squeezing Alpine’s leg in reassurance. “I’ve never seen anyone so in love before. I don’t think you’ll be miserable, because when problems show up I know you two will work it out. I know, I know that he’ll do whatever he can– whatever it takes, to make things work with you. And so will you. Because that’s who you are. That’s what you do when you love someone.” 

A fresh wave of tears overcomes her, but they’re no longer tears of fear or frustration. They’re tears of relief. They’re the product of finally releasing all the pent up emotions, the high-strung expectations, of finding your questions answered, of reaching a solution to an impossible problem. 

“If you told him you weren’t sure, if you talked to him about any of this, if he thought for one second that calling the wedding off was what you two needed, he would do it.” 

“You’re right.” Alpine says, her voice watery as she laughs a little through her tears, “He would.” 

Y/N nods, smiling softly, her eyes shining with care and support and concern. 

“Do you want to talk to him?” 

Suddenly, that’s all she wants– to see his face and hear his voice and feeling that grounding, anchoring weight of his love amid her own insecurity. That’s all she wants today, really. To be with Bradley, to vow to love him and support him, to laugh and cry with, to explore and discover and grow together, as long as they possibly can. She doesn’t need all the decorations and the guests, the logistics and the drama – though the dance floor would be nice – she just wants him. 

She nods, sniffling. “Yes please.”

Y/N’s smile grows. “Alright, then.”

*

Rooster can’t keep still. He’s fully dressed already– just like Mav and Hangman, in their best Navy whites. So he settles at the piano on the first floor, picking out parts of songs and tries not to count down the seconds. In less than two hours, he’ll be married. And to the most strong, intelligent, beautiful woman in the world, no less. 

“Hey, Big Bird?” Y/N’s voice calls from the stairs. 

Rooster stands, heading out into the hallway to see her on her way down. “What’s up, Y/N? Everything okay?” 

“Alpine needs you.” She smiles softly, a little hesitant. “She’s having some anxiety, and I think talking to you would really help.” 

He’s already moving at the word anxiety, his heart dropping as he takes the stairs two at a time. He knows how she gets– how most of the time her big beautiful brain is one of the hottest things about her, and occasionally her worst enemy (and therefore also his). 

Y/N backs against the wall to let him pass and calls after him: “First door on the right!” 

He slows his pace just outside the door, knowing it won’t help to burst in with his own worrying over her, and pauses to take a breath. He raps his knuckles against the door. 

“Hey, baby, it’s me.” He calls softly, “Can I come in?” 

Her voice is weak and wobbly, and he’s pushing the door open even as she says, “Yeah.”

The worst he’s seen of her self-doubt was when she had the opportunity to apply for an internal task force for gender equity and had somehow convinced herself she wasn’t qualified enough to even submit the application. He’d hated how helpless he felt, seeing her pain through the FaceTime screen and being unable to truly help.

She hadn’t cried then like she is now, but at least this time he’s able to get to her. He’s able to kneel down by her chair and pull her into his arms. 

“What’s wrong, my love?” He asks softly, “What’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours?” 

“I’m sorry,” her arms cling around his neck and she starts to sob in that way that she calls ‘ugly crying,’ but he’s always considered the deepest, truest sign of her capabilities for emotion– for human caring and sensitivity. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he rocks her gently, and presses a kiss to the side of her head, “Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry about. Just…talk to me, baby. What do you need?” 

“Just you. Just for a minute.” 

“Honey, you have me forever.” 

He’s not sure if that helped or hurt, because she sobs again, but her arms tighten around him, and he wouldn’t dream of pulling away. He keeps rocking her, and rubs his hand slowly up and down her back until her breathing starts to slow, deepen, shaking a little on each long exhale. 

“There you go, baby. That’s it.” He murmurs, kissing the side of her head. “You’re okay.” 

She pulls back, her eyes red, but more calm as she manages a faint, but genuine smile. 

“I was just worried– about everything and nothing.” She explains without his asking. “I feel better now, though.” 

“Still want to do this?” He asks, “It’s not too late to just run away and elope. Or skip the marriage part and just have a big party.” 

“See, this–” she lets out a little disbelieving laugh and points accusingly at him, “This is why I still want to do this.” 

He chuckles a little, but it’s in response to the sight of her smile. He has no idea what she’s talking about. 

“What do you mean, baby?” 

“You’re not freaking out about this!” She exclaims, “Any other guy would see his fiancée freaking out before walking down the aisle and– I don’t know, be upset about it, I guess.” 

“The only thing that makes me upset is seeing you upset. And if stopping the wedding would fix that, then I’m ready to throw the flower arrangements in the ocean. Just say the word.” 

She laughs again, her smile growing. 

“Besides,” he continues, taking her hands in his and kissing the back of each, “As much as I want to marry you, all I really want is to see you happy.” 

“Marrying you will make me happy.” 

He beams. Hearing her say that makes his chest feel full to bursting with happiness, he’s not sure if he’ll actually be able to handle the wedding himself. 

Still, he wants to make absolutely sure she’s ready. “Even today?” 

She smiles, and leans in to kiss him before saying: “Give me an hour.” 

“I’ll give you anything you want.” 

*

Jake had never been inside Penny and Maverick’s house before now. He likes it. There’s a cottage by the beach feel to it, the walls painted pale creams and blues, the windows create soft light and reflection, the furniture is sturdy and well-worn, and there are pictures and nicknacks along the walls and shelves. The house has a comfortable, dreamy quality to it that settles certain things he’s noticed about Y/N into place. No wonder she became a writer; she grew up in a house out of a storybook– one of those little chapter books about a spunky little girl who has adventures to finally find her way in the world. 

While Rooster leaves the living room at Y/N’s call, Jake gets stuck on this one photo of Y/N hanging on the living room wall among an arrangement of family photos. In this one, she can’t be more than two or three, sitting in a little chair on the beach in a big tee shirt and no pants with a pair of bright pink sunglasses. He simply adores it, every single detail. So much so that he’s contemplating how creepy it would be to take a picture of it on his phone when he hears her voice behind him. 

“Hey, Jake?”  

He turns around to see Y/N standing in the doorway. He’d overheard her talking to Rooster, but he assumed she’d go back upstairs afterwards. He wasn’t expecting to see her, at least not like this. 

Her hair is done– tucked away from her face, with little flowers stuck into the pinned-back waves. She has makeup on, not a lot, but there’s some stuff around her eyes that makes them seem brighter as she looks at him. Her deep green bridesmaid dress is long and not too elaborate, but the cut and color both suit her, the fabric hanging and fitting in the right places. Her feet are bare, and something about the small missing piece of her outfit – that she’s letting him see her not quite ready – feels strangely intimate. 

After a second too long, he realizes he should probably say something instead of staring at her like an idiot. 

He swallows thickly, managing to meet her gaze as he chokes out: “Yeah?” 

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” She asks, her tone and expression equally hesitant. 

“Of course.” He nods, unsure if he should go to her or wait for her to move closer. 

She glances down the hallway to the kitchen, where he can hear the muffled sounds of the caterers. She looks back at him with a sheepish smile and tilts her head toward the front door. He nods and follows her through the door and outside to the front stoop. She lifts up her skirt a little to keep it from dragging on the ground as she shuts the door behind them and turns to face him. 

“Did something happen?” He asks. “Is Alpine calling it off?” 

“No, no, I think everything’s still on track.” She assures him. “Bradley’s with her now and I wanted to give them some space. She had a little anxious spiral about the wedding, but then she remembered who she’s marrying.” 

Jake shakes his head, “I’ve never seen two people more obsessed with each other.” 

“It’s obnoxious, honestly.” Y/N jokes. 

“Right? Finally, someone agrees with me.” Jake plays along, feeling the dangerous pull of hope at the fun and familiarity returning.

 “Oh, your pin is crooked.” Her gaze catches on the eagle affixed to the left side of his uniform. 

“Shit.” Jake tries to look down at it, but the angle is too steep for him to really see it. 

“Here, I can…” She steps closer and lifts her hand, but waits for his permission before touching him.  

“Sure, yeah. Thanks.” He says, his mouth going suddenly dry. 

She focuses her gaze on the insignia as her fingers fiddle with it, trying to line it up with the rest of the adornments on his chest. Jake wonders faintly whether she can feel how fast his heart is beating. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” she says, her breath tickling his neck as she speaks, “Alpine told me about your promotion, Captain Seresin.” 

He swallows thickly, having forgotten the effect hearing her use his title has on him. 

“It looks good on you,” she adds, stepping back again and taking in his crisp white dress uniform, “The new rank.” 

When she meets his gaze he knows she’s not just talking about his title. He remembers very well the last time she saw him in this uniform, and how much has changed since that night— and how much hasn’t. 

“Thanks.” He says, and though the response sounds horribly lacking, he can’t come up with anything better over the blood rushing in his ears. “Um, did she mention the transfer?” 

“No, where are you going?” 

“Already gone, actually.” He smiles, but it’s strained with nerves. “Effective this week, I’ll be stationed here. North Island.” 

Her eyes go wide. “For how long?” 

“Indefinite.” He says, “I’ll be teaching pilots, mostly. And it’s a good launch point for any missions that come through, but, um, the more I move up from here the more stationary it gets. Leadership and administration and all that shit.” 

He tries to laugh it off like it’s not a big deal, but he knows it is. He knows it changes things– he’s just not sure if it’s changing things in his favor. 

He still wants her. He never stopped, even over the years apart. And he’s starting to wonder whether, even after the years of silence, even after he hurt her, whether she might want him too. 

“You’re staying in town.” She says, more to herself than him, “Indefinitely.” 

He swallows. “Yup.” 

“Then I think– I think, um, we should talk.” She looks serious– it scares him. “Or, I guess, I need to say something.” 

*

Y/N takes a deep breath. She’d rather turn around and hide inside, but she owes him this, at least. She owes herself this moment, this release of the truth. 

“So, look— I should apologize for brushing you off last night.” She says, trying to make eye contact but too nervous to hold it for more than a moment at a time, “I meant what I said, about you not owing me anything, but I should have clarified a little more. I just— I guess I was scared. Anyway, you don’t have to apologize, but the truth is, Jake, I had feelings for you. More than just the sex, I—I really liked you. It was my own fault for thinking you felt the same way. I shouldn’t have hoped, but I did, and when you left without saying goodbye…it hurt. A lot. And I’m okay now, we’re okay, it’s really fine, I just needed to say it, I think. I needed you to know that even if it didn’t mean anything to you, it did to me.” 

She stops, holding her breath as she finally holds his wide-eyed gaze, waiting for his response– whatever it might be. He looks pained, and her heart sinks. She knows it’s coming, the truth behind his wordless rejection two years ago. The heartbreaking explanation she’s always assumed, but never confirmed. 

“Fuck. Why is this so hard? Okay—” he pauses, taking a breath and holding her gaze. “It meant something to me, too.” 

Y/N holds herself very still, feeling her heart beating fast in her chest. She was expecting rejection all over again, but this is…this is worse. And better. But also worse. 

Either way, she can barely breathe as she stands frozen, listening to him. 

“It was just about sex at the beginning. I can admit that. I always thought you were beautiful, but it was just that at first— that, and the idea that sleeping with you might mess with Alpine. I didn’t expect it to turn into something more, but I couldn’t get you out of my head. I just wanted to talk to you about everything, I wanted to sit at the bar and watch you work, I even wanted to mop the goddamn floors every night because it meant listening to you sing along to that stupid jukebox. I didn’t even realize what it all meant until after we slept together. Because I got what I wanted, but I realized I wanted more, and after the mission I didn’t think I deserved it. I was dealing with some shit in my head and my self-worth and my ego and I can handle it all better now but then I thought I didn’t deserve you. And worst of all, I was too much of a coward to even tell you how I felt. I thought it would hurt less if I just left, but I was wrong.” 

Her heart aches at the knowledge, at the memory of it, at the loss of what it could have been. The last thing she wants is to cry in front of him, but her throat is tight and her breath is shaky. 

“I missed you. God, I missed you so much, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, “I watched every TV show you worked on, I asked Alpine about you, I went to the theater to see your movie every day for a week when it came out.” 

Her stomach flutters, but her brain whispers at her, warning her not to repeat old mistakes. 

“Why didn’t you reach out? Why didn’t you try to talk to me until now?” 

“I was convinced I didn’t deserve you, and certain you’d hate me for what I’d done. I guess I figured you wouldn’t want to talk to me. I don’t know, after a while it just seemed easier to miss you than to risk finding out how much you didn’t want me anymore.” 

“Jake…I don’t…”

“Don’t say anything yet.” He takes her hands, the gesture hurried and almost desperate. “It’s taken me two years to figure out how to say this, and I don’t want to fuck it up.” 

She holds her tongue and her breath, nodding for him to continue. He exhales, and meets her gaze. 

“I fell in love with you two years ago, and that feeling never went away. It doesn’t excuse what I’ve done, and while I was scared I didn’t deserve you then, I definitely don’t deserve you now. But I want to make it up to you, I don’t want to start over, but I want to…try again. You don’t owe me a second chance, you don’t owe me anything. I just, I needed you to know the truth, and that if you still want me…you have me.”

She inhales, wanting to give voice to any number of the feelings swirling in her stomach, wanting to ask any of the questions popping into her head, wanting to tell him how much this means to her, but unable to properly marshal the words to get anything out. She exhales, feeling joyous and frustrated and relieved and confused and hopeful and heartbroken all at once. 

Unable to speak, she impulsively lurches forward and hugs him instead. She’s certain she’s caught him off guard, but he doesn’t show it, wrapping his arms around her immediately. He holds her tight, like he doesn’t want to let go. She presses her face into his shoulder, her words muffled against his shirt. 

“What?” He pulls back, searching her face, “I didn’t hear you.” 

“I still want you.” She admits, her voice strained. 

He kisses her then, a sudden, desperate crush of his mouth against hers. For a moment, she kisses him back, lost to the version of herself from two years ago who wanted this so badly. 

But soon she pulls back, coming to her senses. “But it’s not that simple. We can’t just…do this.” 

“No, it is. It is simple.” He shakes his head. “It’s just not easy. I’m here now, and I want to figure it out. I want to talk, I want to try. I’m here, and this time I’m not going anywhere. No one can make me, except you.” 

“Jake, I–” 

“Y/N?” She hears Rooster coming down the staircase inside. 

“Shit.” Jake says. “The wedding.” 

She bites her lip, having also momentarily forgotten the whole reason they’ve reconnected in the first place. 

“I should—” she turns toward the door. 

“Yeah.” He nods, letting go of her hands. “Go. Find out if we’re still doing this.” 

“Yeah.” She echoes, but hesitates with her hand on the doorknob. “Okay. We can…we can try.” 

His whole face lights up, and she feels it in her chest. “Really?” 

“Really,” she nods, her heart pounding– but this time not from anxiety, “But we take things slow this time. Or…I don’t know, just do things differently.” 

“Of course.” He agrees, “Definitely, yes. I can do that.” 

“Okay. Good.” 

“Good.” 

“I’ll see you out there, then.” She nods, pulling the door open and slipping inside. She presses her back to the door for a second, feeling a wide, uncontrollable smile spread across her flushed face. 

“Hey, there you are!” 

She straightens as Rooster emerges from the living room. 

“So?” She asks.

He gives her a thumbs up. “All systems go.” 

~

Rooster has never listed patience highly on his list of virtues. He can be patient when he really puts his mind to it, and boy is he putting his mind to it right now.

“Nothing quite like it– waiting for the rest of your life to start.” Maverick muses, “Not even pulling ten g’s.” 

“Yeah.” Rooster and Hangman speak at the same time, but only Maverick notices, giving Hangman a second look. 

Rooster is too preoccupied to do much more than continue peering down the empty aisle. 

“We should have just eloped. That would have been faster.” Rooster bounces slightly on the balls of his feet. “I told her an hour ago, we could–” 

He cuts himself off abruptly as music begins to play, Alpine’s bridesmaids walk down the aisle, one-by-one, but Rooster barely pays attention, craning his neck to check behind them instead, waiting to see her. When Y/N reaches the altar, taking her place mirroring Hangman, Rooster feels his chest swell with anticipation. 

Finally, the music shifts, and the guests all stand, turning to watch as she appears. She walks, gracefully as ever, arm-in-arm with her father. Of course, Rooster only has eyes for her. 

She looks absolutely stunning. The white fabric of her dress shines in the late afternoon light, like she’s a magical vision, a blessing he hardly believes he can deserve. She’s looking down at her feet at first, as if finding her step, and when her gaze finally lifts to his, he feels his breath halt in his chest. 

All at once, the joy overwhelms him, spilling over from where it's been filling his heart and soul for the last few days, and he begins to cry. Not hysterically, thank god, but just enough that his vision goes misty and he chokes out a breathy laugh. 

Hangman speaks quietly behind him, “You got this.”

Alpine smiles at him, in a slightly amused, slightly sympathetic, and entirely loving way, as if to say: “don’t cry, my love.”  

Rooster swipes at his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath. A breeze blows off the ocean as Alpine crosses the final few feet of sand still separating them, kissing her father on the cheek and handing Y/N the bridal bouquet before taking her place in front of Rooster. He reaches for her immediately, taking her hands in his. 

“You look beautiful,” he breathes aloud in wonder. 

“So do you.” She whispers back, color rising into her cheeks. 

She squeezes his hands as the officiant begins: “Ladies, gentlemen and friends beyond the binary, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two souls in love, before the law, and in the eyes of the powers that be…” 

*

Alpine can’t believe how quickly the ceremony flies by. It feels like one minute, she was taking a final steadying breath before stepping out to walk down the aisle, and then the next minute, the officiant was saying “kiss the bride.” She’s certain the rush is all due to the man who stood there before her with nothing but love and pure excitement in his expression. Once she drew her gaze up from putting one foot in front of the other and met the deep warmth of Bradley’s eyes, time lost its grip, and the only thing that really mattered was being there, with him, from that moment on, for the rest of their lives.

Which begins with the reception. 

She’s happy to stay close to Bradley as they accept the well-wishes and congratulations of friends and family, grounded during the onslaught of faces and names and mostly the same conversation over and over by her husband – the thought of that word, now newly appropriate, sends an excited shiver down her spine – and the warmth of his hand at her back, his silent smile over a great aunt’s shoulder as Alpine nods and speaks at a higher volume, his mere presence. 

The caterers circulating with glasses of champagne help, too, helping smooth out any lingering stress as she leans into the joy of it all. Her smile is bright and genuine as the photographer gets everyone together for a few photos in front of the sunset on the beach. She knows, without even seeing it, that the picture of her and Bradley, with him taking her by surprise with a lift and spin, making her laugh, will be her favorite. 

As the sun dips below the horizon and night settles in, the wedding party take their seats for dinner. Penny and Maverick’s backyard is beautiful, adorned with flowers and lights like a secret magical glen you might stumble across in a fantasy world or a fairytale.

She finds she doesn’t have much of an appetite, her body too filled with energy and happiness to eat more than a few bites between lively conversation with the rest of the table– the bridesmaids and groomsmen. They swap stories from boot camp and college and debate music and movies and life philosophies. 

Y/N is particularly energized as well, even more engaging and humorous than usual. It doesn’t escape Alpine’s notice, either, that Jake and Bradley seem to be mirroring each other, leaned back, quiet but content, as Bradley focuses on his bride and the best man hangs onto the maid of honor’s every word. Alpine leans into her husband’s side, his arm resting over the back of her chair and his fingers playing absently with her hair. She brings her champagne glass to her lips, hiding a smile as Hangman stretches his arm out over the back of Y/N’s chair, looking decently casual, but not enough to hide from Alpine’s keen observation. 

“Hey you,” Bradley murmurs, kissing the side of her head, “Ready to dance?” 

Alpine sits up again and glances around the room. Some people are still picking at their plates, but it seems that dinner is mostly over. 

“Born ready.” She nods. “You?” 

He exhales. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

“You’ve got this.” She promises, leaning in for a quick kiss before pulling him to his feet with her. 

Bradley signals to the DJ as they head for the dance floor, and he taps the mic twice before speaking into it, his voice amplified across the back patio. 

“Hello, hello, everybody. Thank you all for coming out tonight to celebrate the lovely couple,” he pauses as the guests applaud, “Yeah, let’s hear it for those two! Because not only did they give you a beautiful show with that ceremony earlier, they’ve prepared something extra special for you now…” The DJ glances at them, and being ready in their starting positions, as if for a waltz, Alpine gives him a thumbs up. “Please enjoy as the bride and groom have their first dance.” 

He hits play, and she hears the ripple of excited surprise as “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” begins. They’ve been working on it practically since the engagement. He whipped up the mashup in no time, and she put the choreography together. The trick was rehearsing it. She did her best to instruct over video chat, and was more than impressed to find he’d been practicing a lot on his own. Their one rehearsal yesterday had gone almost perfectly.

Now, she and Bradley sway and side-step for a few measures, and she makes sure to hold his gaze, keeping his eyes on her, rather than letting him nervously look down at his feet. The song soon fades into “Twist and Shout,” and he spins her out for their two solo bits. As it turns to “I Saw Her Standing There,” she reels him in and they dance together again until they slow it down and close it out with “In My Life,” and a sweet, simple slow dance, just the two of them, as the rest of the world fades away. 

“I love you,” Bradley tells her softly, as the song draws to an end. 

“I love you more.” She promises. 

He smiles and shakes his head, leaning in to kiss her. “Impossible.” 

She lets him think he’s right, just this once, content to wrap her arms around her husband, and bask in the happy feeling of being his, and having him as hers. 

*

Jake never understood Rooster’s habit of randomly breaking into song. How he could just not care about embarrassing himself like that, just because he felt like it. 

Until now, that is. 

Now, there’s so much excitement and anticipation and pure happiness filling his chest he doesn’t know what to do with it all. And as loath as he is to admit it, singing seems like a decent option. 

But dancing is a better one, considering the crowd of friends and family that joined the happy couple on the dance floor after their sickeningly adorable (and admittedly impressive) performance. 

Y/N is already out there, dancing in a little circle with some of her and Alpine’s college friends, but as the DJ switches from a run of 2010s pop songs to a slower tune, he takes his chance. 

He approaches from behind, his confidence buoyed even more by the sly smiles of her friends as they see him coming, and taps her on the shoulder. She turns, surprised but smiling. 

“May I have this dance?” He asks, holding out his hand. 

She takes it, inclining her head to match his show of formality. “You may.” 

“Excuse us,” He sends a wink at her friends before twirling her away to a less crowded corner of the floor. 

“What did you think of Bradley and Alpine’s routine earlier?” 

“Awful.” He answers immediately, grinning when she laughs, “They actually made me feel physically sick with how good they are together.” 

“I was a little surprised Bradley didn’t trip and fall.” 

Jake chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s always been lucky.” 

As the humor subsides, the quiet between them grows heavy, not unpleasantly so, but still filled with unanswered questions and the promise of possibility. 

He asks the question he should have long ago. “Do you have plans tomorrow?” 

“Nope.” 

“You do now. But you get to pick: dinner and a movie, or drive and picnic on the beach?” 

“Tough choice.” 

“We could do both.” He suggests, tightening his grip to pull her closer. “Picnic for lunch and then see a movie after dinner.” 

“How do you know you won’t get sick of me?” 

“That’s such a stupid question, I’m not even going to answer it.” 

“Let’s have a picnic tomorrow and see a movie the next night.” She says, “I would say both, but I want to say goodbye to Alpine before she and Bradley leave for their honeymoon.” 

“Okay, fine.” He sighs, but smiles and kisses her cheek to show he’s joking. 

“Don’t worry, Jake.” She loops her arms around his neck, and smiles in a way that makes his chest ache, “We have plenty of time.” 

*

Y/N hears a Janelle Monae song start to play, and knows she has to find Alpine immediately. She leaves Jake behind without a word of explanation – he’ll survive, she decides, after she’s danced with him for almost the whole night – and nudges and pushes her way until she’s face-to-face with the beautiful bride. 

“There you are!” Alpine exclaims, and they crash together for a hug before taking each other’s hands and starting to dance. Y/N can tell her friend is tipsy, but more importantly, that she’s very, very happy. 

Not long after, Bradley and Jake each appear, having chased after their respective dance partners. Alpine stops at the sight of Jake, and lets go of Y/N’s hand and points at the other pilot. 

“You.” She says, her finger straying to Y/N. “You.” 

Y/N presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. 

“Are you?” Alpine demands with the intensity of a real and intelligible question. 

“Yeah.” Y/N nods, and Jake takes her hand. 

“Oh my god!!!” Alpine screeches, leaping forward for another crushing hug. “I knew it!” 

She pulls back just as quickly, swaying closer to Jake, only steadied by Bradley reaching out to hold her waist (and repressing his own laughter). 

“You be careful.” Alpine warns, screwing her face up in an attempt at a threatening expression. “If you…I will kill you. Got it?” 

Unlike Y/N and Bradley, Jake isn’t laughing. He just nods solemnly. 

“Got it.” 

“Good!” Alpine perks back up to her normal (if a little drunk) self, and pats Jake on the shoulder. “Now dance!” 

Y/N follows the order like the other soldiers in their little circle, feeling her heart grow warm and full to see her best friend so carefree and happy, dancing together at the end of heartaches past, and on the precipice of possibility. 

#top gun #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction #hangman x reader #hangman x you #hangman fanfiction #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw x ofc #ladylibby

[ladylibby]

Lima-Oscar-Victor-Echo (LOVE) | Part 1

Masterlist | LOVE Part 2

Summary: Hangman has a plan. And the plan is to hook up with Alpine’s bartender friend. It’s a perfect plan. He gets to have sex with a beautiful woman and mess with his competition at the same time. The bartender isn’t the kind of girl he usually takes home– or rather, she’s not the kind of girl that usually goes home with him. The bartender is different, but not in a bad way. He anticipated a challenge, that she would be serious and smart and probably see through his suave smirking. He didn’t expect her to be funny. Or to be a little dirty. As far as he’s concerned, the plan is very much in action.

(Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader; Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Original Female Character, callsign: "Alpine")

(A/N: This was originally written last year as a birthday gift for my real-life bestie, and the personalities of Alpine and Y/N are based on her and me respectively. I hope you enjoy!)

When it comes to this mission, the list of things Alpine knows is far outweighed by the list of things she doesn’t know. It’s top secret, she knows that. Multiple levels of classified, which means it’s dangerous and important. Important enough to call back the best of the best from Top Gun, which apparently includes her, though she just graduated from the program. 

Being young, new, and completely unknown to the other pilots has its advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, she has no idea what to expect from her competition– on the other hand, they don’t know what to expect from her, either. 

For the moment, it’s an even playing field. 

New social situations are always complicated. There’s opportunity in the unknown, connections yet to be made and potential friends to find, but also anxiety with the possibility of judgment, a noticeable lack of trust and rapport. Alpine usually recognizes the complexities of these experiences and embraces them in all their aspects, both intimidating and wonderful. She maintains the same mindset walking into The Hard Deck bar on her first night on North Island. 

But at least she’s not entirely alone. She has Y/N. 

Y/N and Alpine had always felt like kindred spirits. From the day they met, at the beginning of their shared major in undergrad, to getting really vulnerable really fast over mediocre egg rolls in the dining hall, to the Halloween night when they really became friends– mostly because Y/N tried to drink three shots of vodka on an empty stomach and Alpine held her hair without judgment and then sat on the bathroom floor with her until they were giggling uncontrollably. They’re both thoughtful, both tall, both funny, both late bloomers when it comes to romance, both smart, both passionate, both driven. After graduation Alpine started in community advocacy and then pivoted to join the Navy, hoping to use her smarts and skills to climb the ranks and make some actual changes for the better in the system. 

Meanwhile, Y/N crossed from coast to coast for a while, working in different writer’s rooms for anything from sitcoms to limited-series studio dramas. The last television show she worked on got canceled in its third season, and her return home to finally finish her screenplay coincided with Alpine’s mission assignment. The second Alpine found out she’d be shipping out to San Diego, she called Y/N, who promised to stay in town for as long as Alpine would be there, but they agreed not to spend the whole first night hanging out because Alpine needed to meet the squadron and get a feel for the new team dynamics. 

Y/N is there, though, working the bar and shifting seamlessly around her mother – who’s talking to an older pilot in a way that makes Alpine thinks there’s some history – in the small space behind the counter, mixing drinks, pouring beers, and keeping an eye on the small, but very noticeable, crowd of people in khaki by the pool table. 

It’s going well so far. As well as a gathering of some of the biggest egos in the country can go. Alpine and Phoenix have hit it off, agreeing to “offset the sea of testosterone” together. Payback, Fanboy, and Coyote are loud and excited, encouraging each other’s energy like a group of golden retrievers. Bob is a little shy, but sweet, and Alpine notes the soft awe in his eye as he listens to Phoenix calling the other guys on their shit. 

Hangman is the biggest personality by far. He’s like something out of an eighties high school movie– the charismatic team captain, the snarky popular boy, the arrogant prom king. His ego is bigger than his body, and yet Payback and Fanboy still gravitate towards him, still fall in line behind him like an entourage. 

He’s not much different from all the other cocky flyboys she’s come to know since joining up. He’s just got more bite behind his bark, more walk to back up the talk. It almost makes the bravado more annoying– to know it’s justified. Well, almost justified. There’s a difference between confidence and arrogance. Luckily, three years in the navy have prepared her to handle both. 

What she’s not prepared for, however, is the last pilot to walk in, late and dressed like a dad on vacation with his aviators and hawaiian shirt but walks with the right amount of confidence to betray both skill and humility. He’s cute. He’s really cute, and he’s walking right towards her. 

*

Rooster didn’t know what to expect from the assignment. That was likely by design– the mystery aspect, but he doesn’t like being in the dark. He doesn’t like secrecy or underhandedness. He’s a man who values honesty and communication. 

He doesn’t know what to expect, except the unexpected, he supposes. 

And the brunette by the pool table is definitely unexpected. She’s standing next to Phoenix, and he notices her as he pulls his old friend in for a hug. This new pilot has beautiful, intelligent eyes, and he feels a strange tightness in his chest as she fixes that smart, pretty gaze onto him. 

“Rooster, this is Alpine,” Phoenix says, “She just shipped in from Top Gun.” 

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he holds out his hand, wanting her to know his real name, the person beneath the callsign. 

She shakes his hand. Her skin is soft but her grip is firm. “How did the name Rooster come about?” 

“It’s a long story. Involving a feather pillow and a jar of honey.” He shakes his head, more interested in learning about her, “What about Alpine? Sounds pretty badass.” 

“I’m from Colorado,” she explains with a shrug, “Grew up in the mountains.” 

“Cool,” he says, and immediately wishes he’d come up with something smarter. “I hiked around there a lot with my dad when I was a kid. It’s a beautiful place.” 

“Nowhere else like it,” She smiles. 

“I’d love to go back sometime” he says, matching her grin. “Got any trail recommendations?”

“Colter Meadows is a great hike.” She says, “Definitely one of my favorites.” 

“I haven’t done that one,” he says, and then adds before he can stop himself: “Maybe you can show it to me sometime.” 

He freezes as the words leave his mouth, waiting with bated breath for her to shy away from how absurdly forward that was. He’s ready to start damage control, to walk it back somehow, when her smile softens, closed-mouthed and a little coy. 

“Maybe I will.” 

He laughs a little, relief and excitement alight in his chest. She lifts her pint for a sip. He doesn’t mean to, but his eyes follow her tongue as it peeks out to catch the foam sticking to her lips. 

“So,” her smile widens, a little teasing, a little flirtatious, “A feather pillow and a jar of honey?” 

“Okay, listen,” he grins, “You know how boot camp can be…” 

*

Y/N can tell right away that Alpine likes the new guy. The tall one with the mustache. He’s just barely pulling it off, although that doesn’t seem to matter to Alpine, who’s had stars in her eyes since he walked in. 

And Y/N can tell the new guy likes her back. Ever since Phoenix (who came over to say hello with Alpine not long ago) introduced the two of them, they’ve been talking off to the side of the pool table. Y/N watches with a smile of her own as they chat and laugh and smile, doing that thing where they lean towards each other and then sway back, where they touch the other’s arm or shoulder to emphasize or exclaim, moving like magnets, clearly attracted to one another and just waiting to finally connect. 

She’s excited for them, and happy for her friend– though of course she wants to talk to Mustache Guy before giving her official seal of approval. He is a pilot after all, and while Alpine holds up the good end of the aviator spectrum, Y/N has been working in her mother’s bar long enough to see the sheer number of pilots (mainly men) on the bad end. The cocky, misogynistic, usually hyper-violent end. Mustache Guy doesn’t seem to fall into this category, especially after he unplugs the jukebox to perform “Great Balls of Fire.” 

But Hot Asshole Guy seems to be leaning that way. He hasn’t interacted with her much. Her mother has served him his two beers of the night so far, sliding into place before Y/N could take his order. She’s mildly amused by her mother’s show of protectiveness, as if Y/N hasn’t already clocked that this guy means trouble. 

Judging by what she’s observed from the bar, her name for him seems appropriate. He’s hot– tanned and toned and dimpled and confident in a “I don’t have to compensate for anything” kind of way. But he’s also an asshole. She can tell by the way Phoenix rolls her eyes at him, by the way he tries to stand a little taller when he faces Mustache Guy, by the way he smirks and struts. 

And when he does finally talk to her, he only proves her right. He sidles up to the bar when her mother steps outside to call Amelia, leaning one elbow on the bartop so his body is angled away while he turns his face towards hers. 

“Let me guess,” he says, a charming dimpled grin in place, “You’re undercover.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Best I can figure, you’re another pilot trying to size up the competition without us knowing about it. I saw you and Alpine conspiring earlier.” He says, and then plants his other arm on the bar, facing her head on, “That, or you have a khaki fetish. Which, hey, I won’t judge.” 

The last thing she wants to do is encourage his ego, but she can’t help but laugh. It’s unexpectedly funny, but she recovers as quickly as she can.  

“You got me.” She deadpans, shaking her head in faux regret. 

“Yeah?” His smile grows, “So which is it? Pilot or pervert?” 

“Why not both?”

He laughs this time, and she smiles a bit at having gotten him back, having caught him and all his smooth confidence off-guard. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock Holmes,” she says, stepping back and leaning against the opposite side of the bar, crossing her arms. “But you guessed wrong. I’m just a bartender who happens to be old friends with Alpine.” 

He nods in approval, his smile turning dangerous. “Not disappointing at all, actually, I was hoping you weren’t really a pilot.” 

“Why’s that?” She straightens up, feeling suddenly defensive, holding back voicing her assumption: because I’m a woman? 

“Because I have a rule–” he says, straightening up as well, “No sleeping with the competition.” 

She’s unable to hide her surprise, though she hopes the heat flooding her face isn’t as visible. Though from the way he grins, she’s not so sure. And before she has a chance to come up with a good response, he shoots her a wink and saunters away. 

She focuses on clearing empty glasses from the bar, cleaning them with much more care and attention than usual as her limbs burn with agitation and frustration – at him for being so forward, but mostly at herself for being so affected by him. She refuses to look back over at the pool table for a full ten minutes. Though when she finally dares a glance, his gaze catches hers, amused confidence shining in his green eyes. She looks away immediately, but can’t shake the nervous flutter in her stomach. 

*

Hangman has a plan. And the plan is to hook up with Alpine’s bartender friend. 

It’s a perfect plan– he gets to have sex with a beautiful woman and mess with his competition at the same time. Alpine doesn’t seem to hate him, but he can tell his bravado isn’t winning any points– why not turn it up a notch and get under her skin…by getting into her friend’s pants? 

The bartender isn’t the kind of girl he usually takes home– or rather, she’s not the kind of girl that usually goes home with him. He tends to end up with a small, bubbly bombshell at the end of the night, the kind of girl looking for a good time, not a long time, who won’t mind if he sneaks out before she wakes up as long as she gets to say she slept with a navy air force pilot. 

The bartender is different, but not in a bad way. She’s tall and curvy, which is honestly a bonus – Hangman likes a handful, in every possible sense. He anticipated a challenge, that she would be serious and smart and probably see through his suave smirking. 

He didn’t expect her to be funny. Or to be a little dirty. Or to be the bar owner’s daughter, which he learned when he tapped Alpine on the shoulder and interrupted her conversation with Rooster to ask: 

“What’s your friend’s deal?” He asks, nodding towards the bar. 

Alpine gives him a look, disdaining and warning. “She won’t sleep with you, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s seen enough pilots break Penny’s heart over the years to know not to mess around with one.”

“So Penny is…” Hangman looks back at Alpine. 

“Her mom.” Alpine confirms. 

Hangman nods, stepping away and letting them get back to their nerdy flirting. So Y/N has sworn off pilots and her mom owns the bar– it explains why Penny had been so quick to pour his beers tonight, blocking his path to her daughter each time. 

A lesser man would give up. But Hangman has never backed down from a challenge. Especially not a challenge with a good sense of humor and a nice ass. 

As far as he’s concerned, the plan is very much in action. 

~

“What’s up with you and Maverick?” Hangman asks, leaning against the bar and drawing Y/N’s attention from where she’d been glaring after the older pilot as he leaves with her mother, “Is he your deadbeat dad or something?” 

She laughs a little at the idea, though it’s not all that funny. 

“No, he’s not my father.” She says, and then remembers who she’s talking to. “Though I don’t see how that has anything to do with you, Lieutenant.” 

Though intended mockingly, she regrets using his title instantly, because he automatically puffs up with pride. 

“It has to do with you, sweetheart,” he says as if that explains it, “And I’m interested in all things that have to do with you.” 

More like interested in just doing me, she thinks, holding back from saying it aloud because she knows a line like that will only encourage him. And she’s about fifty-fifty on whether or not she wants to encourage him. 

On the one hand, he’s hot. And interested in her. Which, no matter how often that combination occurs, always takes her by surprise. Furthermore, he’s an asshole. Not evil or cruel, but definitely insensitive and selfish. He’s not a monster, but he is a walking red flag, and she’s not sure she could maintain her own self-respect if she got involved with him. 

“Is your dad also a pilot?” Hangman sounds genuinely curious this time instead of teasing. 

“No.” Y/N answers, “He’s an engineer.” 

“Oh, so he’s a nerd.” 

She rolls her eyes, but smiles. “Where do you think I get it from?” 

“Does he live in San Diego?” 

“No, he and his wife live on the east coast. He comes back for birthdays and Christmas. For Amelia, mostly. Which is good, I guess, he’s a good dad, and I got to see more of him when I was her age than she does now.” She hears the bitterness in her voice and realizes she’s overplayed her hand. “Anyway.” 

She turns to find something to do to get out of the conversation, a glass to wash or a spill to wipe up, when Hangman speaks. 

“Well, my dad is an asshole.” 

Y/N looks back at him, surprised at the admission as well as the matter-of-fact way he says it. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love the guy,” he laughs, but the sound lacks humor, “But he’s a real piece of work.” 

She leans on the bar across from him, watching him carefully and waiting to see if he’ll continue. 

“He was in the marines. Saw some rough shit. Did even rougher shit. He’s strong and tough, especially as a father.” Hangman runs his fingertips around the rim of his glass, “All about being a man— which means no crying, protecting your family, being the strongest, the toughest, the best. It’s helped me, you know, with my job, but not so much for being a good person. You know, a ‘nice guy’ and all that.”

She’s surprised, not by what he says — this glimpse into his upbringing makes sense, considering the toxic masculinity vibes he puts out — but that he’s saying it. He’s more aware than she thought. 

“My family owns a ranch near Austin.” Hangman continues, looking down at the amber liquid in his glass with a distant expression, “I grew up helping with the livestock, feeding and cleaning and everything, and when I was ten one of the cows gave birth and I got to name the calf— Spot, because he had a big white spot over his eye. I was a really creative kid, clearly.” 

He tells the story with a cold humor, a sort of self-deprecation that has her watching him carefully as a sinking feeling settles in the pit of her stomach. 

“Anyway, Spot got older and bigger and the time to send meat to the markets rolled around and Spot ended up on the chopping block.” He says, “Dad decided eleven was old enough to help in the slaughterhouse. I knew I couldn’t convince him to keep Spot, but I begged him not to make me kill him. He just said it was something I had to learn– that death is a part of life, and you do what you have to do to put food on the table for your family. I knew he’d call me weak if I didn’t go through with it, and I thought that would feel worse than killing Spot. Afterwards, he patted me on the back and said he was proud. I told myself that was worth it– that it felt good to be strong, but I think I always hated him a little bit for it.” 

“Jesus,” Y/N breathes, her chest tight with sympathy. The closest she ever got to something like that was holding her pet guinea pig while it died. But this…is just so much worse. “I’m so sorry.” 

Hangman looks up at her, as if he’d forgotten she was listening. He sniffs and forces a smile, clearly trying to look unbothered. 

“It’s not your fault.” He shrugs, “Like I said, my dad’s an asshole.” 

Hangman takes a big swig from his glass, exhaling deeply as he puts the glass back down. He looks over his shoulder at the pool table, where Rooster and Alpine seem to be getting ready to play. Before Hangman can slink away, likely feeling embarrassed and vulnerable and too proud to admit it, Y/N speaks:

“Maverick and my mom first started seeing each other when I was seventeen.” 

Hangman looks back at her, mild surprise registering on his face before he settles into attentive listening. 

“I knew she was head over heels from the beginning. He was the first guy she seemed serious about since Dad left. I liked him well enough– he was nice and looked out for me and played with Amelia the few times he was hanging around with us. But he was more focused on flying and giving the finger to all the admirals with sticks up their asses. I think Mom found it sort of funny and noble until he got himself shipped off to the middle of the Pacific Ocean without saying goodbye.” Y/N says, “She was heartbroken. And in a different way than she was with my dad. With my dad, I think the divorce was kind of a relief. It was hard, but it was also a long time coming. With Maverick, she had a whole hopeful future ripped away without a word. He never wrote or called or anything, and she figured he’d never been as serious about her as she thought. Now he’s back, she thinks she was wrong. I’m not so sure. I won’t let him hurt her again.” 

Hangman nods. They look at each other for a moment, and Y/N wonders if he also feels a new sense of understanding settling between them. Maybe he does, if the thoughtful look behind his green eyes means anything. 

Then a smirk slowly lifts at his lips. “Wanna make a bet?” 

Y/N rolls her eyes. Maybe not. 

*

Hangman’s plan, though it’s not going quite how he expected, seems to be succeeding. 

He quickly realized that Y/N would require something a little different than his usual strategy for seducing women. She’s the kind of girl who wants to build a rapport, to know someone before she lets them into her bed. So he’s taken it upon himself to get to know her. He’ll head over to the bar and make conversation, asking questions and paying attention as she answers. He learned early on that it couldn’t be a one-way street. She wouldn’t give him more than the bare minimum of politeness unless he offered something of himself in return. 

Tonight, though, he revealed more than intended. He only meant to tell her about his dad, to show her he understood the struggles of a strained father-child relationship. He hadn’t meant to tell her about Spot. 

He hasn’t told anyone about Spot before. It’s not a story that makes him look cool, or particularly impressive. Honestly, it’s a story that makes him feel a little pathetic and ashamed– though he’s not sure if he’s more ashamed at having bent to his father’s will or for still caring about a fucking cow. 

Either way, he wasn’t sure what she would do with the unintended look into his childhood. To his pleasant surprise, the story seemed to open her up more than ever before. He admired the clear care she holds for her mother– a deep love and protectiveness that reveals a strength and loyalty he can appreciate. She’s not flighty or aloof when it comes to family or friends. She’s warm and grounded and patient. 

He imagines it might be nice to be someone she cares about. Though he doesn’t see himself getting there with her. It’s certainly not part of the plan, that’s for sure. He’s not the kind of guy who sticks around long enough to end up with someone like that– a partner. Not that he needs or wants one anyway. 

Which puts him back on track with his plan. 

“What kind of bet?” Y/N eyes him suspiciously, but he can see the spark of interest in her eyes. 

“No money needed.” Hangman promises, nodding towards Rooster and Alpine at the pool table behind them, “If Alpine wins, I’ll buy a round for the whole bar. But if Rooster wins, you let me take you home after your shift.” 

Her eyes widen, but with more intrigue than disgust. He knows it’s a longshot, but he’s hoping if he sells high, she’ll settle for a little lower rather than nothing at all. When she smiles, he knows he’s winning. 

“If Rooster wins, I’ll give you a kiss.” She says, and his stomach drops in excitement – a kiss is way more than he was expecting her to negotiate. “But when Alpine wins, you buy a round for the whole bar and you help me close up for the rest of the week.” 

Hangman doesn’t even have to think about it. “You’re on, sweetheart.” 

He holds out his hand and she takes it as they shake. It’s the first time they’ve touched, he realizes. Her hands are colder than his, but her skin is soft. He holds on a beat longer than strictly normal, grinning as her hand slips from his grip. 

“Get ready for the best kiss of your life.” 

She just smiles. “We’ll see about that.” 

*

Alpine is in a difficult situation, grappling with a difficult decision. It’s not the toughest call she’s ever had or will ever have to make– her job makes sure of that. But it is eating at her all the same. 

She really likes Rooster. More than she’s ever liked anyone, especially after such a short time getting to know him. He seems to like her too– if the flirting and lingering looks and not-so-accidental touches are any indication. 

But their job makes things complicated. 

They’re here for a near-impossible mission. They’re here to be part of a team. Any way you look at it, starting something, getting involved with each other, it’s a bad idea. What if they break up and can’t work together anymore? What if one or both of them get picked for the mission and the other can’t make the right calls because they’re too worried about the other one? What if they don’t make it back? What then? 

At least until the mission is over, it’s better to keep things professional, even friendly, but no more than that. Even if they both want more.  

So they settle for this strange dance of friendship, talking and flirting and touching and laughing, pretending like they don’t want to just leave, find somewhere private, and kiss until they can’t breathe. Tonight, the routine takes the shape of a game of pool. 

“Come on,” Rooster says, gently taking her by the arm, “Let’s get in a game while Hangman’s distracted.” 

She looks over to the bar where Hangman is leaning on the bartop, talking to Y/N. It seems like an actual conversation, and a serious one at that, if Y/N’s expression and undivided attention is any indication. Alpine makes a mental note to ask her about it later– to find out if something’s changing with Hangman’s clear crusade to get into Y/N’s pants. For now, though, she’s happy to spend some time with Rooster away from the intense training that’s taken up so much of their day. 

Alpine turns back to Rooster and smiles. “You’re on, Bradshaw.”

It’s a close game by the time it’s more than halfway finished. He’s solids and she’s stripes. Weirdly, it doesn’t feel that competitive. They joke and tease each other a little, but there’s none of the trash-talking the rest of the team favors when they play. They just take their time, use their strategy, and admire the other’s game. Rooster nods, congratulating her on a particularly good shot, sinking one in the corner. 

“What would you say,” Rooster begins, resting his forearms on the end of his cue while she lines up her next shot, “To going on a date with me when the mission is over?” 

She misses, her cue slipping too far to the left and just clipping the cue ball, sending it spinning uselessly to the side. 

“Sorry,” Rooster cringes, “Should have timed that better. I swear I wasn’t trying to throw you off.” 

“I hope not,” she laughs, though her heart is still pounding from his words as her mind is racing for the right response. 

They’ve never talked about it before. This thing between them. Though it’s always been there, though they both feel it, neither one of them has ever voiced anything aloud. 

“I would say…” she says carefully, holding his gaze, “Yes.” 

A big, beautiful smile spreads across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Yeah?” He asks, as if he can’t quite believe it. 

She smiles too. “Yeah.”

“Okay, then.” He nods, grinning just to himself as he leans down to take his turn. 

She watches him make his shot, looking on as he sinks the three, and then the five with his second shot, before bouncing the two off the side. He’s ahead now, but she can’t find it in herself to care. 

*

Rooster watches Hangman wander past, like a shark gliding through the water, taking stock of the pool table and nodding to himself in approval on his way to the jukebox. Rooster turns to Alpine, sharing a mutual look of amused judgment. Rooster’s not sure what Hangman’s up to, but if his constant antagonism over the last week is anything to go by, it’s not good. 

“So,” Alpine lines up her shot as Hangman’s choice of “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” starts to play, “Where would we go? After the mission is over.” 

Rooster’s heartbeat speeds up, nerves and excitement fluttering in his stomach. She may have said yes to the date, but that doesn’t mean his work is done. Far from it– he wants to take her on the best date she’s ever had, and then do it again, and again, for as long as she’ll have him. 

But he’s not there yet. And he has to play it cool for now. 

“That depends on whether or not you like karaoke.” 

“I definitely want to see you do karaoke.” She says, sinking two balls, one in the corner and one in the side – putting her in the lead, with just the eight ball left to go – before straightening up, “What’s your go-to song?” 

“Oh, it’s gotta be ‘American Pie.’” He says, pleased when she smiles in response. 

“Bold.” She nods, “Have to be good to do an eight and a half minute song.” 

“What can I say? I like the attention.” Rooster jokes, and then, catching sight of Hangman in his peripheral vision – still up to something – nods over his shoulder at the jukebox, “Speaking of which…” 

The other pilot is resting a forearm against the jukebox, his gaze stuck solidly on the bartender from across the room. Rooster has talked to her a little bit– her name is Y/N and she happens to both be Penny’s daughter and Alpine’s friend from college. She seems nice, and seems to like him well enough, which is a good sign if he wants anything to happen with Alpine after the mission. And he really, really wants something to happen (even more than dinner and karaoke), because so far, meeting Alpine has been the best thing to come out of this mission. 

Alpine turns toward the bar, and Rooster follows her gaze to watch as Y/N looks up from mixing a cocktail and over at Hangman. 

“You’re dirty, sweet and you’re my girl,” the music proclaims, “Get it on, bang a gong, get it on.”

Hangman winks at Y/N, and she just shakes her head. But Rooster can see an amused smile on her face as she turns back to her work. He looks back at Hangman to find a cocky smirk on the other pilot’s face. Rooster lifts his eyebrows, finally realizing what it is that Hangman’s up to. 

“I think Hangman is trying to hook up with your friend.” He says, looking back at Alpine. 

“Oh, you think?” Alpine rolls her eyes. 

She doesn’t look particularly amused, and Rooster bristles at her displeasure. Y/N did seem at least a little interested, but Rooster knows Hangman isn’t looking for more than a hookup. If Y/N is hoping for more, she’ll definitely get herself hurt.  

“Should I tell him to fuck off?” 

“No. She can handle herself.” Alpine says, and then calls the shot, “Eight ball in the corner pocket.” 

She hits the cue, and Rooster watches as it taps the eight and sends it cleanly into the corner– winning her the game. 

“Damn, Alpine,” He says, inclining his head in respect, before lifting it up with a teasing grin. “That was hot.” 

Alpine laughs. “Thanks, Rooster.”

“What the fuck, man?” Hangman exclaims, walking over from the jukebox to see the one remaining solid ball along with the cue before looking up at Rooster in disbelief. “Did you let her win?” 

“No,” Rooster says, his tone hardening, “She kicked my ass. Fair and square.” 

Alpine looks upset, and Rooster feels anger stirring in his chest, ready to put Hangman in his place, feeling riled up beyond belief that he could be pissed over something as simple as a woman beating a man at pool, when he hears Y/N’s voice call out from the bar: 

“The next round is on Lieutenant Seresin!” 

Y/N rings the bell, and the whole bar erupts into cheers. Hangman sets one hand on his hip and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other hand, his head bowed in defeat. He mutters something about a “stupid fucking bet,” and “goddamn plan,” before stalking away to the dart board to work out whatever frustration he must be feeling. 

Meanwhile, Rooster and Alpine turn to look at Y/N, who lifts a freshly poured pint in Alpine’s direction, silently toasting what appears to be their mutual victory. 

~

Alpine wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the rec room at this hour. It’s late– well after most of the other pilots and staff around the base have turned in for the night. Plus, the lights are off, so she’s understandably surprised to find Rooster sitting on the couch with his head in his hands when she flicks the light switch. 

“Oh– I’m sorry, I–” 

“It’s fine.” His voice is tired as he scrubs his hands over his face and looks up. “Did you need the room?” 

“No. I mean, I was looking for somewhere to dance, but I can go–” 

He tilts his head, the exhaustion in his expression softening with confusion. “Dance?” 

She nods. “I did ballet for years.” 

He smiles softly to himself, letting out a little “huh” noise. “That explains why you’re so graceful.” 

“Thanks,” she laughs, feeling a flare of warmth in her chest at the compliment. “Yeah, it helps…center me.” 

She’d come looking for a space to dance because she couldn’t sleep. Everyone’s feeling the stress of the upcoming mission, and it feels like tensions just get higher every day. Between the mission date moving up, Hangman taking cheap shots at Rooster about his father, and then Phoenix and Bob’s near fatal accident, everyone’s feeling like they’re hurtling towards the edge of a cliff without water at the bottom. Or a parachute, for that matter. 

“Maybe I should try that.” Rooster jokes, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. “Do some…what are they called? Pliés?” 

Alpine touches her heels together in first position and then bends her knees. “That’s a plié.” 

“Yeah, those.” 

“Want to try?” She asks, smiling encouragingly, “I can teach you the basics.” 

He looks at her like she’s just sprouted horns for a moment before a smile spreads across his face and he shrugs. 

“What the hell. Why not, right?” 

He pushes to his feet and stands next to her, gaze locked onto her feet and legs to watch whatever she does. It’s sweet, the open curiosity and dedicated concentration on his face. She takes him through the different positions, first to fifth. He almost falls over on fifth, but gets his balance back with a chuckle. 

“This one burns a little.” He says. 

“Gotta stretch those calves, Bradshaw.” She teases. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

“Okay,” she says, and models it for him as she speaks: “Now bend your knees and keep your arms out to stay balanced.” 

She demonstrates, watching as he does a slightly wobblier, less technical version, straightening up when she does. 

“And that was a plié.” 

“Oh, shit!” He laughs, “Nice.” 

“Okay, how about we try demi-pointe?” She moves from a plié to lifting up on the balls of her feet. 

“I don’t know about that…” Rooster says, but tries it anyway, holding the position for maybe a second before dropping down to flat feet again. “This is way harder than it looks.” 

“Damn right it is.” She grins, “And you’re not even doing it with wooden blocks on your toes.” 

“What?” He balks, “That sounds awful.” 

“When you love it, you get used to it.” She shrugs, “Kind of like pulling at least six g’s every day.” 

Rooster shakes head, smiling as he returns to the couch and flops down onto the cushions. 

“Alpine, I think you’re the strongest person I know.”  

She smiles, once again warmed by his kindness and the way he seems to see her, more deeply than most without her having to try to be seen. She’s not sure she has the same power when it comes to seeing him, but she can tell that something’s been bothering him– something deeper than just the stress of the mission. 

“Well, thanks,” she sits down on the couch next to him and speaks her next words carefully, “I’m also a pretty good listener if you want to talk about anything.” 

“Are you sure?” Rooster looks at her, vulnerability shining in his eyes. “My baggage can get heavy.”

“Hey,” she nudges him, “You just said I’m the strongest person you know. I got this. If you want to share, I’m here for you.” 

*

Rooster sighs. He’s not afraid to tell her as much as he’s afraid to say it all out loud.

He knows, deep down, that she won’t judge him. She won’t laugh at him or invalidate him or push him away. He knows that if he tells her, she’ll listen. She’ll listen, and then she’ll probably say something smart and thoughtful and more emotionally mature and intelligent than he could ever come up with. 

He wants to tell her. He wants her to know him. He wants her to understand him. 

Honestly, it feels like she already does. Within minutes, she was able to make him feel better. Just…by being there. Just by being her. 

So he’s not afraid to tell her. But he doesn’t like talking about it all anyhow. It’s been years, but still the anger and frustration and resentment eats away at him. Although his mother always told him it was better to let it out, to talk about it, to try and process it, rather than to keep it inside, stewing and boiling and waiting for it to explode. 

So he lets it out. 

“Maverick pulled my papers.” He begins, “Back when I first applied to the academy, he had me kicked out before I even started. It took me four years longer to get through to Top Gun.” 

“Did he say why?” Alpine asks softly. 

“He said I wasn’t ready.” He can hear the bitterness sharp on the edge of his voice as he speaks. “And he doesn’t think I’m ready for this, either.” 

“I don’t believe that.” She says, “You’re ready. And Maverick sees that. If he told you differently, it’s just because he’s scared.” 

Rooster scoffs. “Of what?” 

“Losing you.” 

Rooster’s stomach twists, just like it always does when he thinks about his father. He knows he’s a constant reminder to Maverick of what happened. He knows that his presence only emphasizes his father’s absence. 

And, despite how angry he is, he knows that Maverick loves him. He knows that if Rooster goes out on the mission and doesn’t come back, Maverick will be one of the only people left to mourn him. 

“But he knows this life. He knows the risks. He chose this life, too.” 

“Loving someone is like that. It’s all contradictions and hypocrisy, but it’s also selflessness and care.” She reasons. “Yeah, he knows the risks, he lives them too, but that doesn’t make it easier to think about…” 

Her voice wavers, and Rooster looks at her for the first time since they started talking about this. His heart drops with dismay at the sadness in her face— at having been so caught up in his own angst that he didn’t notice hers. 

“Jesus, fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for her hand without thinking about it, “Here I am going on and on and you’re in this shit too. I should’ve—”

“It’s okay,” she squeezes his hand, smiling a little to reassure him. “Seriously, no apologies.” 

“But you’re upset.” 

“I’m just…” she takes a deep breath and meets his gaze, “I guess I’m about as excited at the prospect of losing you as Maverick is.” 

His heart drops again, but for a very different reason this time. He almost asks her to say it again, to repeat the meaning beneath her words that has his stomach doing somersaults and his heart just about beating out of his chest. 

“Yeah?” He breathes. 

She nods, looking a little embarrassed, a little unsure. 

Rooster lifts her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss over the back of her palm. 

“You won’t lose me.” 

“You can’t promise that.” 

“I just did.” 

He holds her gaze until she nods, and he can see a soft, overwhelming look of love, in all its complicated contradictions in her eyes. He knows he shouldn’t, not yet, but before he can talk himself out of it, Rooster leans in and kisses her. 

It’s a short kiss, brief but intent, before he pulls away, inhaling and preparing to apologize until she reaches up and curls her hand around the back of his head, kissing him again. This time, it’s more intense, messier, a response to his unspoken promise with not just acceptance, but something more. 

They twist closer, his hands falling to her hips and hers to his shoulders as he helps her move to straddle his lap, tilting his head up and wrapping his arms around her back to keep her as close as possible. Her hands are in his hair and his fingers begin to slip under the back of her tee shirt, and then she shifts on his lap, settling more firmly, and they both still– him exhaling shakily and her inhaling sharply as she feels how much he’s…enjoying this. 

“I’m sorry.” She breathes, shifting back, “We shouldn’t.” 

“Not yet.” He agrees, though a pang of anxiety lances through his chest. “But after– when it’s all over, you– would you still–” 

“Yes. When this is over, I want everything.” She smiles, leaning in for another kiss, and he leans forward to chase her lips when she pulls away again. “But for tonight, I think I should head back.” 

“Yeah.” He can barely breathe. “Probably a good idea.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

She stands up, and he forces his hands to stay at his sides, to keep from reaching out and pulling her back. 

“Goodnight, Rooster.” She says, quiet and soft, before slipping out the door and into the hallway. 

“Goodnight, Alpine.”

*

Hangman isn’t sure what to expect from these nights closing down the bar with Y/N. On its face, the task seems like a punishment– his penance for losing their bet over Rooster and Alpine’s pool match. She might make him do all the work of scrubbing down sticky tables, taking out leaking bags of trash, mopping the floor, cleaning the bathroom. All that down and dirty grunt work he got more than enough of back in basic training. 

But considering how they’ve become almost friends over the last few weeks, establishing a rapport of easy teasing, of this cat-and-mouse game, of just getting to know each other, he can actually let himself hope it’ll actually be more fun than punishment. And when he can hear “Slow Ride” blasting from outside the bar, he knows it’s going to be a good time.

His amusement is dampened slightly when he reaches the front door and finds it open and unlocked despite the “sorry, we’re closed” sign in the window. His displeasure deepens as he pushes the door open and walks inside to find Y/N alone and totally oblivious to his presence as she sweeps the floor over by the pool table and dart board with her back to the front door. Anyone could have walked in, and she’d be taken completely by surprise. 

He finds he doesn’t like the thought of her doing this every night— of leaving herself vulnerable to any drunk (or otherwise dangerous) person who might find their way inside. 

He locks the door behind him and then leans against the bartop with his arms crossed, waiting for her to notice him. She turns around as the song starts to draw to a close, and startles when she sees him, her hand jumping to her chest in a gesture of protective surprise. 

“Jesus Christ,” she says, “You scared me.” 

He can think of about ten sexual jokes involving her invoking the lord’s name in reference to himself, but Hangman foregoes them in favor of a more important point: “You should lock the door when you’re here alone.” 

She looks a little sheepish — she knows he’s right — but rolls her eyes and says instead: “Well I’m not alone now.” 

“And aren’t you lucky,” he unfolds his arms and pushes off the counter, deciding not to push the issue, especially since he is there now and can easily handle any potential dangers that might arise. “A whole evening with me. You know, most women would pay for the opportunity.” 

“Oh, is that your side hustle these days?” 

“Maybe it should be.” He grins, and saunters closer, “But I’m actually offering all my skills for free.” 

She looks him up and down and settles her expression into something both amused and unimpressed. 

“I sure hope those ‘skills’ involve taking out the garbage,” she says, “Because I’ve got a few big bags for you to take to the dumpster out back.” 

He’d sort of hoped for a little more banter and a little less actual work, but he’s learned by now that with her it’s about give and take. If he’s going to get what he wants, then he needs to give some back, do a little work to earn a little play. 

“Whatever you need,” he says, puffing out his chest and flexing his arms, “I’ve got it.” 

“Sure,” she huffs, but smiles anyway as she leads him out to where the garbage bags are waiting by the back door. 

He lugs the trash out to the dumpster — two at a time, just to show off — and then smiles smugly as she makes a big show of locking the back door after he’s back inside. 

“Okay,” she says as they step back into the bar. “Now I have to explain The Jukebox Rules: we each get as many plays as we have the money for, but we have to alternate songs, and I keep all the cash when I empty the machine at the end of the night. You can have the first play.” 

Hangman doesn’t have a problem with that– he’s a single guy earning fighter pilot money, so he’s happy to contribute a few quarters to her piggy bank.

“Penny’s not paying you well enough to run her bar?” He asks, masking his genuine curiosity with a teasing tone as he saunters over and picks “Fortunate Son” to start. 

“I don’t let her– not when I’m staying back at home for free. I’m between gigs at the moment, trying to save money while I’m finishing my screenplay.” She says, handing him a mop, “Here, you do the floor while I clean the bar. ” 

“Screenplay– like for a movie?” 

“Yup.” She nods, running a cloth under some water and starting to wipe down the bar counter. 

“I didn’t know you were a writer.” It makes sense– more sense than the idea that someone as smart and sharp as her would just be kicking around her hometown for no good reason. 

She hums, “I was working in TV for a while, and I’d like to get back at some point, but I needed a break from having all my pilots get rejected or shows canceled – and a break from L.A.. Figured I’d give film a try.” 

Hangman lets out a low whistle. “What’s it about?” 

“Nice try, but I can’t have you stealing my ideas.” 

“I’m flattered you think I even know the alphabet, let alone how to write a screenplay, but fine. At least tell me– you’ve got to have met some movie stars while you were out in Hollywood.” 

“Not really, just the actors on our shows. Although I saw Tom Cruise from across the street one time.” 

“No fucking way.” 

She smiles, shaking her head, “They definitely make him look taller in the movies.” 

“Damn.” He grins back, “You really are hard to impress.” 

“Have you ever considered,” she shoots him a grin, “That you’re not particularly impressive?” 

He touches his hand to his chest, pretending to be hurt, though her words only spark more challenge in his chest. 

“Guess I’ll just have to try harder.” 

She holds his gaze in a way that gets his heart pumping and a grin creeping across his face as she says: “Guess so.” 

*

Y/N is pleasantly surprised by Hangman’s music taste— she expected she’d have to sit through a handful of country songs over and over, but instead he plays some of the Stones, Cream, and even the Beatles. Creating the playlist as they go helps the cleaning go by faster, and before she knows it, the work is nearly done. It’s fun, talking and teasing and pretending to be embarrassed by his air-guitar playing. She tells him a bit about her job, and he tells her stories about growing up in Texas, and though they’re almost certainly embellished, they’re entertaining enough she plans to jot them down later as potential spring-boards for another script or character someday. 

When they’re done, he walks her out, and she pretends it’s the cool breeze off the water at night that sends a shiver down her spine, and not his lingering gaze as she locks up for the night. He finally looks away, surveying the nearly-empty parking lot as they wander away from the bar. 

“Where’s your car?” 

“Oh, Amelia borrowed it. She had a friend’s pool party or something downtown.” You say, veering right towards the sidewalk, “So I guess this is where we part ways. Thanks for your help tonight, Hangman.”

“Fuck that,” he scoffs, hustling after you to get in your way, “I’ll drive you.” 

“It’s like five blocks, I’ll be fine.” 

“Says every woman about to get murdered by a serial killer ever.” 

“You’ve been awfully keen, how do I know you’re not finally about to serial kill me?” 

“Seriously, sweetheart, I’m not kidding around.” Her smile drops at the sudden gravity of his tone. For the first time, she can see the severe military man he so often hides under his playful pilot persona. She’s a little ashamed at how appealing the idea of following his orders could be. “It’s dark. It’s late. It’ll take two minutes, and I’d...I’d just feel better knowing you got home safe, alright?” 

He seems almost sheepish to admit the last part, as if chivalry doesn’t gel with his usual bravado and crude seduction strategy. The shame gives away his sincerity, and she gives in almost instantly. 

“Fine.” She agrees. 

“Fantastic.” He grins, and redirects her to his enormous – probably overcompensating – Land Rover, helping her up into the passenger seat before getting settled in the driver’s seat. He glances at her sideways as she buckles her seatbelt, and then he turns the key and starts the engine. 

“Take a left out of the lot and then a right.” She says. 

He glances at her, grinning as he stretches his arm over the back of her seat, looking out the back window as he reverses out of the parking space.

“What?” She asks, bracing for ridicule. 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, glancing at her again and smiling as he pulls out onto the empty road, “You just make a cute co-pilot, is all.” 

She clenches her teeth, trying to ignore the way her stomach flips. “Turn right here.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

They drive for a minute in silence, apart from the rush of air outside the open windows and the click of the turn signal. As much as it surprises her, she likes him. She enjoys his snarky jokes and his unflappable attention, but she can’t tell what’s real. She’d like to say she’s getting to know him, but she doesn't know whether the Jake Seresin she’s starting to trust is the real one– or the person he becomes in order to get any woman into bed. 

Though, she’d like to believe that any man only interested in sex would have given up by now. But he hasn’t. He’s been back every night this week to talk to her– not just flirt, but talk – he’s helped close down a bar for free and now he’s driving her home. The romantic part of her, the one that hopes when she knows she shouldn’t, wants it to mean something more. 

“It’s just down here on the left,” she breaks the silence and her thoughts as they reach her house. “The one with the white mailbox.”

He parks next to the curb and turns to her with a smile, but serious eyes as he says. “Don’t move.” 

She unbuckles her seatbelt, but stays put, heart thumping as he gets out and jogs around the hood, opening her door for her and holding out his hand. 

“M’lady,” he grins as she takes it and steps down out of the truck, “Can’t risk you twisting your ankle.” 

“No,” she agrees, smiling faintly. “Thank you.” 

To her surprise, he lets go and steps back, giving her space as they walk around to the sidewalk. 

“Goodnight.” 

“Night.” He nods, stopping to lean back against the driver’s side door, his arms crossed, and she realizes he’s going to wait until she’s inside. 

She manages to get the key in the lock and turns it without too much fumbling, feeling warm and awkward under his gaze again. She turns back to wave as she shuts the door, unnerved by the flutter in her stomach as he calls out: 

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart.” 

~

Rooster might not be ready to forgive Maverick for pulling his papers, but he’s starting to understand while Mav didn’t want him following in his father’s footsteps. Because no matter how he looks at it, this mission is shaping up to be a lose-lose scenario. 

He paces in his room, down the length of his bunk and back, stripping out of his dress uniform, down to his tee shirt and pants, as he goes. He stops and rubs a hand over his face every once in a while, deep in his discouraging thoughts. 

With Mav as mission leader and Phoenix and Bob out on recovery after the training crash, there’s only a handful of ways this can go. Based on training performance, it’s going to be Payback and Fanboy in one dagger, and Alpine and Fritz in the other. Dagger Two could be him, or it could be Hangman. If it’s Hangman, Rooster will be Dagger Spare, stuck on the ground freaking out about whether that fast-flying son of a bitch is going to get Alpine killed. If he’s Dagger Two, he’ll be freaking out about whether he’s going to get Alpine killed. 

Sure, there’s exactly one win-win scenario, where they complete the mission and everyone makes it home, but it seems foolish not to prepare for the worst. 

And if the worst does happen. If he doesn’t make it back or — much worse — if he loses her, this whole thing they’re doing doesn’t make any sense anymore. The dancing around each other, the waiting…for what? To keep things professional? To keep things unspoken so there’s technically nothing to lose? To avoid letting their feelings get in the way of the mission? 

As far as he’s concerned it’s too late. Rooster knows how he feels about her, settled deep in his gut and filling his chest, he’s sure about her. She’s the most amazing woman — no, overall person — he’s ever met, and the longer he waits to tell her is just time wasted without knowing how it might feel to have her. To understand the joy of being someone she chooses, someone she cares about, maybe even someone she loves. 

With that thought sending his heart pounding and his adrenaline pumping, Rooster sets his jaw with a new determination and rushes out of the room. He starts off at a brisk walk, and then mutters to himself, “fuck it,” and starts running, all the way down to the other wing of the barracks, only stopping outside her door to collect himself. 

He smooths his hair and takes a breath, but as he lifts his hand to knock, the door swings open and Alpine stops herself just a split second before running into him, looking up in surprise. 

“Rooster.” She breathes with a disbelieving smile. “I was just coming to find y—”

He surges forward, holding her face between his hands and pressing his lips to hers, feeling like an impulsive teenager but too far gone to care. Her hands fly up in surprise first, before settling against his chest, her nails scratching lightly through his shirt as she returns the kiss immediately, latching on. 

Dimly aware that anyone could walk by any moment and see them, Rooster drops his hands to her hips, pressing himself against her as he walks her backwards into her room. She lets him, seemingly unaware of the movement until he nudges the door shut with his foot, and hears the latch click behind him. 

“Wait,” she pulls back, out of breath, “We need to talk. We need to talk about this–” she gestured between them, “That’s what I was coming to see you for– for this.” 

Heat fills his belly and a smirk tugs at his lips as his eyebrows lift, “Oh really?” 

She swats his shoulder. “Not that. Well, maybe. I wanted to talk, though.” 

She’s serious. And, when he takes a breath to get himself back under control – finding it much easier to be grounded now he’s in her presence – he finds he’s serious too. 

“Okay,” he nods, reaching up to run a hand through her hair, “Can I go first?” 

She looks almost scared, her eyes wide and waiting as she nods. Rooster swallows thickly, taking her hands in his to reassure himself as much as her, before meeting her deep, beautiful brown eyes. 

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Alpine.” He says it straight out, putting his cards on the table. “You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met and I feel this connection that I’ve never felt with anyone and if this is the last night I have to live, if— if this is the last night we could be together then I don’t care about the rules or being professional or any of that bullshit. I just wanna be with you.” 

She lets out a soft, unbelieving laugh, looking away from him for a moment as her eyes turn shiny and his heart seizes in his chest at the possibility she might be about to cry. He opens his mouth to apologize when she meets his gaze again and says:

“Fuck you, you stole my line.” 

It’s his turn to laugh this time, wrapping his arms around her back to drag her closer, tipping his forehead against hers. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, but…” she hesitates. 

“What?” He asks, leaning forward to kiss her cheek gently, “You can tell me anything.” 

“What if it’s not our last night?” She asks, “That’s what I have to believe, right? That we’ll both make it out. But what then? What if this fades? What if we’re both reassigned and we can’t make it work? What if I lose you in a different way? Wouldn’t it…I mean, wouldn’t it be better not to have you at all?” 

“I don’t think so.” He shakes his head, “It’s not going to fade. Not for me. I swear, if we both make it back from this thing, you have me as long as you want me. Whatever else happens, we’ll figure it out. I promise.” 

“You can’t promise that.” 

“I just did.” He says, and the echo of their conversation in the rec room, which feels years ago now, seems to convince her. He sees it settle behind her eyes. 

“Okay.” She wraps her arms around his neck and leans up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips that leaves his chest warm and full. 

He takes her in his arms and kisses her back for all he’s worth. If this is his last night alive, he plans on making the most of it— with her, and only her. 

*

Y/N stacks the last few chairs on top of the tables lining the wall, listening to the slower songs in the jukebox repertoire, trying not to let the worry consume her. They say that ignorance is bliss, but when it comes to the mission her friends are facing, the not-knowing is eating her up inside. 

Alpine couldn’t tell her anything, really. She gathered it was serious from the beginning, with all the best pilots gathered in one place. But now, she knows from her mom that Mav is going, and she knows from Alpine that it’s been pushed up to tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, she could lose her best friend. It’s a terrifying thought, one which she normally controls through trust in Alpine’s skill and the blind assumption that she’s fine, that she’s not in combat, at any given moment. But tomorrow Y/N will know that something is happening. Something big, dangerous, and life-threatening, and there won’t be a damn thing she can do about it. 

But for now, she can clean. 

She’s wiping down the bar top for the third time, finding more imaginary sticky spots, when the sound of his voice nearly makes her jump out of her skin. 

“Seriously, sweetheart, you can’t keep leaving the door unlocked.” 

Her heart pounds, and not just from surprise, when she looks up and sees Jake Seresin standing there in his dress uniform. 

“I meant to.” She argues half-heartedly, “I was a little distracted, I guess.” 

He huffs a little, coming over and sitting down heavily at one of the bar stools, reaching up to undo the top golden button on his white jacket, shaking his collar loose. 

“Yeah, me too.” He says, “That’s why I’m late. We had this…thing.” 

He looks tired. And serious. Uncharacteristically so. It leaves an ache in her chest. She wants, suddenly, to return the cocky smile to his face, though she doesn’t know how. 

“Alpine told me. I know you’re shipping out tomorrow. I wasn’t expecting…” Y/N’s chest twinges. He’s a new friend, but she doesn’t want to lose him, either. “You don’t have to be here tonight if you don’t want to be.” 

He runs a hand through his hair, and a hint of his usual bravado returns. 

“Are you kidding? Leave you here to clean up on your own and bail on my half of the bet? I don’t think so, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, looking around. “Although it looks like you have most of this handled already.” 

“I clean when I’m anxious.” She admits with a shrug. “It gives me something to control.” 

He looks at her, and for the first time she feels like he actually sees her. He nods, thoughtfully, like he understands. 

“Flying’s like that for me.” He says. “If I’m angry or frustrated or upset, getting in that cockpit makes it all go away. It’s just me and the sky.” 

She can picture it, the sprawling blue and the static of the air. “Normally the idea of being in one of those things scares the shit out of me, but that actually sounds nice.” 

“I’ll have to take you up there sometime.” 

The scoff is on the tip of her tongue, but the earnestness in his tone gives her pause. She searches his face, looking for the flirtation, the seductive false promise, but he’s just staring back as though he’d offered her another ride home. 

“Yeah. That would— I’d like that.” She nods, and then clears her throat. It feels like they’re tiptoeing on ice, about to break through a barrier that can’t be fixed. “Listen, things are pretty much done here, but I can pour you a drink if you want one?” 

“I don’t drink before missions.” He says, holding her gaze with that same sincerity as he pushes to his feet and holds out his hand, “But I’d take a dance instead.” 

She can feel the cracks in the ice, starting to spread. But he looks handsome, formal but disheveled, and more honest than she’s ever seen him. She likes this version of him. Calm, sure, and offering her his hand. 

“Okay,” she agrees, just as Elvis’s “Unchained Melody” starts to play. “One dance, on the house.” 

He smiles, warm and charming as she comes out from behind the bar and takes his hand. He steps close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

He takes her left hand and puts it on his shoulder, holding her right hand aloft and settling his own on her waist. He leads, guiding her a few steps forward and back, swaying gently. She shuffles and stumbles, feeling stiff and odd and uncertain. 

“Relax,” he smiles, squeezing her hand, “I’m not going to make you do the tango. Horizontal or otherwise.” 

He winks, and the joke distracts her enough from her overthinking that she settles into the dance and the feel of their usual dynamic. 

“Don’t let this go to your head,” she smiles, “But you are a better dance partner than the mop.” 

“That’s a pretty low bar, but I’ll take it.” 

“Title of your autobiography?” 

“Ouch.” He grins, “Now you’re just being mean.” 

“Well, don’t feel too bad, because it also happens to be the title of my sex tape.” 

He laughs at that, loud and genuine in his amusement, tilting his head back and smiling. As his laughter settles, he moves her right hand to his shoulder, freeing his own to settle on the other side of her waist, shifting their bodies closer together in a less formal, more intimate dancing position as he asks: 

“Can I watch that online, or…?” He asks, and laughs again as she slaps him on the shoulder, smiling. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Hey, you brought it up.” He points out, “Clearly, you wanted me to think about it.” 

She feels comfortable and confident enough now to link her fingers together at the back of his neck as they sway. The cracks spread and splinter, and she knows now that the plunge is inevitable. 

“Maybe I did.” 

Their faces are close enough that she can feel his breath on her face, smelling of spearmint, and his nose nearly brushes hers.

“What are we doing, Jake?” She whispers, daring to ask the question. “What do you want?” 

He looks lost for a moment, almost dismayed, and then: 

“You.” He says, “Just you.”

It’s not an answer, at least not the kind she needs, but it’s enough. 

“Okay,” she breathes, and feels an unsettling, electrifying warmth spread through her body at the press of his mouth against hers. 

He kisses her like he’s been wandering through the desert and she’s a drop of water, he kisses her like he needs her, he kisses her like it’s his last night on earth— and, she supposes, it might be. 

That thought, that awful possibility, has her burying her fingers in his hair and kissing him back with an equal need. She feels the ice shatter between them, and they plunge together into something new and unknown. 

*

Hangman lies awake, one arm tucked under the back of his head and the other wrapped around Y/N’s back. To fit comfortably in the backseat of his car, she has to lie on top of him – not unlike how he was on top of her earlier – and while she made a half-hearted joke about squishing him, he pulled her down to rest against his chest. The warmth of her weight and the soft feel of her skin is…comforting, in a way. Better than the old blanket he’d found on the floor and draped over her back, anyway. 

He drove them to his favorite pull off by the beach, and in the quiet late of the night, he can hear the soft cycle of the waves outside, just slightly out of time with the even softer cycle of her sleepy breathing. 

She looks cute like this, unguarded and relaxed, messy and undressed. He likes that he made her that way, and he likes that she left her own marks on his chest and arms and pulled his hair into its current chaotic state. 

It’s always the quiet ones, he thinks, smirking slightly at the recent memory of discovering exactly how un-quiet she can be. 

He’s never been the type of guy to pass out right after sex. He always needs some time to wind down from the intensity of sensation– both emotional and physical. And this time around he needs that extra time in the liminal space of after, more than ever. 

It’s not just because of the sex. Though that was good. So good that he’s already thinking about the next time– in a real bed, where he’d be able to really see her, and have enough room to maneuver. Next time would be even better than good. He’d make next time the best night of her life. 

Except next time is a dangerous idea. It’s a slippery slope from next to next to forever, especially when she’s funny and smart and he’s looked forward to spending every evening with her this week even without the promise of sex. But it’s also dangerous because there might not be a next time. There might not be anything next, if he doesn’t make it back from this mission. 

“Why are you called Hangman?” She asks, and the question out of the silence almost startles him. 

He smirks, running his hand up and down her back. “Were you dreaming about me?” 

“I wasn’t dreaming.” She argues, though the sleepy sound of her voice says otherwise, “Just sleeping– I mean resting.” 

His chest expands with something warm and full and he huffs out a laugh to try and release the feeling. 

“And don’t say it’s because you’re hung.” 

He considers arguing, insisting that’s the real reason, but there’s something about the weight of her on his chest, the pressure of this feeling inside of him, the quiet darkness around them, that makes him tell the truth. 

“Because I always leave people hanging.” His throat feels suddenly dry. “I get out when it’s good for me, no matter what.” 

She doesn’t move. He doesn’t even feel her breathe. He stills in response, holding his breath as he braces for a reaction. 

“And how has that been working out for you?” 

“Hasn’t failed me yet.” 

Yet. He thinks, having the distinct sense that he may be about to recount that statement.

“Jake,” she arches her back, propping herself up with her forearms on either side of him to look at him. 

“Yeah?” He hates the way his heart pounds at the sound of her saying his name. 

“Don’t leave Alpine hanging tomorrow.” 

He holds her gaze in the dim light of the moon and a distant street lamp, and realizes with an aching twisting wrenching feeling, all the things he would do for her if she asked. 

“I won’t.” 

She pushes forward, and he moves his arm instinctively to hold her closer, his hand reaching up to cradle the back of her head, their lips meeting in a slow kiss. 

“And come back safely.” She adds in a whisper, and for a second he thinks she’s going to say, to me, but her sentence halts, and something deflates deep in his chest.

Still, he promises: “I will.”

*

Alpine listens to the rush of the ocean all around her, closing her eyes against the salty spray. Even now, having found a moment alone on the lower deck of this massive aircraft carrier charging through the middle of the sea, she can almost feel the warmth of Bradley’s touch and see the love in his eyes as they were just a few hours ago. Before the early morning wake-up, before getting into uniform, before boarding the carrier, before finding out that they’re both about to face death. 

At least we’re doing it together, she tries to find a positive spin, at least neither of us have to rely on Hangman. 

At the end of the day, what Maverick said is right: it’s not the plane, it’s the pilot. And all her life she’s learned over and over that the only person who can truly save her, is herself. 

She takes a deep, steadying breath. And then another. And then another. 

“Hey.” 

Her eyes fly open as she startles at the sudden sound, calming instantly when she sees Bradley standing next to her, gaze soft and vulnerable. He looked at her like that last night, his hands holding hers down, his body pressing into hers, and she has to blink the second image away, refocusing on the here and now. 

“Did you want to be alone?” He asks. “I can go, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

“I am now.” She smiles, reaching for his hand. He gives it immediately, his palm warm against hers. “Are you okay?” 

He tilts his head. “Trying not to pick you up and lock you in a storage closet where I know you’ll be safe.” 

“Not really. I could inhale chemical fumes and die.” 

He gives her a look. “That’s not helping.” 

“I’m sorry,” she shifts closer, wrapping her arms around his stomach. He embraces her, resting his chin on the top of her head. “But I’m scared too, by the way, about losing you.” 

He sighs. She squeezes him tighter, saying the words aloud in the hopes that she’ll finally believe them. 

“But being scared won’t help us. We just have to do it, and trust in ourselves and each other. I know you can do this. I know I can do this.” 

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“Do you trust me?” 

“Of course.” He holds her tighter, tilting his head to kiss her hair. “Completely.” 

“Then trust me when I say you can do this, Bradley Bradshaw.” 

He pulls back and she looks up at him, her chest tightening to see his eyes shining with emotion. He lifts one hand to trace the side of her face before cupping her jaw and leaning down for a kiss. She meets him happily, linking her hands behind his neck and pressing closer. 

They only separate when she hears the carrier’s engines grind, slowing down. It’s almost time. 

“Ready?” She asks, looking to him for assurance as much as she’s offering her own. 

He takes her hand and squeezes once, nodding. “Ready.” 

~

Alpine has never been an overly religious person, moreso spiritual, but today she witnessed miracles. Her body feels weak with exhaustion from holding so much tension over the last few hours, and somehow also more energized than she’s ever been, as she sees Rooster and Maverick coming in for a rough but spectacular landing. 

She’s one of the first people out and running towards the plane once it’s stopped, jostling more than a few onlookers and ground crew out of her way to get to Bradley as soon as his boots hit the ground. He spins around as if looking for something, and his shoulders visibly sag as he sees her in front of him, barrelling forward to close the few feet between them. 

He hauls her up against him and she clings to him, his breath hot and heavy against her neck. She pulls back enough to look at him, wanting to check if he’s hurt. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He says, and then yelps as she punches him in the shoulder. “Ow!” 

“NEVER do that again!” She shouts, finally releasing some of the anger and fear she’d felt when the last thing he said before his radio went out and his plane went down was I’m sorry, Alpine. 

“Okay, okay!” He agrees. 

“Come here,” she pleads, feeling the anger subside into pure relief and desperation again. 

He feels it too, she can see it in his eyes, and his lips crash into hers. She grips the hair at the back of his head and his fingers dig into her hip, each of them needing the slight pain, the grounding reality of the other. And she isn’t planning to let go again. 

*

Y/N is a nervous wreck, taking twice as long to make drinks and take food orders than usual, with her head snapping to the door every five seconds, waiting to see a flash of khaki. 

She’s been a mess all day. She tried to catch up on sleep after Jake dropped her off in the early morning, but from the moment his car disappeared around the corner, reality came crashing in and she became a bundle of anxiety. 

She lay in bed, trying to sleep but picturing planes exploding and crashing until she got up and decided to open the bar early to keep busy. She’s been there ever since, distracted and distraught, until finally the door slams open and a loud, joyful flood of navy pilots stream in. 

“Alright, aviators!” Her heart leaps at the sight of Maverick out front, “First round is on me!” 

She’s hurrying to get out from behind the bar, searching the crowd of faces until finally she lets out a shout of relief and joy, matched by another, and Y/N and Alpine are rushing and crashing together in a tight embrace. 

“Thank fucking god.” Y/N laughs, “You’re okay.” 

“I’m okay,” Alpine assures her, as they rock from side to side. “But I have some news…” 

“Oh god,” Y/N reels back, looking frantically around at the other pilots, her heart racing and stomach plummeting as she can’t find him anywhere. “Jake– is he–” 

“He’s fine. He’s alive. He’ll probably be here soon.” Alpine grabs her arms, “He actually saved Rooster’s life today.” 

“He did?” 

Alpine nods, and Y/N lets out a breath, feeling happy and proud as Rooster himself arrives and puts his arm around Alpine’s shoulder. 

“And Rooster– Bradley, and I…are together.” Alpine says, barely fighting a grin. 

“Oh my god! That’s amazing!” Y/N feels like she has whiplash, but her joy is genuine. “How did– when…?” 

“We made things official last night.” Rooster explains. “The imminent threat of death helped get our priorities straight.” 

Y/N laughs, but it sounds nervous even to her own ears. “I can imagine. Look, I should start taking orders, but if you want to hang out at the bar I’d love to hear whatever you can tell me about what happened today– and to get to know you a bit better, Bradley.” 

And so she can keep watching the door, waiting to confirm with her own two eyes that he’s alive, that he’s okay, and that he came back to her. 

*

Hangman hasn’t left the parking lot yet. He drove over from the base with Coyote and Fanboy and Payback, but lied about wanting to check his transmission before going inside, popping the hood for show as they all piled inside with everyone else. 

Truth be told, he isn’t feeling as festive as the rest of them. Sure, he added a kill to his list, putting him one closer to becoming an ace, and more importantly, he saved Rooster and Maverick’s asses. He saved the day. But he wasn’t picked for Dagger Two. He wasn’t even picked for the mission, really. If shit hadn’t gone sideways, he wouldn’t have even flown at all. 

And that made him feel like shit. He’s not good enough. Despite the years and the hard work and the literal blood, sweat, and tears, he wasn’t good enough. 

He wants this feeling– the shame, the inadequacy, the exhaustion – to go away. He knows the easiest way to ignore it, the same way he’s always ignored the bad feelings. And he knows who he wants– he wants her, with her soft hair and lavender perfume and her hazel eyes. He wants to take her to bed, and he wants to ask her about her screenplay and he wants to make her coffee in the morning and he wants her to brush her hands through his hair and leave the crescent imprints of her nails on his skin. But what he wants doesn’t matter, because he won’t get it. He can’t. He has this feeling that if he walks in there, she’ll take one look at him, and she’ll know. She’ll know, deep down, what a failure he actually is. She’ll know he’s not good enough for the mission, or for her. 

She’s better off, he decides, getting back into his car and starting the engine. They’re both better off if he does what Hangman does best. He pulls out of the parking lot and starts a long drive down the coast, trying not to look at the crumpled blanket still draped across the backseat. 

*

Rooster could listen to Alpine talk forever. He’d be happy to sit all night, right here, nursing his beer as she and Y/N tell college stories and debate some high-intellect theory about the cultural impact of movies. He could spend eternity just with her hand held in his and the occasional flash of her beautiful smile in his direction. The thought occurs to him, half-insane, half-genius, as she laughs, and the sound makes his heart soar: I’m going to marry her. 

#top gun maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction #hangman x reader #hangman x you #hangman fanfiction #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x you #rooster x ofc #bradley bradshaw x ofc #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #ladylibby

[ladylibby]

omg hi!! ok so i just skimmed through my cloud and i found this last ones standing book cover i made a while back LMAOOO

i forgot it even existed, but here u go! seems like fate i found it after uploading my old cloud:)

This is amazing??? I love it so much! 💛💛💛

#last ones standing #daryl dixon x reader #twd #ladylibby replies #3leni

[ladylibby]

As it Seems - Thirty-Seven

Masterlist |  As it Seems Masterlist | The Hotch Playlist

Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…

Chapter Summary: You and Hotch enjoy your wedding night.

(A/N: Hello! A shorter delay this time, but this chapter comes with a slightly bittersweet update. I'm going to take an indefinite posting hiatus from As it Seems. That's not the same as a writing hiatus, though! In fact, I'm going to stop posting this story for a while so I can write. My previous stories were all written and finished before I ever posted the first chapter, so I could always stick to the weekly update schedule. I got so excited about this one, and it was getting so long that I decided to jump right into sharing it with you all, but unfortunately lately I haven't been able to keep up. I am still in love with this story, and have plans for many more chapters before we reach the end, but this feels like a good place to take a break for a while. I'll be writing more chapters and some shorter fics for other characters and fandoms in the meantime, but there won't be any updates for a bit. I hope you'll understand, and bear with me as I get back in the groove <3)

(A/N (again): Also, I'm phasing out taglists, so please follow this account and/or turn on notifications for updates in the future!)

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (oral sex, female and male receiving; unprotected sex)

“What time is it?” Y/N asks Hotch, her voice hushed as they walk down from the lodge to their private cabin. 

The pathway is illuminated by little lanterns stuck into the dirt beside the paving stones, but Hotch keeps a tight hold of her hand, careful not to let his wife trip. 

His wife. He smiles at the mere thought of the words. 

He holds her left hand in his right, and her discarded high heels in his left hand, which he lifts to check his watch. 

“Quarter to midnight.” He says. 

“Oh,” she scoffs, “It’s still so early!” 

He smiles again, feeling affection and amusement warm in his chest. After three glasses of champagne and a lot of dancing, she’s definitely on the south side of tipsy. He feels sober, his single glass of champagne was hours ago now at dinner, and contentedly so. He wants to feel and remember everything about tonight exactly the way it is. 

“Stay there, please.” He requests, letting go of her hand as they reach the front door. 

“What? Why?” She asks, but remains standing on the welcome mat as he pushes the door open and gently tosses her shoes through the doorway. 

“I’m going to carry you inside.” 

“Oh!” She lights up for a second in excitement before her brow pinches and she stalls him with a hand on his chest. “Wait, honey, what about your back?” 

He’s not offended by the question, knowing it stems from care and concern rather than doubt. He covers her hand with his as he promises: 

“My back can handle it.” 

“Okay, if you’re sure–” she cuts herself off with a string of surprised giggles as he stoops to hook his left arm under her knees while his right remains held against her back. The base of his spine twinges a bit, but otherwise he’s fine, and finds further motivating strength in the sound of her delighted laughter and the feeling of her hands clinging to his shoulders. He steps carefully over the threshold, angling sideways to keep from knocking her head against the doorframe, and continues into the cabin. 

“Okay, okay,” she nudges his shoulder, still laughing, “Put me down now, strongman.” 

He’s tempted to carry her all the way to the bed, just to prove himself, but decides it’s not worth the risk of taking himself out of commission for the rest of the night, or worse– for the better part of their honeymoon. So he sets her down gently, keeping his arm braced at her back even after her feet have hit the floor, until he’s sure she’s steady on her feet. 

“That was fun,” she smiles, turning to face him fully with her hands looped around the back of his neck, pressing herself closer and tilting her head up for a kiss which he immediately provides. He settles his hands at her waist, feeling the soft, smooth fabric of her dress and the even softer warmth of her body underneath. As his mouth presses against hers, slow and sweet, he slides one arm around her back to hold her closer, the other smoothing up over her side to her ribs. She lets out a soft sound, her right hand moving up to the back of his head, her fingers digging into his hair, while her left hand grips at his shoulder, bunching the fabric of his suit jacket in her fist. 

He can’t bring himself to break away from her yet, but he refrains from letting his hands stray too far. Instead, he runs his hands over her back and curves and hips and ribs, lightly pressing and squeezing and reveling in the feeling of her singular self beneath her beautiful dress, all at his fingertips. He wants to take his time tonight, to stop himself from giving into all his impulses at once, to touch and to taste and to feel.

“I think,” he murmurs, pulling back enough to kiss her forehead, to stall a little before she gets too worked up, “My wife needs some water.” 

She makes a face, but allows him to gently nudge her into the kitchen area, ameliorated by his hands on her back and his lips on her cheek and neck.

“I see what you’re doing, Hotchner.” Her tone is stern, but her eyes are wide and dilated as he presses her back against the counter, keeping one arm around her middle while he leans to the side to fill a glass with water. She takes the glass, grumbling into it as she takes a sip. “Being all hot and handsy and ‘my wife.’” 

He smirks at the way she deepens her voice to repeat his words, the impression making him sound more like a cartoon character than himself. He backs away from her, taking off his jacket and hanging it over the back of one of the chairs by the kitchen table.

She groans, watching him go. “What are you doing now?” 

He holds her gaze as he slowly and casually unbuttons the sleeves of his dress shirt and rolls them up to his elbows, the right first and then the left. “Looking at you.”

He’s telling the truth as he lets his eyes wander, admiring every inch of the woman he has just married. She’s a little less polished than when he helped her into that dress so many hours ago, her hair has been loosened from its careful styling, her lipstick has faded from the champagne and his own lips, her feet are bare from the heels she discarded as soon as the dancing started, and she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. 

She drains the rest of her glass quickly, clearly getting more worked up under the intensity of his observation, though his chest swells with pride and confidence as she unabashedly returns his stare, her gaze traveling over his body before returning to his face.

“Your wife has had some water.” She says, primly placing the glass in the sink and leaning back against the counter with a smile he could only describe as devious. “And now I think my husband needs to kiss me.” 

He had expected her to turn the tables on him, it was only fair, but he hadn’t anticipated quite how much hearing the sound of her voice calling him husband would affect him. It’s enough to send him across the few feet of space separating them, dropping one hand to brace himself against the counter beside her, while the other cradles the side of her face, holding her steady as his lips crash into hers. 

She hums in satisfaction, her arms hooking under his and across his back, her nails scratching lightly through his shirt as she kisses him back with intensity. They return to the hurried, fleeting touches of before, though now he allows himself to reach up to cup her breasts and down to squeeze her thighs and ass, as she drops a hand to the front of his pants to palm at his crotch. 

A groan makes its way from his chest to his throat, and her satisfied smile breaks her mouth away from his. She ducks her head to nip and kiss his throat as she continues to caress and squeeze his quickly stiffening erection. 

“Are you going to take me to bed now?” She asks, dragging her teeth over his pulse point and then soothing the spot with her lips, making his mind go blank for a second, “Or do you think I need more water?” 

He doesn’t dignify the question with a verbal response– not that he could form words right now anyway – but rather bends his knees, shoves her dress up to grab the back of her thighs, and hooks her legs around his hips, lifting her up in his arms. She holds tight to his back and he practically storms across the small open-plan cabin to drop her onto the mattress, the springs creaking as he presses down above her. 

She tugs her dress up so she can bend and spread her knees, making space for him to lie on top of her, and he can’t stop himself from an indulgent grind of his hips into hers, both of them breathing sharply at the closer contact. He shifts lower, pressing his mouth to her jaw and marking down the column of her throat, tasting just the hint of sweat on her skin from the hot, crowded dance floor. 

She pushes him to sit back on his heels as she sits up and reaches back to unzip her dress. He kisses her and pulls her hands away, dragging the zipper down more easily himself while she makes impressively quick work of the buttons on his shirt. While she shoves the shirt open and runs her hands over his chest and stomach, scratching her nails through his chest hair and gently tracing his scars, he pulls the front of her dress down and unhooks her bra. She pulls the straps over her arms and drops it off the edge of the bed while he takes off his shirt completely and drops it on the floor. 

He guides her to lie back again, and lets his mouth descend, first to her left breast, while his left hand squeezes and caresses the right, kissing and mouthing around the soft skin before closing his lips around her nipple at the same time he pinches the other with his hand. She says his name on the end of a soft sigh, her fingers digging into his shoulders. 

“We’re alone tonight,” He murmurs, kissing her sternum before switching sides, “I want to hear you.” 

Lately, with the usual pace of work at the BAU and the added rush of wedding planning, sex has been a hushed affair, either in the dead of night or in the few moments he and Y/N have found themselves alone and without groceries to pick up or appointments to make or last-minute calls to the office. It’s no less enjoyable or meaningful, but there’s been a certain level of self-awareness and control that Hotch is looking forward to leaving behind tonight. 

He’s a little rougher this time, pulling on the left and grazing his teeth on the right, and she lets out a stuttering noise of pleasure that has him pressing his hips into the mattress for some much-needed friction. Still, he tries to tamp down his own urgency – he can, and wants to wait – focusing on teasing her breasts with his mouth, holding his weight with his left forearm, while his right hand finds where her dress is bunched up at her hips. 

“Oh, Aaron, yes,” she breathes as he pulls her underwear to the side and spreads her outer folds with his thumb and runs his middle finger up the length of her slit, from her vagina to her clit, where he begins to rub little circles around the bundle of nerves. She’s starting to get wet, but he knows exactly how to leave her dripping for him. 

He pulls back from her breast and sits up enough to hook his fingers around the sides of her underwear and drag them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help him get them off, reaching for the hem of her dress and starting to pull it up. 

“Leave it on.” 

Her eyes widen as he holds her gaze, finding it impossible to be embarrassed at the admission of his particular interest when her lips part and she lets out a little breath– a sign of her own arousal he’d recognize in an instant. He likes her too much like this, in her wedding dress, with the bodice loose and slightly twisted over her stomach, leaving her chest exposed, while her skirt is pushed all the way to her hips, intermittently covering and exposing the apex of her thighs with every shift of her legs. 

She watches him with that same expression of anticipation, wordlessly shuffling into the position that’s grown familiar to both of them. She lies diagonally across the bed, her head propped up on the farthest left corner of the pillows, grabbing one to rest underneath her hips while her knees bend and her feet settle flat and wide apart on the mattress. His shoulders fill the space in between, his head turning to leave the same marks on her inner thighs that he’d left on her neck. As he works his way closer with his mouth, he wastes no time with his fingers, spreading her folds again and sinking his middle finger inside of her. 

His erection twitches at the moan she lets out, the sound fading into a gasping whine with every breath as he crooks his finger upwards and pushes steadily in and out, shifting a little this way and that until she moans again, lifting her head to look at him as her hands clamp onto his hair. 

“There?” He asks, probing the same spot. 

“There.” She says, her voice strained, “There– there, more, please–” 

He adds his index finger, pressing harder and faster. She moans again, louder this time, her head dropping back onto the pillows. The sight of her, the sensation of her hands in his hair, and the feeling of her getting wetter by the second, slicking his fingers as he pumps them in and out, is enough to make his pants feel painfully tight, even as he pushes his hips into the mattress again. 

He watches her in awe. “You’re so beautiful.” 

Her legs start to fidget, her feet pressing harder into the bed, her legs slipping and straining, and he gently bites at the hinge of her hip before dropping his mouth to her clit. Her breath stutters before she lets out a high keening noise. He swirls and flicks his tongue in a quick, repeating succession. 

“Ah–oh, fuck.” One hand drops from his hair to grab at the sheets, “Fuck, don’t stop.” 

He hums his acknowledgement, and she chokes on his name. He pumps his fingers faster, keeping his index finger curled to hit her g-spot, while he extends his middle finger to penetrate deeper. 

“Oh my– god, yes– like that–” she pants, “Just like that–” 

He pushes his face more firmly into her, pressing down on her clit with his tongue, flicking it as fast as he can, matching the pace with his fingers moving inside of her until his wrist begins to ache and her breath starts to hitch and her hips start twitching on their own, nudging up into his face, begging for just a little bit more. 

He pulls his mouth away, immediately replacing his lips with the pads of his middle and index fingers, rubbing her clit fast and rough. He hears her breath stall first, catching and holding for an instant in her chest, before she cries out and he feels her clenching and squeezing around his fingers as she comes. 

He continues to pleasure her, dimly aware that his hand aches and his fingers are sticky and soaked, but he doesn’t care, more focused on watching the tension in her expression peak before giving over to bliss, as her chest heaves and her legs tremble. 

The clenching fades to a few errant flutters, and he finally pulls his fingers out of her. Without any real thought, just acting out of want, he licks them clean and then leans down for another, better taste, running his tongue from her entrance up to circle her clit again. She lets out another hitching gasp, her hips twitching at the overstimulation. 

“Jesus christ,” she breathes, “You just keep getting better at that.” 

Her words fill his chest with pride and he pulls his mouth off of her. If he had his way – and he hopes to someday soon – she would let him go down on her for as long as she could stand it. The analyst in him, the scientist, likes the idea of the experiment, see how many times he can push her over the edge, see how many different ways, see how long either of them can last. He lifts his head, meeting her gaze with a smug smile. 

“That’s the idea.” 

She lets out a little disbelieving laugh and grabs a pillow and drops it over her face, and he can hear her muffled shout underneath: “Oh my god!” 

“What?” He smiles, equally amused and curious as he moves back up on top of her, pulling the pillow away from her face. “What is it?” 

“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re real.” She shakes her head, smiling. “Or at least, I can’t believe you’re mine.” 

He drops his weight onto his right side to lay next to her, extending his right arm and she shifts to rest her head on it, lying on her side facing him. Her hands are clasped together in front of her chest. He lifts his left hand to her face, brushing her now ridiculously messy hair out of the way. He leans in and kisses her on the apple of each cheek, on the tip of her nose, and then softly presses his lips to hers. Her hands unwind from each other, palms landing on his chest as she kisses him back. 

He pulls back enough to take her left hand in his, moving their clasped hands to rest where he can see her new ring and she can see his. He kisses her ring, and the silver is cold against his lips. 

“I’m yours. For as long as I live, for as long as you want me, I am yours.” 

“You always say the best things first,” she sighs. 

He huffs out a soft laugh, squeezing her hand. “Sorry.” 

He smiles softly as she kisses his ring. 

“And I’m yours. For as long as I live, I’m yours. Whether you want me or not.” 

She finishes with a resolute nod, but gives him a cheeky smile, and he feels his own smile broadening in response. Laughter bubbles up out of him, delighted and uncontrollable, a release of the build-up from a day of pure happiness, sparked by the surprise and amusement that only she can produce. He rolls onto his back, covering his face with his hand, trying to get himself and his breathing under control. His laughter makes her laugh, and what starts as a giggle turns into gasping for air as she curls over his chest. 

After a minute or two, they both settle, sighing gently as they catch their breath. 

Hotch wipes tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes, looking down at where her head rests against his chest. She looks up at him, her eyes twinkling. 

“Don’t.” He warns, already feeling his smile growing out of his control again.

“Okay, fine.” She sighs, dragging herself into a seated position next to him, playing at being disappointed and tired until she pounces, straddling his hips and pressing her palms into his shoulders to keep him flat on his back. “I guess I’ll have to wind you up some other way.” 

~

You pull your dress over your head, gently tossing it so it drapes haphazardly over a chair near the bed. The moment your skin is bare, his hands are on your body, reverently touching and exploring and caressing the softness of your belly, your hips, your ribs, your breasts. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he repeats, “Always, my beautiful wife.” 

You cover his hands with yours, keeping them on your chest, closing your eyes and letting out a halting breath as he squeezes and starts to tease you again, pinching your nipples until they’re hard. 

But you have some teasing of your own to do, opening your eyes to watch him as you grind your pelvis down onto his, feeling his half-hard erection start to twitch in his pants. You grind on him a few more times, feeling the fabric becoming damp from your wetness, even as his bulge grows. 

You shift lower, unbuckling his belt, undoing his button, and unzipping his fly before reaching into his underwear to pull his erection free. You hear him sigh at the release of pressure, and quickly turn the sound into a surprised moan as you immediately take him into your mouth. 

You swirl your tongue over his tip and then bob your head, taking as much of him in your mouth as you can, pressing your tongue to the vein on the underside of his cock as you suck him. He’s fully hard almost immediately, letting out a string of delicious sounds as you work him with your hand and mouth, groaning and gasping and stuttering praise. 

Still, you can feel yourself aching, empty and wanting, and you know he doesn’t like to come in your mouth when he can come inside you instead. So you pull yourself away with one last swirl of your tongue over his head, and tug at his pants and underwear. He sits up and reaches down to help shove the fabric down his legs, his eyes slightly glazed over. You pause as you drag his pants to his ankles, noticing for the first time that he still has his shoes on.

“You didn’t take these off?” You laugh a little as you pull them off one by one before stripping off his socks. 

“I had a more important goal in mind.” He says, shifting to pull his pants off and toss them away. He moves to sit up against the pillows, his legs extending along the length of the bed, rather than lying diagonally as you had been. You crawl up to meet him, straddling his thighs again as his hands reach for you once more. 

“You’re—” you let out a stuttering breath as he kisses your neck and pinches your nipples again, “You’re so beautiful too, you know.” 

You shift closer, kneeling tall as you take his cock in your hand and pump it a few times before lining him up with your entrance. 

“Wait,” he breathes, “Condom. Let me—”

“Shit.” You do a quick mental calculus, “I think it’s fine. I’ve been extra careful about the pill, and…I really want to feel you tonight. Is that okay?” 

“Of course,” he lifts his hands to your face, kissing you deeply, “I just— I don’t want any regrets.” 

“None.” You promise, and you mean it. You genuinely believe you’ll be fine this time, and even if you’re not, you know you’ll figure it out together. That’s the whole point. “Never with you.” 

He kisses you again, bracing your hip with one hand and cradling your face with the other as you finally sink down, one inch at a time, taking him inside you. You squeeze your eyes closed at the familiar, ever-wonderful feeling of him stretching and filling you, your lips parted on a gasp as he moans into your mouth. 

“You feel so good,” he breathes, groaning again as you adjust to the intrusion and start to move. You circle your hips, just barely lifting up before grinding down again, feeling him deep within you. His other hand drops, both hands now gripping your hips and following your movements so he can thrust his hips up to meet you. 

“Ah, Aaron—” you moan, feeling your clit press into his pelvis. “Oh, honey—”

“So good,” he repeats, kissing you again before thrusting up harder, “So good for me.” 

His thrust hits your g-spot and you whimper, grinding down faster to try and hit it again. He seems to understand, thrusting up again, smiling against your mouth as you moan at the feeling of him finding it again. 

“There,” you pant, “More, please, right there, please, please—”

You don’t have to beg for long before he’s lifting you up and pressing you backwards, pinning your body to the mattress and thrusting fast into you, hitting that spot even harder. 

“Yes—! Yes, like—like that, oh—” Your words are lost to gasping moans as he fucks you, setting a fast, tight rhythm. His hips slam into you, and you can hear the dull slap of skin on skin, even as the mattress starts to creak loudly beneath your rocking bodies. The pressure builds inside you steadily, getting hotter, getting stronger. 

“Good— my beautiful girl—” he grits out, mindlessly speaking as his hips snap and he looks down at you in a daze of focus and desire, “So perfect, my beautiful— beautiful wife.” 

Your inner walls clench at the sound, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder, groaning. You grip at his back, at his hair, wanting to feel all of him at once as the pressure rises and your need grows. 

“Can you come—like this?” He lifts his head, and you nod wordlessly, biting your lip as he keeps hitting that special little spot, pummeling it over and over, your pleasure growing more and more. He watches you, carefully, with a kind of focus and awe that makes you feel beautiful, powerful, and unimaginably cared for. It’s like he’s studying every inch of your face, ever micro-expression and reaction to the pleasure he’s causing, bringing you closer and closer to euphoria. 

“Aaron, Aaron— ah, Aaron— yes, ohhh—”

You gasp, your breath stalling and your back arching to press your breasts into his chest as you go from approaching the edge to hurtling over it, the pleasure rushing to a peak and releasing from within. You come, feeling him even harder and deeper as your walls clench and pulse, squeezing him tighter. 

“That’s it— mmf— yes,” he murmurs, his hips moving even harder, the bed creaking and squeaking as you gasp and moan through the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

“Come inside me,” you breathe as soon as you have enough air, moaning as he fucks your over-sensitive pussy, “I want it— inside—”

His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he inhales sharply and groans your name, coming inside you. He thrusts one more time and stills himself, pushed in as deep as he can, and you shudder at the feeling of him filling you completely, your walls fluttering again. He pants, his breath hot against your skin, and you reach up to run your fingers through his hair. 

He lifts his head and kisses you passionately. You lift your other hand to his cheek, parting your lips to deepen the kiss. His hips twitch, whether involuntarily or not you can’t tell, but the shallow thrust has you gasping lightly. 

The kiss broken, he ducks his head to your jaw, mouthing along the underside of your chin and down your throat, retracing the marks he’d surely left earlier. 

“I love you.” You say, flexing your fingers in his hair and meeting his gaze as he lifts his head again, “So much.” 

“I love you like no one else,” he returns, kissing you again. 

He kisses you even as he gently pulls his softening cock out of you, soothing your soft noise of loss and sensation with his lips. He moves back down the bed and cleans the mess of his come and yours with his mouth, gentle and careful not to overwhelm you, though the soft press of his tongue and lips is enough to make your thighs twitch and your eyes shut and your breath stutter. 

He returns to lie next to you, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you to rest on his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he pulls the blankets up over you. You know you’ll have to get up and pee and maybe brush your teeth before you sleep, but you’re not ready to move yet, your muscles filled with a pleasant, heavy ache that begs you to stay right there in his arms for as long as possible. 

“What time is it now?” You ask, watching as he peers at his watch. 

“Half past one.” 

“Our wedding is over, then.” You say, a little sad at the end of such a perfect day, but unwilling to trade even a second of it. 

He exhales softly, contentedly, holding you closer. “And the rest of our life begins.”

#as it seems #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch x you #hotch fanfiction #hotch smut #aaron hotchner smut #criminal minds #cm #cm fanfiction #thomas gibson fanfiction #thomas gibson #reader insert #ladylibby

[ladylibby]

Hotch is sooooo Captain Von Trapp coded

#ladylibby speaks #ideas for a future au may be brewing #Hotch #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #cm #the sound of music #captain von trapp

[ladylibby]

As it Seems - Thirty-Six

Masterlist |  As it Seems Masterlist | The Hotch Playlist

Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…

Chapter Summary: Surrounded by friends and family and lots of love, you and Aaron get married.

(A/N: Hello my loves! As predicted, this chapter took longer than a week to get to you, but that’s because I was determined to get it right. This is my third time around writing a Hotchner wedding, and I wanted to make it different from the ones in Between Us and A Hard Day’s Night, which is what inspired the POV changes throughout the chapter. Please let me know if you feel this is the wedding the story and our beloved characters deserve, because I am fully committed to rewriting until it is right for them and for all of you, my lovely dedicated readers. Okay, without further ado, let’s get married!)

Jack Hotchner likes weddings. 

He’s never been to one before, and even in the middle of this first one, he’s decided he likes them. There’s pizza and swimming and all his aunts and uncles in the same place for once. There’s also a big wooden arch thing with vines all over it that looks like it grew out of the ground like all the other big trees all around.  

Auntie Jess says it’s where they’re going to stand in a minute, once the music starts. Uncle Dave, Uncle Spencer and Uncle Derek are all already standing on one side and Auntie Penelope, Auntie Emily and Auntie JJ are all standing on the other side. He knows Auntie Penelope is just excited – she told him so when she and Uncle Derek wanted his help picking which tie Uncle Derek should wear – but she looks kind of nervous now. Maybe she’s so excited it’s making her nervous. 

That’s kind of how Jack feels. 

Daddy and Y/N have been talking about today for a long time, long enough that Jack was starting to wish the days would go faster so they could all finally, finally get here, because he was so excited about the pizza and the swimming and the big fluffy bed that’s perfect for jumping on, and later there will be ice cream and dancing and Auntie Jess said he can stay up as long as he wants because it’s such a special day. 

But he’s also nervous. 

It’s a big day, and not just because of all the fun stuff, but because Daddy and Y/N and getting married. Daddy told him not that it’s just an official thing, and that most material things won’t change. Y/N already lives with them, and they might want to move into a house at some point, but that’s not because of the wedding. Officially, Y/N will be Jack’s parent, like Daddy, and she’ll keep looking after him like she always does, but Jack doesn’t have to call her anything other than her name if he doesn’t want to. Daddy didn’t say any other names, but Jack knows he meant that Jack doesn’t have to call her “Mommy.” Though it does feel a little weird in his mouth when he says “Daddy and Y/N,” instead of “Daddy and Mommy” like other kids, but that’s just who they are. 

Jack loves Y/N. She’s fun and gentle and gives the best cuddles (even better than Daddy) and she helps take care of him. She never yells, and she always seems to understand when things happen and he gets upset– she always understands that it’s not always his fault when he feels too much and doesn’t know what to do. She’s safe. 

Jack loves her, and he does think of her like a mother– she acts like one, at least like a mother should. She’s just not Mommy. Mommy was someone different. 

Jack doesn’t love less than he loves Mommy, really, he just loves her differently. Because Y/N is here. She’s here, to take him to school and teach him to bake cookies and read him bedtime stories and hold him when he has a bad dream. 

Mommy isn’t here anymore. Jack only really remembers what he’s seen in the videos he and Daddy watch every year, and the stories Daddy and Auntie Jessica tell. He thinks he remembers how it felt when she hugged him, but he’s not really sure. 

He wishes Mommy could still be here. Daddy always says Mommy would have liked Y/N, and Jack thinks so too– he and Daddy love her, so obviously Mommy would love her too. If Mommy were here he could have even more hugs and have another person to play hide-and-seek with him and Y/N. It would be even more fun. 

But she’s not here. And it’s a big day. 

Jack has to stand up there, under the weird vine-tree in front of all those people. He’s never had to do anything like that before. 

His stomach feels like a whole cloud of butterflies is flying around inside of it and his heart is beating extra fast and it’s like that time his friend Josh jumped out from around the corner at recess and scared him so bad he screamed. 

“What if I forget what to say?” He looks up at Auntie Jess. 

“Don’t worry, you’re going to do great, sweetie pie,” Auntie Jess says, squeezing his shoulder like she always does. It makes him feel better. “And I’ll be with you the whole time. So will Y/N and your dad. Just focus on us and you’ll be fine.” 

“Okay,” Jack nods, though he’s not sure how he can avoid looking at all the people. 

But then he remembers what Daddy said about breathing, and he does it a few times, only faltering as music starts to play and he knows it’s time. But he breathes, and he reaches up for Auntie Jess’s hand. She takes it and holds it nice and tight, and together they walk down the long stretch of grass between all the chairs. 

Jack looks at his other aunts and uncles, feeling a little better when Uncle Derek winks at him, and Aunt Penelope grins and gives him a thumbs up. They get to the tree arch thing and Jack takes another big breath as he turns around to face all the people, pressing himself back against Jessica’s stomach. 

He sees Uncle Sean in the second row, and Will and Henry across the aisle, and a lot of grown-ups Daddy and Y/N said were cousins or work friends but Jack doesn’t recognize them. He takes another breath and Auntie Jess puts her hands on his shoulders. 

Finally, Jack sees down at the other end of the aisle, Daddy and Y/N walking towards them. 

Even though they aren’t wearing very colorful clothes – Y/N’s dress is just white and Daddy’s suit is just gray – Jack thinks they look beautiful. Like those pictures of weddings Jack and Y/N looked up together on her computer, but better, because it’s Daddy and Y/N. 

And Daddy looks happy. Which makes Jack happy– he doesn’t like when Daddy is sad, and Daddy was sad for such a long time. 

But now, they walk together, with Y/N’s arm looped around Daddy’s elbow, and they smile right at him. Y/N waves, and Jack waves back, starting to feel more excited than nervous. He bounces a little bit on his toes under the gentle pressure of Auntie Jess’s hands on his shoulders. Daddy and Y/N stop as they reach Jack and Auntie Jess.

Jack tilts his head up to look at them, determined to be brave. He watches as Daddy and Y/N face each other. They hold hands, and the wedding begins. 

~

Jessica Brooks is happy. She probably should feel at least a little bit bittersweet, conflicted, or perhaps just strange, as she officiates her deceased sister’s ex-husband’s wedding. But she feels happy, and the joy she feels blooming in her chest is all due to the three people standing in front of her. 

Jess misses Haley every day. She wishes, every day, that she could get her sister back. But she knows she can’t. What’s done is done, and Haley has passed on to whatever is waiting on the other side. And in the wake of all that heartbreak and grief, not in spite of it, a new family has formed. 

Because the truth of it is that stepping in to take care of Jack, more than the fleeting visits and weekend babysits when he was barely walking and talking, has closed a gap in her life she never thought could be filled. Having her own kids is not, nor will ever be in the cards for Jess. Her art, her work, her passion, will always come first (not to mention her repulsion to the physical state of pregnancy). But she loves to play and indulge that youthful creativity and try to help heal the horrors her nephew endured so young with as much support and love as she can provide. 

And in the process, she received love and respect in return, more than she ever expected. Jess was never close with Aaron before Haley died. She liked him, she respected him, but she didn’t really know him. They weren’t friends. But over the last three years, he’s become as much of a brother to her as Haley was a sister– in some ways more so, because Haley always saw her as a kid sister, and Aaron treats her as a whole, complete, complex person. He’s invested in her happiness, just as she is in his. 

A happiness which he finally found. 

Perhaps, if he were marrying anyone else, Jess would feel more conflicting emotions. If his chosen partner were any less genuine, any less generous, any less intellectual, humorous, and kind, perhaps it would be harder for Jess to accept her as a friend, confidant, even as a sister. 

And so, Jess takes a breath, and wears a heartfelt smile as she speaks out, loud and clear, to the assembled wedding guests: 

“We are gathered here, on this beautiful day, to unite a family in love.” She begins, gently squeezing Jack’s shoulders. “Love brings us together. Love heals the wounds of grief and heartbreak, love soothes insecurity and loneliness. Love changes us, shapes us, and carries us forward. But love is not easy. Love demands work, sacrifice, and compromise.” 

Jess looks between the couple, smiling softly as she takes in the earnest awe of Aaron’s expression as he looks at Y/N, and the quiet, bright joy reflected back at him by his bride. 

“Love can bring pain, as much as joy, and for that, love requires bravery,” Jess continues, “The most courageous people, I think, are the ones who choose to love. Even when it’s painful, even when it’s difficult, and especially when they’ve loved before and lost. No one bears the risk of love more, or reaps the reward. And standing before you now, are those brave, true, and deserving people, here to share and declare their love today.” 

Y/N turns to look at her, smiling with warmth and gratitude, and Jess can’t help but beam back. 

“They have prepared their own vows, so you won’t have to listen to me this whole time,” Jess smiles as she gets a good-natured chuckle for that one, and then nods to Aaron, “The groom will begin.” 

Aaron turns his gaze to Jack, giving his son a small, vulnerable smile as he takes a deep, steadying breath before Aaron looks back at his bride. 

“Y/N, I promise, first and above all, to love you. Through hardship and happiness, through sickness and health, no matter where we travel or what decisions we face, I promise to respect and cherish you, always. I know our lives will not always be easy–” his voice begins to falter with emotion, but he takes another breath to steady it, continuing, “But I know that loving you is, and I promise to love you for as long as I live.” 

He pauses, and lets go of one of her hands then, reaching the other down to Jack, who steps forward and takes it. Jess hears – and feels – the tender reaction rippling through the assembled guests as Aaron continues. 

“Jack, as our family grows and changes from today, I promise that I will always care for you, support you, and guide you, as best I can. I promise, as we welcome my new partner and your new parent, that I will listen to you, learn from you, and watch you grow. I will not be perfect, I never have been, but I promise, my son, that I will never stop trying.” 

Jack stretches up on his tip-toes, and Jess hears him whisper to Aaron: “Good job, Daddy.” She can’t help but grin as she turns to Y/N and nods. 

“And now the bride.” 

Y/N reaches for Jack right away, eyes shining with emotion through her smile, and Jess sees her squeeze both Hotchners’ hands for strength before she looks at her husband-to-be. 

“Aaron, I promise to love you – even though you’re being really unfair by making me follow that beautiful vow –” that gets a laugh from the crowd and Aaron as well, “Whether we’re together or apart, whether we are young or old, no matter what, I will love you. Through disagreements big and small, through mistakes and accidents, through all the wide unknowns facing us, I promise to be there with you, every step of the way– with patience, empathy, and support. You are my person, Aaron Hotchner, my partner, my best friend, and my greatest ally. I love you like I’ve never loved anything before, and I promise to love and honor you for as long as I may live.” 

Now it’s her time to take a steadying breath, holding his tender, almost tearful gaze for a moment before she lets go of Aaron entirely, crouching down to take both of Jack’s hands and meet him eye-to-eye. 

“Jack, my sweetpea, I promise to do my best. I will never replace the mother you lost, but promise to try every day to be a good parent. I know it won’t be easy, but you’re my favorite hide-and-seek partner, the best sous-chef around, and the most delightful playmate. I know, even if it’s difficult and confusing and filled with mistakes, it will also be so much fun. I will always be here for you, to cheer you on, to help you up when you fall down, and to love you, no matter what.” 

A lump of raw emotion rises in Jessica’s throat as Jack pulls his hands from Y/N’s grasp and wraps his arms around her neck. She winds her arms around his back and holds him tight, eyes closed for a moment. As her sweet little boy pulls away again, Jessica inhales deeply and clears her throat in order to say: “And now Jack.” 

As Y/N stands once more, Jack looks up, wide-eyed at his father. Aaron, now crying silently, takes his son’s hand again, and demonstrates another deep breath. Jack reaches for Y/N again, and she holds his hand tight as Jack mirrors the rise and fall of his father’s chest. 

“You got this, kiddo.” Jess murmurs, feeling her chest fill with pride as Jack lifts his head and speaks, tentative but loud. 

“Daddy and…and Y/N, I promise to try my hardest, and to…to do my best. To, um–” he glances back at Jess. 

“Listen.” She prompts with a whisper, and a soft chuckle travels through the crowd. 

“To listen to you. And to be honest, and to ask for help when I need it. Because I love you, too. A lot.�� He gives a big, serious nod, and shuffles back with a shy look when the guests chuckle again. 

“Great job, buddy,” Hotch says, bending down to kiss him on the head. 

Jack beams then, stepping back into Jess. She plants both hands on his shoulders and squeezes again, this time with more pride and she could express with words. 

“If the couple could join hands again,” she prompts, and they do so, “Do you, Aaron Thomas Hotchner, take Y/N M/N L/N to be your wife, in the eyes of the law and those gathered here today?” 

He has eyes only for his bride as he says: “I do.” 

Jess looks at Y/N, who is equally entranced by the man in front of her. “And do you, Y/N M/N L/N, take Aaron Thomas Hotchner to be your husband, in the eyes of the law and those gathered here today?” 

“I do.” 

Jess feels the smile stretching wide and bright across her face as she declares: 

“Then it is my great honor, standing before your friends and loved ones, to pronounce you husband and wife, and thereby unite you, in love, as a family.” 

As the guests clap and cheer, Aaron kisses Y/N first, wrapping an arm around her waist as her hands cradle his face while he presses his lips to hers. Jess smiles, watching as they separate after just a moment, and Aaron reaches for Jack. He lifts him up in his arms, and Aaron and Y/N each press a kiss to one of Jack’s cheeks. Jess cannot help but feel joy swelling in her chest to hear Jack’s bright, delighted giggles. 

~

Sean Hotchner doesn’t know his brother. 

He began to realize this truth when his new sister-in-law’s letter brought him to his brother’s doorstep for the first time in years, and their ensuing conversation (or confrontation, depending on how you look at it), opened up more honesty between the brothers than had ever been shared before. 

Over the span of just a few minutes, standing there in Aaron’s office, Sean came to the sudden and baffling conclusion that he doesn’t know his brother at all. He doesn’t know Aaron as well as this odd group of friends he has found, among FBI profilers and analysts and agents. The Aaron Hotchner they toast tonight, the man he can see reflected in their words, is completely different from the idea of a person Sean carried in his mind for so long. 

Sean always thought Aaron was just a suit. A practically emotionless automaton who valued rules and laws and black and white ideals of right and wrong over the complicated emotional experiences of everyone else; an expensive, high-class, repressed emblem of the successful man; a symbol of everything Sean could never be– everything he told himself he never wanted: a government job, a retirement plan, a wife and son and a white picket fence. 

But that was only what Sean could see– the assumption based on an outward appearance, a quick impression. He didn’t actually know. Now, he’s just beginning to learn the deeper, eye-opening truths about his brother– from Aaron’s family. 

Odd as they are, mismatched and forged of friendship rather than blood, they are so clearly and deeply a family. He watches them where they sit together during the dinner reception, teasing and chatting, nudging and hugging, smiling and hugging. 

Sean half expected to be shunted off to the back, among the distant cousins or unsavory coworkers, but sits instead at the table with the newlyweds themselves, between Jack and Haley’s sister, Jessica. He’s at the family table, he supposes, though he feels like a stranger to each of them, and that feeling increases when Aaron’s real family get up to give their toasts. 

One of the bridesmaids goes first, Sean can’t remember her name, but he remembers her sparkly glasses and friendly face. She looks a little nervous, but smiles anyway as she taps the microphone and clears her throat, grabbing the attention of the guests. 

“Hi! Hi, hi, hello everyone,” she begins, “For those who don’t know me, my name is Penelope Garcia, and I work with the bride and groom at the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” 

From her table, one of the other agents – Derek, Sean remembers his name – lets out a supportive whoop. Penelope lets out a little breath of a laugh, and seems to relax a bit, smiling. 

“And I’m honored to talk a little bit about our beloved, beautiful bride over there. I’ll definitely end up talking about the groom too, but Rossi’s coming up here after me, so I’ll try not to step on his toes.”

“Damn right! These shoes were expensive!” The older agent – Dave, who hasn’t tried to hide his general disapproval of Sean so far – calls out, earning a laugh from the gathered guests. 

“Exactly. So, anyway– I wanted to find the perfect story or memory to share that would say everything I could say about this wonderful, lovely woman. But there are too many! So bear with a small collection of facts and praises and probably plenty of tangents. Okay! Here we go.” She pulls a folded piece of paper from the neckline of her dress and unfolds it with a rustle, taking a deep breath before she begins to read: “The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI is a weird place. It’s a hard job. We don’t get much sleep and we don’t have fun stories to tell at parties – unless you’re Dr. Spencer Reid and you consider stories about prolific serial killers ‘fun.’” That earns a laugh from most of the room, whom Sean can only assume are also FBI agents. “But it’s the best job I’ve ever had. It’s the kind of job that deserves and demands your whole heart, and when you do it well, you know you’re actually changing the world for the better. It takes some pretty special people to do that kind of work, and I’m proud to say I work with the best of the best. Two years ago, I thought our team was the best it could ever be: the six most talented profilers in the world– and me, their genius overlord. But then, one day, things got even better. Because Y/N joined our team, and became a part of our family.” 

Penelope’s voice starts to wobble a little with emotion, and Sean glances at the newlyweds across the table. Aaron has Y/N’s hand held tight in his as they both watch  their friend with expressions of tender affection. Penelope takes another breath, recovering. 

“She’s really good at her job, of course, and she turned our frazzled unit into a well-oiled machine, but she also brought laughter and kindness and beauty. She really listens when you talk, she always remembers the little nonsense you share in small talk, and she’s able to balance her empathy and her rationality in a way that seems effortless, but I know takes an incredible level of skill. She is warm and welcoming and wonderful, and her presence has left us all lighter and brighter. Especially Hotch. And if I didn’t know him so well, or love him so much, I wouldn’t understand how he – or any man, for that matter, could deserve her. I’m heinously jealous, actually, because– look at her!” Penelope gestures to Y/N emphatically. 

Y/N laughs, shaking her head, but Aaron looks distinctly smug, leaning back in his chair a bit. 

“She is attentive and caring and somehow figured out how to throw the perfect celebration for a man who hates attention and his own birthday. She is a world-class baker and a playful parental partner. And she’s even more accomplished and accredited in her work than her new husband.” 

Sean’s eyes widen, not so much at the revelation, but at his brother’s reaction. Because career-driven, success-oriented Aaron Hotchner doesn’t look upset, jealous, or strained. Instead, he looks incredibly proud as he lifts his wife’s hand clasped in his own, as if celebrating her victory. 

“That’s right. She is Bureau-certified awesomeness.” Penelope continues, grinning at the small outbreak of applause. “And, I suppose, Hotch has proven himself worthy, with his adoration, respect, and generally making it clear he would move heaven and earth or part the seas to get her a cup of coffee. For a long time, it’s been clear that these are two people, two souls, who are meant to be together. And– sorry.” 

She pauses again, fanning herself as she tears up, “How did you guys get through those vows earlier? Okay, Penny, don’t cry. Not yet. Okay okay okay– so, I was honored to witness the beginnings of a love story for the history books and the big screen. There was misunderstanding, dancing, peril and rescue, confession, vulnerability, trust, and laughter. Their story has been, after the struggles of sorrow and separation, one of long-deserved love. It will be a story of joy and discovery and support. It will be a special story, and one which I could hear over and over and still cry every time because I have never known two people more perfect for each other–” she furiously wipes away the tears that are now falling, lowering the paper to look at Y/N and Aaron as she says: “And I love you both endlessly. I know you will have it, but I wish you health, happiness, and a long, wonderful partnership anyway. Okay–” she laughs sheepishly, still crying, “To Y/N and Aaron!” 

The wedding party echoes the toast, lifting their glasses for a drink. As Sean lowers his glass of champagne, he watches Y/N stand and throws her arms open, embracing her bridesmaid as Penelope rushes over, heels clacking against the floor. They rock from side to side for a moment before pulling back, and Sean watches with a measure of surprise as Penelope throws her arms around Aaron’s neck and he bends down happily to accommodate the hug, wrapping his arms around her middle. He even kisses her cheek as he pulls away. Sean feels a strange tightness in his chest, not quite jealousy, but a certain level of longing, as Penelope takes both their hands and squeezes before returning to her seat and a supportive embrace from Derek. 

Sean turns back to see Dave stepping up to the microphone next, holding his tumbler of scotch in one hand and the mic in the other, dislodging it from the stand. 

“And now, to follow that touching tribute, I’m here to present: the roast of Aaron Hotchner.” The guests laugh, and Sean hears Derek whoop again, but Dave shakes his head and smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Mostly. But I am here to talk about that handsome man over there. As Penelope mentioned, I’m David Rossi, and I have the honor of being able to say I have known Aaron Hotchner for nearly twenty years. That’s right, I’ve known him since cell phones were as big as your head and my hair was naturally this color. He looked exactly the same back then, by the way, even down to that signature scowl.” 

Sean, like most of the other guests, glances at Aaron to see him purposefully keeping an unreadable, intimidating expression on his face. He only breaks when Y/N starts laughing, turning to her with a smile and leaning in for a quick kiss. 

“But the Aaron Hotchner you see today is a different man than the one I met two decades ago. Back then, he was new to the Bureau, a field agent out of Seattle assigned to the case I’d come in to consult on, but already a force to be reckoned with. Naturally, I recruited him to the BAU, thinking I had it made with an easy future of using his skills to boost the reputation of my little experimental profiling team. Of course, within a decade he was already my boss. Twerp.” Dave shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink, letting the chuckles pass. 

“Anyway, he was a machine– a career G-man, a model agent, yada yada yada. But the job always seemed to take more than it gave. I watched, for years, as he put his heart, body, and soul on the line for the sake of helping people, of seeking justice, and making the world safer. And I watched as he got hit, over and over, loss after loss, without rhyme or reason, I saw the most dedicated public servant and my closest friend go through the emotional ringer. I would have told him to quit if he weren’t so damn good at the job– if I didn’t think we’re all better off with him behind the wheel than sitting in the back seat. And now, I thank god I kept my mouth shut because finally, the job held up its side of the bargain in the form of a smart, beautiful, and completely lovely administrative liaison.” 

A funny, sly sort of smile spreads across Dave’s face as he looks at Aaron, and Sean watches with intrigue as his brother tilts his head back and sighs as though he knows what’s coming and isn’t looking forward to it. 

“Now, considering what an absolute fanatic he is now, it may surprise some of you to know that Aaron didn’t like Y/N very much when they first met. He was skeptical of adding a new team member, and, I think, a little afraid of what might happen if he opened up to such a smart, beautiful woman. But inevitably, with a little nudging from yours truly, he realized how wonderful she is. And it was all downhill from there. Honestly, with how hard and fast he fell in love with this woman, it was more like a sheer cliff than a hill.” That earns another round of murmured laughter. “All of a sudden, I was looking at a different man from the Aaron Hotchner that I met twenty years ago. Still sharp, still committed, but smiling now as well as scowling. There was a lightness to him, a hope and a sense of calm that– if it had ever been there before, had been lost in the grief of the last few years. With this love that he found, that she has helped cultivate, I’ve seen him realize he doesn’t have to carry the weight of everything on his shoulders. I’ve seen him understand the truth that we all already knew– he deserves to be happy. And I’ve never seen him happier than he is today.” 

Dave pauses to clear his throat, nowhere near the level of emotion Penelope displayed, but Sean can see the sentiment in the older man’s gaze. “So, I am here to thank Y/N for making my best friend smile, and to wish you both all the happiness you deserve for the years to come. Please, once again raise your glasses to Aaron and Y/N!” 

Sean, along with the other guests, lifts his glass and echoes the toast. Once again, Y/N and Aaron stand as Dave makes his way back to the tables. He reaches Y/N first, who clasps her hands on his arms and exchanges a kiss on each cheek before Aaron hauls him into a hug, wrapping his arms around the shorter man in a solid embrace. 

It’s a brotherly embrace, and Sean feels a pang in his chest as he watches it– the love and support communicated through the gesture. He finds that the feeling, the ache, is one of envy. Despite the years of resentment, despite his anger, despite the silence and distance, he wishes he could give a speech tonight. He wishes he knew enough about his brother, this loving and loved man, to be able to celebrate him as he should. 

To celebrate Y/N, too, for that matter. Her letter caught him off-guard, with its strange mix of welcoming invitation and strong protectiveness– a first impression which expanded when he met her in person and experienced both her warm personality and fierce love for his brother. This weekend has only further illustrated for Sean that at least as far as the people here are concerned, he would be lucky to call her friend, and has been blessed to be able to call her sister. 

Sean watches as Aaron and Y/N make their own way to the microphone, hand-in-hand. 

“Thank you both, Penelope and Dave, for those wonderful speeches.” Aaron speaks into the microphone and then moves to stand at Y/N’s shoulder, wrapping his arm around her back while she adds: 

“We just wanted to get up and say a wider thank you to all of you for coming and celebrating with us today. It’s the happiest day of my life, and I know it wouldn’t be nearly as wonderful without all of you here to share the love and cake and in a few minutes, dancing! So thank you again, and we hope you continue to enjoy the party!”

Sean is distracted by the sight of Jack wiggling with excitement in his seat. Jack notices his uncle looking and asks: 

“Are you gonna dance, Uncle Sean?” 

He left Aaron’s first wedding before the cake had even been cut. Thinking about the expanse of time after this wedding, of returning to his lonely life in New York, Sean realizes that he may not know his family now, but that doesn’t mean it’s too late to get to know them. Today has given Sean a true sense of the love that comes with being a part of this family. They meet each other with humor, support, and understanding. He would be an idiot to walk away from all that. 

“Only if you’re dancing with me, kiddo.” 

Jack grins, and the warm satisfaction in Sean’s chest is enough to settle certainty in his heart– he’s here to stay. 

~

For years to come, the wedding of Aaron Hotchner and Y/N L/N will be remembered by each of the guests as a wonderful night— one of the best. The DJ gets the first song, Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out,” playing, and – unsurprisingly – the BAU are the first people on the dance floor. 

JJ loves dancing, she and Emily go out whenever they can on the few nights off when Will is looking after Henry. While Garcia dances all up on Morgan and he basks in the attention, JJ takes Reid’s hand and takes the lead. Reid loves dancing too, but he’s not as open or brave about it, and JJ knows that if she doesn’t push him to let loose a little tonight, he never will. He shuffles and stumbles a bit out of nerves, but JJ just laughs good-naturedly and leads on until his pinched look of concentration melts into a smile, and he finally relaxes. 

When JJ looks around, she sees a small circle of their friends forming nearby. Henry, Emily, and Will are all dancing together, she can see, and she smiles as they’re joined by Jess, Jack, and Hotch’s brother Sean.

JJ feels a soft warmth spread through her chest at the odd, but joyful mixing of relationships– brought together by their children. She feels the swell of pride in her chest to think about what a kind, understanding family they have formed. The father of her son and her partner each holding one of her son’s hands as they swing him back and forth is just another example of the love which allowed Hotch’s ex-sister-in-law to recite the most beautiful wedding ceremony JJ has ever seen. 

Despite each person’s past struggle and trauma, tonight, surrounded by a happy, loving family, there’s no denying they’re a lucky group of people– and all because they have each other. 

Emily doesn’t usually like weddings. Sure, she likes the open bar and the golden oldies dance music and getting to dress up, but the whole legal commitment and promises for as long as you both shall live routine always made her feel a combination of cynical and inadequate. Of course, most of the weddings she’s been to before were high school classmates and distant cousins and she always went without a date (better than trying to explain her “female friend” to Uncle Ron), and were filled with those god-awful wooden signs and heteronormative bullshit. Basically, she always leaves early or drunk, or both. 

This time, though, is different. From the beginning of the weekend, everyone and everything has felt calm and welcoming. The day is about Hotch and Y/N, sure, but they’ve never once made her feel like she’s had to act like anyone other than herself. No unflattering bridesmaid attire, no need to hide her relationship from homophobic extended family, no cliched or blatantly unrealistic promises of happiness and ease for all eternity. 

And, as she does the Macarena with Henry and Will, watching Jack do the steps with his aunt and uncle nearby, she thinks about how lovely the ceremony was today– the warmth and glow of watching a family be united, rather than a woman promised to a man like a piece of property. If all weddings were like that, she might consider it for herself someday…

But she knows, deep down, as she switches direction for the next set of dance moves and sees Y/N and Hotch talking to one of Y/N’s old coworkers from CID, with Hotch’s arm around her back and her leaning comfortably into his side, that there was something about today that could never be recreated for herself or anyone else. That, as much as she could never admit to believing it out loud, she’s looking at two people meant to be committed to one another, meant to be connected in law and love and life. 

Penelope always loves weddings. Or, more accurately, Penelope loves love. In her mind, there’s pretty much nothing that compares to the beautiful, overpowering feeling of love. For family, for friends, for partners, for lovers, for all of the above wrapped up into one day. 

Love is in the air today, warm and sweet and breezy, uplifting everyone who stands in its wake. She’s been overwhelmed by it at times, letting out her excess of adoration through periodic bouts of crying. Happy-crying, but tears nonetheless. 

She cried when she saw Y/N and Hotch walk down the aisle together. She cried again when Hotch started crying and kept crying until the ceremony was over. She cried at dinner when she saw Jack kneel on his chair to kiss Y/N on the cheek, and she cried again during her speech. And then one more time during Rossi’s speech, too. 

Luckily, her big strong Morgan bear has been with her all day, hugging her when he can and making sure she stays hydrated through all the loss of fluids. She’s managed not to cry on the dance floor so far, distracted by how drop-dead gorgeous her hunka chunka looks in his subtly patterned black velvet suit, getting even more sexy after he got rid of his bowtie and popped the first two buttons. She grins and giggles as she busts out all her best moves – the sprinkler, the chicken, the dougie, and the fainting duck – while he dances like he should be starring in the next Step Up movie. 

He twirls her once, and she shrieks in excitement to see the bride finally leading the groom to the dance floor after what seemed like an eternity of greeting and chatting with other guests. The couple join their son and his dance circle as the Beatles’ “Twist and Shout” gets started. Penelope snatches Derek’s hand and holds tight as Jack rushes to take each of his parents by the hand, pulling them in and doing exactly as the song says. They all look so happy, Penelope feels as though her heart might burst. 

Morgan chuckles sympathetically as Penelope turns back to him, already crying again. He pulls her into his chest as hers swells with emotion– yearning and affection and happiness and heartache all at once. 

Penelope forces herself to take a deep steadying breath, pulling back and looking at him with what she hopes is more determination than insanity before clamping her hand around his again, and weaving through the middle of the dance floor to where her family awaits. 

Derek reaches out to clasp Hotch’s hand, bumping his shoulder into the groom’s and clapping him on the shoulder in congratulations as Y/N is distracted by Penelope pulling her into a little one-on-one dance. 

Hotch smiles wide and bright, and Morgan shakes his head and grins at this man who is so different from the scowling suit he met over a decade ago. 

Derek doesn’t know what it is to have a brother, but he imagines that Hotch is as close as he will ever get. His relationship with Hotch is different from his friendship with Reid. He and Reid cooperate and collaborate easily. Reid is Derek’s best friend, no question. 

Hotch is too much like Derek to be his friend. They’ve been through too much, seen too much of the same hurt, grown into leaders and fighters in too much the same way to get along perfectly. They understand each other, in a way that is beyond words, and it’s why they clash, they argue, they compete. But at the end of the day, they respect one another— and they care. 

Derek is happy to see Hotch happy. Not to the point of tears, like Penelope is, but he’s happy all the same. Because Y/N is happy too. And from day one, he knew she was like a sister to him. Strong-willed and smart, like the women he grew up with, the sisters who raised him, Derek knew he trusted her, and would do anything to make sure she had a smile on her face. 

He sees her smiling now, shining with joy, as she breaks away from Penelope to hug him. Derek congratulates her too, wrapping his arms around her for a moment before letting go. He feels the calm warmth of happiness settled in his stomach as he watches her return to the arms of the only other man Derek can trust to ensure her health and happiness. 

Spencer just wants to get back to his friends. He can see them all, dancing together now, just a few feet away. He lost JJ two songs ago, after a pretty young woman— one of Y/N’s cousins, he thinks — asked to cut in and he couldn’t figure out how to move his mouth to say anything at all, so settled for a nervous nod instead. She’s nice, and they’ve been talking a bit as they’ve danced. She’s a PhD student at Georgetown, studying microbiology, and she likes reading sci-fi dime novels in her free time. 

Any other night, Spencer might have felt lucky, or been scrambling not to mess this up, but tonight as her hands settle on his shoulders and presses closer, he ducks out from under her arms and shuffles a few steps back. He stutters out a vague apology about the song and something about having a bad elbow and then squeezes past a few agents he recognizes from the tenth floor at Quantico. 

He smiles, exhaling in relief as Y/N is the first to see him and mimes throwing a fishing line at him and reeling him in. He does a sort of shuffle-hop, his smile widening to a grin as Garcia cheers his arrival and JJ gives him a high-five (presumably for dancing with the pretty woman from before). 

To his surprise, Hotch hugs him, and if he didn’t know better he’d think Hotch was drunk except Spencer has long-since made a habit of noting how much each of this friends have had to drink at any given social function and Hotch has only had one flute of champagne at dinner. No, the shine in his eyes and the warmth of his affection stems from pure joy, and Reid cannot help but feel a wide smile spreading across his own face in response. 

He congratulates his friend and mentor, feeling more satisfaction from the clap of Hotch’s hand on his shoulder and the sisterly brush of Y/N’s lips on his cheek than he ever could from a pretty girl asking him to dance. With them, basking in the glow of their happiness, is more than enough for him. 

Dave wasn’t planning on dancing tonight. It makes him feel old, trying not to look stiff and out of place on the dance floor with his younger friends. He’s sure he looks much cooler sticking to the sidelines, observing the amusing variations of skills and styles with his glass of scotch in hand, rather than mixing in and embarrassing himself. 

At least during all these fast songs Hotch and Y/N put on their playlist. And even if they did play something slow, it would take quite the woman to get him to attempt a slow dance— he’s well past his prom king years. 

But then the bride herself is coming off the dance floor and heading straight to him, a little out of breath and smiling wide, and he knows he won’t be able to refuse. 

He teases her about losing her shadow, nodding to the groom whose eyes have not left her as long as she’s wandered away from him, but she just laughs and grabs Dave by the hand. It takes one look, just pleading enough, and he sighs, letting her drag him to the rest of their rag-tag little dancing team. 

She must be able to sense his discomfort — she really would make a good profiler — because she humors him by keeping hold of one of his hands and putting the other on his shoulder, letting him stay in his old fashioned comfort zone. 

He leads her through a few swing steps, relaxing with every sound of her laugh and sheer, unashamed fun of the group around them. He pulls her close enough to kiss the side of her head and tell her how beautiful she looks, and how proud of her he feels. As he spins her out and back, he feels a pang of sentiment in his chest, having forgotten, for just an instant, that she’s not actually his family. 

Except she is. Aaron is, she is, they all are, in every way that counts. 

~

The room feels much bigger now, even with all the tables and the lights set low, with just you and your husband left on the dance floor. The guests have all left, returning to their rooms or their cars, after one final cheer and plenty of hugs and kisses and last congratulations. Even the DJ has gone, having stepped out after pressing play on one last song. 

As the slow, romantic melody of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” begins, you and Aaron draw close, your hands on his shoulders and his on your waist, slowly stepping and swaying to the music. You don’t speak, you don’t have to, not when the song expresses everything you could say in this moment. Instead you rest your head on his chest and he tilts his head so his cheek rests against your temple. 

You can hear the steady thump of his heart, and you can feel the comforting warmth of his body, tucked close to this man you love with your entire heart and soul, who has promised his love to you for as long as that steady beat goes on. 

It’s a profound feeling, and it’s one of certainty. He is yours, and you are his. You were bound together long before this day but have finally declared it in official, wonderful, lasting terms. 

You couldn’t help falling in love, and you know you will never stop. It is your fate, in whatever form it may take, you will love him. And it is a fate you are more than happy to accept. 

As the song fades to an end, he lifts his head and you lift yours, watching softly as he reaches for your left hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the edge of your palm where your new wedding band sits. You repeat his gesture, curling your fingers around his larger, rougher palm, kissing the back of his hand, below the knuckle, where he now wears his ring. 

Then, in the same moment, as if of one mind, you lean up as he leans down and press your lips together in a sweet, lingering kiss. In that moment, even the empty room fades away, and it’s just the two of you— husband and wife.

@howabouticallyou @infinite-tides  @rexit-mo @unusual-beans @ahouseforhermitcrab @myescapefromthislife @angelmather1 @myriaos @tvdstelenaforever @wilbur-rabbit @realdirectionx @sylum @skyler666 @abschaffer2 @silverfoxlover58 @greg-montgomery @dracosluvbot @broadwayismydrug @wheelsupkels @jori21 @rachelccollier @hearteyesmotherclucker @chicken-fifi @moonknighttsblog @waywardgoddess666 @iammirrorball @disaster-in-waiting @itsmytimetoodream @thelostallycat @i-bitch-you-bitch @notanordinaryprincess95 @yeehawbitchs @apocalypticseagull @thornfield-blog @ceruleanrainblues @callmecasey81 @mrs-ssa-hotch @nd264 @raely-study @peachysnips

Hotch: @twdeadlysins @evans-dejong @aleck-cross @ssa-dragon @ellyhotchner @mac99martin @kotaevln @tessinatoren @stiles-argent24 @bat-luna-cat @averyhotchner @gothicxbarbie @eternal-silvertongued-prince @jodiereedus22 @ssahotchnerxx @rousethemouse @ssamorganhotchner @art-and-thoughts @instantnoooodles @malindacath @anlin2058 @liquormoneysex @lilianahotchner007 @oklahomapeach @nerdcc-1701 @singhfae @brxghtlelune

Forever: @crossbowking @theunofficialduke @honeylemonwithrose @dark-night-sky-99 @hopplessdreamer @rachelxwayne @all-will-be-well-love @mad-girl-without-a-box  @lokis-omnistrose​ @caelys @phoenixblack89 @wanniiieeee @wee-little-book @luckyladycreator2​ @paintlavillered​

#as it seems #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch x you #hotch fanfiction #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #cm #cm fanfiction #reader insert #Thomas Gibson #thomas gibson fanfiction #ladylibby

[ladylibby]

As it Seems - Thirty-Five

Masterlist |  As it Seems Masterlist | The Hotch Playlist

Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…

Chapter Summary: The BAU family packs up and heads out for the weekend to celebrate your and Hotch’s wedding. 

(A/N: Hello hello hello! I am so sorry it’s been so long. I promise I’ve not been off twiddling my thumbs-- I’ve been off living more life than I ever dreamed I would. Since my last update I’ve won a scriptwriting award at my uni, aced all my essays, traveled across four countries, and lost my virginity to a super hot and super sweet British boy 😅. I have missed this story the whole time, and I’m beyond excited to finally share the long awaited wedding with you-- split into three chapters. The second installment should be out in a week or so. No promises this time though, since I’m not yet back home in the U.S. I’m typing this author’s note from a beautiful little flat in Edinburgh. Anyway! Read, enjoy, comment, send me chats! I missed you all very much <3)

Hotch has never been too proud to admit he’s a workaholic. The BAU has always been more than just a job, it’s a calling, a mission. He’s found friends, fulfillment, and even family through his work. Once, he might have said it was his life. Now, it’s a part of his life. A priority, to be sure, but third in line behind his son and his marriage. 

Which is why, on the Friday before his wedding, he’s counting down the seconds until it’s time to leave the office. He’s been working, yes, but always with one eye on the clock as he finalized all his recent case paperwork, clearing out his inbox, and setting an “out of office” automatic reply for any new messages coming in over the next week. He met with Prentiss in the morning, prepping her for taking point on any cases that might come up while he and Y/N are on their honeymoon. 

They’ll be leaving from the wedding venue for the airport on Sunday, and packed all their luggage the night before. He can picture her suitcase sitting next to his in the trunk of his car, ready to go. 

When he married Haley, they didn’t have enough money for a honeymoon. Her father was willing to pay for the wedding, but the honeymoon was up to them, and they decided it would be better to save up for a vacation later. They’d gone on a handful of trips over the years, but they didn’t feel the same, all those years settled into the marriage.

He’s excited to show Y/N around Seattle for a day and then spend a week, just the two of them, in a little island cottage. He’s excited to start the next phase of their life together, to add to their growing gallery of shared memories and experiences. He’s also looking forward to the wedding. 

It’s not that he wasn’t excited for his wedding the first time around, just that he was most exhilarated to be marrying Haley. The wedding itself felt incidental, especially because he wasn’t allowed to give much of his own input into the planning. Haley and her mother had everything organized to the tiniest detail, and at the time he didn’t really mind– as long as he got to marry Haley at the end of the day, he was happy. 

This time, though, he’s been an equal partner in the planning process. He and Y/N chose the venue, the guest list, the menu, the invitation style, the flowers, the itinerary, the music, all together. Of course, they wrote their vows separately as a surprise for the other, and she’s promised she and Jack have one more surprise planned for him (but won’t give any more hints than that). Having worked up to this weekend, to this day, planning everything for the last few months, he can’t wait to finally experience it all. 

And, even if it all goes wrong, as long as he gets to marry her at the end of the day, he’ll be happy. 

So at five o’clock, he shuts down his computer, clears his desk, and grabs his briefcase. After locking his office door, he pauses on the raised walkway for a moment to look out at the bullpen. 

JJ and Emily are already heading for the door, JJ looking back to give him a wave goodbye which he returns before they disappear into the corridor beyond the BAU. Rossi walks out of his office to Hotch’s right, shrugging his jacket on. 

“You’re still here?” Rossi asks, turning back to lock his door as well. 

“Nothing’s going to start without us.” Hotch says.

“True enough.” Rossi chuckles, standing next to him for a moment, looking out at the office as well.

Morgan takes Garcia’s garment bag, carrying it over his shoulder as they flank Reid’s desk, jostling and teasing him into finishing whatever obscure research he’s been engrossed in. He shuts off his monitor and grabs his duffel bag from next to his desk, hurriedly escaping Morgan’s attempt to rustle his hair. They walk together to the glass doors, laughing and chatting, past Y/N’s desk.

She remains oblivious to it all, leaning towards her computer, squinting with focus, as she’s done all day. Every time Hotch glanced out of his office window, she’s been working through as much paperwork as she can, planning contingencies, double-checking instructions for Anderson (who will be taking over her desk while she and Hotch are gone), and generally losing track of time. 

“Has she moved since lunch?” Rossi asks. 

“Probably not.” 

“And I thought you were bad.” Rossi reaches out to pat Hotch on the shoulder. “I’m going to head out, but you better drag her away from that desk before too long. I’m counting on that free bar for the rehearsal dinner tonight.”

Hotch huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he trails Rossi down the steps to the main office floor. Rossi heads for the door, while Hotch slows to a stop in front of Y/N’s desk. 

She doesn’t seem to notice his figure looming behind her computer, focused on proofreading a document. She scans a few lines before glancing down at her keyboard while she makes an edit. He watches, his chest warming with affection and admiration, for a moment before it looks like she’s starting over (probably triple-checking), and he loudly clears his throat. She startles slightly, blinking rapidly as her focus adjusts to something other than her computer screen. 

“Oh! Hi!” 

“Hello,” he says, “What are you working on?” 

“Oh, just this thing for Grant for next week. It’s like a cheat-sheet, kinda, for my color-coding and file organization system.” 

She trails off, her gaze wandering back to the screen before she hits the backspace and then the hyphen twice, before looking back up at him. 

“Did you need something?” 

He doesn’t bother trying to quell his smile. “I was just wondering if you could tell me the time.” 

She gives him a confused look, her glance dropping to his watch before she flips over her phone to check the homescreen. 

“Oh shit.” She looks back up at him, eyes wide. “I swear it was three o’clock half an hour ago. Okay, I’m almost done, I promise. Let me just send this email…” 

She clicks a few more times, and then types some more, her fingers flying across the keyboard with expertise before the glow of the screen disappears from her face and she pushes her chair back. Hotch grabs her bag for her, waiting while she stretches for a moment after sitting for so long. 

“Alright.” She grins, looping her arm through his as they walk towards the doors. “Let's get married.” 

~

“This place is like a movie set.” Garcia wanders ahead of Morgan, as they walk into the rehearsal dinner. 

The downstairs dining room is all soft lighting, slanted wooden ceilings, and sliding glass doors to the deck outside, opening into the cool June night. The long dinner table is set, but the food won’t be served for another few minutes, so everyone is mostly standing around talking. 

You and Hotch have the run of a big mountain lodge for the weekend, and you’re kicking it off with a small gathering of the bridal party, along with close friends and family. Jack and Henry are racing a couple of toy cars in front of the sliding glass doors leading to the wraparound porch, while Jessica and Will stand by the fireplace, keeping an eye on the boys while they chat. JJ and Emily talk with Rossi by the bar, while Reid and Hotch are mid-conversation about some recent article about hostage negotiation by the dining room table.

“Wait until you see the reception space tomorrow,” you smile, “It puts my high school Pinterest board to shame.” 

“I can’t wait!” Garcia squeals. 

“So you’re excited?” Morgan asks, but there’s a teasing lilt to his tone. “Not thinking twice about getting hitched to that nerd over there?” 

“Well, I’d rather marry Garcia, but she’s not available.” 

“What?! Why didn’t you say so?” Garcia exclaims, shoving Morgan away and hooking her arm through yours, “Let’s ditch these idiots and take over the world!” 

“Garcia, are you calling me an idiot?” 

Hotch appears at your other side with his stern poker face on, and Garcia immediately jumps away from you and practically hides behind Morgan. 

“Of course not! I would never!” 

“Except he is, about…thirty percent of the time.” You argue, turning to your fiancée with a cheeky smile. 

“Thirty?” He pretends to be taken aback. You tilt your head in a show of calculated disagreement. 

“Excuse me,” one of the lodge employees, Marcus, who’s helping coordinate your wedding, steps into the dining room and catches your eye. “Dinner is ready to be served, if your party is all here?” 

You glance around the room for a quick headcount, your heart sinking as you realize one person is still missing– Sean. As far as you know, he hasn’t checked into the lodge yet, and you haven’t gotten a phone call or a text, or even an email to say he’s running late. 

“Actually, I think we’re still waiting on one.” 

“No, we should start.” Hotch says, and you turn to look at him, finding a disappointed, but resigned expression on his face. “He could be here in an hour, or not at all.” 

You search his face. “Are you sure?”

He doesn’t talk about it, but as far as you can tell, things with Sean have been getting better. They’ve been texting– you know because Hotch handed you his phone to get your opinion on the two suit options Sean had sent him. You and Hotch both agreed he should wear blue, to match Jack. 

They aren’t exactly best friends, but you thought they were making progress. You really believed Sean would show up, that he would be there for Hotch. 

“I’m sure,” Hotch takes your hand and squeezes gently, “He could be here in an hour, or not at all.” 

“Okay,” you nod before smiling at Marcus, “Looks like we’re ready!” 

“Great!” Marcus nods, “We’ll start bringing in the food.” 

The rehearsal dinner spread comes courtesy of Jack, who got very excited at the lodge restaurant’s specialty: artisanal pizza. You and Hotch chose a few extra types (Jack would have picked ten plain cheese pizzas for the whole group), and the party seems to enjoy the non-traditional menu. 

You spend most of the meal chatting to Will, who you haven’t had much of a chance to get to know before. Both he and his accent are charming, and you enjoy hearing about his time growing up in New Orleans and his experiences in Metro PD. You can see how JJ could have loved him once, but hearing him talk about his job and Henry helps you understand more fully how he couldn’t hold a candle to Emily. 

Hotch joins your conversation from time to time, when he’s not focused on Jack, who sits on his other side. As plates are emptying and the chatter dies down, however, Hotch stands and clears his throat, getting everyone’s attention. 

“As you all know, tomorrow is a big day, but tonight you’re all here because you are our family.” His expression and tone are pleasant, but you notice his gaze flick toward the empty seat at the table. “And we wanted to take a moment to thank you all– for your support, your planning, your love, and for being here. Because we–” he looks down at you and smiles, his gaze warm and happy before he looks out at the table again, “–wouldn’t be here without you.”

“So naturally,” you stand up as well, “We’re going to test how much you love us.” 

You make eye contact with Jack and nod towards his play bag. He grins and hops down out of his chair to retrieve the stack of mini-whiteboards the two of you had co-opted from an old board game, handing one to each guest, along with a marker. 

“While our wonderful assistant comes around with the supplies, Aaron will explain the rules.” 

“We’re calling this the ‘Soon-to-be-Wed Game’ which might give an idea of the rules to those of you from a certain generation.” He begins, chuckling as Rossi lifts his glass in a toast. “Y/N will ask a series of seven questions, and you’ll write the answers on your boards one at a time. I’ll be writing the answers too, and if your answer matches mine, you get a point. The person with the most points at the end wins a prize. Jack will be keeping score.”

“What’s the prize?” Garcia asks, and you can already see her cutthroat competitive side emerging. 

Hotch smirks. “Would you be satisfied if I said it was our undying love and affection?” 

The chorus responds: “No!” 

“Well, it’s not just that.” He says, “But it is a surprise prize, so you’ll have to wait, play the game, and then find out.” 

“Ugh,” Garcia scoffs, “Fine.” 

“Alright, players!” You begin, putting on a bit of a gameshow persona as Hotch sits down and accepts his own whiteboard from Jack. “Here’s the first question: Where did Aaron and I meet?” 

It’s a clean sweep of correct answers across the room: at the BAU.

“And,” you grin, never one to turn down the opportunity to tease, “As many of you remember, when we first met Aaron didn’t like me very much. So…at what event did his feelings change (according to him)?” 

Prentiss protests this one, shaking her head in disbelief, but attempting an answer anyway, while Garcia scribbles on her own board with furious conviction. This one goes about half and half, with Jess, Garcia, Rossi, and JJ all getting it right: the FBI Awards Banquet. 

“Okay, okay, question number three: Aaron and I both proposed on our one-year anniversary, but who proposed first?” 

Another round of perfect scores for: Y/N. 

“That’s more like it. Let’s see if you can get this one: What restaurant did Aaron take me to on our first date?”

This one proves harder. Only Garcia, Reid, and Rossi get it right (with many smug smiles to accompany the allotted points): La Vie. 

“Where are we going for our honeymoon?” 

Jack, as the scorekeeper, is harsh with this one, only counting Prentiss and Reid’s answers as correct because it matches Hotch’s answer: the San Juan Islands. The near-guesses of “Pacific Northwest” or “Seattle” get thrown out, much to Garcia’s indignation. 

“Who said ‘I love you’ first?” 

The answers are written in record time on this one, with knowing smiles and teasing grins all around: Hotch. 

“You guys didn’t even have to guess on that one, did you?” You chuckle, “Okay last one before we go into tie-breakers: who wins the most at Clue?” 

Once again, only one person gets it right – to several claims at it being a trick question – with Jess writing: Jack. 

“Okay, my scorekeeper tells me we’ve got Jess, Garcia, Rossi, and Prentiss all in the bonus round. This one is speed-based, so the first to hit their buzzer gets to answer.” 

You wait until Jack has handed out four of the“that was easy” buttons you’d picked up from Staples earlier, before he comes to stand next to Hotch, leaning into his dad with an excited smile. 

“Ready, contestants?” 

“Yes!” Garcia looks ready to pounce. 

“Tomorrow will become our new anniversary, but our old anniversary will always have a special meaning, first as the day we said we loved each other for the first time, and then the day we both proposed. What date is that anniversary?” 

Prentiss throws her hands up in immediate defeat, and Jess hesitates, but Garcia and Rossi both slam their hands down on the red buttons and shout out the correct date in unison. 

You’re taken aback by their ferocity, blinking at Hotch who looks at you with raised eyebrows and amusement in his eyes. 

“It’s in my calendar.” Rossi says. 

“I wrote it in my diary!” Garcia argues, as if either of their additions makes them somehow more correct. 

“I think Y/N and Hotch should get a restraining order against you two,” Morgan jokes. 

“Well, you’re both correct, and you answered at exactly the same time…but I think the prize can be split two ways?” 

You look between Hotch and Jack for confirmation. They nod, and Jack hands you the prize. You present a little plastic trophy to Rossi and a little plastic crown to Garcia, both rewards accepted with great pride. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m never ever ever taking this off I love it so much!” Garcia exclaims, flapping her hands excitedly. 

Rossi squints at the fine print of the trophy, looking at you with one eyebrow raised. “‘World’s Greatest Grandma’?” 

“If the shoe fits…” Hotch says quietly, and you nudge his shoulder with your hip.

You shrug, smiling at Rossi. “If you don’t want it–” 

“No, no,” he holds the plastic accessory close to his chest, “I’ve been meaning to add some decorations to my office. This will do nicely.” 

Hotch curls his arm around your waist and your hand settles against his back as you share a smile. You’re about to suggest finding Marcus and telling him everyone’s ready for the dessert course when a new, but not unfamiliar, voice speaks up from the other side of the room: 

“Looks like I missed all the excitement.” 

You turn, surprise sparking in your chest, to see Sean standing in the doorway. He’s wearing the same leather jacket and backpack as the day you met him, but has a garment bag slung casually over his shoulder. You wonder absently whether there’s ever a moment when he doesn’t look like he just walked out of a Hollister ad. 

“Uncle Sean!” Jack is the first to react, barrelling across the room and straight into his uncle. 

Sean lets out a small ‘oof’ at the impact, but reaches his free hand down to pat Jack on the back. 

“What’s up, little man?”

Hotch stands, and you follow as he walks over to Sean, the two of you inadvertently addressing Sean at the same time:

“You made it!” 

“You’re late.” 

Sean smiles, looking sheepish, reaching up to run his hand through his hair and Jack backs up to stand in front of you leaning his head back against your tummy as you wait for Sean’s explanation. 

“I got saddled with a double at the restaurant when one of my guys decided to quit this morning. Missed the train and had to catch a later one, and then my cell died on the bus from the train station.” He talks mostly to you, only glancing sparingly at Hotch’s unreadable expression. “I know I probably sound like the boy who cried wolf, but I swear–” 

Sean falters to a stop as Hotch reaches out and settles a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m glad you’re here.” Hotch says. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Yeah,” Sean says, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh of relief. “You too.” 

“Have you eaten?” You ask, “They haven’t cleared the dinner spread yet, and dessert should be coming soon.” 

“I should probably take this stuff to my room.” He says, lifting the garment bag. 

“I’ll take care of it.” Hotch holds out his hand, flexing his fingers when Sean hesitates, “You’ve had a long day. Sit and eat.” 

“Yeah, come have some pizza!” Jack encourages, “It’s really really good.” 

“Well,” Sean gives in, “I can’t say no to really really good pizza.” 

He gives Hotch his suit and you take his backpack, watching as Jack takes Sean by the hand and drags him over to the table, authoritatively listing all the different toppings and types Sean could try. You look back at Hotch to find him watching them still, his jaw set and his eyes soft. 

“I’ll take the stuff up to his room.” You offer, gesturing for Hotch to hand you the suit. “You should be with your brother.” 

He looks at you, and you can tell he considers arguing for a moment, asking if you’re sure, or some other form of hesitation. Instead, he hands over the garment bag and leans in to kiss your forehead and says softly:

“Thank you.”

~

On the morning of the wedding, Hotch wakes up early. 

The curtains in their private cabin beyond the mountain lodge are drawn, the blue-gray light of the pre-dawn hours peeking through the edges. He stares up at the ceiling, just making out the vaulted wooden beams in the half-darkness. He traces the lines with his gaze, and listens to the soft cycle of his fiancée’s breathing. 

In a matter of hours, she will be his wife. That thought has joyful anticipation expanding in his chest, and he lets out a long exhale, feeling the excitement settle throughout his body. 

She stirs, inhaling deeply as she rolls over and drapes her arm over his chest, resting her cheek against his shoulder with a sigh. Instinctively, he shifts to accommodate her, moving to wrap his arm around her waist and hold her against his side. 

“I was dreaming,” she says, her voice soft and sleepy, “That we got married.” 

He hums, fighting a smile as he turns his head to kiss the top of her head, speaking into her hair. “And how was it?” 

“Good,” she sighs again, “I couldn’t really see where we were. Everything around us was sort of…blurry. But I could see you. And you held my hands and kissed me, and no one said anything, but when I woke up,” She pulls back enough to tilt her face up towards him, and he can just make out the contours of her face, and the waking gleam in her eye. “I knew we were married.” 

“That sounds lovely.” He leans in and kisses her. 

She smiles, breaking the kiss long enough to say, “Yeah, I think I’d like to do it again,” before pressing her lips to his once more.

“We can arrange that.” 

They lie there together a while longer, not really talking, just holding each other, basking in the warmth and quiet of the happiness still to come. Until eventually, as the birdsong begins outside and the light shifts from blue-gray to white-gold, they rise and open the curtains, and then walk down to the lake. Jessica is there with Jack, since the morning swim was promised on Jack’s request, and JJ and Morgan and Reid, but everyone else remains asleep up at the lodge. 

The trees have all been cleared by the little beach and the sunlight, shining clear and unblocked by any clouds, helps warm the air a bit. Y/N, tossing aside Hotch’s old law school sweatshirt she’d been wearing to cover her swimsuit before walking into the lake, squeals at the cold of the early June water. Still she rushes forward and then dives, completely submerging herself before coming back up with an exhilarated gasp. 

Hotch watches her with a kind of quiet awe, feeling love and appreciation and unbelievable gratitude that he lives in a world where he could possibly deserve her. He lets the feeling settle into the background of his mind, however, in order to take one of Jack’s hands while Morgan takes the other, and together they heave and ho and then toss the boy headlong into the water. Jack comes back up splashing and laughing and grabs Hotch’s hand again, dragging his father in with him. 

Hotch grits his teeth against the shock of the cold, feeling his nerves come alive. He swims towards Y/N, who catches Jack as he comes flying out of the water, leaving a sparkling stream of water in the air for an instant. She wraps her arms tight around him and grins, telling him to hold his breath, before she dunks them both. Hotch reaches them as they come back up, shaking the water from their eyes and laughing. Jack pushes away to try some underwater somersaults, and Hotch happily takes his place, wrapping his arms around Y/N. 

Her arms come to rest on his shoulders, her hands clasped behind his head as she presses closer. “You’re still so warm.” 

“Personal space heater, at your service.” He says, leaning down for a kiss. 

She kisses back, just a bit, before they’re being splashed from three different sides by the other adults finally braving the water. 

“Save it for the ceremony, you two!” Jessica teases, and then turns away and holds up her hands as Y/N splashes back. 

As invigorating as the water is, Hotch doesn’t stay in the lake for much longer. He and Jessica are the first to get out – feeling very cold and a little bit old – while Morgan and JJ race across the width of the lake and back, and Y/N teaches Jack how to do an underwater handstand. Soon enough, though, everyone is happy to dash for their big fluffy towels and hurry inside for a hot shower. 

Hotch and Y/N return to their cabin and fill the clawfoot tub in the bathroom with steaming water. Hotch gets in first, and Y/N follows, settling with her back to his chest. He runs a sudsy cloth over her shoulders and back, and she does the same to his arms, before they take turns massaging shampoo into each other’s hair, filling the bath with swirling currents of soap and suds. 

On any other day, Hotch would wish they could stay that way for hours, wrapped up in the soft care they hold for one another. But today, something even better awaits them. 

As the water turns tepid and her stomach begins to growl, he helps her out of the tub and lets the water drain as they dry themselves off. They get dressed again, this time in a white blouse and linen trousers for her and a black polo and jeans for him, before they walk hand-in-hand up to the lodge.

The dinner spread from the night before has been replaced by a brunch buffet for the bridal party. Will and Henry, Reid, JJ, Prentiss, and Morgan are all already there when Hotch and Y/N arrive. Jack and Jessica arrive while Hotch is filling a plate with fresh fruit and pastries for Y/N, which Jack gallantly delivers before coming back to request his own spread of exclusively chocolate croissants. Hotch manages to sneak in a few strawberries before Jack is off to go sit with Henry, and then makes a plate for himself with a slice of quiche lorraine and a cup of coffee. 

Y/N is talking to Garcia, who arrived not too long ago, just after Rossi. Hotch sits down at the table next to her, content to listen to the always-comforting tones of her voice.

“Big day,” a plate drops onto the table on Hotch’s other side, and Sean takes a seat. “How are you feeling, big brother?” 

Hotch’s reflex is to deflect, to create distance. Don’t say too much, don’t engage too much. Protect himself from the potential pain of vulnerability with his brother. But then Y/N’s leg shifts under the table, her thigh pressing gentle and warm against his, and Hotch remembers that this is different. The way things used to be do not dictate the way things are now.

“I’m happy. Happier than I think I’ve ever been.” 

It’s a simple truth, but a profound one nonetheless. He is happy, but not in a giddy, manic, fleeting way. He’s happy in his bones, feeling a deep-set contentment that is new but not foreign, unprecedented but welcomed all the same. 

“You look happy.” Sean says, and then huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, “For a while there, I didn’t think you ever would.” 

“Neither did I.” 

He didn’t. He knew he could feel moments of happiness, fleeting instances, with Haley, with Jack, with his job and with his team, but he never thought he would feel the kind of happiness that’s powerful enough to shine through the hardened exterior of his scars and scowls– the kind he feels with her. 

Sean nods, and then looks around, clearly wanting to turn the subject away from the tragedies which have plagued both their lives. “It’s a nice place. Cozy. How’d you find it?” 

“My best man has been married three times.” Hotch covers the smile pulling at his lips with a sip of coffee, “He had come recommendations.” 

“Dave got married here?” 

“No, but he considered it.” Hotch nods to Rossi as he sits down across the table. “For the third wedding, wasn’t it?” 

Rossi gives a tired nod, tearing a piece of toast in half. “It was too small. You couldn’t fit half of my extended Italian family in this place.”

“How big is the guest-list for today? Is this it?” Sean asks, looking around the room. 

“Not quite.” Y/N turns to join the conversation. “This is the close friends and family half. We have a few more friends and colleagues driving in for the ceremony and reception.” 

“But only the special people get to stay in the hotel.” Garcia winks. “Welcome to the Illuminati, bud.”

“What’s the Illuminati?” Jack asks, popping up behind Sean’s chair. 

Hotch looks to Y/N, but she shrugs like she expects him to explain, and then they both watch with a mix of relief and trepidation as Garcia tries to define a conspiracy theory for a six-year-old. 

The chatter and the coffee flow for a while longer, before Y/N grabs Hotch’s wrist to check his watch, and then declares it’s time to get ready. 

From the beginning, Hotch and Y/N agreed they wanted a relaxed wedding. Not unplanned, but not adhering to tradition for tradition’s sake. They wanted a day where everyone can have a good time, where they can simply enjoy the celebration of their love and commitment– not only as a couple, but as a family. 

They didn’t set a seating plan, or pick a color scheme, or fuss over what shape the napkins would be folded into. And they refused to follow the separation tradition. The idea that the bride and groom shouldn’t see each other before walking down the aisle made some level of sense, the reveal, the suspense, the feeling of being together until death do us part becoming sweeter by the time spent apart. 

But it never really made sense for them. 

In terms of emotional commitment, for Hotch, today is the same as any day since the beginning of their relationship. He was prepared to take her for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, for as long as he may live, from the moment he first feared he could lose her. Today just happens to be the day he can codify his commitment in the eyes of the law and his loved ones. 

To him, taking time away from her for the sake of a tradition would only lessen the meaning of the day. It would only interrupt his lingering sense of joyful contentment with impatient longing. 

When he asked her about it, requesting that they forego the separation, she agreed. “It’s tied up with antiquated ideas of sexual purity anyway,” she said, with a mischievous smile, “We’re already living in sin. May as well make the most of it.” He couldn’t help but laugh, and wonder for the umpteenth time what he ever did to deserve her. 

So they have an upstairs suite reserved to act as dressing rooms, where the bridal party migrates, make-up kits and garment bags in hand. The rest of the BAU gathers in one room, with a handful of standing partitions set up for a bit of privacy – although after years of cases and changing in police department locker rooms, there isn’t much to be shy about anymore. 

While Y/N sits in front of the mirror in that room, patiently having her hair and makeup done by the combined efforts of her bridesmaids, Hotch helps Jack get dressed in the other room. 

They’ve each got their shirts and dress pants and shoes on when Hotch kneels down to carefully do up each of the tiny buttons on his son’s shirt. Jack stands more still than Hotch expects– especially considering all the sugar he just ate at brunch. Hotch glances at his son’s expression, turned thoughtful and a bit serious. He’s at eye-level now when Hotch kneels, already growing so fast– too fast. 

“You okay, buddy?” Hotch asks, brushing his hand through Jack’s hair. 

“Uh-huh,” he nods, but won’t meet Hotch’s gaze. 

It’s a big day, for everyone, but perhaps most fraught in emotion for Jack– even if he’s trying to be brave by not admitting it. 

“Well that’s good,” Hotch says, watching him carefully, “Because I’m feeling pretty nervous.” 

Jack looks at him then, eyes wide. “Really?” 

Hotch nods, smoothing his hands over Jack’s small shoulders. “Oh yeah. Remember how there’s going to be a few times where Aunt Jessica will ask me to say my vows? I don’t want to forget any of it or say them the wrong way, but there will be a lot of people there and I’ll be feeling a lot of feelings.” 

Jack nods, looking down and sniffling a little. 

“But do you want to know what I do to feel less nervous?” 

“What?” Jack breathes, searching his father’s face. 

“I take three deep breaths.” He says, and then inhales and exhales, smiling as Jack does it too, breathing with him. “And I remember that it’s a big day, but we’re spending it with people who love us and support us. No one will make a mistake, but even if they did, no one would mind. It will be okay.” 

Jack nods again, this time with more energy. 

“Can you say that? It would help me to hear it.” 

“It’ll be okay,” Jack says, “Don’t worry, Daddy.” 

“Thank you.” Hotch kisses the top of Jack’s head. “Ready for your tie?” 

“Yeah,” Jack smiles, the sweet gleam returning to his eyes. 

Hotch helps him with the little blue and white striped clip-on bow-tie, and then has him turn around to get his arms in the sleeves of the tiny blue suit jacket. Jack has turned back around for Hotch to smooth the lapels when a soft knock sounds at the door. 

It opens a crack and Y/N’s voice carries through. “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah!” Jack dashes over and pulls open the door. 

“Oh, I love your bow-tie, Jack!” Y/N exclaims, holding her dress by its hanger with one hand and her shoes in the other. Her hair falls around her face in a familiar, but elegant way, her eyes and lips accentuated by her makeup in a way that has his chest squeezing.

“He picked it out himself.” Hotch says, getting to his feet. 

“You, sir, have excellent taste.” She smiles. 

Jack looks a little bashful. “Thanks.”

“Hey, is my man Jack in there?” Morgan pokes his head in, grinning as he spots Jack, “I could use your help out here, big guy.” 

Jack jumps at the chance, always enamored with his uncle Derek. He dashes out, and Morgan closes the door with a wink, leaving Hotch and Y/N alone. While Hotch and Y/N get dressed, the others will make their way downstairs, joining the other guests who have presumably arrived by now, and await the beginning of the ceremony. 

Y/N steps further into the room, smiling almost shyly in the soft early-afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains. 

“You look beautiful.” He says, the words pushing their way out of his chest with little heed to his thoughts.  

She smiles, glowing even brighter with confidence. “Just wait until you see me in this gorgeous dress Penelope made.” 

He raises his eyebrows and holds out his hands in an expectant gesture. She hands over the dress, which he carefully unzips and takes off the hanger while she pulls off her blouse and trousers, laying them aside.

It used to be her mother’s dress, he knows. In its original form, it was all 1980s, with a high neck and puffy sleeves and big skirt. But Garcia has transformed it, he can tell, as he helps his wife-to-be step into the creamy fabric. She turns so he can zip it up her back, and he takes his time, careful and slow, pausing to lay a soft kiss to the back of her neck before stepping away. 

As she does a little spin, he appreciates how the dress is sleeker now, lighter, with short sleeves and a deeper smoother neckline. Noticeably the same vintage fabric, with hints of the old style, but updated– passed down and made anew. The dress is beautiful, but is undeniably outshone by the radiant glow that surrounds her, dress or no dress. 

“Gorgeous.” He says, finding no other word than that, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “Although one thing is missing.” 

She watches with curiosity as he picks up a jewelry box from the bed, holding it out and opening the lid to reveal the delicate emerald necklace he’s held onto since his trip to the jewelry store with Jack, all the way back in February. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she says, tentatively tracing the gems, and then looks up at him with a soft look, “To match my engagement ring?” 

He nods, and then lifts the necklace from the box, carefully clasping it around her neck. The pendant falls perfectly at the base of her throat, dark and sparkling above the creamy neckline of her dress.  

She turns around and touches his cheek, leaning in to leave a chaste kiss to the other, careful not to leave a lipstick mark behind. 

“Thank you. It’s perfect.” 

He can’t resist a kiss to her cheek in return. “Just like you.” 

She grins, pulling back with her hands on his shoulders, looking him up and down. “I can’t help but notice you’re missing something too.”

She steps back and reaches into the pockets of her discarded trousers, pulling out a carefully wrapped necktie. Hotch smiles, feeling warmth expanding in his chest as she moves close again, sliding the tie beneath his collar. 

“Armani?” He asks, just getting a flash of the fancy silk as she folds and loops the fabric. 

“Of course.” She scoffs playfully. “My husband deserves no less.” 

His hands settle at her hips, his fingers flexing reflexively at that word. Husband. His heart beats a tick faster, and he forces a long breath through his nose, willing himself to be patient. Soon enough, he’ll hear her call him that again. And then again and again for as long as they both shall live. 

“When did you get so good at tying ties?” He asks, smiling softly at her expression of keen concentration. 

“I’ve been practicing.” She admits, finishing the knot and pulling it tight, “Besides, I’ve gotten so good at untying them, it wasn’t too hard to figure out how to reverse the process.” She steps back and examines her work for a moment before nodding in approval. 

She turns to grab his suit jacket while Hotch shrugs on his vest and fastens the buttons. As he tucks his tie into the vest, he can’t help the smile on his face any more than he can keep his eyes off her, wonderful, beautiful, inimitable as she is. She smiles back, soft, warm, and loving, as she helps him into the jacket, coming around to stand in front of him as she smooths the lapels, letting her hand rest over his heart for a moment. 

They settle into the quiet stillness, sharing looks in the soft silence as he kneels down to slip her shoes on her feet, allowing himself a kiss to each ankle before carefully lowering the hem of her dress and standing once more.

She curls her hand around the back of his head and pulls him in for a gentle, reverent kiss. She pulls back, smiling gently as she brushes her thumb over his lips, wiping away any trace of her lipstick. He kisses the pad of her thumb before she lowers her hand to his, lacing their fingers together. 

“Okay,” she takes a breath, “Let’s get married.”

@howabouticallyou @infinite-tides​  @rexit-mo​ @unusual-beans​ @ahouseforhermitcrab​ @myescapefromthislife​ @angelmather1​ @myriaos​ @tvdstelenaforever​ @wilbur-rabbit​ @realdirectionx​ @sylum​ @skyler666​ @abschaffer2​ @silverfoxlover58 @greg-montgomery​ @dracosluvbot @broadwayismydrug​ @wheelsupkels​ @jori21​ @rachelccollier @hearteyesmotherclucker​ @chicken-fifi​ @moonknighttsblog @waywardgoddess666 @iammirrorball​ @disaster-in-waiting​ @itsmytimetoodream​ @thelostallycat​ @i-bitch-you-bitch @notanordinaryprincess95​ @yeehawbitchs​ @apocalypticseagull​ @thornfield-blog​ @ceruleanrainblues​ @callmecasey81​ @mrs-ssa-hotch​ @nd264​ @raely-study​ @peachysnips​

Hotch:  @twdeadlysins​ @evans-dejong​ @aleck-cross​ @ssa-dragon​ @ellyhotchner​ @mac99martin​ @kotaevln @tessinatoren​ @stiles-argent24​ @bat-luna-cat​ @averyhotchner​ @gothicxbarbie​ @eternal-silvertongued-prince​ @jodiereedus22​ @ssahotchnerxx​ @rousethemouse​ @ssamorganhotchner​ @art-and-thoughts​ @instantnoooodles​ @malindacath​ @anlin2058​ @liquormoneysex @lilianahotchner007​ @oklahomapeach​ @nerdcc-1701​ @singhfae​ @brxghtlelune​

Forever:  @crossbowking​ @theunofficialduke @honeylemonwithrose​ @dark-night-sky-99​ @hopplessdreamer​ @rachelxwayne​ @all-will-be-well-love​ @mad-girl-without-a-box​  @lokis-omnistrose​ @caelys​ @phoenixblack89​ @wanniiieeee​ @wee-little-book​ @luckyladycreator2​ @paintlavillered​

#as it seems #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch x you #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #cm #cm fanfiction #Thomas Gibson #thomas gibson fanfiction #reader insert #ladylibby

[ladylibby]

hiiiii i just wanted to say i love all of your cm fics & cannot wait to binge read as it seems from beginning to end 🩷🩷

i am so incredibly excited!

Hi my darling!!

This message just put a big ol’ smile on my face 🥰

Hopefully I’ll get to the end of As it Seems soon, so you won’t have to wait another year to read the whole thing 😅 but knowing myself and my over-ambitious outlines…I make no promises

Anyway I love you as always and thank you so much for the sweet message 😘

#ladylibby replies #ssamorganhotchner #as it seems #hotch x reader #cm fanfiction

[ladylibby]

okay.

sO.

if were doing. more of those little thingys

what if (at some point in the future of the fic obviously), instead of others mistaking reader for jack's biological mother, jack slips up and addresses reader as some form of mother title, and how it'd be received?

i hope to god this hasn't sent as many times as i've typed it because every time i break typing to think that app crashed god bless 🫠🫠🫠🫠

This may or may not be slight spoilers for later chapters of As It Seems, so if you don't want to know anything coming up, then ignore the rest of this post...

It doesn't happen until you and Hotch have been married for a while, and probably not seriously until after there's another Baby Hotchner in the mix.

Because Baby Hotchner calls Hotch "Da-da" and you "Ma-ma," and once they're more verbal, "Mommy and Daddy," and then "Mom and Dad" and...you get the picture.

Anyway, it was easy for Jack to accept you as parent. It was harder for him to think of you as "Mom." But once there was a little sibling around saying "Mama" and "Mommy" all the time, and he realizes that other than the whole gross giving birth thing, his relationship with you isn't all that different. Besides, it was confusing for Baby Hotchner to hear Jack call Mommy "Y/N" instead, especially when you don't treat him any different from his sibling.

And eventually, he stops thinking about you differently. In his head, it's "Dad and Mom are coming to pick me up," and "Mom is taking us to the park" and one day in a moment of distraction or on the verge of a good night's sleep, he calls you mom.

He doesn't even notice, but you go completely still and swear your heart nearly stops and you talk to Hotch about it that night, unsure of what to do.

When you decide to let it go in case it was just a fluke, it happens again, and again, and then you and Hotch bring it up gently and say that if he wants to call you mom, he can, and it doesn't have to be all the time, but you think of him as your son, and no name will change that.

He never calls you by your first name again.

#as it seems #ladylibby replies #anon #hotch x reader #hotch x you

[ladylibby]

i just binge read your hotch series while procrastinating doing my uni assignments 🫣 it’s honestly the best thing ive read in a while im obsessed!!!! could i pls be added to the taglist?

Ahhhhh I'm so glad you liked it!!! (now get those uni assignments done ;P)

The only reason there's not a new chapter rn is because I'm trying NOT to procrastinate my assignments. Once all my summatives are handed in at the end of May, I'll be back to writing what I actually want to write.

You've been added to the taglist for when that eventually happens <3

As It Seems

#ladylibby replies #peachysnips #as it seems #hotch x reader

[ladylibby]

Hey! I just finished binge reading your hotch series and although I'm not sure if you're still accepting names for your taglist, I would really love to be included. If not, its okay. I'll just follow you and turn on ny notifications. BUT EITHER WAY, I LOVE THE SERIES!!! Its one of the best fanfics I've read in my entire life. It has the right amount of feelings and angst and platonic relationships and all that jazz. I really hope you continue with your journey as a writer cuz you deserve all the love and support for your truly wonderful writing. The way you write each character's insights and feelings just satisfies me so much cuz their thoughts are so well described. Couldn't really comment on every chapter cuz I don't like spamming anyone's motifications so I'm just dumping everything all at once here hehehe I should probably stop my ask here cuz its getting too long but THANK YOU FOR YOUR WRITING I LOVE U! 🥹🫶

Ah! This was exactly what I needed to read today. Thank you so much for your kind words!

And thank you even more for reading and enjoying As It Seems. I've added you to the taglist, though I can't promise when the next chapter will be out.

I know it's been a while already, but my life continues to be the busiest it's ever been...anyway I so appreciate your time and your feedback and I hope you know you've put a big smile on my face!

#as it seems #ladylibby replies #raely-study

[ladylibby]

i know there is a time and place for horny ...

so maybe it's now because i just KNOW hotch does it better than jay i just know it and i feel like if he ever found that out (however that would work out lol) he'd take quite a bit of pride in it fr that man loves his gf so hard but i feel like somewhere in there he is still a little insecure because he really cannot fathom being appreciated the way he deserves by her so he sort of guiltily lords things like that over jay in his subconscious. like. "yeah i'm old and i'm grumpy and have significantly more baggage than him but i fuck better than he did so 😙 hah"

the time is NOW and the place is HERE (for real, this just sparked an entire drabble, I hope all you horny little freaks enjoy)

Warning: Explicit Sexual Content Ahead (below the break)

Hotch would be lying if he said he didn't wonder-- how he compares. You know where you stand, with him, in his...relatively limited experience (in terms of sexual partners). He knows Jay was a terrible romantic partner, and he knows you know, but he has to wonder: did you let Jay hang around so long because he was a good partner in other ways?

Jay is young, there's no denying, and physically fit. Hotch wonders, not without a flare of insecurity, whether you miss having a partner who could get hard right away, whose stamina could last all night, whose back doesn't start to hurt after one round. Still, you never complain, and his pride won't let him ask outright: "Am I better at sex than your shitty ex-boyfriend?"

So he's left to wonder until one night, about six months into the relationship, after a nice dinner date, when things are getting heated back at your apartment. It's one of those nights when he can tell you're feeling confident, and after three glasses of wine you start giving him that look that makes him more than willing to do absolutely anything you ask. Which is how he ended up naked despite you still having your bra and underwear on while you suck his dick.

He never asks you too. It still feels like too much, too...inconsiderate. But when you want to, dear god, do you show it. And you wanted to tonight.

And it feels so good, but he still -- he always -- wants to finish inside you, with you. So before he loses himself, he buries his fingers in your hair and tugs gently, finding his voice hoarse.

"Okay, that's good-- that's enough now," he nearly loses it at the sight of you pulling off of him, meeting his gaze with hooded eyes. "Your turn."

You hum, reaching behind your back to unhook your bra. "My turn can wait. I want you inside of me."

He tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck."

"I think I have condoms in the side table." You say, shifting to pull off your underwear.

He rolls over to reach for the drawer and pulls it open. His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he rolls back, holding the contents of the drawer: a massaging vibrator.

You turn back from tossing your bra and underwear away, your eyes going wide.

"Oh shit," you meet his half-teasing, half-questioning gaze. "I forgot that was in there, I swear."

He arches an eyebrow.

"Seriously," you insist, "I haven't used it in so long the batteries are probably dead."

You try to grab it, but he holds it out of your reach.

"When was the last time?" He asks.

"That I used it?"

He nods.

"God, I don't know," you huff, "Probably right before I broke up with Jay."

This surprises him, and he drops his arm back down. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," you laugh, taking it from him successfully and looking down at the sex toy, "I call it DG, for 'delayed gratification.'"

Hotch frowns. "As in--"

You wince. "Yeah. DG would visit after Jay went home...if you know what I mean."

He thinks he should feel vindicated, but Hotch just feels a flash of anger at the revelation.

"He never...not once?"

"I think twice? Maybe? He could get me close, but-- why are we talking about this anyway?" You shake your head, looking a little embarrassed, "Now is not the time to be talking about all the bad sex I used to have."

Hotch feels pride beginning swell, and he smirks. "Used to have?"

You roll your eyes, but he sees your gaze begin to darken again as you crawl closer and settle in his lap.

"What, do you need me to tell you you're better at sex than my ex was?"

"Of course not," Hotch says, unable to keep the smirk from rising to his face again, "But I wouldn't mind hearing it."

You sigh, but smile and hold his gaze with honesty as you say: "Aaron Hotchner, you are the best sex I've ever had."

Pride flares warm in his chest. He feels big, in every possible sense, and while he generally feels confident enough not to bother with comparisons, knowing that he, out of every man you've been with, and especially in contrast to Jay, is the best, makes him feel like he can do anything.

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Shut up." You kiss him, and roll your hips against his, getting him back to the task at hand.

Which includes grabbing your wrist as you move to put the vibrator back in the drawer.

"If the batteries still work," Hotch takes it from you, and tests the switch, smiling as the toy hums to life, "I think we could give DG a new name."

#hotch is a whore pass it along #as it seems #as it seems drabble #as it seems headcanon #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch smut #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner smut #cm #cm fanfiction #anon #ladylibby replies

[ladylibby]

#hellooooo sexy #brows doing WORK in this set #hotch #cm #ladylibby reblogs

[ladylibby]

not the "hospital (👀)" !!!! i live in fear 🤠

Noooo don’t live in fear 👀😈😌

Truth be told, though, this fear won’t be realized for a good long while yet (especially at the pace I’m writing these days)

Although I will say that in the long-term, the “hospital (👀)” will go both ways…

#as it seems #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #cm #ladylibby replies #anon

[ladylibby]

for when you next do the little thought things on As It Seems, i wondered how you would write aaron dealing with mc's health, like when she gets her period, when she's just generally under the weather (like a cold or a flu that might take her out of work for a day or two) :} i love seeing anything to do with this series tbh! the way you write cm is so comforting

This will actually be coming up in a chapter somewhat soon...

But Hotch is very mature about periods. He's an adult, and a man who practices positive masculinity, so he's not squeamish or embarrassed about it. He's also observant and detail oriented, so I think he knows what kinds of pads and tampons and other period products you prefer, and has them stocked at his apartment.

When you're sick, he gets overprotective. The man is such a hypocrite when it comes to self-care it's ridiculous. He would try to raid an unsub's apartment in the middle of a heart attack, but the minute you have the sniffles he wants you in bed with a cup of tea for the rest of the day. He'll make you tea and soup and keep close track of medicine dosages and times. He hates seeing you sick and wants you healthy as soon as possible, but I think we all know he also enjoys taking care of you and being able to show just how much you matter to him.

If it's bad enough that you have to go to the hospital (👀), god help anyone that tries to get him away from your side/out of that hospital. He will flash his badge, intimidate, and even shout at whoever he thinks he needs to if it means you'll get the care you need. He's the worst kind of doting partner in those situations, because his sense of priorities/rationality completely disappears until you're better.

As It Seems 

#as it seems #aaron hotchner x reader #as it seems headcanon #as it seems drabble #hotch x reader #hotch #cm #cm headcanon #ladylibby replies #anon