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#“It’s Morphin time!” I shout
earlgreydream · 5 months ago
| 1940s!bucky x reader | angst |
warnings: mentions of blood, violence, war, etc... general angst 
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Your feet smacked the pavement as you ran. Your muscles felt like they were burning in fire, but you kept going, terrified. Bombs crashed all around you, buildings crumbled, and the ground shook as if it were going to open up and swallow you. You almost wished it would. 
Gunshots popped and bullets whizzed past your ears. You made it to a rocky staircase, and you tried to run down when you tripped. You tumbled down the stone stairs, smacking against the ground, blood rising to the surface of your hands and knees. You swore, and before you could stand up again, the soldiers surrounded you. 
You screamed as your ankles were grabbed, and you were flipped onto your back. 
“Stop! it’s a woman!” A soldier called as your cloak was ripped from your body. You were hyperventilating, panic seizing you as you stared up at the American soldiers. The dagger sheathed in your belt was confiscated, and the men stared down at you. 
“Please!” you begged for mercy, your accent thickening in your desperation. 
“Sergeant Barnes?” The soldiers looked to their leader, the man who had yelled for them to stop attacking you. 
“We are not going to kill her!” He sounded angry.
“What if she’s a spy?”
“I’m not, I swear. My home was bombed, I was running in fear!” You cried, pleading with him for mercy. 
“We cannot leave her in the streets-”
“Of course not.” The Sergeant spoke to his soldier, wearing a uniform different than the others. You winced at a sharp pain in your side, and you looked down to see blood soaking through your dress. You began to feel lightheaded, but you were terrified to black out and be left at the mercy of the likely sex-deprived soldiers that were invading your country.
Your eyes grew heavy and you moaned in pain, gripping the wound on your side from hitting a rock in your fall down the stairs. 
“We need to get her to the medbay, come on!” 
The words echoed in your head as you were lifted by the leader, carried in his arms. You wanted to struggle and try to make a run for it, but you were far too weak and you had nowhere to go. 
“You’re safe, doll, I’m going to protect you.”
Your head dropped as you slipped into unconsciousness, limp in his arms.
Bucky stood over your unconscious body as the best medic treated your wounds. She wrapped your hands and stitched the gash on your side, and Bucky winced as he watched. 
“Will she be alright?” he asked the medic anxiously.
“Yes, she’ll be fine. I think she’s asleep from the shock.” The medic nodded, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 
She wrapped the wound on your side and left Bucky with some morphine to give you when you needed it, instructing him to monitor you. 
“Do you think she’s a spy, or a soldier?”
“No, there’s nothing that would suggest that. I think she really was just a victim-- collateral damage.” 
Bucky was alone with you, then. He sat beside his bed that you were currently sleeping on, in his private chambers, away from the men who wouldn’t be able to keep their hands to themselves with a pretty young girl unconscious. 
Your eyes opened slowly, and you looked around, disoriented. You tried to sit up, but weakly sank back against the pillows. You noticed him sitting beside you, and you looked down. You were now wearing loose pants, and an oversized t shirt-- an army green, from a soldier. 
“Did you-?!” You cried in horror. 
“No, no. The medic cleaned your wounds and changed you. She said you’re going to be fine!” Bucky assured you quickly, and you relaxed a bit. 
“Are you going to kill me? Or keep me as a prisoner of war?” You asked, turning your head to look at him. 
“No. You’re not a captive, or a war criminal.” He shook his head. He handed you a glass of water, and a piece of buttered bread and some blackberries. You accepted them with a quiet thanks, and he sat back, giving you space.
“What’s your name?”
A small smile pulled at his lips, and you gazed down at your lap.
“I’m James Buchanan Barnes.” 
You spent two weeks recovering in his quarters, while he slept on a cot, guarding you and making sure you slept and had plenty to eat and drink. He’d opened up to you in that time, telling you about growing up in Brooklyn, New York. He had been drafted into the war, not really wanting to go overseas and kill people, and hurt innocents in the process-- innocents like you. Bucky was consumed with guilt, and was growing fond of you. 
He wished that he could just leave, go back to America and take you with him.  He had learned that you weren’t any kind of enemy like others suspected. You were orphaned by the war, by your own people. Almost everyone you knew and loved had been lost in the bloodbath, and now you were alone, struggling for survival in what felt like an apocalypse. 
Bucky convinced you to get some fresh air, and go outside. You’d stayed hidden under his protection, feeling safer with him than you had in years, since the war started. 
“It will be fine.” 
You took a walk with him, holding his hand as you walked through the soft grass. You giggled as he picked a daisy, handing it to you with a smile. 
“Are you trying to impress me?” You asked, blushing as you looked into sweet grey eyes.
“Is it working?” He grinned boyishly at you, and you saw a glimpse of the real James, not the soldier. He leaned down and kissed you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. 
“I love you, Y/N” He smiled at the bright spot in the misery, the girl he began to wake up for. His gaze was filled with adoration as he looked at you, a rescue from the streets of a war-torn village.
“You’re not bringing that nazi bitch with us!” A soldier shouted, and Bucky was at his throat immediately. 
“Don’t ever speak about her that way!” Bucky yelled, pinning him to the wall by the throat, a gun pressed against his chest. 
“Stop!” You cried, trying to pull Bucky off, not wanting him to murder the soldier in front of you, and all his troops. 
“Sergeant Barnes, you cannot seriously think of bringing Y/N to the Danish border with us.” Steve, Bucky’s loyal friend asked, giving you a pathetic look.
“Shut up, of course she’s coming with us!” Bucky wrapped an arm around you, trying to calm your shaking.
“Sergeant, she’s a nazi.”
“She’s NOT!” Bucky fired off a shot, and you winced against him. The bullet sank into the wall, but you were sobbing with fear, memories of being shot at flooding your mind and taking over your ability to think. 
“Ever since she came, you’re not the leader you were. You’re not thinking clearly!” Steve argued with him as if you weren’t there. 
You already knew what everybody thought of you. There was no hiding it. To the Americans, you were just a nazi whore that Bucky kept around for sex, and nothing more. They didn’t know the way he kissed you, the way your eyes sparkled with joy at even the slightest bit of attention from him. When you had nightmares, Bucky read to you from one of his books, or sang a song softly from Ella Fitzgerald. 
There was no one else. Every day, every night, all Bucky could think about was you. Leaving the war, taking you back to America, and building a life with you. He thought of a brownstone in Brooklyn, buying you dresses and making a family with you. He wanted to spin you around and dance with you to records in your living room, and take you on dates to a drive-in-movie. He wanted you to be the last thing he saw at night and the first thing in the morning. He was in love with you. And you were in love with him.
But you couldn’t escape the slurs and hate of his colleagues, and dearest friends. You knew it would be nothing like what you would receive in Brooklyn, your accent and broken English giving you away. It would make Bucky an outcast too-- a former soldier who left the war for an enemy girl. He would be a disgrace. 
You knew you could receive asylum in Denmark, a country not plagued by the war like elsewhere. You’d be a refugee, but you could join their society safely, and build a real life there. You traveled with the soldiers, transported there safely. 
You laid in bed with Bucky, kissing him sweetly. He ran his fingers through your hair, your head on his chest. He talked about New York pizza, and you smiled, tracing shapes on his skin with your fingertips. His voice sounded so happy when he talked about a future with you, you felt like your heart was going to shatter. 
“I love you, James.” 
“I love you more than the stars, Y/N.”
You pretended to sleep, but fear and nausea kept you up all night. You didn’t stir as Bucky got up for an early meeting with an officer at the American Embassy in Denmark. 
As soon as he was gone, you were on your feet. You got dressed silently, slipping money and a knife into your clothes and pulling a coat on over it. Tears blinded you and made it more difficult, as well as struggling to be quiet in the dark so you didn’t catch the attention of Bucky’s soldiers. 
The sun had barely peaked above the horizon, the sky still mostly dark, and the world asleep. You broke into a run, escaping out the window in the back. You ran from the base, getting as far away as you could. Your heart shattered into a million tiny pieces, pain shooting through your chest. 
Nightfall, you made it to a home for female refugees, women left alone by the war. You were dirty and exhausted, and barely able to breathe. You had sobbed the entire day as you traveled, making it nearly to Århus. 
“Welcome. You’re safe now.” A danish woman said, embracing you as you were taken inside the safehouse. You broke down in her arms, screams of heartache ripping through your chest.
“Y/N! I’m home, doll!” Bucky called, opening the door. His brow furrowed in confusion upon finding an empty room. He went to the bathroom, checking to see if you were in the shower. He couldn’t find you, and he walked through the halls. 
“Has anyone seen Y/N?” He asked every soldier desperately, all of them shaking their heads. 
He went back to his room, finding a note written inside of the book cover on his bedside, left open. 
I love you. more than the stars. I hope you understand.
He screamed your name, dropping down to his knees, his head falling into his hands as he rocked back and forth. Steve ran in, dropping down and wrapping his arms around Bucky as he fell apart. Sobs wracked his body, his dreams falling apart, his lover slipping through his fingers. He had just gotten news that he could be honorably discharged in three months, to start a family with you. He came home to tell you that you just had to stick it out a little longer. The flowers he brought were discarded and littered amongst the floorboards. 
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gypsy-girl-08 · 2 days ago
The Other Woman
Part 48 - Previous Parts Here
Pairing- Cillian Murphy and Reader
Tags - @mitchiesdungeon @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @being-worthy @missymurphy1985 @misscarolineshelby @janelongxox @ntmynouis@thenattitude @katsav17 @kamiiyou @answer-the-sirens @kathrinemelissa
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Authors Note- I am NOT medically trained, this is a fictional story.
You were inside of the CT Machine, the medical staff wanted your whole body to be scanned. Underlying damage could be going on, bleeding on the brain was their main concern.
“Right, top to bottom explain,” said the consultant as he watched the machine. “29 year old female, fell down a flight of concrete stairs. Unconscious on arrival, morphine given on scene, placed in neck brace and oxygen given,”
“Visible injuries, dislocated shoulder, bleed from left ear. Possible rib fracture.” The consultant watched the monitor, “Has she regained consciousness?” He investigated. “No, not fully, she’s very concussed,”
“Family?” He asked. “They live in England, lives with a boyfriend, he is apparently in Paris. She has friends in the main entrance,” He nodded, watching the monitor, making notes. “Tell them, get the family here,”
Liv had called your mum, sister and Cillian. He’s phone went to voicemail, she hoped he was trying to get a flight. She joined the other girls again, “I might be able to go and see her after the scan. As she has no family here,”
“I hope so, she’s got to be ok, hasn’t she Liv?” They asked her, pleadingly. “Of course she is, this is Y/n, she is a fighter,” she tried to smile, hoping her words would be the truth.
After the scan, you were taken back onto a high dependency ward. Trying to open your eyes, you didn’t recognise your surroundings. You felt like someone was sat on top of you, crushing you.
Trying to speak, your mouth was so dry. Going to sit up, you realised you couldn’t lift your head.
“Woah, don’t move Y/n,” a woman appeared in front of you. She looked blurry to your vision. “Where?” You managed to croak.
She stroked your head, “You are in St Patrick’s Hospital, you had an accident. A fall, you need to try and keep still while we monitor you,” she smiled.
“My, erm?” You asked, closing your eyes again. "Take you time, Y/n," she reassured. "My, my boyfriend?" you asked. “I believe family have been contacted, don’t you worry,”
An hour later, Liv’s name was called. She hurried after the nurse, eager to see you. “Is she ok?” She asked. “We are trying to keep her sedated, while she’s in pain. She has multiple injuries, luckily the brain scan was clear,” Liv started crying with relief.
She gasped when she saw you, wires and tubes. Your face bruised, skin pale, she hardly recognised you. “Y/n, it’s me Liv. I hope you can hear me. We are all here for you. I’m so glad you are ok. We didn’t know what to think,” she cried. Taking your head, she squeezed, kissing your forehead.
“Do you know what happened?” The nurse asked Liv, as she checked your blood pressure. “No, she went to the toilet. She wasn’t drunk. Next thing she was at the bottom of the stairs,” she sobbed, shaking her head. "It was her birthday,"
Cillian was sat on a flight, somewhere over Europe. He couldn’t use his phone, anxiety was eating him away. He was thankful the flight was quiet. Counting down the minutes, until the plane landed.
He didn’t know what to expect. He tried to pass the time, scrolling through his i-pad. Looking at photos of you and him together.
You looked so happy, so vibrant. His favourite was one taken in his parents garden. His arm around you, standing underneath a blossom tree. You looking up at him, smiling. He slammed the i-pad closed, he couldn't look anymore.
You felt someone squeeze your hand, then lift your arm up and down. A bright light was shining in your eyes, "Y/n, can you hear me?" You felt something go into your ear. "Y/n, time to wake up, can you hear me?" The voice was loud, you wanted to shout at them to be quiet.
"Yes," you managed to say. "Open your eyes for me," Flickering them open, a man stood before you, sunshine flooded the room. "Bright," you managed to say. "I am Doctor Wilson, can you tell me how your head is feeling?" He shined the torch again, "Heavy," you told him.
"Ok, try and rest for now. We will take you for another scan later," You heard a door close. You were so confused. You were at the club, then what? They said you had an accident, a fall. “Ah!" you gasped to yourself, "Max,"
Panic ran through your body, he had let you fall. Or did he push you? You had no idea how long ago that was, how long you had been in the hospital. he could be here, you suddenly thought. He might be here, waiting, watching you. Chest feeling tight, you couldn't breathe.
Waving your arms, you tried to sit to reach for something. Sending the blood pressure machine to the floor. "Miss Y/L/N, calm down, you need to calm down," She sat you forward, "Breathe, just breathe," she soothed as she placed an oxygen mask on your face.
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rebelwrites · 2 months ago
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Touch and Go
Clay Spenser x Reader
Join The Group Chat Here - If You Want Tagging Manually Let Me Know 🖤 || Join The Fanfic Friday Group Chat Here
Clay Spenser Masterlist
This Months Writing
Requested by @heathermann20 Clay Spenser and #10 please “I wish I could say that this is the first time, I’ve been stabbed with a plastic spoon.” || Requested by @glitterquadricorn I'm a sucker for something that starts off angsty, but has a happy ending. So I'm thinking the reader is on bravo with clay and they're dating. Everyone goes on a mission and she gets shot and its looks bad like she isn't gonna make it but she does, or she gets kidnapped like Ray and get beaten and tortured.
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It felt like you had a python, squeezing the life out of you, every breath you took felt like your body was on fire, and pain shot through your body. You had no idea how bad your injury was but you felt like this might be the end.
You weren’t stupid, you knew you were bleeding out and if you didn’t get treatment fast then you would succumb to your injuries here in the Afghan dirt, staring up at blue sky, trying to disctract yourself by the clouds.
“Bravo Seven, coms check,” Clay shouted over the radio.
You didn’t have the energy to respond, everything hurt. And you knew your arm was broken. But what hurt you the most was the panic you heard in Clay’s voice.
“Bravo Seven you good?” He called again, before taking a deep breath. “Baby come on, just answer, please.”
All you wanted to do was respond to him but the pain was too much, you had already used your two pens of morphine and it wasn’t touching the pain.
“Fuck,” you hear Sonny shout. “All Bravo elements, I have found Bravo Seven, wounded Eagle, condition unknown.”
His footsteps were heavy as the gravel crunched with every step he took.
“Come on trouble,” he panted, dropping to his knees, ripping your vest and helmet off to assess the damage. “Come on stay with me okay, keep them eyes open.”
“Sonny,” you breathed as the tears ran down your cheeks, mixing with the dirt and blood “it hurts,”
“I know, but you gotta stay with me.” He whispered, pressing his palm against the bullet wound to try and slow the bleeding, and with his other hand keyed his radio. “Havoc how far out is the medivac?”
“The helo is 3 mikes out,” Blackburn said.
“So-sonny” you spluttered, as a cough racked through your body intensifying the pain, the realisation set in as you coughed up blood, that shit was bad. “Tell Clay I love him and I always will.”
“Nu-uh I don’t want to hear talk like that,” Sonny snapped, “you will be fine, help is on the way, just hold on.
The ringing in your ears was getting louder, your vision was fading and you knew it was game over as you slipped into the darkness.
“Baby,” Clay screamed as he saw Sonny straddling you administering CPR, he was running as fast as he could to get to you, dropping to his knees, resting your head on his lap, brushing your hair off your face. “Don’t you dare give up, just listen to my voice. I can’t lose you, I just can’t.”
“Clay I think her lung has collapsed, we need to get her on that helo.” Sonny breathed, as he climbed off you. “She still has a pulse but it’s extremely weak.”
“Watch my six,” Clay mumbled, scooping your lifeless body in his arms. “I’ve got you babygirl,”
Clay couldn’t believe what was happening, his life had been flipped upside down in a matter of seconds and he was now holding his whole world in his arms, shit scared he was going to lose you.
But he fought back the tears as he knew if he didn’t get you on the helo then he would definitely lose you.
“I think she has a pneumothorax,” Sonny said to Trent as he climbed onto the helo, “Also a bullet wound that went through and through on her shoulder and another bullet wound on her abdomen with no exit wound.”
“Okay,” he nodded, taking your pulse.
The helo had taken off and the jolt caused the medical bag to fall off the edge making all three boys curse.
“Right look for something sharp and something we can use as a tube, we need to get her breathing again.” Trent said calmly.
“I have a plastic spoon, will that work?” Clay said, running on adrenaline at this point.
“I can make it work,” Trent nodded, as he picked up a biro pen, taking the ink out. “This isn’t going to be clean and she’s gonna be pissed it’s gonna scar.”
“I don’t care, just save her.” Clay muttered, pulling your head into his lap once again, gently brushing his knuckles over your cheek. “I can’t lose her, do anything.”
All of a sudden your eyes opened and you were met with the baby blue eyes that you would die for.
“Clay,” you whispered weakly, gasping for air. “It hu-,” you gasped.
“Don’t speak baby,” Clay hummed, “I know it hurts, but your lung has collapsed.”
“Okay Y/N, we kinda lost the medical bag on take off so all I have is a broken plastic spoon and the casing of a pen,” Trent said calmly. “So we are going to hope that this pierces the skin, this might hurt okay.”
“Just,” you gasped, “do it.”
“Three, two, one,” Trent said, before plunging the broken plastic spoon into your skin, causing you to grit your teeth as the pain erupted through your body.
A few moments passed and the moment Trent pushed the empty pen in, you got an instant relief, opening your eyes once again you let the tears fall as Clay ran his hands through your hair.
“I wish I could say that this is the first time I've been stabbed with a plastic spoon.” You breathed, trying not to laugh.
“I don’t even wanna know,” Trent winked. “Sonny, I need you to hold this pen in place whilst I treat the gunshot wounds.”
Slowly you reached up, placing your hand over his heart, feeling just how fast his heart was racing. Instantly Clay wrapped his hand over yours, this had always been the way you said you loved each other, without saying the words.
“You are going to be okay,” he cried, “I thought I’d lost you when we heard the gunfire and then your coms went out.”
“How many times have I told you, it’s going to take a lot more than some afghan soldier to take me away from you.” You whispered, still feeling weak from your injuries.
“Baby, don’t talk,” Clay hummed, brushing some of the hair from your face, “You need to keep your energy. We will soon be back at base and get your injuries treated.”
“How bad?” You whimpered, keeping your hand over Clay’s heart, it was a much needed distraction to the pain, even though the morphine was starting to wear off.
“It’s bad babygirl,” Clay sighed, “Two bullets went through and through but the other one didn’t, but all I want you to focus on is me, forget about everything else and just focus on me.”
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@chibsytelford @mrsmarvelous1995 @supervalcsi @talicat713 @disasterfandoms @bravo-four-seal-team @jasonbabymama @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @lotsoflovefromlea @seik-o @velvetcardiganbucky @phoenixhalliwell @pancakeisreading @itsonautopilot @pinkrockstar19 @galaxysanduniversesinmymind @softi92 @abby-splace @theysayitscrazy @thelovelyleo23 @innerpaperexpertcloud
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resanoona · 9 months ago
Pairing: Kelly Severide x Reader
Warnings: Mentions of injury/blood
Summary: Reader gets stuck in a building collapse.
A/N: Wrote from Reader’s POV only so picked only relevant parts to use. Hope everyone likes it! Inspired by the collapse in 4x22. Feedback always greatly appreciated. This also means requests for Kelly x Reader are now open too, feel free to send them!
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I looked up as the cup of water on my desk shook. My desk mate Charlie looked up as well. “Right out of Jurassic Park.” She commented and laughed at her own joke.
I felt another tremor and looked up again. “Charlie, I think…” Before I could finish my sentence, the ceiling in the corner of the office came crashing down.
“Charlie, move!” I called, pulling her towards me and under my desk, as another piece came crashing down near us. Too near for comfort.
“What the hell man.” Charlie panted, before looking up at me. “Well, perks of being a fireman’s girlfriend.” She commented, patting me on the shoulder.
“Shut up.” I snapped, rolling my eyes at her. “I can’t believe you can still joke at a time like this.”
“It’s my defense mechanism. Y/N, what’s going on?” She was starting to look worried.
I peered out as another block of concrete came crashing down. “I don’t know but we have to get out of here. If the ceiling above us comes down…”
I swallowed nervously, hoping someone had already called 911.
We waited for a while more before I looked at Charlie. “Come on.”
I pushed Charlie out ahead of me, pointing toward the exit among the rubble. “There.”
We crawled out, treading lightly but as swiftly as possible. “Charlie, go!” I shouted, as another piece of concrete came crashing down. Pushing Charlie further towards the exit, I rolled myself backwards, as a sharp pain shot up my leg.
Gritting my teeth, I looked up at her through a gap from where I was. “Get out of here.” Charlie hesitated. “Now.”
“I’ll get help! I promise!” Charlie called back as I saw her stumble out.
The pain was immense, I could swear it was starting to feel heavier and heavier. I was almost feeling suffocated, when I heard the only sound of hope.
“Fire Department, call out!”
I took a few deep breaths as I heard them helping people out of the rubble.
“We need to check out that void space before the load shifts.” Kelly’s voice.
My throat felt like it was made of sand so instead of calling, I tried to reach out.
“I found one!” Kelly shouted as he grabbed my hand.
“Oh my god.” Kelly crouched down peering in, gripping my hand tighter now.
“Y/N? What are you… I’m going to get you out, okay? Don’t worry. I just need you to relax for me. Can you do that for me please?” Kelly’s voice was the one thing I needed to hold on to.
He looked at me and I nodded.
“I need you to breathe for me, okay? Just breathe.” Kelly repeated, before his eyes shot to Cruz.
“Nice and easy. On my count… One, two, three!” Kelly commanded, as I felt the concrete lift.
“Slide her under, Joe!” I heard Casey spit out, winded as he held up the concrete with Kelly and a few others.
“Good!” Joe shouted, as he grasped my arms and pulled me out as gently as he could.
Kelly came forward, gathering me into his arms. “Come here, come here. Let’s get you out of here.”
I gritted my teeth but a whimper still escaped my lips. “Y/N?”
I looked down. “Kel… My leg…”
Kelly looked down before he glanced at Casey who gave him a small nod. “I got you.” Kelly said, scooping me easily into his arms.
He pulled me closer to him. “Just a bit more, okay?” I nodded, turning my face into his chest as small rocks scattered down upon us. I could feel Kelly lean forward to try to shield me as best as he could.
“Medic!” Kelly called as he stepped out back into the open and gently laid me down on the stretcher.
“Y/N?” Sylvie called out in surprise, pushing the stretcher forward quickly.
“Take care of her for me.” Kelly asked and Sylvie looked back up at him. “You know I will.”
Kelly turned back to me for just a second. “I gotta...”
“You do what you got to do Lieutenant.” I said with a smile and he kissed me on the forehead before hurrying off.
Sylvie quickly brought me over to the triage area. “I think it’s a fracture. I’m going to try to set it as much as I can in the interim before we can get you to the hospital, okay?”
I nodded, “Thanks Sylvie.”
Just as Sylvie finished up, I heard Charlie before I saw her.
“Oh my god, Y/N!” Charlie threw herself at me as I winced. “Easy, tiger.” I chuckled. “I’m fine.”
Charlie gave me a look. “I’m alive.” I corrected before we were interrupted by shouts from the firefighters.
“Everyone, get away from the building!”
I watched in horror as the windows of our office floor broke and smoke billowed out of it, exploding outwards. Everyone ducked as I looked around frantically, hoping that Kelly hadn’t gone back in.
“I’m here, I’m here.” Kelly’s voice was now next to me, as if he had somehow sensed my fear. As another burst came from the building, Kelly ducked low, wrapping his arms around me, to try to shield me from the flying debris from the explosion.
“Casey, report!” Our heads snapped up as Chief’s voice resounded across the yard.
Kelly looked at me and I nodded.
“Kel!” I grabbed at his arm.
“You come back. You hear me? You come right back to me.”
Kelly smiled and squeezed my hand before running off.
I watched the exchange from afar, watching Kelly’s body language, knowing he was ready to jump right into that building to get Casey out.
As Kelly made his way into the building alone, I waited with bated breath, not taking my eyes off the entrance of that building until I saw him come out again, Casey in tow and I let out a breath.
“Hey.” Kelly had come by again.
Without saying anything, I pulled him down into a hug. Being in that scene before the whole building collapsed made the dangers of Kelly’s job even more real.
Kelly stroked my face with his thumb. “Look, I…” I knew he wanted to ride with me but with a building collapse, they still had a ton of things to do, and he was still on shift.
I put my hand up to his face. “I’m fine so I’ll see you later. I’m in good hands. Don’t worry.”
“You’re one hell of a girl.” He responded. “I’ll come by Med later, okay?”
I nodded and squeezed his hand. Kelly bent down, gently bringing me into a kiss.
“See you later.” I whispered, as I watched him jog back to his squad.
I groggily opened my eyes, wincing as I shifted my leg, which was now in a cast.
“Hey there.”
I smiled as I registered Kelly’s voice.
“How we doing?” Connor slid open the door of the treatment room.
I smiled back at him. “Heya Connor.”
“How is she?” Kelly asked. Connor nodded his head, “Don’t worry, she has a fracture, but we don’t see a need for surgery. We’ve put it in a cast and it should heal up nicely this way, she’ll just have to come in for another review in a few weeks. She’s just a little sleepy from the morphine we gave her when she first came in. You’re free to go once you’re ready.”
I nodded, eager to get out of here. and Kelly laughed.
“Someone will be in shortly with the discharge papers.” He said, smiling.
“Thanks Connor.” I replied, as he left the room.
Kelly sat next to my bed and took my hand quietly. I watched him for a while before speaking, “Kel, I know it was a rough day.”
He smiled back at me. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” He whispered.
I squeezed his hand. “Right back at you.”
Kelly remained quiet for a while. “Kelly?”
Kelly got up, leaning forward, pulling me into a tight hug. “I have to be... you know… all professional and calm on the job… but when I saw you down there… I-”
I pulled my arms around him. “I know.” I interrupted him, burying my face into his neck.
Kelly pulled away gently, his fingers angling my chin upwards as he pressed his lips on mine, a tender kiss with a silent desperation. I could almost feel all of Kelly’s emotions, his fear that seemed to be spilling over, his relief tinged with the regret he had whenever there were people he couldn’t save.
Gently straightening up, he looked straight into my eyes. “You’re the best part of me, you know that?” He whispered, stroking my face with his thumb. I smiled, intertwining my fingers tightly with his. “I love you too.” I whispered back.
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zhuzhubii · 7 months ago
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summary: an account of all the things spencer reid doesn’t want to remember
(or, life pushes and pushes until spencer is well past his breaking point)
cw: !! suicide !!, rape/sexual assault, major and minor character death, guns/death by gunshot, drug addiction/substance abuse, prison, mentions of child abuse/neglect and severe bullying, mentions of bodily fluids (vomit, urine, etc), allusions to sex, spencer is unable to talk about his feelings, undiagnosed mental illness, sometimes unreliable narrator, heavy angst, all hurt no comfort, just very bleak overall
wc: 4.1k
The thing about Dr. Reid is that he’s really good at remembering.
The thing about Spencer is that, despite his seemingly in-human memory, he’s just a normal person. He’s not infallible. He doesn’t remember everything - his hippocampus is far above average in its ability to commit life events to long term memory, but still is not perfect in function. He forgets things. 
He wants to forget things. He wishes he was better at forgetting things because despite the fact that he does indeed have an imperfect memory, he never forgets the things he really wants to. He’s perfectly human in that sense - he’s just like everyone else, though perhaps somewhat less susceptible to the factors that often distort recall.
He never forgets the scary things, the times he’s been afraid and no one has come to rescue him and then when he finally manages to save himself everything only gets worse. When he gets home and everything is just as scary and just as overwhelming. When he gets home and his mom doesn’t realize he was gone, when everyone expects him to be fine too quickly, when his friends ignore his cries for help and leave him in the water without a rope.
It makes sense though, he tells himself. It’s a survival mechanism, the product of thousands of years of evolution - our brains tell us to stay away from the things that have hurt us before, they make us panic so that we won’t want to repeat those things that might get us killed. They try to keep us safe, to keep us alive long enough to reproduce and raise progeny so that our genetic code might be passed on. Our brains love us, in that sense - they want us to stay alive.
It doesn’t work the same way in the modern world, the world with technology that’s evolved too fast for those same brains to keep up. Our world that’s filled with quick fixes, with temptation, with promises of not being in pain anymore, of not being afraid anymore. With promises of purified pleasure available in doses our ancestors could never have even hoped for, could never have even had dreams of.
Spencer dreams about the opium poppy. He dreams of delicate petals, of round bulbs oozing the thick sap that can be distilled into sweet sweet morphine. He dreams about holding it in his hands, about the catalytic hydrogenation reaction that will turn it into hydromorphone. He dreams about how they differ by only a single functional group, about how morphine and Dilaudid are structural isomers different only by the presence of either an alcohol or a ketone. 
He dreams about how opioids mimic dopamine in the brain, about how constantly flooding his system with false endorphins is decreasing the number of receptors in his body. He dreams about finally, finally managing to take a shit, because he pushes and pushes and nothing comes out anymore.
Maybe it should scare him that he’s altering his brain chemistry - his body chemistry - so severely, but it doesn’t. Or it does, but he’s too high to care all that much. He’s too dependent to think about anything but how long it’s been since he took a hit, how much he has hidden away in his bag, how much money is left in his wallet. When he’ll next be able to score.
He’s too afraid to think about anything but running away from Tobias.
Homo sapiens sapiens can run for a long time without stopping to rest, but not forever. Spencer knows that just as well as anyone, he knows that it’ll all catch up to him eventually. That one day he’ll have to either face what happened to him or -
That’s a problem for the future, Spencer thinks, I can’t deal with it now. And so he keeps running. He watches his father leave again mentor leave for his own mental health, and takes it as a sign that he needs to clean up. Withdrawal is hells, but he tells himself that he’s been through worse. That he deserves to be writhing in pain and shitting his pants and vomiting all over himself. He took the drugs of his own volition, after all. 
Spencer dreams of kids getting blown to pieces with a stolen shotgun. He dreams of bullies tying a little child to a goalpost and spitting on his naked form, of finally working his way free hours later and dragging himself home. He dreams of a mother with nothing in her eyes, of a mother who hits when she’s confused and shouts at ghosts all the time. 
Spencer dreams of a body with three men inside. Of a revolver going click click click against his bloodstained forehead and staring down the barrel with unfocused eyes. Of being force-fed stolen meat, of finally pissing himself when the urgency grows too dire and he just can’t wait any longer. He wakes up and washes his face with his hands because he still can’t stand the feeling of wet fabric against his skin, makes himself sit on the toilet afterwards because he’s so afraid of his body betraying him a second time.
When he crawls back into bed and falls asleep once again, he dreams of a boy who never had a chance. Of a boy with hair to his shoulders whose father didn’t like him and whose mother was gone. He dreams of facing down an assault rifle and saving the boy, of saving himself from the monsters of everyday life. 
Spencer dreams of the opium poppy, of the thick sap running down the unripe bulbs, running over his wanting hands as he funnels the liquid into his mouth. He wants it so, so badly. It’s all he can think about. But he placates himself with rocking and scratching and hair-pulling instead because he's afraid his friends won’t want him anymore if he gives in to what he’s really craving for.
Maeve is perhaps the first good thing in Spencer’s life, a welcome reprieve after all the splitting headaches and betrayals the past two years have given him. Her voice is like honey over the phone, so sweet that he’s willing to jump through every hoop just for a taste of her. She’s alluring and mysterious, syrupy and warm - he never wants to stop talking to her, never wants to stop hearing her voice. 
He loves her, he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. 
He finds himself fantasizing about her - about her mind, yes, about finally meeting her in person, but also about her body. About giving in to the basal human desires he sometimes feels ashamed of having. But Maeve...Maeve welcomes it, encourages it even. She tells him about her own desires in clandestine moments at the phone booth, and Spencer feels his cheeks flush not from embarrassment but from how much he wants her. From the rush of standing in public and speaking about things that happen in the bedroom.
She tells him what they’ll do when they can finally be together and he laps it up like water in the desert, feels his pupils dilate and his pants tighten as she asks him if he wants that too. And he does, oh how he does. And so he tells her. 
He’d like to feel her skin hot against his in the throes of passion, to feel her shudder with pleasure beneath him. He’d like to try everything she’s imagined twice over, to grow familiar with her hands and her mouth and her warmth. One day he shyly admits that he’d like to one day put a baby inside of her, that he’d like to run his hands along her belly and feel little thumps of movement coming from inside. That his desires stretch far beyond purely sexual - that he wants to build a home with her, that he wants to fill it with children and read them to sleep every night.
It’s the first time he’s seriously thought about having children, and it amazes him. It amazes him that a single person could make him this enthusiastic about life, about having a future. He feels warm and fuzzy - all the classic, unexplainable feelings that come with being in love, with having someone to come home to at night.
So it’s only logical that it all gets taken away from him. It’s only logical that he never gets to tell her. It’s only logical that she gets shot right in front of him, that he never even gets to hold her hand while she’s alive. It only makes sense. He should have expected it, because good things never last for Spencer Reid. 
He’s achieving nothing by searching for solace in a trashed apartment. He’s only hurting himself by longing for anything more.
Spencer wakes up in Mexico and watches a judge deny him freedom.
But even then, everything is hazy until intake. Until he’s being dragged off of a bus with chains around his wrists and waist and ankles, herded into a gray place with guard towers and barbed wire. Until he’s being forced to strip naked, to bend over while a stranger with a gun examines his rectum. 
It hits him then. The overwhelming feeling of I’m not getting out of this, am I? And Spencer can feel himself start to panic, but he can’t. He knows that he can’t, that seeming weak is practically a death sentence, that it’ll make him even more of a target than he already is. So he forces down the panic and puts on a brave face just like he always does. Doesn’t flinch under the cold shower he’s pushed into afterwards - instead, he fills himself with nothingness. Tells himself I’m not afraid until it feels like it’s the truth.
That’s a lie. It never even begins to feel like the truth. 
He’s afraid they’ll find out he’s a federal agent. He’s afraid of being shanked. He’s afraid the CO’s will take his food away in the mess hall. He’s afraid when he gets beaten, he’s afraid when he holds his dying friend in his arms and screams for help that never comes.
He’s afraid that his team will never get him out.
He’s afraid that they will get him out, but that he won’t be himself afterwards.
He’s afraid of not having anything valuable to offer. He’s afraid of the way he looks, of his slight form and baby face and -
They finally corner him on the way to the showers, tear his clothes off right there in the hall as Spencer looks up and makes eye contact with the fluorescent lights. Dread floods his veins for a heartbeat before it gets replaced by that familiar, welcome nothingness - he leaves his body as someone pulls his asscheeks apart and enters it, lets himself float away and watches the pretty afterimages dance across his retinas. 
Spencer hears whines of pain, the sickening sound of skin on skin. Snarled insults, the self-satisfied laughs that come with the high of dominance, not sexual pleasure. He feels bad for the poor guy who’s getting violated like that, and regrets deeply that there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He wonders fleetingly if trying to call for a CO would help, but then realizes with a defeated sigh that it wouldn’t - there are security cameras in the hall that undoubtedly caught the inmate getting ganged up on, even if they can’t quite get a visual on this alcove. They’ll drag their feet because they don’t like the inmate, and by the time anyone comes it’ll be too late. It won’t matter anymore.
There won’t even be a report because the lowly criminal probably deserves it anyway and isn’t worth the trouble. The unfortunate man won’t even be able to tell anyone afterwards because it’s a sign of weakness to the other prisoners, because no one would ever believe an inmate over a correctional officer -
Why didn’t you fight back, Spencer? You need to man up - the bullies aren’t ever going to leave you alone unless you can stand up for yourself.
- Spencer closes his eyes and imagines going home to his apartment, imagines curling up in bed with his mother and talking about Bob Dylan and tightropes and Geoffrey Chaucer. After all, there’s nothing he can do but occupy himself with dreams of a better life as he waits for it to be over.
Some amount of time after leaving prison, Spencer wakes to find his mother cold and still. He feels nothing at first. He texts the nurse and tells her that they won’t be needing her services any longer, then calls for a legal pronouncement of death and retrieval of a body. He gets up and unlocks the door. He makes himself a coffee because he doesn’t know what else to do.
Spencer is halfway through the cup when a thought hits him -
I wonder what Mom wants to wear today
- He runs for the bedroom and sees his mother, his beautiful mother, the mother he’s spent his entire life caring for. If he squints his eyes he can almost imagine the flush of life returning to her cheeks, the steady rise and fall of her chest - he crawls into bed with her and curls his arms around her lifeless form, delicately running his fingers through her hair and thumbing over her cheeks. 
If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine her waking up and wrapping her long arms around his body, he can almost hear her mumbling You’re too thin, Spencer, you drink too much coffee. He can almost hear her reading to him like she used to when he was small enough to fit in her lap, to be cradled in her arms. And so that’s what he does - he closes his eyes and hugs her and pretends that he doesn’t have to worry about not being able to hold her anymore.
The mortician finds him like that when she finally comes, huddled over his dead mother and weeping like someone who only knows loss. She lets him have his time, his moment to memorize her features, and then coaxes him away from the body. She does it gently, like someone who’s done this too many times before. 
Spencer’s the only one at the funeral. Not because Diana wasn’t well-loved, but because he doesn’t tell anyone that she’s passed on. Because it would feel like an invasion, almost, to have someone else be there - like someone was intruding on his and his mother’s perfect world. 
Because he doesn’t want anyone to watch him break. To watch him die with her, to watch the fight drain out of him as he presses a soft kiss to her headstone.
Spencer Reid is forty years old and he still doesn’t know how to confide in someone. 
He loves to speak, but he’s always been a listener. Someone who exists on the sidelines, soaking up information when you think he isn’t paying attention, a sounding board for thoughts, a priest in the confessional. People find him easy to talk to, he’s discovered.
(When he really lets himself think about it, Spencer laughs at this discovery. Isn’t it funny? he thinks, Isn’t it just hilarious? They’ll talk to me all day if I let them, but as soon as I open my mouth they roll their eyes, they tell me to shut up because nobody wants to listen)
For all his listening, he can’t quite figure out how to speak about himself. He can’t quite figure out how to trust someone else with his secrets, with his emotions, with his doubts and fears and insecurities. He can’t quite get over the nagging doubt, the feeling that they don’t actually want to listen to him, that they only keep him around because he can spit out facts and calculate geographic profiles and read 333.33 words per second. 
He’s afraid that one day he’ll talk too much and they’ll decide that actually they don’t like him very much, that the pros no longer outweigh the cons, that he’s too much of a bother. That if he tells them about how he really feels, they’ll think he’s too much work, he needs too much help, he’s too much of a downer to be around.
These are the types of things he’s supposed to tell his therapist. But he just can’t make himself do it - he can’t stop thinking about how he’s paying her to be there, about how he’s so unneeded and unliked and unwanted that he has to pay someone just to listen to him. And so he’s never talked about anything more than superficial, has never talked about anything more than he has to. 
He’s never told any of them about the bullying, about the intense feelings of abandonment, about his fear of following in his mother’s footsteps especially now that she’s gone. He’s never mentioned being raped, or poisoning anyone, or choking Cat Adams up against a cold cement wall. He’s never talked about how he still sometimes can’t trust JJ after she lied to him all those years ago.
He’s never talked about finding escape in drugs. He’s never said anything about how ashamed he is of needing help, how ashamed he is of it all.
He spoke about prison a little bit at one point, but only in the vaguest sense and only during those six weeks immediately afterwards. He said the bare minimum that would satisfy the bureau-mandated therapist on the sofa across from him, jotting down notes on a clipboard and deciding whether or not prison made SSA Reid too fucked in the head to keep chasing killers. His new non-bureau-affiliated therapist doesn’t even know that he’s an ex-con. 
Spencer wonders if she thinks he’s wasting her time, because he can tell that she can tell that he’s barely telling her anything meaningful at all. He wonders if she knows how much he’s struggling, even though he never says it out loud. He wonders if she thinks he’s beyond helping, if she thinks he’s too damaged to ever be happy, to ever be able to properly engage with the world.
Spencer thinks so. He thinks that he barely feels anything anymore, that he can barely force himself to get up in the morning and care about anything anymore. But he doesn’t tell her that because he doesn’t know how to say it. He never learned how to ask for help, and he sure as hell isn’t learning now. And besides - he’s afraid of what she would do if she found out. Of being medicated or, god forbid, forced into a hospital.
So he’ll keep it to himself. He won’t tell her - he won’t tell anyone. 
It doesn’t matter anyway, he thinks, it’s not like they could help.
It ends like this:
Spencer’s never liked football, but he decides to spend his Sunday watching the Super Bowl. He pours himself a glass of brandy and recites Star Trek quotes. He imagines his life going a little differently, imagines all the things he could’ve had if only the team had never gotten that call from Georgia. 
Spencer closes his eyes and hears little footsteps running around his apartment, little voices giggling and shrieking and full of childish excitement. Someone whispers I love you into his ear in a voice just barely audible but sweet like honey, soft like velvet. He smiles and mouths I love you back, turns his head to lean into their warmth, to breathe in the scent of their hair and feel the heat of their cheeks and press his lips -
The empty air blinks back at him, cold and unforgiving in his empty apartment. Spencer would sigh, but he doesn’t have it in him anymore. Instead, he turns back to the television and sips his brandy, puts on a movie after the game is over and waits for what he knows is coming.
When Tobias taps on his shoulder, Spencer is surprised to find that he isn’t afraid anymore. “I’m tired” he confesses to the ghost, a knot tight in his stomach as he waits for the response, still not knowing what reply he’s wanting after.
Tobias nods and says, “I know,” with a sad smile and a voice that tastes like peaches. The knot disappears and Spencer lets out a sigh - not one of disappointment, but of the greatest relief he’s ever felt in his life. It’s not until this very moment that he realizes how much he’s been just barely holding on, how exhausted he’s become after struggling against the tide for so long. How his ending was decided long ago.
“You’ve been fighting for a long time,” Tobias whispers, extending a hand towards Spencer, “But it’s okay, you can rest now. You don’t have to run anymore.”
Spencer barely hesitates before taking it, letting Tobias pull him to his feet and lead him away into the bedroom. He sets out all the things he knows he’ll need before taking one last lap around the apartment he’s called home since he was just twenty-two years old. He runs his fingers over the walls, smiles at his bookcases, opens The Narrative of John Smith and presses a kiss to the handwritten quote inside before delicately returning it to its place on the shelf. He tidies up his desk and opens the curtains - he’s afraid of the dark, after all.
When he’s finished, Spencer returns to the bedroom. He settles himself in the chair next to the bed and closes his eyes, remembers watching over his mother from this position. Remembers binding her wrist to his so that he’d know if she woke up, so that he could be there for her and comfort her, even if she didn’t know who he was. 
Spencer opens his eyes slowly, smiling when he sees his mother in front of him. Her eyes are gentle and soft, filled with love and recognition - just like that all of the bad memories are gone. He sees a rose-tinted version of who Diana was in life, the brilliant professor who loved literature, who nursed his scrapes and bruises and always cherished her son -
“Read me to sleep?” he asks as he runs a finger over the revolver on the table next to him.
“Of course, my baby boy” she smiles and then the words begin to pour out of her mouth -
Little son, I have longed a while to see you
- Spencer picks up the syringe first, turning it over in his hands for a moment as his mother’s voice washes over him -
And now I see you the fairest thing ever a woman bore
- He draws back his dose, flicks out the air and brings it up to his arm. The prick of the needle is nothing compared to a lifetime of hurting and so it does not phase Spencer at all -
In sadness came I hither, in sadness did I bring forth
- His sense of calmness deepens as his heart pumps the chemical through his veins, not enough to kill but just enough to make him float away. To take the edge off -
And in sadness has your first feast day gone
- He takes one last moment to relish in the feeling, the warmth of the drug dulling the unpleasantries of life, taking away the last dregs of fear as he feels the gun cold in his palm -
And as by sadness you came into the world
- Spencer feels his mother’s arms wrap around him as he runs the barrel over his lips, eyes closed as he leans into her, so relieved that soon -
Your name shall be called… Spencer; that is the child of sadness
- very soon, he’ll be with her and he won’t have to be in pain anymore -
After she had said these words she kissed him
- The gun is metallic against his tongue. It’s steely and cold and unforgiving, yet his finger doesn’t waver against the trigger. He gives the barrel a spin for old time’s sake even though there are six bullets in the chamber and he doesn’t need God’s Will to save him. Spencer thumbs off the safety and -
And immediately when she kissed him, she died.
*diana reads spencer a quote from the romance of tristan and iseult, and the actual name of ‘the child of sadness’ is tristan, not spencer
taglist: @doctor-reid​​ @gublertoon​​ @pinkdiamond1016​​ @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto​​ @rexorangecouny​​ @rainsong01​​ @themanwiththreephds​​ @zhangyixingxing1​​ @aquariuslavenderhoney​​ @urie-bowie-mercury​​ @shadyladyperfection​​ @mggsprettygirl​​ @no-honey-no​​ @andreasworlsboring101​​ @whxt-to-write​​ @writernerd23​​ @calm-and-doctor​​ @90spumkin​​
189 notes · View notes
spencessmile · 12 months ago
Enough Is Enough
Pairing - Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader
Summary -  Spencer has had enough with you putting your life in danger.
Warnings - Angst
Word Count - 2,365 words
And all imagines/fanfics/blurbs are written solely by me so please don’t steal my work and post it without my consent.
Feedback and Comments are welcome. Happy reading!
Requests are CLOSED!
“Jake, just take a minute to think about what you’re about to do. I’m not going to tell you that it’s going to be okay because you and I both know that’s a lie. But I just need you to put the knife down, can you do that?” You slowly lower your gun. “Okay, I’m going to lower my weapon,” You slide your gun back into its holster.
The room is eerily quiet and you can sense the tension.
“Y/n, what are you doing?” Morgan called out from behind you. You ever so slightly shook your head, not wanting to take your eyes off from Jake. You move slightly closer to him.
You can see Jake gripping the knife tighter, “Jake you hurting yourself isn’t going to help anyone. Just talk to me. I’m right here.”
“NO! NO ONE EVER LISTENS!” He shouted back.
“I’ll listen. I promise I’ll listen to everything you have to say,” You respond. It was at that very moment that you noticed Jake’s facial features change.
“I want your partner to kill me! He has an aim, doesn’t he?”
“My partner isn’t going to do that,” You reply, standing a foot away from Jake.
“Make him do it! Make him,” Jake yells, as he cries, his shoulders slump. You notice that Jake drops the knife as she continues to sob in front of you.
“Adding another name to the list isn’t the way to go Jake. You and I both know that” You speak as you slowly but with caution move closer and closer. You knew what you were about to do was risky but you didn’t have much of a choice, so you were going for it. You quickly reached up and grabbed Jake’s wrist as you bent down, your hand reaching for the knife. Jake’s eyes meet with yours as he realizes what you’re doing.
“NOOO! NO! NO! LET GO OF ME!” He yells at you, pulling his arm back but he pulls back with a force that you went with him, you feel the cold metal of the knife slice into your left torso.
“Y/N!” You hear Morgan yell.
“Morgan, do not shoot! Do not shoot,” You say as Jake pulls you in, again.
“Shoot me now. Shoot me!” Jake said to Morgan. “Take me out while I have your partner!” As Jake is talking to Morgan you notice you have an opening so you go to grab the hilt of the knife. “Watch it! Otherwise, I’ll kill you first!” Jake yelled, as he fought for the knife, you and him going back and forth until you felt a sharp pain shoot through your right hand.
You muster all the strength you have and turn your chest to this back and kick his legs, watching him falling to the ground as you pull out your gun. He tried to fight you as you put your right leg on his chest, keeping him down.
“It’s over! Stay down!” You yelled as the pain in your left torso increased every single second as you applied pressure with your leg to keep Jake down to the floor.
As you keep your gun pointed to him, the next couple of seconds are blurry until you see Hotch and Morgan running up to you.
You holster your gun and take a step back, holding your torso. You feel something wet when you look at your hand; its blood. Your back hit the wall as you slid down.
“Agent down, we need a medic!” You hear someone yell through your earpiece. “Y/n,” With hazy eyes you look up and see Morgan bending down to your level.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” You breathe, as the pain is starting to take over your body.
“This is a bit deeper than a flesh wound. I’m going to have to stitch your torso and right hand,” The EMT tells you while examining your wounds. As you’re sitting in the back of the ambulance you can hear multiple footsteps making their way closer, you look up and see Spencer running towards you. Spencer stops himself before he can fully reach you.
“This is going to hurt a little, are you sure you don’t want any morphine? You can also tell me to stop at any time,” The EMT said, cleaning your wound
“I’m okay,” You reply as Spencer scoffs at your answer.
“Oh, she’ll be fine. She throws herself into dangerous situations all the time. Break? She doesn’t need a break. She never stops! But guess who does need a break? Me, I need a break!” You were taken back from Spencer’s reaction.
You’d never seen him like this. He was yelling. He never raised his voice at you or as a matter of fact at anyone.
“I need a break from your stupidity! You fought a teenager who was far past his mind, he was holding a knife. Not only did you put your gun aside but you told Morgan to stand down. Why do you do this type of stuff? Does this stuff excite you? Can you not do this job unless you’re on the edge? You went real far today. I ca-” Spencer stops when Emily puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Reid, she’s ok-”
“I know she’s okay,” He breathed, looking at Emily. “But why can’t she just try to do this damn job without getting herself killed or put in danger every time we’re on the field?”
“Spence,” Your emotions were all over the place, you felt tears pressing but you pushed them aside not wanting to cry in front of the team. “I didn’t have any other ch-”
“There is always another choice other than throwing yourself in danger.”
“Spencer!” You say, catching his attention. “Look at me, please. I’m okay. I’m in one piece,” You assure him.
“You are today, but if you keep making stupid decisions and putting yourself in danger like this every time then someday you won’t be!” He snaps at you.
“Spen-” You try to reach for his hand.
“Please sit still,” The EMT said, holding down your hand as you groaned in pain. “Spencer! Spencer, just lis-” Spencer just turned his back to you as he pushed past Hotch and Rossi.
“Kid!” Morgan calls out.
“Reid,” Emily said, turning back to go after him.
“Em,” You call out as she looks at you. “Let him go,” You say as you watch Spencer walk away.
“Alright, you’re all good to go. No heavy lifting or putting any pressure on your right hand. You’ll probably be off work for a couple of weeks until your left torso stitches fully heal. I’m prescribing this medication, take it as instructed and you should be good. Also, follow up with your doctor in a week,” The EMT said, handing you your prescription, that Morgan quickly snatched from your hand and put in his pocket.
“Alright let’s go,” Emily said, pulling a wheelchair towards you.
“Seriously?” You raised your eyebrow.
“It’s just from here to the car and then I’m sure Morgan wouldn’t mind picking you up,” She laughs as Morgan chuckles.
“Did Spencer leave?” You ask.  
“He uh- he rode back with the Sheriff. Rossi, JJ and Hotch just left.”
“Oh,” You understood that he was upset at you but he never left without you.
“He just cares for you Y/L/N, that’s why he’s just upset. The kid can’t stay mad at you for long. He’ll run up to you as soon as we get back.”
“I know,” Morgan was right, no matter how upset Spencer was at you, all it took was one glance of yours. Spencer was a softie, which is one of the million reasons why you loved him.
Emily held the door open to the station as Morgan helped you inside, JJ took notice and quickly pulled out a chair for you.
“Agent Y/l/n,” You looked over at the Sheriff. “That was one hell of a tactic. Great job,” You shake his hand as you notice Spencer shaking his head.
“Hey kiddo, how are you feeling?” Rossi asked.
“I’m okay,” You answered but, to be honest you weren’t going to be okay until you talked to Spencer. He was on the far end of the table with Hotch, wrapping up the files. He glanced your way and you sent a small smile his way but he just ignored you.
You sighed, grabbing the stack of files until Emily grabbed them from you, giving you a stern look.
“What are you doing?” She asked, putting the files aside.
“My paperwork.”
“Y/N, you’re hurt. The paperwork can wait,” She tells you.
“Don’t stop her Emily, she may be injured but she’ll probably fight you too,” Spencer says and you snap your head in his direction giving him the ‘are-you-being-serious-right-now?’ face.
“Guys,” The team looked up at you. “Can Spencer and I have the room for a minute?” They nod, leaving you and Spencer all alone, sitting on opposite ends of the table.
“Why are you so upset?” You ask as Spencer continues to shuffle through the files.
“You should know why.”
“This is our job, Spence,” You reply, as Spencer turns the corner you muster all the strength you have and stand up, grabbing his arm. As soon as you do, pain shoots right through your hand and wince in pain, retracting your hand.
“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, immediately dropping the files and lightly holding your arm. He pulls the chair and helps you sit down.
You look at Spencer and notice how instead of now being upset he was worried about you.
“I’m okay.” As you looked at him, Spencer grabbed his files and turned his back to you, walking away.
“Spencer,” He didn’t turn around. “Turn around please.” You heard Spencer sigh as he walked over to you and crouched down meeting you at eye level.
“Do you like doing this to yourself?!” He was still really upset.
“Doing what?”
“Always getting hurt? Does it give you some sort of adrenaline rush?”
“I made a decision.”
“It wasn’t the righ-”
“If you were in my position you would have done the same thing.”
“I would have thought of something else, Y/n!”
“No, no you wouldn’t have.”
“Y/n, I’ve had enough with you thinking that you can save everyone while doing this job. You’ve been doing this job for a long time and you know it doesn’t always work that way.”
“I know how this job works Spencer.”
“Do you really though?”
“What does that supposed mean?”
“You don’t think through your decisions.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
Although you were upset that Spencer brought it up, somewhere along the line you knew he was right. You didn’t always think your decisions through. If there was anything you learned while doing this job it was sometimes you had to make rash and fast decisions; and they won’t always be safe and easy to make.
“You can’t keep putting yourself into situations in which I might lose you.”
There it is.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer shook his head. “I know that this is our job but sometimes it sucks when we have to put ourselves on the front line not knowing what can happen.”
“There is a reason why we go through so much training, it’s because it prepares us for situations like this.” “I’m sorry for yelling at you in front of the team, I just saw you and I ju-just don’t know what came over me,” He breathed, you grabbed his face.  
“You were just worried and I don’t blame you,” Spencer looked at your bandaged right hand and you nudged his shoulder. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“You’re just saying that. Why didn’t you take any meds for the pain?”
“Because I didn’t need them.”
“Can you promise me something?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Can you promise to stop making stupid decisions when we’re out on the field?” You sat on Spencer’s words for a bit.
“Spencer you know how th-”
“I know I should trust you when you’re out on the field and you make decisions and I do but I’m always so nervous that I’m never going to see you again,” Spencer spoke honestly. “The thought of never seeing you again is abso-”
“Hey,” You whisper “We do a pretty intense job for a living, I won’t promise you anything but I will try to be more careful and make less stupid decisions.”
Spencer nods at your words. “But I am upset at you for one thing,” You said.
“Back at the crime scene, you left without me.”
“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have done that. It’s been weighing down on me ever since I got back with the Sheriff,” Spencer said, his voice laced with an undertone of sadness.
“I’m kidding Spence,” You said, throwing him a small smile. “I just don’t like it when you’re mad. You seem like a whole different person.”
“I know.”
“Do you by any chance have ibuprofen?” You ask, shyly.
“I do but you said you don’t need them.”
“Well I didn’t, but you’ve been squeezing my hand for the past 3 minutes and it’s starting to hurt like a cheese stick,” Spencer lets go immediately. You can tell that he tensed up. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” You assure him.
“Yeah, I’ll be right back.” Spencer gets up but turns around and faces you again. “Hey,” You look up at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Enough is enough; no more hurting yourself. Just don’t want to lose you,” He said, leaning down and kissing you. “I love you.”
“I love you,” You reply, pecking his lips again. “Also any unsub is going to need more a kitchen knife to take me out,” You joke as Spencer just shakes his head at you.
Sometimes making rash decisions can be the best decisions you ever make - Unknown
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there-must-be-a-lock · 7 months ago
Spencer Reid x (female) Reader
Word Count: 1465
Warnings: Withdrawal symptoms, addiction recovery, mentions of (canon) violence. Angst with a happy ending. 
A/N: For the “dream sequence” square on my @cmbingo​ card! 
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It’s not the cravings that almost break him, and it’s not the physical withdrawal symptoms. It’s the insomnia, and then it’s the dreams. 
Spencer can’t sleep for two days. Those first forty-eight hours are a blur of sweat and nausea and wanting. 
Spencer is used to that part: wanting. He’s used to wanting things he can’t have — wanting them so badly it feels like he’s being crushed by the weight of it — because he spent so much of his life wanting impossible things. The cravings are just an echo of the ache that used to be a constant companion. 
He wanted children to be less cruel. He wanted to understand them, to make himself understood, to communicate and connect in that easy way they seemed to connect with each other. He wanted his father to come back and his mother to get better. When he gave up on those things, he wanted someone — anyone — to help him. He wanted someone to share the weight, on her bad days, and to tell him he was doing the right thing. 
He was never much of a hugger, but sometimes he wanted to be held, just for a moment. Sometimes everything got so heavy. Sometimes he wanted someone there to help him carry it all. 
He curls up on the couch and shivers, sweats, waits for it to pass, and when he finally closes his eyes he can’t tell whether he’s dreaming or hallucinating. 
Substance abuse affects dopamine production. Dopamine regulates sleep, and withdrawal interferes with sleep architecture, Spencer recites. Sleep architecture: the structure of the phases of normal sleep, as shown on a hypnogram. He draws it on the chalkboard, sketching out the peaks and valleys. 
This graph is all wrong. He stares at it in horror, tries to erase it, but he made a mistake and he can’t fix it. The class is laughing at him, and he turns to face them. He’s naked, of course, and tied to the goalposts, and he can’t get away from his mistake. He thrashes with all his might, but he can’t move. 
He opens his eyes and he’s back on his couch, but there’s something heavy on top of him. Tobias: eyes glazed and lifeless, with a bullet that had been meant for Spencer lodged in his chest. 
Spencer can’t move. Every cell in his body wants to get away. 
When the paralysis fades he’s choking, scrambling away from the couch, trying to run for the bathroom, but he’s tangled in blankets and tripping and stumbling — and he falls, gags, but there’s nothing left in his stomach anyway. 
He doesn’t have the energy to drag himself to his feet, and he can’t shake the image of the corpse pinning him to the couch, so he just wraps himself in a blanket and sits on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, wondering when it’ll end. Everything hurts. 
Make it stop, he thinks, and shivers, because that’s what he thought that last time Hankel pointed the gun at his head: I’ve had enough. Please make it stop. 
He closes his eyes and Tobias is there, smiling a little sadly. 
Welcome back, he says. 
This is a dream, Spencer tells him. 
Maybe. Maybe not. Morphine is named for Morpheus, the god of sleep, you know. You prayed. I answered. 
Spencer is in the chair again, aching all over — stripped naked and tied up and left alone — and maybe he should fight harder, but Tobias is holding a syringe and Spencer’s too tired to fight any more. 
You’re weak, Tobias says, in his father’s voice. And I’m leaving. 
Please don’t. Please don’t leave me. Spencer’s squirming away from the needle, writhing against the restraints —
You’re weak. Look what you did, boy. 
— but when he looks down he doesn’t see anything holding him in the chair after all. There’s just the spidery threads of blood spreading from the hole where the needle was. 
Spencer’s holding the syringe, and when he looks up, it’s the team walking away, shaking their heads, leaving him alone, leaving him to die here. 
He thrashes and screams and the chair falls over, lands with a thunk that knocks the breath from his lungs, and Spencer wakes up, dragging in deep uneven gulps of air, sitting up on the hard cold floor with his head spinning and his muscles screaming. 
He wants to shout, don’t leave me, but his apartment is empty; it’s too late. 
Time has passed. He can’t be sure how much time, but it’s dark now. Twelve hours since he fell asleep, maybe, but he feels more exhausted than ever. It takes every bit of his energy to drag himself back to the couch. 
Hotch had just nodded when Spencer said he needed a little time off. The team knows, in an abstract sort of way, but nobody has talked about it. They won’t talk about it; they can’t. They can’t say it out loud — addiction — because… plausible deniability, really, is what it boils down to. 
The first step is admitting you have a problem. Spencer has to take that step alone, and all the other steps too. 
Loneliness is a familiar feeling. He should really be used to it; he spent most of his life lonely. This should be scar tissue, by now, but apparently it was just a scab, and Spencer’s never been good at leaving those alone. He has the pale craters of his chicken pox to show for it. 
Spencer hasn’t been lonely for a couple years now — not like this — because as much as he still feels like the odd one out more often than not (it’s never easy, even if he’s gotten better at communicating) he’s part of a team. He has a place there. There’s somebody who feels more like a father than his own father ever has, albeit in a grouchy, scowling kind of way. There’s an older brother who ruffles his hair and calls him pretty boy. There’s a girl whose smile looks like the sun coming out after a storm. 
And there’s Hotch, who found him in that cemetery because he knew Spencer well enough to hear the coded message, because he understood, and that’ll never take away the memory of all the blank stares over the years, but it felt like a turning point. 
He closes his eyes and Hotch is peering down into the grave Spencer dug for himself. Hotch shakes his head sadly. You got yourself into this mess and you have to get yourself out of it again.
Spencer tries to speak but there’s dirt in his mouth. 
I don’t know what you’re saying, Spencer.  
Help me, he tries to say, but all the other kids are just watching and laughing. 
We can’t help you, Spencer. You’re on your own. 
He tries to climb, but there’s too much dirt. Hotch keeps shoveling, and it’s too heavy, on top of him. It’s weighing him down.
Spencer. Look what you’ve done. 
Spencer. Spencer! 
Consciousness sneaks up gradually. He’s tangled in his blanket, soaked in sweat, but there’s someone banging on the door. 
“Spencer!” she’s shouting. “You have five seconds and then I’m picking your lock!” 
He opens the door just as she raises her fist again. Her eyes go wide when she sees him, and her mouth drops open, and Spencer’s cheeks burn when he realizes how he must look. 
“What are you doing here?” he croaks, mouth too dry to form the words, like he’s still choking on grave dirt.
“I’m going to make you some tea,” she informs him. “And maybe some soup, if that goes well. Okay?” She shoulders past him before he can insist he’s fine. 
“You don’t have to,” he mumbles. 
“Bullshit. That’s what friends are for,” she says briskly. He closes the door and trails after her as she marches into his kitchen. She pours a glass of water and hands it to him, standing there with her arms crossed as he drinks it down. His hand trembles as he gives the glass back, and she sets it in the sink.
“Why—” he tries. 
“Because you’re my friend,” she says, jaw set stubbornly, but her eyes are sad. She wraps her arms around him, pulls him close, fingers clutching the thin sweat-soaked cotton of his shirt, and she lets out a slow, shaky exhale. He’s swaying, but she supports him and keeps him steady. 
“I didn’t mean to make you worry, I’m sorry. I haven’t showered, you don’t have to—” He tries to make himself step back, but she squeezes him closer. 
“Please let me help,” she whispers. “Please don’t try to do this alone.” 
Spencer clings, burying his face in her neck, and holds on. 
If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave a message! 
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writteninsunshine · 4 months ago
He’s Going The Distance - Chris Redfield/Ethan Winters - SFWish
Title: He’s Going The Distance
Author: Reno
Fandom: Resident Evil 7: Biohazard
Setting: Medbay, Post-Dulvey Incident
Pairing: Chris Redfield/Ethan Winters
Characters: Chris Redfield, Ethan Winters, Random Nurse
Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Rating: M
Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 1386
Type Of Work: One-Shot, Part of the For All These Times series, Whump Bingo Fill #2
Status: Complete
Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, MLM, Pre-Slash, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociating, Blood, Deep Wounds, Trans Male Character, Trans!Ethan Winters, Possible OOC for Chris, Medical Equipment, Medical Treatment, Stitches, Sutures, I.V.s, Pain Meds
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything.
Summary: Was Ethan truly so used to pain that he didn't notice that?
AN: Hey guys, it’s me again! Just thought I ought to say, if you want vague updates and to talk to me more, I have a writing Tumblr, too! Twitter is Sunshinecackle, and Tumblr is Writteninsunshine! I also have a writing Discord that is currently pretty dead. xD If you want it, please contact me on Twitter!
More whump fic bingo! I’m really enjoying these, they’re too much fun to write. Oops, I like to punish Ethan even if he doesn’t deserve it. He’s so whumpable. I hope you guys are enjoying this, I know I sure am. This one is for my editor, Gryph, who is the best editor I could ever ask for. MAJOR shout out to her!
Resident Evil Fic Masterlist
Ethan Whump Bingo Fic Masterlist
He’s Going The Distance
There was an old thought resurfacing as Chris looked at Ethan. A man who could live through anything was what S.T.A.R.S. had wanted, Ethan would have been welcomed into the fold. The man was a machine when it came to surviving anything. Despite this, he seemed too oblivious to notice when something was wrong with him. All the healing fluid in the world couldn’t help the man with how much constant pain wracked his body. It was almost impossible to discern one pang of pain from the rest. That hand was a nasty wound, the staples not quite sanitary when they’d been secured into his skin.
But that wasn’t what he’d noticed just now.
“Ethan,” He began, his voice soft and wary as if speaking too loudly might shatter the other man. “You’re bleeding.”
“I am?” His voice sounded exhausted, hoarse, and so soft Chris barely heard him.
Tugging him closer for inspection, he unbuttoned Ethan’s shirt and pulled it away like a pair of curtains. Yanking up the undershirt he wore, Chris paused a moment to stare. Unable to help how his fingers splayed over the other’s stomach, eyes taking in the thick scars beneath his pecs. His thoughts turned away from the injury for a second, he only stopped when he reached the center of Ethan’s chest. He took in the soft peach fuzz there with a quirk of his lips he wasn’t in control of. Finally, his fingers fell over the thick gash leaking over Ethan’s pale skin, and the touch made Ethan recoil some. 
“Don’t,” Chris warned, eyes narrowing a little as he reached around, pulling Ethan close again by his waist, a hand on his middle back, “You’re hurt. I’ll fix you right up.” 
Leaving Ethan for a moment, he returned with a basin of warm water and a few washcloths. Where he’d gotten them from, Ethan didn’t know, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 
Dragging one wet cloth over the blood, he cleaned Ethan up despite his hisses and gasps of pain. What was the best option was going to hurt, so Chris started by applying a local anesthetic gel to the area around the wound. He must have found it when he brought the rest of his supplies, Ethan figured. He winced, flinching when Chris’s hands got too close to the weeping injury, but he sucked in a deep breath and bit the thin skin on the inside of his lip. It was all he could do to keep himself from making any more noise.
“I’m going to have to give you stitches.” Honestly, Chris was worried that Ethan was going to start leaking organs. It was deep, and he could almost touch the other’s rib bones. Ethan had really taken a beating, and it was hard to fathom how he hadn’t noticed this. Then again, he was in shock after everything that had happened, after all of the mental and physical trauma he had taken. Maybe it wasn’t such a strange occurrence. 
After all, he was a civilian. He hadn’t been meant to find these kinds of things. If he had stayed away, he would have been blissfully unaware, but there might have been a worse problem on Chris’ hands by the time they arrived at the scene.
“Okay.” Letting out the breath he’d been holding, Ethan nodded just slightly to save him from aggravating his pounding headache, “Just… Do it quickly. I don’t feel good.” Swaying, he felt his knees begin to buckle, and Chris caught him in a tight embrace. This wasn’t going to work with Ethan standing, anyway.
Hefting him up bridal style, Chris carried Ethan like he weighed nothing. Sitting him down on a nearby gurney, he removed his shirts and set them aside. They were stained, torn to hell, and bloody. He’d have to get him a change of clothes. Helping ease him to lay down so that his right side was facing out, he ran a hand over the other’s chest in a hope to help calm him. Maybe it wasn’t entirely innocent, but he was trying to stay focused here.
“This might hurt, but I promise I’ll be quick.” All Chris got in return was a soft murmur he couldn’t hear, let alone understand. If nothing else, Chris was efficient, and Ethan looked like he was going to faint. That might help him do this without Ethan bellyaching the whole time. Stepping away, Chris grabbed a first aid kit, opening it up and setting it beside Ethan on the cot. Digging out a needle, some antiseptic, and surgical thread, he worked the thread through the eye of the needle and set to work.
The laceration was likely already infected, if not by something typical, then by the mold Ethan had been exposed to. With a little sigh, Chris poured some of the liquid over it, making sure to use gauze to get it inside. The forceps he had grabbed entering it made Ethan grunt, but he was too tired to try and fight it. Chris diligently worked on cleaning him up, wiping at more blood before grabbing the sterilized needle. He wiped it down again with a clean antiseptic wipe before starting with the initial stick. Ethan didn’t seem to notice this, due to the numbing gel, and Chris was glad for it.
With the easy glide of the needle and his skillful hands, he made quick work of the stitches, hoping not to bother Ethan too much. Once they were tight, he cut the cord and cleaned up the wound once more, wiping away the gel with a few medical towelettes, before drying the area. To make sure it would stay clean, he rubbed another cloth damp with warm water on the site before running more of the wipes over it. A dry rag then worked over the glistening flesh, and he didn’t stop until he had patted him dry.
“Ethan, I need you to sit up. I have to wrap this.” Chris spoke, breaking the silence in the room they were in. Unfortunately, it seemed that Ethan had fallen asleep, or maybe passed out, so he had no choice but to gently shake him awake. “Ethan, you have to sit up.”
Ethan nodded absently, slowly pushing himself up with the other’s aid. Bracing himself on his shaking arms, he let Chris wrap him up with gauze from his stomach to his shoulders, surprised by his gentle hands. Once Ethan was bandaged up, he was allowed to lay back once more, and Chris didn’t think about his next action. Kissing Ethan’s forehead gently, he petted a hand over the skin and the other’s sweat-damp hair.
“You should be alright, now. I’ll keep an eye on this.” Voice quiet, he smiled slightly, hoping to keep him at ease. It didn’t seem like Ethan was going to panic, though, too worn down to do much but flutter his eyelashes. “Sleep, now. I’ll get you some pain killers when you wake up.” God knew he’d need them. Moving the gurney around so that he could be more comfortable and closer to the setup for the I.V., Chris sighed in relief. Already asleep, or so he hoped.
Settling in a nearby chair, Chris pulled out his phone. He’d be stuck here for a while, for sure. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, he’d been set to guard Ethan while his tests were being done.
Ethan didn’t wake for what felt like hours, and when he did it was with a groan of pain. Chris was quick to give him water and a shot of morphine that he was instructed to administer through the I.V. that a nurse had given Ethan. At the very least, he was going to be taken care of.
“Thanks.” Ethan managed, his voice cracking halfway through. 
“You need care.” That much was obvious. Chris combed a hand through the other’s blond locks once more. “If that means I have to do it, then so be it.” There was an odd fondness he felt for Ethan in this moment, watching him nod, his eyes glassy and distant. “You’ll be okay.”
With any luck, he’d bounce back from this. He’d been through hell already, what was another ordeal to save him?
AN: There we go! It’s not super shippy but I’ll still tag it, just in case. Also, this probably makes more pain for the start of The Village, but that’s okay. I might write something about it when I’ve seen more of the game. I got it preordered for my birthday but it’s at my friend’s house until I can see her again. I’ve been watching it, however, so I’ll get there eventually. I hope you guys enjoyed it!
Prompt: Ethan Doesn’t Realize He’s Injured
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yoontopia · a year ago
𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗶𝘁𝘆 | 𝗷𝗷𝗸
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pairing: jeon jungkook x reader
genre: detective au; fluff, a smidgen of angst, childhood friends to lovers
rating: 18+ (mentions of assault, domestic abuse and suicide; minor character death, serial killers are mentioned, minor mention of alcohol and weapons, most likely an inaccurate portrayal of policework)
word count: 7.7k
summary: when a case forces you to re-visit your hometown, you’re also forced to re-visit your past and one particular jeon jungkook, your childhood friend, and the man you’d fallen in love with -- while he’d been been engaged to someone else.
author’s note: whew this is me coming back to writing for the first time in a WHILE.  happy (belated) birthday jungkook! I’m sorry for being 8 days late T_T
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The first thing you do when you get into work is make coffee. The lieutenant has recently invested in a rather pricey looking coffee machine after giving the entire team a loud and exasperated lecture about “leaving the precinct to take too many coffee breaks”. You can’t say that you complain about this new arrangement.
The second thing you do when you get into work is check the files on your desk. It is when you’re rifling through these, a mug of steaming black liquid next to you, that your partner slaps another folder on your desk.
“What is this?” you ask, looking up at his tired demeanour. Min Yoongi is an excellent detective, but talent and success come at a price. You don’t think the man has ever gotten a good night’s rest.
“A 16-year old girl found murdered by the piers in Busan,” Yoongi says, pulling the chair from the empty desk next to you and subsequently collapsing in it. “The fishermen found her early this morning.”
“Busan?” you ask, the name of your hometown heavy on your tongue. “What business does that have with the Seoul Major Crimes Unit?”
“It becomes our business when you see how she was killed.” Yoongi states, leaning forward and flipping open the file for you. You look down at the medical examiner’s report, light finally shedding on your situation.
“Legs and hands tied with plastic cable ties, throat slashed, face carved into a permanent mangled grin – its Him. The age and description of the girl match with his previous victims and Busan PD asked us to come down since we’re handling The Joker’s case.”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “What did I tell you about enabling him?” Yoongi shrugs, leaning back in his chair.
You stare back down at the photos of the crime scene, your brain trying to piece together the information. This particular serial killer – nicknamed The Joker by the general public for the way he dismembered his victims’ faces – had been at large for a couple years now and had murdered five young girls. Well, you muse, the count is up to six now.
“He’s never struck outside Seoul before,” you murmur. In your periphery, Yoongi nods, taking a sip out of his own coffee. “This is so out of his way. Are we sure its not a copycat?”
“I considered that,” he says, twiddling his thumbs. “The lead detectives in charge of this case want us to check it out and see if we can figure out of it’s the real deal. If it is The Joker, the case is ours anyway.”
“I know some cops in Busan,” you say, closing the file. You had grown up there and worked there before transferring. “Who’s in charge?” Yoongi stares at you before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a slip of paper with names scribbled on it.
“Let’s see—the man who called this morning – a Kim Taehyung – do you know him?” You blink.
“Yeah, we-we went to college together,” you say, your voice suddenly hushed.
“Aw that’s cute, a little reunion,” Yoongi grins but then studies your expression. “Is it not a happy occasion?”
“No no,” you laugh weakly. “Taehyung is fine – great actually! He’s good at what he does too. I’m grateful he’s in charge of this one.”
“Great, we leave tomorrow first thing,” Yoongi says, electing to ignore your high voice and nervousness. “I got us KTX tickets for the first train out.”
You nod, swallowing. Kim Taehyung isn’t the problem, it’s who he’s partners with that has your stomach in knots.
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Your train pulls into Busan at a very early hour that even coffee can’t fix. You heave your duffel bag over your shoulder and wait for Yoongi to grab his before stepping off onto the platform. Yawning, you look around.
The dawn has left behind a slight fog around the city and the morning October air has a slight chill in it. You haven’t been back in Busan since the day you left, some two years ago. Your parents had moved to Seoul recently, taking with them the only reason you’d ever have to visit this seaside city.
Yoongi hops off the train next to you and looks around. He’s a Daegu native, but knows this city like the back of his hand.
“I booked us a hotel near the crime scene,” is the first thing he says.
“That’s not morbid at all,” you chuckle, and he rolls his eyes. “But first I’m guessing we head straight to the precinct?” Yoongi nods and the two of you opt to share a cab instead of taking the public transport.
Before you know it, you’re getting off at the police department. Two officers at the entrance have been alerted of your arrival and show you the way. Yoongi shoots you a surprised look, but you grin back. Busan has always been known for its friendly and amicable citizens.
When you enter what is obviously the homicide department, Taehyung is the first person you see. He shouts your name from across the room, turning several heads, and bounces towards you like a golden retriever reunited with its long-lost owner.
“That is Kim Taehyung?” Yoongi asks and you’re not sure if he’s impressed or disappointed.
“Its so good to see you!” he says, a boxy grin painting his face. You take him in. Taehyung hasn’t changed much since college, but the dyed blonde hair he used to sport when he was younger has now been swapped for his natural black curls, which bounce every time he walks. “And you must be Detective Min, we spoke on the phone”
“Ah—yes,” Yoongi utters, thoroughly thrown off. You hide a smile.
“Come in, come in! Ah you can leave your bags by my desk for now.” The two of you do as you’re told, and Taehyung then leads you to a small conference room which holds a projector screen, a small round table, and a few chairs.
“I assume you’ve read the case file?” he asks and when you nod, he continues. “We haven’t had anything quite like this before – at least not during my career. I realize the two of you are the leads on The Joker right now, so any help you’re willing to provide is appreciated really.”
“Any new developments?” you ask, pulling out the file from your backpack. Taehyung hums before sitting down across from you.
“The toxicology report came back right as you arrived, I got a text from my partner,” Taehyung says, and you try to keep a straight face. “He’s over there right now he should be here soon, by the way,” You’re thankful that he doesn’t dwell on the topic for too long, most likely out of respect for you. “They found morphine in her system, so we’re inclined to believe that she was drugged before being tied up and killed. Your raise your eyebrows at this piece of information.
“The Joker doesn’t drug his victims.” You state. “They’re all very much awake when he ties them up and slashes their throats. The carved smile is always scratched in post-mortem.”
“Well there are inconsistencies then,” Taehyung says, running a hand through his hair. “All the wounds here were caused after he actually killed her – and that includes… whatever he did to her face.”
“So, we’re looking at a copycat.” You state.
“Or he’s changed his MO.” Yoongi adds.
“He hasn’t changed it for his first five victims what was special about this one that he had to drug her to knock her out first? No, this sounds like someone plotting murder and covering it up. Either way let’s explore all avenues.” You say.
“I agree,” comes a voice from behind you and you almost jump out of your seat. You turn to see the very person you’d been dreading running into since stepping foot on the platform this morning. Jeon Jungkook walks in, two cups in his hands, setting one down in front of Taehyung. He leans over to shake hands with Yoongi, giving you a mere side-glance. He sits down across from the two of you and takes a sip of his drink. Distractedly, you wonder if its coffee – as far as you know he was never a big fan.
The again, you muse, you’re not sure you really know him anymore.
There’s an awkward sort of silence and Yoongi’s body language tells you he’s noticed something’s off. Taehyung clears his throat.
“I’m assuming the two of you will want to check the crime scene out?”
“And the body.” You add. Taehyung nods and stands up.
“Do you want to split up or do both together?” You look at Yoongi.
“Together,” the two of you say at the same time. Yoongi’s smiling. You smile back.
Getting into the back of Taehyung’s sleek black SUV, you watch Yoongi jump in from the other side, dark hair slightly tousled from trying to get some sleep on the train. He’d been your partner for the entirety of your career with the Seoul PD. The two of you had started as rookie cops and had spent the first few months catching small-time criminals. Yoongi was easy to work with, and you’d found a fast friend in him, being alone in a big, unfamiliar city. You closed cases like no one else and before you knew it, the two of you were promoted to Major Crimes as detectives. The Joker was one of your first cases and it was a real thorn in your side that you hadn’t managed to catch the bastard yet.
Jungkook gets in the passenger seat next to Taehyung. He hasn’t so much as addressed you yet, except for agreeing with your previous statement. You had expected as much. He’s still sipping on his drink. Taehyung is talking to one of the officers by the main gate and you take this time to really take in Jungkook’s appearance.
He hasn’t changed – gotten broader maybe. His hair is slightly longer, falling into his eyes. His ears are still pierced in multiple places, although right now he’s only wearing simple rings in both ears. He’s wearing a dark sweatshirt, which you recognize is from the Busan Police Academy as you own the same one. His right hand is littered with tattoos you can’t make out, and they disappear into his arm. That is new and you wonder when he got them done. Unable to help yourself, your eyes travel to his left hand, his ring finger. You’re surprised to find it empty. The last time you saw him, there was definitely a ring there. It was the last time you were in Busan. You haven’t returned since.
“Did Namjoon text you?” Yoongi’s voice breaks you out of your reverie. You look at your partner distractedly. “He said he was going to.”
“Oh, I haven’t checked.” You mutter, before pulling out your phone from the back pocket of your jeans. There is an unread message, surely enough from your co-worker.
“Yeah he says Holly’s fine,” You tell Yoongi, scrolling through the message. “He was a little shy last night but seems to have taken a liking to Joon.” Yoongi heaves a sigh of relief. Yoongi was also your roommate back home, and his dog meant more to him more than anything else. You secretly were also extremely fond of the little brown poodle. “He says he’ll send pictures later.” Yoongi scoffs at that.
“He better, I do not trust that man with our dog.” Yoongi says and you smile at his wording. Holly was definitely Yoongi’s dog, you had just moved into his apartment when he was in need of a roommate to help cover the rent. It was so easy to be platonically domestic with Min Yoongi.
“Why didn’t you just leave him with your brother?” you ask, putting your phone away, looking out through the window to see if Taehyung is done.
“Geumjae’s in Daegu for my Mom’s birthday.” you turn to Yoongi in surprise.
“It’s your Mom’s birthday and you’re here?” you ask in surprise. Yoongi shrugs. “Maybe we should stop in Daegu on the way back.”
“I considered it,” he says. “If we have time.”
“I’d like to meet her.” You say warmly.
Jungkook clears his throat and you look at him, having forgotten he’s in the car too. He’s about to say something when Taehyung opens the door and gets in on the driver’s side.
“Sorry,” he says. “We have another ongoing case.”
“It’s not a problem,” Yoongi says. “You could’ve just left us to go do all this by ourselves.”
“No this case takes precedent for us too,” Taehyung says, starting up the car. “Plus, we’re here to help you if you ever need anything.”
The rest of the drive is silent, but its an almost-comfortable type of silence. You look out the window, taking in the familiar streets from your younger years. Nothing really has changed but then again, two years isn’t a long time at all. Or maybe it is. You’re not sure anymore.
“You say she was found near Haeundae?”
“Near the Haeundae market, yes.” Jungkook answers, surprising you. “She hadn’t been in the water and no water was found in her lungs, so she wasn’t drowned. No blood or signs of struggle in the surrounding area meaning she was killed elsewhere and brought to the market. We aren’t sure why this particular location was chosen--”
“The killer wanted her to be found,” you say, your voice soft, cutting him off. “The markets open before anything else. Everyone who lives here knows that.” Jungkook turns to look at you, really look at you, for the first time since he’d walked into the conference room.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think so too.”
“ID?” Yoongi asks, and either he’s pretending not to feel the tension in the car, or he doesn’t notice it. Knowing Yoongi, it’s probably the former.
“16-year-old Park Sohee,” Jungkook says, turning back to look at the little black notebook he has open. “Attended high school in Haeundae, grew up in the area too.”
“Have you spoken to the parents?” You ask.
“Yesterday,” he replies. “She was on the swim and dive team at school. Had excellent grades and many friends. A popular kid. Parents say she had no enemies, and no boyfriend, and wasn’t involved in anything ‘bad’.”
“Yeah well a parent is always going to say that,” you muse. “Have you spoken with her school? Friends? Swim coach?”
“Not yet. We waited for you.” You nod at that.
“I’d like to see the body after this if that’s okay. Yoongi can go talk to the school.” Yoongi nods beside you.
“Sure, one of us can go with you and the other can go with Detective Min.” Taehyung says, pulling up near the fish markets. You step out of the car, the smell of fish immediately overpowering you. You wrinkle your nose and look around. The market is exactly the same as you remember it. The familiar stalls selling everything from fresh produce to seafood to small trinkets and jewelry. It isn’t too busy right now considering it’s a weekday, which means you can look around easily.
“Nostalgic?” Jungkook asks stepping in beside you. You smile slightly.
“Only a little,” you answer him. “We used to come here a lot.”
“I still do to be honest,” he jokes. “The naengmyeon here is unrivalled.”
“Still?” you ask surprised, and he nods.
“Have some while you’re here,” he says, tossing his now empty cup in the nearby trashcan. “I know you like it.” He’s looking at you once again looking like he wants to say something. You understand, there are so many words left unsaid between you after all. You’re not sure you want to open that door though. Jungkook has always worn his heart on his sleeve.
“Over here,” Taehyung motions from some distance away and the two of you make your way to him. Yoongi is already standing there and he hands you a pair of gloves. Pulling them on, you lift the yellow police tape to make your way to the scene.
“They found her in front of this stall, on her back.”
“On display,” you say, kneeling near the chalk outline of the body. “Killer wanted us to see her face and neck.” You looked up at Jungkook and Taehyung, who were looking at you in confusion.
“It’s another inconsistency,” you say, standing up. “The Joker’s victims are all found face down. This guy totally didn’t do his research considering he was trying to be a copycat.”
“He wanted us to see the slashed throat,” Yoongi says. “He’s an amateur at this.” You nod.
“The cause of death was the morphine, I’m guessing. The wounds were all inflicted post-mortem”
“She had no other inflictions,” Jungkook says. “You can look at the tox screen when we go see the body and talk to the M.E. too.”
“Who found her?”
“A couple fishermen,” Taehyung reads off his notes. “Time of death is approximately 3-4 AM and both their alibis check out, they were out on the docks ready to head out.”
“I say we tell the press we’re convinced it’s the Joker,” you say, taking off your gloves and pocketing them.
“I agree,” pipes up Jungkook.
“Detective Min, if you can come with me to go talk to the family,” Taehyung says to Yoongi and then turns to you. “Go with Jungkook to see the body,” he says. You nod hesitantly, half-hoping it would’ve been the other way around. “We’ll drop you off on our way.”
Before you know it, you’re standing next to Jungkook outside the medical examiner’s office. Jungkook pushes the door open, letting you go through first.
“Hey Jin, I’m back,” he says and you hear a crash and a man appears from behind some shelves. He’s wearing a lab coat, dark hair disheveled. He looks at you.
“Oh, the detective from Seoul I’m guessing!” he says, his voice oddly melodious. “Kim Seokjin, MD.” You shake his hand, grinning and introducing yourself. You already like him.
“She wants to take a look at the body.”
“Of course, of course,” Seokjin says rushing around to the many shelves in the wall, popping one open and pulling out the body of Park Sohee.
You and Jungkook make your way towards it. You peer down at the young girl.
“The morphine is likely what killed her,” Seokjin says, watching you.
“She has bruises,” you say softly, staring at her abdomen. “Post-mortem?”
“No.” Seokjin replies. “She got those when she was alive. The coloring indicates they’re old.”
“Swimming and diving aren’t high contact sports,” you say. “Where did she get these bruises on her arms and chest?”
“You thinking domestic abuse?” Jungkook asks from behind you
“The parents said she didn’t have a partner. How did the parents seem?”
“Upset,” Jungkook starts, then stops. “You think the parents did this?”
“Just considering all options. Her team coach is also a possibility. I won’t know until we’ve checked all of them.” You look down at her again. “A pretty girl.” You say. “Can I have copies of the tox screen?”
“Sure,” Seokjin replies, walking over to his desk to print out a copy. “There isn’t much other than the morphine. An overwhelming amount.”
“Where would they get access to so much morphine?”
“No idea,” he says walking over and handing you the toxicology report, which you subsequently put in your bag. “But it was way over the lethal amount. The killer isn’t an expert on dosage. My guess? Someone who has no idea how killing works.”
You and Jungkook walk out of the building. The afternoon sun is peaking out, making you shed your jacket.
“You hungry?” he asks, and you realize you are. All you’ve had since arriving in Busan is coffee. “There’s a galbi place around here.”
He leads you around the corner into a small restaurant and you enter behind him.
“Jungkookie!” comes an excited voice and you see an elderly woman wearing a flowery apron making her way towards you. “It’s been a while!”
Jungkook grins at the woman and greets her politely and she ushers you over to a small table by the window facing the busy street. Handing you a menu, she smiles kindly at you.
“You’re a regular?” you ask.
“I used to be. It’s been a while honestly.”
You scan the menu, your mouth immediately watering.
“The dak-galbi here is unreal,” he tells you and you pretend to throw the menu away.
“Well how dare I eat anything else then!” Jungkook laughs, high and melodic. Its been a while since you’ve heard that laugh. “Let us split the dak-galbi. I also want rice.”
Jungkook gets up and walks over to the counter himself to give your order. You watch him, a small smile on your face. He collapses back in his seat, bringing over two glasses of water.
“So,” he says.
“What’s with the tattoos.” You blurt out, eyeing his hand. He stares down at it too.
“Wanted a change, I guess,” he says slowly. “Life was getting pretty dull around here.”
“So, you got inked,” you say grinning. He grins back.
“I’m happy this isn’t awkward,” he says after a while and you freeze. “I’m glad we can sit and talk like this still.”
“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”
“About back then—” he starts, and you sigh. You want desperately to avoid this conversation but Jungkook, ever the straight arrow, has never liked underlying tension, and prefers everything laid out on the table in front of him. “I’m sorry for everything.”
“Don’t apologize for your feelings,” you tell him, but he shakes his head vigorously.
“No, I am sorry,” his tone is firm. “I ruined our friendship, made everything weird and drove you away. I know I’m the reason you’ve avoided this place until now and even now you’re only here because you have to be—”
“Jungkook,” you interrupt gently, and he halts mid-rant, his doe-like eyes wide. “Stop talking. I’m the one who’s sorry. I acted immature and it was me who ruined everything, not you. I didn’t come back because-because it hurt at first and then I didn’t come back because I thought you’d be happier without having to deal with me.”
“How could you think that?” He’s gripping the table, knuckles white. It makes the ink on his hand stand out even more. You see a sketch of a small rose, about an inch tall, right below his index finger, and bite your lip. “You were my best friend.”
“It’s different now,” you assure him, still staring at the rose. It’s staring back at you, a silent taunt. It brings up repressed memories you rather not face. “Things are different. I’m happy—in Seoul. Please don’t blame yourself for everything that happened. I wasn’t angry to see you, I was just worried you wouldn’t want to see me. I’m happy now and I’ve moved on from all that.”
“With Yoongi.” Jungkook says, and you’re not sure why he sounds so bitter.
“With Yoongi, yes,” you say. Yoongi’s your work partner and a steady shoulder when you need one. He’s your roommate and best friend. Seoul is lonely and even after two years of living there, he’s one of your only friends. But as soon as you say it, something in Jungkook’s expression shifts, like a door slamming shut. He sits back. “He’s the best partner anyone can ask for, and a damn good detective.”
Jungkook nods once, jaw clenched. Before you can ask him what’s wrong, your food arrives and you’re too hungry to think of much else.
After that, the two of you only make polite small talk. There’s no tension but you can’t help but feel like the wall that was crumbling has somehow repaired itself. Jungkook’s phone rings as he’s finishing his rice.
“Tae, hey,” he says, phone in his left hand as he eats with his right. You distractedly wonder why he doesn’t wear his ring anymore. “Okay sounds good. No, we can just walk to the station its only a couple blocks. Yeah man see you there.”
“They done talking to the school?”
“Yeah they’ll fill us in when we get there.”
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“So, what’s the deal?” Yoongi asks, his lithe body curled up on the hotel armchair in your room. His room is next door, but the two of you had ordered room service for dinner. Empty bowls of jajangmyeon lie littered on the small side table next to him.
“The deal with what?”
“Detective Jeon,” You turn to Yoongi and fix him with a stare. Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
“Nonsense,” you reply.
“You two have a history? It got seriously weird at times today.”
“No history—it’s the same as Taehyung, we attended the police academy together. Taehyung was a couple years ahead of us though.”
“And I’ve also attended middle school and high school with Jungkook. He was my neighbour growing up.”
“Ah childhood friends,” Yoongi hums. “But what went wrong?”
“What makes you think something went wrong?”
“Because you left behind a perfectly good life here when you moved to Seoul? Because you never talk about these people? Before today I didn’t even know of them. And also, because you were absolutely dreading coming here.” You sigh, hating Yoongi’s astute personality.
“Jungkook found out how I felt,” You say quietly. “About him.”
“While he had a girlfriend.”
“Who he was engaged to.”
“What the fuck,” Yoongi’s tone makes you giggle, relieving the pain a little.
“Obviously, he never felt the same way, but then things got so weird. It was like we could never go back to what was. Jungkook skirted around me, his girlfriend hated my guts, I had to avoid our whole friend-group because all of his friends were my friends. It felt claustrophobic.”
“So, you left.”
“Not exactly,” you say. “I wasn’t actively looking to run away, but when the option to move was presented to me, I hesitated way less than I originally would have.”
“And are you still in love with him?” Yoongi asks, voice casual.
“I don’t know,” you reply, thinking of the small rose tattooed on Jungkook’s hand. It’s easier to deny. “It’s been two years and as far as I know he could be married by now.”
“I didn’t see a ring,” Yoongi answers, like the detective he is. “And that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Doesn’t matter,” you say. “He was head over heels for Jangmi.”
“What a delicate name,” Yoongi muses.
“She was the delicate kind,” you agree. “Kind, pretty, gentle – just like her name—like a rose.”
“Every rose has its thorns though,” Yoongi says wisely. “He cares about you, you know.”
“Detective Jeon. I can see it in his eyes.”
“You’re such a romantic at heart Min,” You tease. Yoongi only smiles softly in return. “It doesn’t matter. Jungkook’s life is here and mine is in Seoul. After we wrap this case up, I probably won’t see him again. I’m happy with my life right now.”
“Maybe if you tell yourself that enough times, it’ll one day become the truth.”
“Anyway, go over what you saw with the victim’s school again.” You sit on your bed cross-legged, your go-to posture when you’re trying to focus.
“Nothing really seemed out of the ordinary. Her swim coach is a well-respected man. Usually men in power take advantage of multiple people under them but none of the other girls in the team seemed out of sorts to me. Her teachers all spoke highly of her—she really did have excellent grades. It seemed she was friendly with everyone in her class and on her team. I’ve hit a block.”
“That’s frustrating.”
“The bruises you mentioned are bothering me,” Yoongi adds. “They don’t seem to have an explanation and the parents seemed surprised when we asked them about it.”
“Alibis for the parents?”
“Asleep at home,” he hums. “No way for us to check that. Sohee was on her way back from swim practice and when she didn’t show up at home at the regular time by 10pm her mother started worrying. They claimed they would call the police the next day, but of course it was too late.”
“They didn’t think their daughter not showing up at home was a cause for panic?” You ask. “It’s weird to me. She wasn’t the rebellious type, so this must not have been normal behaviour.”
“You’re set on the parents, aren’t you?” Yoongi grins, stretching his legs out.
“It’s just this feeling, I don’t even have an explanation for it.”
“A hunch.”
“Yes but no proof,” You grit your teeth in frustration.
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It rains on your second day in Busan. You roll out of bed to the sound of the tell-tale pitter patter and groan. Getting ready and putting on the jeans from yesterday along with a black dress shirt, you hop around trying to tuck it into the waistband. There’s a knock on your door and you open it to greet Jungkook.
“Oh—hey,” he is not who you expected to be at your door so early in the morning.
“Your partner left your hotel info with Tae.” He says, curious eyes peering around your hotel room. You quirk a small smile and let him in. He sits down on the chair Yoongi was occupying last night.
“So, what’s up?”
“We found a suspiciously large amount of money in a savings account under Park Sohee’s name,” Jungkook is still looking around your room curiously and you don’t know why.
“She was sixteen,” he says. “What’s a 16 year old doing with fifty million won?” Your eyes widen at the amount.
“Do her parents know?”
“We’re going down to see them now that’s why I’m here.” Jungkook stands up. “Where’s Min?”
“In his room probably. He’s not a morning person.” Jungkook blinks down at you.
“You two aren’t sharing a room?”
“Huh?” You pause mid-way of packing your backpack for the day. “Why would we?”
“Because… you’re together—wait what,” Jungkook looks so confused you almost find it adorable.
“What the fuck Jeon, we’re not together – not like that.” You say.
“B-but yesterday you said you’d moved on with him—”
“Yes, as partners – you know? The thing we do for work.” You’re trying not to laugh.
“B-but you own a dog together and live together.”
“We’re cops, Jeon, not billionaires. Rent in Seoul is atrocious, he’s my roommate. Also, Holly is Yoongi’s dog, not mine.”
“Oh my god,” Jungkook hides his face behind his hands and sits back down. You’re laughing. “I’m sorry for assuming.”
“You know—you should ask Yoongi how Jung Hoseok is doing.” You say, grinning.
“Who?” Jungkook looks up.
“His boyfriend,” you’re trying hard not to burst back into giggles. “Lives in Gwangju on a temporary assignment. The guy whose room I’m technically renting out. They were roommates before getting together. When he had to move out for work, Yoongi needed someone to help cover the rent.”
“Oh my god,” Jungkook moans, hiding behind his hands again. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s alright,” you say laughing. “Easy mistake to make… I think?” Jungkook is looking at you from in-between his fingers.
“So then, are you seeing anyone?” His direct tone throws you off. You turn to fully look at him, but a knock on the door interrupts you both.
It’s Yoongi, and he doesn’t look surprised to see Jungkook in your room.
“Taehyung texted me,” he says. “Detective Jeon,” he adds in greeting.
“Please,” Jungkook smiles, “call me Jungkook.” Yoongi raises both his eyebrows and looks at you in question and you’re trying to fight laughter once again.
The ride to the victim’s parents’ house is quiet. Taehyung drives and you spend the time pondering over Jungkook’s words from earlier. He’d been angry yesterday because he’d assumed you and Yoongi were together. You frown to yourself because nothing makes sense. Had he fallen out with Jangmi? But it’s not like Jungkook had ever thought about you as anything other than a friend. You remember his words from back then, loud and clear, and they come back to you now.
“I’m sorry.”
You remember his apologetic eyes, the glint of his wedding band; he had looked like a child who’d been told off. You hate that look, the pity staring down at you. But most of all you hate the fact that you’d been rejected before you’d even had a chance to explain. A mutual friend had let the cat out of the bag at a party, and Jungkook being Jungkook had confronted you right away. None of it had been on your own terms.
You’d brushed it off as a small crush, defence mechanisms kicking in, but things had never been the same afterwards. Jungkook had always been good at seeing right through you and he could tell you’d been lying about the depth of your feelings.
You clench your fist. Moving to Seoul had meant burying all this behind you, pretending none of it had happened, forgetting about Jungkook and how madly in love you’d been with him. You’d always been good at compartmentalizing, it’s what made you a good cop. You’d ignored everything for two years. Until now.
Yoongi calls your name, breaking you out of your reverie. You’re at Park Sohee’s home, but you can see from your seat in the car that the main door is ajar. Jungkook is already tossing you a vest which you hastily put on. He pulls out his gun and exits out the car. The three of you follow suit.
“Stand guard at the back, we’ll clear the house.” Taehyung tells you and you and Yoongi nod. The two of you position yourself near the backdoor. After about 10 minutes you hear Jungkook shout. The backdoor opens, and his head peeks out.
“Father missing, but we found his wife,” at your expression, he continues, “Dead, in the bathtub. Overdosed, it seems, in an apparent suicide. She left a note.” He holds up a piece of paper.
“Her husband, a nasty man, is our guy.”  
“Where is he?”
“Taehyung is putting a trace on his credit cards and cellphone as we speak.”
You’re reading the note, disgust piling up inside you. Sohee’s father had been an abusive man, and she was planning on running away and going to the police. She sold some of her clothes and other belongs to earn money through the years. The mother, an abused woman herself was complicit in the crime but had been unable to handle the guilt.
“This man killed his daughter and is directly responsible for another woman’s death. We better find him.”
At that moment, Taehyung appears at the door.
“Got him, let’s go.”
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“When we said he was amateur at this, I didn’t mean this amateur.” You say, staring at the balding man through the one-sided mirror.
“He panicked when his daughter threatened to go to the police and killed her in a fit of rage. Then he tried to cover it up.”
“Only a psychopath tries to copy other psychopaths.” Yoongi says behind you. Jungkook is in the interrogation room, dark jeans and a dark t-shirt on, looking like he’s going to strangle the living daylights out of Park Sohee’s killer. His arms are bare for the first time since you’ve been back, and you can see the black ink swirling all the way up and disappearing into his sleeve. They’re all little designs, instead of a cohesive piece, as though he got them done separately.
“When are you guys heading out?” Taehyung asks. “We should at least grab a drink before you go.”
“We managed to get in on a train this evening,” Yoongi says apologetically. “Duty calls back home.”
“We’re still going to stop in Daegu for the night to wish Yoongi’s mother a happy birthday.” You tell Taehyung. “Early morning tomorrow, we head back to Seoul.”
“That’s too bad,” Taehyung nudges you playfully. “We barely had time to catch up.” You smile slightly, still staring at Jungkook, who’s coaxing a confession out of the man. You can’t deny that you want to leave Busan as soon as possible, but somewhere deep inside your heart breaks.
Park Sohee’s father confesses not too shortly after that and the case is officially closed. Taehyung suggests a late lunch at a nearby restaurant as a final get-together before you and Yoongi have to leave in the evening. Jungkook doesn’t say much throughout the meal, only offering a distracted smile every now and then.
When the four of you are heading out Jungkook grabs your wrist.
“Can we talk?” he asks and you look over at Yoongi who gives you a small smile.
“I’ll meet you at the train station tonight then,” is all he says before pulling Taehyung away towards his car. Jungkook is still looking at you.
“Walk with me,” he says, and you do, falling into step beside him. “I think we need to clear up some misunderstandings.”
“I broke up with Jangmi,” he starts and you’re genuinely surprised to hear that. “Actually—she broke up with me. It’s been over a year since.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” you say carefully, hating yourself for the selfish happiness that blooms inside you. “What happened?”
“She left me for someone else,” Jungkook says, smiling lightly. He doesn’t look hurt. “Someone who can love her way more than I ever could.”
“That’s so not true,” you argue back. “You loved her.”
“I did,” he agrees, and you try not to wince. It’s harder to hear it than say it. “To an extent. When she left, I didn’t cry. In fact, I was barely upset, and I hated myself even more for that. But then Jangmi pointed something out that made me see things very clearly.”
“What was that?” you whisper. The two of you are standing beside Nakdong river now, cyclists and runners passing by you in the blink of an eye. The air smells fresh and cold, the rain having left behind a chill and bright blue sky.
“She pointed out that I was more upset when you moved away than I was when she told me there was someone else for her.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding.
“Oh.” Is all you say.
“When I apologized yesterday, for ruining everything, I meant that I was sorry that I was so confused. My confusion and indecisiveness ruined everything. When everything became clear to me, you were already gone.”
“Why didn’t you contact me?” you ask, your voice still hushed.
“I tried,” he is being earnest now. “Your parents had already moved to Seoul, and I contacted Kim Jooyoung from school to see if she knew of your contact information, she was your best friend in college after all. All she had was a cellphone and a landline phone number, but it was worth a shot. When I called, your old roommate picked up and said you’d moved in with some guy. When I tried your cellphone, it was dead.”
“Oh I-I changed my number,” you say, your voice shaky. “I don’t even remember why now—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jungkook’s voice is urgent. “Before today I’d made peace with the fact that you were the one that got away. I could look you up using my connections but until today I was under the assumption you’d moved on. But you’re here now, by some miracle, if I can even call it that given the circumstances, but to me its too big of a coincidence to just pass up.”
You watch him quietly. He’s slightly out of breath and the wind ruffles through his dark hair.
“You never got to answer my question from earlier,” he says. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“N-no I’m not but—” You never get to finish your sentence because Jungkook is leaning in and crushing his lips to yours. His hands come up to rest on your shoulders, then your neck and then your cheeks, which he grazes with his thumbs. Once you get over your initial shock, you reach up to tentatively grasp his t-shirt on both sides. He tastes like the hot chocolate he had with his lunch. You feel his tongue tentatively swiping at you and you open yourself up to him. Immediately, he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.
After what feels like both, and eternity and a few short seconds, he pulls away. His lips are glistening and swollen and he’s out of breath.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers, hands still cupping your cheeks. “Stay here.” Slowly, you pull away, resting a hand on his chest to steady yourself.
“You’re asking a lot of me,” you start. “My entire life is in Seoul, Jungkook, I can’t just up and leave—”
“You just up and left Busan,” he says, and you freeze. Studying your sudden shift in expression, he hastily corrects himself, “I didn’t mean it like that. That came out wrong.”
“Jungkook,” you say, hoping you sound more patient than you feel. “Things are different now; I’m almost settled down in Seoul. I love Busan, I do, but I have no intention of moving back here. My family lives in Seoul now too and my lease with Yoongi isn’t even up, and I love my job, I wouldn’t dream to leave it.” Jungkook abruptly pulls away. “And I won’t ask you to leave Busan, I know how much you love it here.”
“Then what now,” he asks, a small smile on his face. “That’s it? You leave tonight and I never hear from you again?”
“I never said that,” you say softly. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Dramatic is my middle name,” he mumbles, and you giggle.  “Do you at least feel the same way?”
“Of course, I do,” you say. “Otherwise I’d have pushed you into the river by now for your advances. Give me some time to think things through alright?”
“We have a case back home that needs us, I really do have to go back today. Yoongi’s visiting his family tonight and I’ve made him a promise to come along and they’re expecting me. I won’t go back on that.”
Jungkook is now silent, staring wordlessly at you.
“Do you trust me?” you ask.
“Yes.” He answers. There’s no hesitation in his voice. You smile.
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Six Months Later
“Are you sure?” Yoongi asks. The party is in full swing, loud music almost drowning out his voice. He’s holding a cup of clear liquid in his hands and you doubt it’s water.
“Yeah it’s not a problem, I can watch Holly for the weekend.”
“I’ll drop him off on Friday then,”
“That’s fine! You and Hobi deserve the weekend away.”
“But it’s not a hassle for you? It’s your weekend off too,”
“Yoongi I’m not going to try and convince you to let me take care of your dog in the middle of Hoseok’s welcome-back-bash.”
“What’re you two whispering about?” Hoseok slithers in next to you, tossing an arm around your neck.
“Yoongi’s worried about his dog,” you roll your eyes. “This has never happened before.”
“I’m not worried,” Yoongi seethes, making you and Hoseok laugh. “I just don’t want my dog being neglected because you and Jeon are copulating like rabbits all weekend.” Blood rushes to your ears and you grit your teeth.
“Jungkook’s going to be too busy this weekend for that, I promise you.”
“Oh yeah, has he found an apartment yet?” Hoseok asks conversationally.
“Yeah, he’s signing the lease on Friday, and then moving here over the weekend.”
“And he starts work on Monday?” You nod.
“The Organized Crime boys are gonna love him,” Yoongi grins. “Man will fit right in. Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him since you two arrived.”
“Right here Min,” Jungkook pops out of nowhere, a wide grin plastered on his face. You roll your eyes. “What’s up?”
“Yoongi thinks we aren’t responsible enough to take care of his precious dog.”
“I believe the phrase he used was, ‘copulating like rabbits’” Hoseok chimes in unhelpfully. You elbow him in the stomach. Jungkook eyes you, grin fading a little and you recognize the dangerous spark in his eyes.
“Well he’s not wrong—” he starts, but is met by loud interruptions from you, Yoongi and Hoseok.
“Too much information!” Yoongi yells, downing his drink. “You two are disgusting! Lets go Hobi.”
Jungkook comes up to you, still grinning slyly and you automatically slip your arm around his waist.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” you ask, looking up at him. Jungkook has an arm around your shoulder as he takes a sip of his beer.
“Bit too late to ask me that, don’t you think babe?” You pinch his waist and he yells out loud. “I didn’t move to Seoul for you, I moved here for the job.”
“Ha. Ha,” you roll your eyes, but a part of you knows it’s partially true anyway. Long distance between Busan and Seoul hadn’t treated you too badly and things had been going surprisingly well. You were a good five months into your newfound relationship when there had been a sudden opening in the Organized Crime unit, a real step-up for Jungkook’s career. Jungkook had told you once he’d applied for the job that he’d have applied anyway regardless if you were in the picture or not, and you appreciated his honesty. Both of you had always been the type to put your careers first, but you couldn’t believe your luck that things had just fallen into place like this. You’re happy for him.
“Although having you here is a pretty sweet bonus,” Jungkook adds, making you smile. The two of you stand there in silence, arm-in-arm, enjoying the celebrations from afar.
503 notes · View notes
mymoonagedaydream · 10 months ago
stark! daughter reader and Bucky get into a motorcycle accident. Bucky runs over to the reader who’s laying on her back on the side of the road, injured.
Bubble Wrapped
Summary: Breaking free from your overprotective father felt really good, at least for the first few minutes
Pairing: Bucky x Stark daughter!y/n
Word Count: 1.4k
Warnings: Language
For the daughter of a fucking avenger, you really didn’t get to have much fun.
The world knew Tony Stark as the self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist, but the side of him they never saw was the unreasonably strict and overprotective father, the one who barely let you set foot outside the compound without surveillance from a full secret service of bodyguards and a personal apache attack helicopter.
He made sure you stayed close to home job-wise too, arranging for you to begin work as an assistant to your mother as soon as you turned eighteen.
He even kept all the other residents of the compound under strict orders, that no circumstances warranted you getting mixed up in the dangerous side of their work, and that he’d completely ruin anyone who dared challenge him on that.
You lived in bubble wrap. 
You knew that your dad was doing what he thought was best for you, and he did everything he could to make up for your lack of freedom, but all you really wanted was a proper life.
Then Steve brought the newest avenger back to the compound.
You’d seen him in passing a few times, when you ate with Nat in the communal dining area or walked past one of your father’s many meetings, but you only properly met him after he’d been living in the compound for a few weeks.
While Tony was away on business, Pepper gave you a few days off work to relax and have free reign of the compound, during which time you bumped into the newest avenger fixing his motorbike in the parking lot and decided it’d be nice to properly introduce yourself .
‘Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m y/n.’
‘We haven’t, but I’ve heard lots about you.’ He flashed you a smile before standing up and sticking his hand out towards you. ‘Bucky.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
You shook his hand and gave him a polite nod, then taking a few steps past his bike, but stopping when he spoke again.
‘So what's the deal with your dad?’
‘Good question. Could you be more specific?’
He chuckled, pulling a dirty rag from his pocket and wiping the sweat off his forehead. ‘When I arrived, he sat me down and said you need to stay away from all the exciting stuff. You got brittle bones or something?’
‘Not as far as I know, unless they’ve deteriorated from lack of use.’
‘I’ve heard of that happening.’ You huffed slightly at his amused smile, giving him a face of complete resignation in return. ‘You should probably try having some fun.’
‘It’s on my to-do list.’
You headed back towards the door, smiling to yourself and finding that you were extremely intrigued by your father’s new team member. Just as you yanked it open, Bucky shouted after you.
‘I could take you for a ride?’ You spun round, looking back at him in slight shock. ‘On the bike, I mean.’
Your heart started thumping. You definitely wanted to, more than anything, but Christ if your dad ever found out he’d probably lock you in your bedroom until you were forty.
‘That’s a really, really bad idea.’
‘So is that a no?’
You felt a warm smile spread across your face and your legs started moving on their own, instinctively carrying you towards him as you battled the choice out in your mind.
‘Alright, but you can’t tell anyone. For both our sakes.’
He only had one helmet, which he gave to you, insisting that it’d take much more than a road accident to cause him any damage. Throwing his leg over the bike, he positioned himself right and gestured for you to hop on.
Your whole body was tingling with excitement as you settled yourself behind him, nervously running your hands over your thighs. As soon as he revved the engine your heart leapt out of your chest.
‘You’re gonna want to hold on, Stark.’ He called over his shoulder. ‘First time can be nerve wracking.’
The bike roared fully into life and he pulled away from the building, the sudden momentum prompting you to throw your arms around his waist and hold on as tight as you possibly could. 
You swivelled your head round, watching the compound disappear into the distance, ecstatic to finally be away from that place for a while.
Bucky sped down country lanes and back roads, laughing heartily at every squeal you let slip, purposefully gunning the bike a little harder after each one. 
You could feel each burst of fear and excitement and adrenaline coursing through your veins, you’d never felt more alive.
But it all changed in an instant.
A car pulled out from a hidden turning without checking the road, speeding right into your path.
Bucky quickly swerved and the motorcycle crashed down onto its side. 
He was thrown over the handlebars, landing with an almighty thud on the tarmac and rolling away a few metres. Your leg got trapped underneath the bike, both you and it sliding across the road so fast that the material of your trousers got ripped away and you felt the rough road surface scraping against your bare leg.
The car immediately sped off, leaving you and Bucky sprawled out in the middle of nowhere, both lucky to be alive.
Even with the unholy amount of adrenaline your brain was producing, you still felt an intense, stabbing pain grow from your trapped leg. It worsened with every deep breath you gulped in, until it became almost unbearable.
Battling through shock and confusion, you lifted your head slightly to try and figure out where Bucky was, spotting him lumbering back onto his feet a few metres away. He sprinted over to you and yanked the bike away like it weighed nothing, relieving some of the pain in your leg, before dropping to his knees.
‘Fuck, are you hurt?’
You shifted slightly and groaned in pain. ‘I think my leg is broken.’
‘Alright, don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance.’
You tried to keep control of your breathing as he spoke down the phone, but you weren’t able to stop intense panic and fear rising in your chest. 
Bucky must’ve seen how scared you were, because while the two of you were waiting for help to arrive, he lay down himself on the road next to you. He held your hand and reassured you that everything was going to be alright. 
He made what would otherwise have been the most terrifying ten minutes of your life completely bearable.
Once you arrived at the hospital, you were taken for x-rays, which showed that you’d only sustained a stable fracture. Your doctor kept passive-aggressively reiterating how lucky you’d been, stating that she rarely saw such minor injuries from severe motorcycle accidents, especially ones that happened at such speed.  
You noticed she didn’t bother lecturing Bucky, even though he was the one not wearing a helmet. Then again, he’d somehow come out of it with no injuries whatsoever and had taken to shooting intense daggers at anyone who even tried to approach him, so she was probably just too intimidated to attempt it.
Fully casted and drugged up, you made your way back to the compound with Bucky, where you explained everything to your mother. Thankfully, she’d always been much less strict, and she agreed that Tony could never know what’d happened. She even helped you devise a very detailed story about how you’d fallen down the stairs while tipsy. Genius.
The evening came around and you found yourself alone in the living room, disappointed at how quickly the morphine they’d given you at the hospital was wearing off. 
Just as you were about to hoist yourself up and raid your father’s liquor cabinet, Bucky shuffled into the room, looking extremely sheepish.
The rest of the avengers weren’t usually allowed into your parents’ private quarters, but with Tony still away and Pepper working all night, he probably figured he was safe for a quick visit.
‘I just came to make sure you’re alright.’
‘Yeah I’m all good, thanks Bucky.’ You glanced over to your monstrosity of a cast and chucked. ‘Well, apart from that thing.’
‘I’m really sorry. Should’ve just stayed away, like your dad said.’
‘No, it wasn’t your fault. That driver was an asshole.’ He nodded, a slight smile spreading across his face. ‘I’m still really glad I said yes. Up until things went sideways, I was having the best time of my life.’
That seemed to cheer him up. His expression evolved into a wide grin and he took a few steps towards you, scanning his eyes over your face.
‘Maybe next time, we should go smaller. Whack-a-mole or something.’
‘Next time?’
‘Yeah. Unless Tony finds out what happened and murders me.’
You bit your lip, trying your best to suppress a giddy grin. 
‘Sounds like a plan.’
210 notes · View notes
lostcoves · 4 months ago
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ft. taishiro toyomitsu (fatgum) x gn!reader
genre: angst with a bittersweet ending 
wc & warnings: 1.7k | hospitals, blood, bus crash, alcohol, drunk!(y/n)
premise: your first day in university of tokyo hospital’s emergency room is surely a day to remember.
note: my contribution to @instantnuma​’s love hospital collab! i had a blast writing this piece as someone who comes from generations of medical personnel! hope you all enjoy!
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university of tokyo hospital, home to some of the most renowned minds in the medical profession.
and somehow you ended up here as an intern in their emergency department.
why the emergency room of all places? couldn’t they have assigned you to pediatrics?! you loved kids! kids were cute! why did it have to be the emergency room?
you panicked easily, ironic for someone who just graduated medical school to pursue a career in medicine. at least, you weren’t a surgeon. you knew your limits.
you hovered by the nurse’s station, unsure what to do. you were supposed to meet your attending, dr. toyomitsu. yet, they were nowhere to be seen.
damnit, did my attending really flake on my first day? you thought to yourself, shuffling a bit by the nurse station.
BAM! the doors of the emergency room swung open, revealing a large blond handsome man performing cpr on the person attached to the stretcher. the paramedics wheeled the wounded in and the handsome man began shouting orders.
“kirishima, i need fifteen milligrams of morphine, stat! get me some wrap for this sucking chest wound, too!” the man commanded the room with an iron fist.
you couldn’t help but watch in all, as the handsome man treated the patient’s wound. a spiky redhead- you assumed to be kirishima- appeared behind you with morphine and wrap, securing the patient’s wound while nurses hooked the patient up to the machines.
“page the OR, amajiki. this man is gonna need major surgery,” the handsome man directed an indigo haired man. the other man- amajiki- got on the phone and informed the operating room of the patient.
you could only stand in awe, as the patient was whisked away into surgery. you slowly clapped at the heroism of the man before you, “sir, that was—”
“all in a day’s work,” he answered with a lopsided grin.
“your clothes, though..” you pointed out the man’s blood soaked shirt and pants. he shrugged it off and commented, “i’ll be changing into my scrubs anyway.”
“scrubs? you’re a doctor?” well, duh he was a doctor. why else would the medical personnel listen to him?
“yup! i’m doctor taishiro toyomitsu! but everyone calls me dr. fats!” he exclaimed, extending a hand to you.
your eyes widened at his name, “you- you’re my boss! i’m doctor (l/n), (y/n) (l/n). i just graduated form medical school.”
“ah! my new intern, great!” he was such a positive ball of energy. you just realized that he towered over you, now that he was off the stretcher. what a big fellow! he then added to you, “lemme introduce you to my residents. they’ll be here to help you out, as well.”
dr. toyomitsu gestured to the redhead and indigo haired duo from earlier, “this is doctor eijiro kirishima, second year resident, and doctor tamaki amajiki, fourth year resident.”
the redhead- kirishima- waved excitedly at you, “it’s good to meet you, dr. (l/n)! welcome to the team!”
the indigo haired man- amajiki- hung his head low, “uh huh.. good to have you on- on the team.”
“now that introductions are out of the way!” dr. toyomitsu grabbed a white coat off the coat rack, “let’s get to work, folks.”
you collapsed in the on call room, exhausted and sweaty from the past eleven hours of your first shift. suture after suture, panicky parent after panicky parent.. god, why did you make emergency medicine your second choice after pediatrics?
“hey,” dr. toyomitsu took a seat next to you in the on call room, “sucks that your first day was a twelve hour shift, huh?”
“i haven’t been this exhausted since last year’s finals,” you grumbled.
dr. toyomitsu laughed, “you’re funny.”
“i am?” you questioned.
“you are,” he paused, “what made you decide to choose emergency medicine as your speciality?”
“they ran out of openings for internships with pediatrics,” you replied honestly.
“okay so what made emergency medicine your second choice?” dr. toyomitsu reframed the question.
you pondered on it– you didn’t think you had a really good answer– so you decided to speak from the heart.
“emergency medicine is crucial for saving lives and i wanna save as many lives as possible,” you answered. dr. toyomistu sensed your sincerity and gave you a smile, “and i’m sure you will achieve just that but be aware.. sometimes you can’t save everyone.”
you opened your mouth to respond when dr. toyomistu’s pager went off. he checked the device and leapt to his feet, “bus crash. all hands on deck! you wanna save as many lives as possible? now it’s time for you to prove it.”
you sat up and ran after dr. toyomitsu into the emergency room, horrified by the scene before you. so many injured, some strapped to stretchers and others dragging themselves inside. 
“doctor! we got a red!” a paramedic hollered to you. you rushed over to the stretcher and yelled, “what do we got?!”
“female, age seven! possible internal bleeding and multiple fractures!” the second paramedic exclaimed. you stared down at the little girl and froze. she was so small, caked in blood and her dress in ruins. god, no. she was too young, too young and innocent.
“doctor, we need to act fast!” the first paramedic shouted.
“yes!” tears stained the little girl’s dress, “get me an iv and a cocktail of vitamin k, plasma, blood, and platelets! stat!”
a trio of nurses ran over with the supplies and hooked the girl up to an iv, administering the cocktail into her body. you checked her vitals and sighed in relief, she was stable.
“we gotta find her parents, what’s her name?” you asked the paramedics.
“only form of id was on her backpack,” the second paramedic handed you the girl’s belongings. the name ‘yuki’ was sewn on with purple thread. you frowned, “get the cops and child protective services. we need to find her family.”
“i’ll do that,” one of nurses spoke up.
“thank you,” you turned your attention back to the unconscious girl. you gently stroked her fine black hair, “we’re gonna find your family, kiddo. i promise.”
all the living injured were treated after three hours. your heart hardened from the sight of doctors having to inform family members that their loved ones didn’t make it. but your mind kept wandering to little yuki. you had to find her family.
“any word on your kid’s missing family?” dr. toyomitsu took you aside, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. you shook your head and answered, “i’m scared that they were on the bus with her and.. and..” you sniffled, you couldn’t finish your sentence.
“come here,” you and dr. toyomitsu embraced, tears flowing freely from your (e/c) eyes. you wanted yuki to return home safe, that was all you wanted for her. you and dr. toyomitsu ended the hug, you staring up at the attending with sad eyes, “thank you.”
“of course,” he answered before checking his watch, “looks like we’re off the clock. wanna grab a drink?”
“sure, i could use one after day,” you sighed. the two of you went your separate ways to change clothes before meeting outside the hospital’s entrance. dr. toyomitsu looked good in a fresh change of clothes.
“i wanna praise you for surviving your first day on the job,” dr. toyomitsu mused aloud when you both arrived at the bar, “most interns don’t make it to hour ten, much less the whole shift. plus, the way you handled the bus crash cases, i applaud you.”
“well, don’t,” you grumbled, “i froze up when it came to yuki.”
“but she didn’t die,” he countered.
“she almost did,” you fired back with a glare.
dr. toyomitsu’s expression softened, “okay. maybe you did freeze up but what’s important is that you didn’t freeze up for too long.”
“i guess..” you waved down the bartender and ordered a rum and cola. 
“you’ll have a better day tomorrow. i can already sense it,” the handsome doctor commented to you. you laughed bitterly and exhaled, “one can only hope so,” before downing your rum and cola.
“i wish- i wish i could be like you,” you hiccuped, three rum and colas in. dr. toyomitsu, on the other hand, was five drinks in and holding it well. he raised an eyebrow at you and asked, “what do you mean?”
“you.. you’re so confident and cool!” you giggled, “like a superhero! and you’re hot, sooooo hot!”
dr. toyomitsu blushed at your words but he chalked it up to you being drunk, “thank you, dr. (l/n). that makes a lot to me.”
“of course!” you playfully nudged him, “but we’re off- off the clock! call me (y/n)! okie dokie? i’m (y/n)!”
“okay, (y/n). only if you call me taishiro.”
“okayyyyy, taishirooooo!”
time seemed to fly, as you drunkenly interacted with your boss. you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the atmosphere but you felt your inhibitions slip away. taishiro had to cut you off after drink number five, not wanting you to get sick from the alcohol. 
“lemme get you a cab,” taishiro took you outside the bar and called you a cab.
“i don’t wanna leave you!” you whined. 
“you’ll see me tomorrow,” he chuckled.
loopy, you grabbed onto taishiro for stability and slammed your lips sloppily against his. taishiro tensed up from the kiss and pulled away.
“i’m sorry,” you hiccuped, tears in your eyes, “i’m drunk.”
“that you are,” he agreed.
“i’m so scared for yuki.
“i know. i am, too.”
a long pause.
“i wanna kiss you again.”
another pause.
“i wanna kiss you, too.”
so the two of you kissed, logic and reason out the window. taishiro’s lips tasted like candy, oh how you loved the taste. you pulled away from the kiss for air and smiled.
“see you tomorrow.”
“see yah, (y/n).”
maybe you two could kiss again when neither of you were drunk.
47 notes · View notes
rebelwrites · 5 months ago
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It’s Just A Scratch
Jason Hayes x Reader
Requested by Anon // Hey rebel. Can I request a Jason Hayes and reader where the reader is part of bravo and she gets injured on an op and he gets super worried but they have to get on with the op and on the way back home on the plane he showes her how worried he was really fluffy and some smut when they get home ❤❤
Join The Group Chat Here - If You Want Tagging Manually Let Me Know 🖤
Jason Hayes Masterlist
This Months Writing
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“Bravo Seven what’s your sitrep” was the last thing you heard down the coms before the explosion went off.
Both you and Sonny dropped to the floor shielding your head from the grenade that just blew up in your face.
“Fuck” you gasped as you slowly uncovered your head. “Sunshine you okay?”
“Yeah I’m sound” he shouted from across the room “you?”
“Yeah I think” you said as you placed your hand on your thigh, before lifting it to your face seeing the red mixed with the dirt.
“What do you mean you think?” Sonny said appearing over you.
“Got hit” you winced rolling onto your back. “Don’t know how bad but I’m bleeding”
“Can you walk?” Sonny asked as he helped you to your feet.
“Nope” you winced putting all your weight on him.
“Bravo one we got a problem” Sonny said down the coms “little madam got hit by the grenade, we are gonna need medivac”
“How bad?” Jase screamed down the radio. But you shook your head at Sonny not to tell him you currently had a bit of metal jammed into your thigh. “Sonny fucking answer me”
“Jase calm the fuck down” you said down the coms “it’s bad enough I need medivac and can’t be sorted here so quit worrying and get the HVT okay! I’ve got Sonny I will be fine”
“Solid copy” Jase said with annoyance in his voice.
“The way you put him in his place amazes me” Sonny laughed as he helped you get behind some cover.
“Yeah he forgets when we are out of the field that he can’t protect me” you laughed “it’s like everything goes out of the window. Have you radioed to HAVOC yet?”
“Not yet” Sonny said “but on it”
Leaning against the wall you stared at your leg and the three inch of metal sticking out of your thigh, you didn’t need to see the wound to know that it was going to leave a nice scar.
“Medivac 10 Mikes out kiddo” Sonny said sitting beside you as he made a makeshift tourniquet around your thigh. “You good?” He asked watching your bite the cap off the needle before gritting your teeth as you injected the shot of morphine.
“Never been better sunshine” you laughed resting your head on his shoulder, with your assault rifle ready just in case.
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You knew what was coming next as you heard the boys pull up. The peace and quiet was going to shattered and the game of cards you and Sonny were playing was abandoned as everyone rushed back.
“You know if we weren’t giving you enough attention you just have to say” Clay smirked kissing the top of your head “no need to get metal jammed in you leg”
“Do you want me to punch you?” You laughed raising your brow at him.
“Nah I’m good” Clay laughed fist bumping you “also Jase is fuming at you”
“When isn’t he let’s be honest” you laughed leaning back on the gurney, the metal was too embedded in your leg to risk pulling out until you were back at base.
“Just warning you” Clay laughed as he wandered off.
Taking a deep breath as Jason appeared next to you with a pissed off expression on his face.
“Seriously baby” he sighed.
“It’s just a scratch” you shrugged as his gaze fell to your thigh.
“Shit that’s more than a scratch” Jase sighed “How many times are you gonna get injured from a grenade or frag?”
“Well I’m sorry the weather forecast didn’t warn of falling grenades” you sassed with a smirk on your face.
“Okay smart arse” he said rolling his eyes before he pulled up a box to sit on, taking your hand in his. “The moment Sonny said you needed medivac I panicked especially after hearing the explosion”
“This is why I told him not to tell you what my injury was because I knew you’d come storming across” you whispered brushing your thumb over his hand. “Because you get very overprotective at times”
“I can’t help it” he laughed looking up at you. “If anything happened to you I don’t know what I would do”
“Jase baby, nothing is going to happen to me, okay” you whispered, placing your hand on his cheek. “I just got impaled with debris, we managed to avoid the blast”
“It’s just a massive fear of mine” he whispered resting his head on your lap as you ran your hands through his hair.
“Trust me, I learned from the best I’m not going anywhere” you smiled.
“I swear when we get home you are on bed rest until that heals” he whispered looking up at you. “I am not being deployed without my girl that is a fact”
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@chibsytelford @mrsmarvelous1995 @supervalcsi @talicat713 @disasterfandoms @bravo-four-seal-team @jasonbabymama @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @lotsoflovefromlea @seik-o @ohitsnicolexo @velvetcardiganbucky @phoenixhalliwell @pancakeisreading
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dracomalfoyismypatronus · 3 months ago
Free Falling
[I decided to write a Buddie alt-ending about what would've happened if Buck did get shot climbing up the crane. This is my first Buddie fanfic so I apologise in advanced if it's not that good. I hope you enjoy it, though!]
<Also the spacing was being finicky, sorry about that>
Sometimes the world speaks for people to hear, but no one listens until it's too late.
Eddie could feel Ana press her smooth lips to his forehead. He could hear her voice--almost melodic--speak words. He could see her dark hair as it curtained his face. He could taste the coolness of the mint gum she was chewing earlier on her mouth. He could smell her perfume--floral and a little too strong.
His five senses screamed Ana. But his mind did not. His soul did not. His heart did not.
"I'm going to head out. Do you want me to turn on the TV before I leave?" she asked, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
"Just the news is fine."
Ana gave him a small smile as she changed the channel and walked towards the door of the hospital room.
"See you later, Edmundo."
Eddie's response was merely a nod as he turned his gaze to the TV. The weather for the next week flashed on the screen.
*Clear skies in LA for the next week or two*
Clear skies? Eddie grabbed the pen and paper at the bedside table where he had scribbled his to-do list onto it.
1. Take meds
2. FaceTime Christopher
3. Schedule physical therapy
4. Call Bobby about new shifts
And at the bottom:
5. Tell Buck about the will
A smile spread over Eddie's face as he thought about all the ways he would tell Buck. He could do it before discharging. But if the weatherman was right, maybe he could invite Buck for a picnic at the park with Christopher. They would sit in the middle of the grassy area…though Buck would probably argue that the shady spot under the tree was better. But if Christopher gave Buck his big puppy-dog eyes, Buck would give in instantly. And maybe they would bring Buck's skateboarding contraption and go around the park until they were all sweating and laughing. But before they left, as the sun went down, Eddie would tell him.
Eddie would tell him about all of the near-death experiences of the past. He would tell him that Buck was the only one he trusted with his son. That Buck's genuine kindness and perseverance and love and passion for his son was what drove Eddie to call his lawyer and ask for his will to be changed. Eddie would watch as Buck stared at him in disbelief and confusion but also excitement and honor. At that goofy grin Buck gave him when he was flustered or shocked. He would stare at Buck's blue eyes that matched the sky until Christopher broke their silence.
Maybe after that, Eddie would invite Buck over. After everyone was clean, they would order pizza from their favorite restaurant and play video games. Then Buck would read Christopher a bedtime story and even though Eddie said only one, Buck would give in yet again and read a second one. Then they would both tuck Christopher in, close the door, and go back to the living room.
Buck and Eddie would down a beer or two and maybe amidst their tipsiness, Eddie would stare into Buck's eyes again. Maybe they would move closer to each other on the couch until their foreheads touched.
Eddie closed his eyes. He could feel the taut muscle of Buck's chest against his. He could hear both of their heavy breathing and that scoff that slipped from Buck's mouth. He could see all of the little scars that Buck had obtained over the years, at that birthmark over his eye, at the fullness of Buck's lips. He could taste the alcohol but also the sweetness as their lips grazed over each other. He could smell Buck's cologne--earthy and clean and grounding. Not too strong. Never too strong. And when they were a mess of limbs and clothing, Eddie would run his hands through Buck's curls until they fell asleep.
No, he couldn't think like this. What about Ana?
Eddie thought of what Carla had said. He thought of his own words. Of Ana's. Of Buck's.
It's easier being with her.
Why was it easier? Was it because it was easier to take Ana home to his parents than explain why he fell in love with a man? Was it because it was easier to imagine that Ana was like the woman he lost to his own mistakes? Was it easier because Christopher loved Ana?
The news reporter's voice snapped him out of his daydream.
*Firefighter from the 118 climbs industrial crane to rescue man, despite the threat of an active shooter*
Eddie let out a scoff. What rational person would risk their life to climb up a crane unprotected when there was a sniper nearby? But as he pondered it more, he suddenly came to a realization.
Buck. Buck would.
As if the news camera read his mind, a camera view zoomed in to the firefighter climbing up the ladder. Rope around his shoulder and determination in his eyes, Evan Buckley panned into view. Despite being pumped with morphine and drugs, the wound on Eddie's shoulder throbbed at the sight.
*Firefighter Buckley disobeyed direct orders from his captain and is now scaling the crane*
The crack of a sniper cut through the air and ricocheted off of the metal beam of the crane.
"BUCK!" Eddie shouted.
The firefighter only paused for a second before continuing his ascent.
"Buck! Stop! Go back down!"
But Eddie wasn't there. Eddie was staring at his partner through the TV screen as he continued to climb. Buck reached the top of the crane and made his way towards the injured worker. The helicopter's camera was too far for Eddie to see any details. He couldn't see the proud smile Buck probably had as he began working on the man and then lowering him down. He couldn't see the look of shock as the bullet finally hit its target. He couldn't see the expression of acceptance as Buck stumbled back on impact, but there was no longer a ground beneath his feet.
Eddie could see a figure falling from so many stories up. Eddie could see the frantic eyes of Bobby and Hen and Chimney as they tried to figure out what they could use to cushion the fall. But he was too far. They would never make it in time. Eddie could see figure disappear between the buildings and the paramedics rushing to the scene. He could see the headline that replaced the previous one.
*Firefighter Buckley dead at 29, sacrificed life to save construction worker*
Eddie could feel his heart shatter into millions of fragments. Eddie could hear the heart monitor speed up as sobs filled the air. Eddie could see his vision cloud with tears. Eddie could taste only saltiness. Eddie could smell blood from where he had bitten the inside of his cheek in frustration and stress and anger and sorrow.
The penned words of his to-do list blurring together as tears fell upon them. He would have to change his will again. He would have to tell Christopher that "his Buck" wasn't coming home. Ever. He would have to go back to work and have a new partner. He would have to endure the pain that tugged at his heart every time he passed Buck's apartment or saw Buck's family.
And the worst of all?
He would have to live the rest of his life without Evan Buckley.
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chironshorseass · 7 months ago
idk if you’re still taking prompts but 7 angst for percabeth after BoTL but before tlo, thank you so much!!
idk what this is, but hopefully, it’s not too horrible bc I can’t bring myself to read it again lol.
“You should’ve said that yesterday.”
tw: blood
read on ao3
Plans don’t always go well. Annabeth should know; she’s a daughter of Athena. But one holds on to hope like it’s the last thing they have, even when accidents happen.
It was a frequent thing nowadays, for demigods to leave on missions as a desperate attempt to thwart off the titan forces. Annabeth understood the risks.
Percy did too, but he’d insisted that it was fine, that he needed to go.
He’d left with some Hephaestus and Hermes kids, intending to raid one of Kronos’ troops that had camped close to New York.
They hadn’t counted on the empousai, though. And because of this, most of the boys—including Percy—had nearly died.
But what else was new?
The thing was that...he didn't have to go. But he and Beckendorf had grown closer over the past year, so nothing could stop him from tagging along with the son of Hephaestus and the rest of the group. Maybe because he also felt bad that he’d missed out on most of the missions; he’d been absent for so long, lost in the streets of New York City.
Whatever the stupid reason was, he’d refused to listen to Annabeth, disappearing into the horizon with Blackjack and the rest of the pegasi.
He’ll survive, she’d told herself. If he really was the child of the prophecy, then…
This mission wouldn’t be the last thing he did. Or his last day on Earth. That title would likely belong to his birthday.
Gods, he’s going to die anyway.
But for now, he wouldn’t, at least not according to what she’d heard.
Thanatos would bide his time, hooded and standing at the doors between life and death, not yet ready to welcome Percy with his chilled breath.
Soon, but not today.
Still, it wasn’t like she’d been worried sick and then nearly threw up her lunch once the crew had arrived, a few yards away from the infirmary, bloodstained and battle-torn.
By all the extra load on the pegasi that she could make out from the distance, she supposed that at least they’d been successful.
Percy, however, was leaking blood down his neck, furtively trying to clamp it down with a bandana.
Soon, but not today.
He leaned against Beckendorf, his eyes baring clouds, fogged and lost. The son of Hephaestus helped him off of Blackjack, but still, he would’ve crumpled to the ground had it not been for Annabeth running to him like a madwoman. The grass crunched behind her; the others were right on her heels.
“What happened?” she cried, grabbing hold of Percy’s shoulders as his head slumped against her chest. She staggered back from his sudden weight, then righted herself.
“Hey, ‘Beth,” Percy said weakly, the words jumbling together against his lips and her shirt.
She looked at Beckendorf helplessly.
“Empousai,” he gasped, then made a hissing sound, pressing a hand to his back. It came back crimson red.
“You’re hurt!” she said as if it weren’t obvious.
Other demigods, Apollo kids mostly, rushed past her with medical supplies. But Will stopped next to them, breathing hard. He handed out ambrosia to Beckendorf and Annabeth’s waiting hands.
His eyes blazed, focused on something past her head. He waved frantically at someone, signaling them to come, and quickly. She whirled around and caught sight of Chiron trotting toward them.
“I’ll be back,” he breathed, giving them a nod as though they’d argued with him against it. He retreated a few steps, legs reacting to sudden howls of pain that echoed further back. “Just, just wait here. I’ll just…”
He dashed away, lost in the mass of pegasi and bodies that moved in all directions, shouting. In the chaos, Will was their only help at organizing it all—but she’d still tasted bile in her throat, not quite used to the way he ignored Percy and his mortal wound to the neck.
In a swift, mastered movement, Annabeth had made him chew on the Ambrosia. She’d been about to say something else—some words of encouragement—when a blur of curly brown hair nearly tripped her and Percy over. She readjusted him in her arms; Percy mumbled something incomprehensible, making her heart tighten.
“Charlie!” Silena called, flinging herself into Beckendorf’s arms.
He grunted in response but smiled through his obvious pain.
“Hey, baby,” he said.
She kissed him, but only for a second because Beckendorf had already pulled away faster than her sudden arrival.
Silena scrunched up her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
His concerned gaze leached into Percy, whom Annabeth could barely hold now.
Has he always been this heavy?
She followed her boyfriend’s line of vision and saw her friend standing in front of her for the first time. Her face morphed into shock, eyes widening. In a flash, Silena was there, hauling one of Percy’s arms over her shoulder. He was no longer conscious.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, the words tumbling into the pool that was now Annabeth’s fevered heart. “I didn’t...”
Annabeth could only shake her head. She had to get Percy some actual help. She pressed the cloth harder into his neck. It had to be the fucking neck.
“Will!” she shouted, voice hoarse. “Chiron!”
Panting, Beckendorf closed the distance, limping over to Annabeth. “I’m going to help the others. We weren’t so lucky on our mission, and...” He glanced somewhere past them. “Chiron’s coming our way. We have to—”
Silena inhaled sharply. “You’re bleeding, too? Why didn’t—”
“No time, ‘Lena.”
In an instant, Chiron was there, extending his arms out.
“Give him to me.” His voice was firm and urgent.
After all, the neck was a highly vulnerable place. A slit to the throat could end someone’s life in a matter of seconds. Percy was a demigod, and likely the cut hadn’t been too deep, or else he’d be dead by now. But still, she didn't know how much longer he could hold up.
Already she’d felt the tell-tale warmth of blood trickling into her skin, already she’d envisioned the life draining out of him. The sand of an hourglass raining, spilling down to the bottom.
They’d told her that he’d lost too much blood, that the claw wound had just barely hit an artery. But above all else, he was lucky. He’d survive.
She’d been there, hands washed clean from the rusted blood, sitting on his bedside in the infirmary and watching him sleep while her mind was wide awake. Will came and went, wrapping bandages and giving him fresh doses of ambrosia; Chiron did, too—as if none of this was his fault and he could pretend to care for injured demigods.
But she stayed. Stayed and watched.
Annabeth had forgotten how long she’d been there, staring at the blank walls, eyes unfocused. Will had poked his head inside for the final time and insisted for her to get some sleep; it was late. She’d shaken her head and refused.
Her eyes closed for a second, though it must’ve been longer than that, because, when she opened them again, golden light had already streamed through the window. It cast delicate shadows across the room. In her daze, she hadn’t realized that someone was calling her name, light as a butterfly.
“Annabeth,” he repeated.
She blinked the sleep away to find a pair of green eyes watching her.
Though his hair was twisted and knotted, and his complexion was a worrying shade lighter, Annabeth thought that she’d never seen a more inviting sight.
“You asshole!” she gasped, lunging forwards with desperate fingers, hugging Percy tighter than she’d ever had in her life.
After a while, his head dropped back to the pillow to get a better look at her.
“Hey.” He grinned lazily.
There was a sweet wonder to his face—like he couldn’t believe she was here, waiting for him to wake up.
But her mind flashed to when his heartbeat had weakened, when scarlet red covered her shaking hands and she’d seen him slump into Chiron as their teacher dropped him here, in the infirmary.
“D’you have any idea how fucking worried I was?”
His brows knit in confusion. “What do you…” A hand flew to his neck, to his bandages. “Oh. That.”
“Yeah.” Her voice felt like rough sandpaper. “That.”
Percy winced. “Okay, okay. I can explain; that demon came out of nowhere, right? And I slashed and shit, but she still got me, and—”
“You could’ve died, Percy. You get that?”
“I know, I know! But I didn’t!”
She took a rattling breath and looked away. She suddenly felt faint; her lungs didn’t seem to gather enough oxygen. Everything was too overwhelming, too big and small all at the same time.
She was dimly aware of Percy saying something. Then, she felt the warmth of her hand in his. It helped bring her back, but barely.
“Hey. Hey, look at me, Annabeth. Look at me.” Reluctantly, she did as he said. “Breathe with me. C'mon—in two three four, out two three four...”
Annabeth didn’t know how long they stayed that way, anchored to the surety of Percy’s grip on her hand and breathing along to his rhythm, until she’d found a way back to her bearings.
“You’re okay. I’m okay,” he said, repeatedly.
She nodded.
“Talk to me.”
Here he was, the boy who had nearly died, consoling the girl who’d watched the whole thing.
She nodded again, and this time, she closed her eyes, taking in some of this new peace of mind Percy had offered.
He was safe, and they were alright.
Finally, she exhaled.
“How’re you feeling?” She bit her lip, remembering something, and then muttered, “Sorry. Didn’t really ask you that first.”
“S’okay.” Now that she noticed him, truly noticed him, she could tell how tired he was. “I’m fine. Just feel like mush.”
“Your neck doesn’t hurt? Will gave you some morphine.”
“Yeah, no. Everything’s kinda numb, I guess. Doesn’t hurt or anything.”
“You lost a lot of blood.”
“Hmm. Probably why I feel like mush.”
She felt a lump forming in her throat. Not for the first time that day.
“It wasn’t—Gods, Perce,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes.  “If you’d only seen it…”
“I know. I should’ve listened to you.”
“You should’ve said that yesterday.”
Annabeth didn’t realize that she was crying until Percy softly flicked his thumb across her cheek. He reluctantly moved it down to her lips, swiping at the tears that had already pooled there.
It wasn’t really something she planned to do, and in any other case would’ve embarrassed her, but she found herself resting her forehead against his. Maybe to steady herself. Maybe to feel his presence more, a spare hand combing through his locks.
She wasn’t so sure.
But still, she let herself close her eyes, enjoying this moment of quiet. Percy did too, sighing softly, rubbing her back idly.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, when they separated. “M’here.”
Her breath caught in her throat, just by how tender his touch had been, taking care of her when he was the injured one. How close they were at that moment. How her tears tasted like that time she’d kissed him, all salt and sweat and fervor.
Now, she was able to see the little flecks of blue in his irises, drink in all of his details like she was dying of thirst. They were so close that she was able to feel exactly when his breath hitched like hers had done just milliseconds before, how it smelled like medicine and chocolate cookies all in one.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, not taking his gaze from her. “I didn’t listen to you.”
At least he acknowledged it. Again.
“No. You didn’t.”
His thumb still lingered on her face, a ray of sunlight that she greedily took only for herself, leaning into him. It ghosted around her skin, that trailing touch of his. And despite its warmth, it sent shivers down her spine.
His eyes never left hers. Roving, feeling down to her very soul.
He’d always been the one to break her walls, destroy the dam she’d carefully built for as long as she could remember. Poseidon wasn’t his father for nothing.
And as he grasped a stray curl that fell across her left eye, tucking it ever so gently behind her ear, she felt that water roaring all over her mind. The flood happened too fast, consuming every last restraint and denial that crossed its path.
Annabeth didn’t catch it until she risked a glance to his lips.
Gods, he’s so close. Too close.
In the blink of an eye, she was leaning in, intoxicated by everything about him. Percy caught the back of her jaw with his hand, guiding her closer.
Their breaths mingled together.
Her lips parted. Closer…
“Hey, how’s—oh shit, sorry!”
She repelled from him, electrified, and whipped her head to the screeching of the curtain rod.
Cheeks flushed, Will yanked at the curtains, closing them once again.
“Wait!” Annabeth glanced at Percy, whose eyes were wide. “Will, this isn’t—”
The latter hollered from the other side, “I can come later! To, um, change bandages! Be good!”
So close.
She wanted to slap herself.
This wasn’t right. For a second, she’d forgotten what was at stake. Let herself be swept away.
Have you ever considered that he’s going to die?
He’ll leave you just like everyone else.
This was dangerous, letting herself taste what wasn’t meant to be.
“I—I’m sorry,” she gasped, standing up, an unknown force pushing her back.
Percy blinked, slower than usual. Probably from all the ambrosia and nectar and mortal medicine.
He reached for her, but she was already backing away into the wall, stumbling over her wooden chair.
“No, I shouldn’t have…” She felt herself blush. “I don’t know, I...I should go.”
She scrambled towards the curtains, ignoring Percy’s expression awashed in hurt and shock.
Brushing past his bedside, he grabbed her arm.
“Please,” he begged, voice barely above a whisper. “Please stay.”
Blinking away her tears, Annabeth forced herself to look at him.
If I stay, you’ll leave me first.
But she didn’t say that, only shook her head and watched as those beautiful eyes of his creased around the corners with anguish. A part of her died a little at witnessing this. His was a heart worn on a sleeve that would soon fade away. She pulled her arm away, burned from his grip.
“I’m sorry.” She swallowed, already tugging the curtain aside. “I’ll call Will.”
And she left him there in his injury, allowing it to be.
He didn’t deserve this, she knew. Not when she could enjoy the last moments with him, admitting what was in the open air between them. But they’d be one step into their ruined fate if that ever happened. If she didn’t stop.
Because she was like Tantalus, that lone fruit forever out of her reach.
He didn’t deserve this, but she didn’t deserve to have him, either.
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Correspondence, Chapter 04
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Pairing: HotchReid
Summary:  An AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email referred from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. They know nothing about each other, but they don't really mind.
Rating: Mature/Explicit (eventually)
Chapter CW/notes: Action-y in that there is offscreen violence and peril, injuries, talk of surgery and symptoms/effects of medical grade narcotics (morphine), more on that big ol’ age difference. Side notes: Agent Anderson of the L.A. field office has no relation to Agent Anderson of Quantico, VA, because Agent Anderson of the BAU is a national treasure. (I’m considering going back and renaming the OC, but as of right now this is the last we hear of him for a while). And I know no one really pays attention to them, but the time stamps on the texts match the time zone of the scene setting. Set in season 6, self beta’d.
Word Count: 8893
Masterpost Link
Ao3 Link
Chapter 04
Late September 2010
Spencer Reid wakes up to the early grey morning two weeks later, a perpetual haze shrouding his room long before his alarm was supposed to rouse him. He reaches blindly, blearing eyed and checks his phone for what feels like the hundredth time, only to find no messages waiting for him. A terrible, horrid feeling has been clawing at his chest and throat the longer it gets -- the more time that passes -- and he still hasn’t heard from Hotch. 
They’ve been messaging each other near constantly for months now, and it only seemed to get more intense after that fateful talk at the beginning of September. Where Hotch finally revealed he’d thought Spencer was much older than him, and not the other way around. Spencer had set him straight, as much as he could, and even that had been nerve-wracking to say the least. The two men were crossing into a territory neither really wanted to put a label on, and Spencer was both afraid of it and excited by it. Of what it could mean, and how long it could last, but he’d thought he’d had time to figure out a solution to his inadvertent secrecy.
Then, Hotch began working a case in Delaware two days ago. 
It seemed like a textbook unsub; maybe a little aggressive with anti-establishment overtones, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Nothing the BAU hasn’t seen before. They’d been closing in on the suspect, no location yet but some prospects that needed checking out, and the last Spencer had heard from Hotch…
It had been lunchtime for him, and midafternoon for the older man. The exchange hadn’t been anything of consequence, just their usual, easy correspondence. Hotch was going to check out that lead they’d spoken of, Spencer had a budget meeting as soon as he was done eating in the middle of his office hours, and they had a plan to play chess online that night. Hotch is still terrible at it, but he keeps coming back no matter how thoroughly Spencer wipes the floor with him. Now, sometimes they just forget about the game entirely after the first few minutes. It makes him smile each and every time, soft and fond and lighting a warmth inside him Spencer has… never felt before. 
Then Hotch hadn’t messaged him the rest of the night.
Hadn’t shown up online to play chess.
Hadn’t texted him goodnight, or even sent him an update on the case. 
Nothing in their conversations warranted such ostracization, and although Spencer has been ‘ghosted’ before (as his doctoral students would say) he knows Hotch would never do that. Not after everything, the history they’ve built the past months -- leaving nothing but the dread to sink in and spread like a stain.
All night, he imagines the worst.
By morning, he all but expects it.
[]9/22, 18:59[] Are you alright? Did something happen with the case?
[]9/22, 19:10[] If you were that scared of losing at chess, I can also beat you at online poker instead.
[]9/22, 19:30[] I’d suggest scrabble but that’s honestly not fair to you.
[]9/22, 21:55[] Hotch? 
[]9/22, 22:30[] I’m assuming that lead panned out, and you caught your unsub and are neck deep in interrogation.
[]9/22, 22:36[] I don’t want to imagine anything else, so that’s what I will picture.
[]9/23, 00:06[] Hotch please answer me. 
[]9/23, 05:32[] Please be okay.
Spencer arrives at Caltech looking a little more of a mess than usual. More than most are used to seeing him, at least, and it causes a few second glances from students he passes and other faculty -- but he really can’t find it in himself to care, this morning. His unruly curls, getting longer again, falling into his face and over his ears, are frizzy in their unkemptness. Bags under his eyes, normal, but he’s settled for glasses instead of his contacts. He has a spare pair in his desk, he’ll have to change them before class. His glasses somehow always make him look even younger. A mystery that boggles the mind, because once he had grown into his face a few years ago (around 26 or 27, close enough he had worried he would forever be cursed with a ‘baby face’) Spencer had thought he would finally be getting away from that. 
And yet, square jaw and ‘grandpa’ glasses and thin frame towering just over six feet did nothing in the slightest to aid him. Certainly not stopping a man outside the campus coffee shop from shouting “Watch where you’re going, kid!” as he near barrels over him on the sidewalk. Not his sweater vest or half suits, attire straight out of a 1940’s noir film (he’d even sported a vintage inspired undercut with his waves combed over for a while there, too. Way too much upkeep, as nice as it looked). Nothing makes him any more grown up in the eyes of the unsuspecting world, than he’d been without his five doctorates and board of director’s seat. No matter what he tried, it seems.
This has been a subliminal thing for years, something Spencer always said didn’t bother him in the slightest. And for a long time he didn’t care one way or the other, he just kept getting more degrees. All his life Spencer has been ‘too young’, always been ‘kid’ or ‘sport’ or ‘tiger’, even when running quantum physics equations in his head. And it didn’t matter. Not with his credentials and accomplishments and everything he now has to his name.
Until Hotch.
Now, Spencer cares.
Notices, even through his haze of worry and sleeplessness, how on the street it’s “Watch it, kid!” and fifteen yards later it’s “Good morning, Dr. Reid” as he steps into the Physics building where everyone knows him on sight. Knows him, and what he’s capable of. 
What if when Hotch met him all he saw was… another kid? 
If they ever met.
“Whoa, rough night Dr. Reid?” 
“Yes, you could say that,” he mumbles out as he signs in and scans his ID card, taking the stack of mail that the desk attendant hands him. But stops before he gets too far from the desk, backtracking. “Hey, have you watched the news this morning? Did anything show up about New England or Delaware?”
“Not that I saw, Dr. Reid,” she says in confusion, looking up from where she had been texting on her phone. “Just a whole lot of coverage on the shitshow at capital hill, as usual. Oh, and more depressing reports about the earthquake clean-up in New Zealand.” 
Of course, why would there be a news story about a killer in Delaware here in California. He’d have to look up everything online himself. 
“Thanks anyway, Carla.”
“No problem, Dr. Reid.”
Spencer spends way too long online that morning, searching for anything about the case Hotch and his team are working. He usually prefers paper copies of news media, at first barely knowing where to begin, but he falls into a wormhole of news outlets and local Delaware station websites, reading the thousands of webpages faster than he can scroll and click through them. But he can’t find anything pointing to a disturbance related to the case. There's nothing about a raid, or a shooting, or even an arrest -- which could all just be a part of the ongoing media blackout -- but it also does nothing to stop him from panicking. Spencer gives up after an hour, and diverts to other resources. Ones with a direct line to Hotch. 
With a drafted email pulled up to Ms. Penelope Garcia, the BAU's personal tech analyst, he ponders how to... even word this without it sounding too personal. Too much like he and Hotch have more than just a working relationship.
Because they do. They have... something.
Something that gives him fluttering sensations in his stomach, makes him check his phone constantly, and react to even the slightest chime similar to his text tone. Makes him smile when he sees Hotch's name on his notifications, in his email inbox, makes him message the man in the middle of the day at the most random thoughts. Just because he wants to make him laugh.
[]8/21, 15:36[] You're going to get me in trouble.
[]8/21, 15:38[] You didn’t laugh in front of your team, did you? The scandal.
[]8/21, 15:42[] I'm at a crime scene. There's a dead body in front of me.
[]8/21, 15:43[] Then why are you checking your phone?
[]8/21, 15:45[] You know why.
But that’s not something that is shared with the rest of the team, he’s sure. So he should be careful how he words his email, lest Ms. Garcia realize that Spencer isn’t asking purely as a colleague. 
Surely they know he has friends, though?
Chewing his lip, Spencer types out a brief email asking if Agent Hotchner is feeling well since he missed an appointment the night before and hasn’t been returning his calls. It’s a phrase he’s used often, so it comes naturally to Spencer as he types it out, and he realizes… he hasn’t called. He’s sent a dozen text messages, but not a phone call. Never a phone call. That was against the rules, the unspoken ones that always kept this friendship easy and free-flowing and evolving into something more.
But this feels like the closest to an emergency they’ve ever encountered before.  
He looks to his phone beside him on his desk, and tries to fight back the dueling forms of panic clawing at his chest. Listed in bullet points behind his eyes. Panic that Hotch might not answer, panic what that means for the man he’s been… becoming more and more inclined to than any other person he’s met in so long. Panic if he does answer, breaking that barrier of written words to spoken, and the opportunity to hear Hotch’s voice. But he would also hear Spencer’s, and then there would be no hiding just how… how young he really is. He still didn’t have a plan for that, wracking his overworked brain day and night for a way to incorporate the information into a conversation that wouldn’t stop everything in its tracks. 
But his phone is in his hand before he can stop himself, Hotch’s contact pulled up and his thumb hovering over the phone number with baited breath. 
Was he really going to do this?
He presses the touch screen and can hear the line connecting, the dial tone ring even before he gets the phone up to his ear and waits. It rings, and rings, and rings a fourth time -- before clicking over to voicemail. And Spencer’s hyper-fast thought processes fail him as he realizes far too late that he’s going to hear Hotch’s voice for the first time, anyway. Frozen in a panic, unsure if he wants to or if that had been something he wanted them to do together that the seconds slip by like water through his fingers and suddenly it’s too late.
“You’ve reached the voicemail box of -- (703)-567-8790 -- this caller is not available. Please leave a message after the tone--”
It’s an automated, female voice that rattles off the numbers and generic call back message, and Spencer hangs up before it can begin recording him. Exhaling a shaky breath, relief a flash flood on his nerves that nothing had been ruined between him and Hotch thanks to an ill-timed phone call. 
He keeps the momentum going without much thought, and adjusts his email to Ms. Garcia before sending it. 
It feels so understated, and yet over dramatic the more he thinks about it. The more he reads it.
Please let me know of his well-being.
God, no wonder Hotch thought he was in his 60’s. 
But Spencer has to keep the façade up, for now, not give away anything he doesn’t want to just because the emotional part of his brain is running rampant over the rational one. There are… many explanations as to why Hotch isn’t answering him. His gut feeling aside, he doesn’t need to be panicking like this. The world is still turning, he still has work to do, so Spencer tries to gather himself into some semblance of order and preps to talk to his doctoral students within the hour.
His morning routine progresses as usual, as if nothing at all is wrong with the world. Dr. Reid has his mandatory round up with his doctoral candidates going over thesis and dissertation parameters, class lecture schedules, updates, the works. Like morning announcements, but he requires them all to be there and to listen, and they all show up. Everyone knows of Spencer’s eidetic memory. He will certainly not forget a single date or schedule change, and he expects his students to not forget as well. 
But this morning Spencer is fully distracted, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the state of Delaware with an agent who may or may not be in danger. Because Spencer cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. It almost seems more like a fact than a feeling. The juxtaposition of his daily routine and this unfounded worry throws him entirely off kilter, and all of his students seem to know right away. 
Then, his distraction reaches its peak when his email pings, right in the middle of his department announcements. A response from Ms. Garcia of Quantico, VA flashing across his laptop screen. Spencer’s eyes skim the preview sentence in the pop-up box, and his voice trails off as his mind… whirls. 
Dr. Reid, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know when Hotch will be available again. There was an incident, and he’s still in surg-
That vice-like grip of worry that has taken hold of him since last night tightens further, to the point Spencer can’t breathe. Hotch is in surgery, Hotch is hurt, and if he hasn’t been answering his phone since last night -- or even late yesterday afternoon -- it was not a minor thing.
Hotch is hurt. 
She doesn’t know when he will be--
If he will be --
“Dr. Reid? Are you okay?”
“I--” he’s still looking at the email pop-up box, and is clicking on it before he can stop himself. Immediately disconnecting his laptop from the projector as his email loads there. It takes him a fraction of a second to read the email. “I’m sorry, an emergency just came up. Kimmy, finish reading off the schedule for me?” He doesn’t even wait until she answers him, just picks up his laptop and retreats to his office as fast as his long legs will carry him.
--surgery and we’re still waiting on word. I know you 2 talk on the reg so I’ll keep you posted. 
Fret not, genius professor, our fearless leader has been through much worse than this.
She’s using informal speech patterns, which she has never done before. It bleeds her nervousness, and worries Spencer even more. Teetering on the edge of panic. Ms. Garcia also revealed she knows he and Hotch talk, but surprisingly that doesn’t have the effect he thought it would on his already rattled nerves. Instead, any and all reservations fall away as he types out a response much in the same way he and Hotch had started their friendship all those months ago.
Please, is there anything you are allowed to tell me about the case or his condition? We --
Spencer pauses, bites his lip as he considers crossing this boundary into the uncomfortable unknown, and then thinks about Hotch on a hospital operating table three thousand miles away.
“Screw it,” he mutters and continues to type.
--We’ve become good friends and I’m very worried.
The reply is almost immediate.
That makes 2 of us, boy wonder, but I’m already hacked into the hospital records database and Prentiss is in the waiting room for any immediate actions.
I’m sending you the case files and the incident report from last night. Maybe you can see some shiz we can’t b/c the bossman is tough but he’s been in surgery a long time. 
Of course, whatever he can do to help. Spencer’s heavy heart-beat triples in his chest as pulls up the files and immediately prints them out so he can read through them faster. Utilizing anything and everything he can do to aid the BAU team, and whatever Hotch has gotten himself into. But then, his mind sticks on something from the email. Boy Wonder. It stalls his hands mid-movement.
Ms. Garcia knows how young he is.
She must have done a background check on him, that would make sense since he’s been consulting so much lately. But why would Garcia know his age, and not Hotch? Wouldn’t she send the files to him directly? Had Hotch really known, all along?
Or did she do it on her own, and not tell him? Assuming her boss already knew everything about him. It’s too many questions and possibilities and they are interfering with what’s most important right now. Best to get it out of the way, no time to be indirect about it.
Ms. Garcia, did you update my dossier with the bureau after you ran my background check?
If you’re referring to why Hotch seems to think you’re rocking the senior discount at restaurants and not still getting carded for beer, then no I didn’t update it. I’m very anti-gov files having every detail of our lives in them, that’s what   I’m for, and I figured there was a reason he didn’t know. Your secret is safe with me, sugar bean.
Spencer hadn’t meant for it to be a secret at all, it just happened that way. 
The real reason is Agent Anderson of the LA field office is a dick, with a bully streak he never outgrew after high school, and didn’t bother filling out a full file on him the first time Spencer consulted for the FBI. Then, he couldn’t be bothered to update it when his consultations became more than a one time thing.
But that was all in the past now, and Spencer can’t even be upset about it. Because now he has Hotch.
Thank you, Ms. Garcia. I’ll let you know my findings soon.
He skims the file quickly, pulling information out at lightning speed. It appears a very straight-forward case. As straight-forward as a murderous sociopath can be, anyway. Very anti-establishment, like he and Hotch had discussed the previous day, aiming for specified targets that devolved to anyone in a uniform. Anyone who appears too official, or labels as official. 
It’s easy to see, now, why the unsub attacked Hotch instead of running from him. He practically served himself up on a silver platter. But there’s something about the kills that’s bothering Spencer. The knife wounds, bludgeoning, even the gunshots during the first murders when the unsub still hesitated -- it’s all overkill. Rage. Every single target has died from massive internal bleeding, M.E. reports all label the knife wounds and beatings as the cause. But the amount of blood left over, measured during autopsy, doesn’t add up. They bled too much. No wounds indicating intentional bleeding occurred, and the tox screens are all clean. 
Except, every victim’s hospital records show elevated potassium rates. Spencer’s hands, skimming down each and every page quick as they can, stop on a dime as his gaze zero in on the information. 
“Oh, God,” Spencer whispers, quiet and horrified. “--Hotch.”
There’s no time for email.
He picks up his phone, goes to an older email that has full contact details in the footer, and dials Ms. Garcia’s direct line in Quantico.
“Speak, and behold greatness.”
“Ms. Garcia, it’s Dr. Reid,” Spencer says, and his tone and quickened speech patterns gives way to his panic.
“Dr-- Dr.  Reid?” 
“Yes, quick there’s no time. Do you have Hotch’s hospital records in front of you still?” 
“Yes,” Garcia says, her voice a musical thing even in it’s breathless reaction to his heightened state of haste. “Updated every two minutes.”
“Is his potassium elevated?”
Some quick typing of keys that move faster than even he could ever hope to type. “...Yes.”
God. “Okay, okay I need you to call the hospital right now,” Spencer says in a spiel that all sounds like one word. “Whatever you have to do, he needs Sodium Polystyrene Sulfonate as soon as possible, to counteract the chemical imbalance or he’s going to go into kidney failure and bleed out.” 
There’s more typing going on and Ms. Garcia’s breathing has gone a little labored.
“Alright, alright I’m getting patched through. What else can you tell me?”
“I think he’s been dosed with something called an XG Compound, either Eastman or Zhao I have to look up the specific components and chemist. But they are a series of banned, experimental military-grade drugs that suffer effects of thinning the blood, that’s why they can’t stop the bleeding around his stab wounds and old scar tissue.” Hotch’s old wounds from Foyet would only exacerbate the condition, once it reached the kidney failure stage, but up until then the intrusions of hardened tissue is the only reason his abdominal cavity hasn’t been flooded with blood and drowned out his other organs. 
“Okay, okay I’m through, I’m keeping you on the line. Stand by-- ” then she clicks over and he’s left with a pulsating silence. Nothing remaining but continuing his work, and hoping he’d called in time. Hoping that Hotch will be alright.
Spencer is digging through his floor to ceiling bookshelves for the biology book on airborne pathogens given to him by a visiting Professor two years ago and he is hating himself for never cracking it in that moment. It’s nearly the last book he gets a hand on, because of course it is, and he makes it a third of the way through the book before Garcia is back on the line. The phone on the floor beside him and just barely within reach. 
“You literal genius, I could kiss you,” Garcia tells him in what can only be overstated relief, and Spencer snatches up his phone with a very undignified scramble. “They’ve had to do two transfusions on him and are prepping a third, but you were right he’s been dosed with that XG compound.”
“He’s going to be okay?” Spencer asks, still cross-legged on his office floor surrounded by books and holding his phone to his ear like a lifeline.
“Yes, yes my dear he’s going to be alright. They think. He’s not out of the woods yet and the surgery is still going on, but he -- he would have died within the next hour if you hadn’t found out what was wrong.”
Spencer’s heart is in his throat, her words doing the exact opposite of reassuring him. Hotch had been that close to dying, to being forever out of reach, because Spencer had been too scared to pick up the phone. 
“I should have called sooner,” he says, so quiet even someone in the room wouldn’t have heard him correctly. “I knew something was wrong.”
“Oh no, sugar don’t think like that. You just saved his life,” she pauses, like she wants to say something else, but diverts to an adjacent topic. “How did you know?”
“Autopsy reports. There wasn’t enough blood left in the bodies, they bled out too quickly. Then I saw the elevated Potassium,” he murmurs it all, rattled off without really thinking about it.
“And you just… knew all of that, without looking anything up?”
“That’s basically what I do. The only reason anyone calls me,” Spencer laughs but it holds no humor. “I know too much, make connections, and drink too much coffee.” 
“You drink and know things, oh God I hope you get that reference because you’re getting a coffee mug.”
Spencer laughs a little, despite the situation, and feels… lighter, somehow, even with the worry still plaguing him. Caught up in his chest like a bad cold. 
“I’m reading this textbook on airborne pathogens, I have a hunch, and I’ll send you anything I find that can help with the case,” Spencer continues, his voice not so heavy for a moment. “Just… tell me when he’s out of surgery? Keep me posted?”
“Of course, honey, you’ll be my first message,” Ms. Garcia assures him, but then she pauses again -- and he almost hangs up because it feels too anticipatory. “You should tell him, B.T.Dubs.”
Spencer hesitates more than is probably necessary.
“... I don’t know what good that will do,” he admits, quiet and unsure. “I’m not -- I’m not ready for this to be over.”
“You’re not that young, honey. Does he know you like him?”
“Mmhmm,” Spencer makes a nervous, affirmative sound. “And… he likes me, or who he thinks I am.”
“Don’t write him off just yet, Doc, let him speak for himself when he wakes up,”  Ms. Garcia all but scolds him, in as gentle a way as possible and Spencer appreciates that, at least. 
“--I’ll think about it.” 
Not long after Spencer finds what he’s looking for: military grade poisons that were banned for causing adverse effects, listed and categorized by chemist and agency. It is the Eastman compound, originated during the first invasion of Afghanistan. Their unsub has prolonged exposure, Spencer is sure, and that will narrow down the suspect pool immensely.
After he sends the information to Ms. Garcia, Spencer looks to his phone once more, where there is a block of text all from him himself in his correspondence with Hotch. Begging him to be alright, to answer him, and now that he knows that the man has a fighting chance -- or as much of one as he will be able to have, with where advanced medicine resides in the current conjecture of time -- there really isn’t much he can do now. But hope. And wait. And pray.
Except Spencer doesn’t believe in prayer, or God, or anything that might hear him. The only thing he really believes in is science, and facts, and none of that is very helpful to him right now. Except maybe the coincidental balance of the universe, in a theoretical physics sense, and unexplained phenomenon that have an equal and spatial balance to it. Anything with the descriptor ‘unexplained’ always draws him in like a moth to flame, and he knows he can typically find a semblance of comfort in the way his brain constantly connects dots and far off specks of information that not everyone can see at first glance. Constellations in the sky. But only when he has someone to tell it to, that even pretends to listen for a moment, and for a long while now… Hotch has been that someone. Hotch always listens to him.
Before he knows it, he’s typing into the text box once more --
[]9/23, 11:10[] You’re in surgery still, but Ms. Garcia has confirmed the treatments are working and they are able to actually repair the damage instead of treading water like they have been the past ten hours. I’ve had her personally in contact with the doctors and surgical staff, and all they’ve been able to tell us is to let them work and just pray for you.
[]9/23, 11:13[] Which is such an odd thing; men of science telling people to pray like the outcome of a surgery isn’t in their hands, but some theoretical astronomical entity. I know it’s probably just a ‘bedside-manner’ tactic, but it doesn’t help me in the slightest so it just irks me instead.
[]9/23, 11:15[] I don’t believe in prayer -- a shock, I’m sure -- but I do believe in the phenomenon of universal affirmation. It’s an interesting trend in history and spans cultures where if someone has something awaiting them, to live for, even if they are unaware of it… they will fight harder to cling to life. 
[]9/23, 11:18[] But I also know you will fight tooth and nail for Jack, and for your team that you treat like family, and maybe even me. I’d like to hope I’m included in that, and no amount of books or IQ points can make me think of something to contribute to help you keep fighting.
[]9/23, 11:19[] Just please keep fighting. Come back. And if I come up with something to entice you… I’ll let you know.
It eases a lot of the tension in his chest, talking to Hotch like this -- even if he’s just talking at him, in a place where he might never know what Spencer has had to say. But he can hope. Hope that Hotch will wake up and have thirty missed messages and see they are all from Spencer and it will make him smile. 
Spencer would give anything to see him smile, and he allows himself to hope that one day... he might get to. 
He might as well, while he’s sitting there hopelessly hoping for things beyond his control. 
Come back to me.
Spencer almost types it out, can see it in the text window though he hasn’t pressed a single letter, and closes his phone before he can. Pressing it to his mouth and closing his eyes and just… 
The hours roll over into the afternoon, and there’s still no word. 
Spencer has spent the majority of the day messaging Ms. Garcia, who has had no information beyond trivial updates here and there and Spencer has read more about surgical procedures and practices than he has in his entire life. Even raided the biology department’s library, surrounding himself with the comfort of books and files and filled his head with the soothing monotony of medical terms and safety protocols. 
But once noon has come and gone he finds himself staring into the bookshelves across from where he sits on the floor, among stacks of textbooks, with an epiphany trying to make itself known to him. Despite his every attempt to ignore it. 
His phone is back in his hand, there’s an email correspondence from Ms. Garcia that only briefly says Still nothing. And that makes up Spencer’s mind. 
[]9/23, 12:49[] I’ve thought of something.
What he types next makes it hard to breathe, his heart lodged in his throat, and it all comes flowing out of him much like before. His fingers keep moving, his emotional part of his brain steam-rolls over the rational one, and then he’s done and he’s tacked on six extra messages and Spencer has to put his phone away before he rereads it beyond what is deemed healthy or sane. 
Because he’s done what he could, and all he can do is believe that will be enough to… subliminally keep Hotch fighting. The day is only half over, and Spencer feels like he hasn’t slept in a week. 
It would be hours before he got the message that would send relief through his spine like a shot of Novocain. Just three words from Ms. Garcia, sent in haste in a text instead of an email.
{}9/23, 14:58{} He’s in recovery.
Hotch wakes up just barely the first time, the room spinning and hit with that familiar smell of anesthesia he can always taste as it fills his senses, before he slips back under. 
The second time is to a small pencil light being flashed in his eyes, staccato movements meant to test his pupil reactions, and an older woman in nurse’s scrubs saying his name and calling to him. He hums an affirmative, even though he isn’t fully returned to a working state of mind. Instinct, more than clarity.
“Welcome back, Agent Hotchner.”
“About damn time,” he hears Prentiss say from somewhere across the room. Probably leaning the wall, if that faux drone is anything to go by. The nurse gives her a look but his agent isn’t even fazed by it, as far as Hotch can see. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust that far. But he knows the look well enough he doesn’t actually have to see it. 
“Where is everyone? Is anyone else hurt?” Hotch can feel the words form on his tongue, droned out in a haze, his mind slowly coming back to him. 
“Good to see you, too, boss,” Prentiss says in mild exacerbation, coming up to the side of his bed but not taking a seat. She must have been waiting a long time, her whole stance jittery just like after long flights on cases. “Everyone is fine, you’re the only one that got into a knife fight with an unsub who’s into biological warfare.” Hotch blinks at her, trying to make her words make sense without asking it of her. He remembers going to a warehouse to follow a lead, but not much else after that. It’s coming back too slowly to keep up with her. Prentiss just sighs, and repeats herself. “Everyone is fine.” 
She regales him with a play by play, his own memories appearing like raindrops on a windshield to accompany her commentary. Slowly beginning to form a picture of what had happened. He’d been stabbed before, more than he cares to think about, and he’s been dosed with military-grade drugs before as well -- but never both at the same time. No wonder he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.
“You’re lucky to be alive, honestly,” she points out, hip resting against the plastic side panels of his hospital bed. 
“Yeah, I’m gathering that.”
“And your phone has been blowing up like crazy.” 
Hotch is finally able to sit up enough and see straight without his vision swimming, to find that his agent does indeed have his cell phone in her hands. 
“Yeah, eight missed calls and three voicemails, and--” she squints at the screen before looking at him in astonished confusion, “eighty-seven missed text messages, from a whole bunch of people. I’m not reading through all of them. I didn’t know you were that popular.” 
“I’m the Unit Chief, popularity has nothing to do with it,” Hotch deadpans, more himself. Wanting to reach for his phone but his arms are still dealing with pins and needles sensations, sluggish to lift and his fingers uncooperative. “Who called me eight times?”
“Let’s see,” she unlocks his phone -- somehow, god damn it Prentiss -- and scrolls through his notifications. “Two calls from Jessica, one from me, three from Strauss (Jesus), one from Dr. Reid, and one from Garcia. It doesn’t say who the voicemails are from.”
Hotch suddenly feels much more alert, his heart rate monitor picking up but he does his best not to draw attention to it, instead looking up at Prentiss as carefully guarded as he ever is. 
“Dr. Reid called?” he tries to keep his voice even, and unaffected, but the aftereffects of the drugs in his system leave a little more hitch in his voice than he would have liked. 
“Yeah, he’s been talking to Garcia,” Prentiss says without much comment, still scrolling through his phone and making Hotch a little more than nervous. “Busted the case wide open, and saved your life while he was at it. We never would have known you were dosed with something if he hadn’t figured it out. Think you owe that old man a fruit basket.”
“Can I have my phone back?” 
“Don’t think you’re supposed to have it,” she says without looking up, still scrolling through his notifications. “Lots of junk e-mail…”
“One of those voicemails is probably Jack, I should call and let them know I’m alright,” Hotch tries to reason with her.
“He and Jess are already on their way up, they’ll land in an hour,” Prentiss tells him, but looks over her shoulder for that nurse as she makes to hand Hotch his phone anyway. Still hesitant despite her predilections to breaking every rule she can get away with.
“I still want it back,” Hotch insists, regretting saying it as soon as he does.
It catches Prentiss’ attention a little too sharply. “...why?” But at Hotch’s steady stare and solid silence, unwavering like he hadn’t just been in surgery for hours on end, she finally relents and hands it over, still giving him a suspicious look. 
“It’s important,” he finally admits, when she doesn’t stop staring for a good couple of minutes. Those perfectly shaped eyebrows raise near to her hairline, the profiler in her connecting more dots than should be humanly possible. 
A small smile teases her lips, though not fully forming there. “Now I wish I’d read them.” 
Hotch just gives her a reprimanding look of his own, but it’s short lived.
“Thank you, for staying.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Prentiss assures him, her smile going softer. “I’ll leave you to your mystery woman.” A beat, another raised eyebrow. “Person.” A knowing look, but then she exits and Hotch is able to look at his phone at his own discretion. 
Hotch goes through the text messages with a brief glance; there’s so many of them. Other agents and agencies, his team in a group chat Garcia had started, Jessica left fifteen before someone got a hold of her, and Jack’s school sending reminders about soccer and parent teacher conferences. 
But 39 are from Spencer, and his heart constricts in his chest at the worry he must have caused the man. Aches next to the scars on his chest and the blood that doesn’t belong to him in his veins. And somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it’s coupled with a torturous feeling of longing. Even subtle jealousy, because even half drugged out of his mind Hotch hadn’t missed the precise word choices Prentiss used. Garcia has been talking to Spencer -- talking. 
Garcia got to hear him.
She talked to Spencer, when he still hadn’t, because of some unspoken rule Hotch isn’t even sure when they decided upon. He still knew so little about the man, and Spencer’s voice could tell him so much with just a few words. He could fill volumes with what he would learn from just a single message --
Without much further thought, Hotch pulls up his voice mail. Listens to the automated voices and the three messages there. None are from Spencer, although his heart had beat a little harder in anticipation -- enough his heart monitor beeped audibly next to him. Embarrassing as that was, like a lovestruck teenager. He’d glared at it and centered his breathing until his heart rate slowed back down, not wanting to alert the nurses station. Two of the voicemails are from Jessica’s phone, one of her worried out of her mind, and the other of Jack telling him they are coming to see him and he hopes he feels better soon. Just listening to his son speak more strongly than his aunt had or anyone else should in his situation, telling his daddy he loves him while the sounds of a commercial airline filter through the background, makes Hotch want to smile and sob all at once.
The last voicemail is from Garcia, telling him a similar story to what Prentiss had earlier, but with a bit more detail on her end. How ‘Dr. Reid’ called her out of the blue, because there had been no time for his usual emails, and gave them the information that saved his life. He’d been working the case diligently, ever since, and was checking up on him a lot. More than a lot. ‘Let him know you’re okay, when you wake up and get this. The poor guy is worried sick, and my updates only give him so much comfort.’
Spencer had actually called Garcia, when he hasn’t physically spoken to anyone in Quantico the entire time he’s consulted for them, just to save a few precious seconds to relay what he’d found. He’d even broken their rule, probably before hand, and called Hotch -- just to make sure he was okay. Hadn’t stopped working to help, the moment he found out he wasn’t.
It’s a strange thought, that if not for Spencer -- Hotch would be dead. That Jack would be flying up here for a very different reason. 
Hotch switches over to the text messages with a lump in his throat. Not at all prepared, emotionally, but needing to know.
The 39 messages start from the night before, when they were supposed to have had their usual online chess date. They range from playful banter, teasing edged in worry, and escalate to panic as the night wears on. Anxious worry bleeding through the single sentences, building and building until that lump in his throat feels like it might block off all air soon. 
Please be okay.
God, that alone starts to set a tone -- and reveals something Hotch hadn’t expected to find. Those three words give way to his speech pathology training, and all indicate that Spencer is… very likely younger than he’d originally thought. Some of Hotch’s assumptions might be close, even the teasing ones he’d only said because he’d been sure they were wrong. The other man is obviously beyond worried about him, as well. Petrified, despite knowing the risks of his job. They had become so close the past few months, were most definitely past the flirting stage and into something so tentative and wonderful Hotch can barely believe it some days. But they had never talked about this, about the possibility that Hotch might walk into a situation one day and not walk back out of it. 
Spencer’s messages soon give way to him just… talking at Hotch. Relaying what was happening, philosophical rants meant to ease his own mind and Hotch finds himself smiling softly at the man’s constant stream of thought, lectures at genius levels that he still feels so compelled to share with Hotch. Because they are that close. They really, truly, are -- and it brightens the fluttering feeling in his chest all the more. How Spencer is trying, subliminally, to draw Hotch back to the light. Three thousand miles away.
Please come back.
Hotch hears it loud and clear, the come back to me. Even unwritten. And it makes his heart skip a beat, aching as it does.
[]9/23, 15:49[] I’ve thought of something.
[]9/23, 15:52[] I’m 29.
Hotch doesn’t understand, at first. But then it hits him.
29 years. 
Spencer is 29 years old. Proven, further, by the following messages sent after that.
[]9/23, 15:56[] I’m a certified child prodigy, on a registry and everything. I graduated high school at just twelve years old, and had my first Ph.D. by 15. Youngest in CalTech history.
Jesus Christ, no wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell Hotch his age. 29 is… far younger than he expected. 
When Spencer was born, Hotch was getting his driver’s license. 16 years difference in age…
He keeps reading, despite the numb aftermath of a bomb going off inside his head, trying to process it and also hear the younger man out.
Younger. Spencer is 16 years younger than Hotch, and he finds himself scrubbing at his face to try and wake himself up further as he reads what Spencer sent.
[]9/23, 15:57[] I turn 30 at the end of October, and I was trying to wait until then to tell you. 
[]9/23, 16:00[] I’ve noticed a prominent dynamic shift in perception, between listing my age as in my 20’s and ‘almost 30’. It’s a numerical allusion our brains can’t help. You hear 29, you think 21. It happens with decades, too, once someone is outside the familial range of 10 years. +/- either side.
[]9/23, 16:02[] An age gap doesn’t sound as bad when I’m 30. That’s why I wanted to wait, just a little while longer, but if that universal affirmation phenomenon actually works for us -- I don’t mind dealing with the consequences.
[]9/23, 16:03[] Just please come back. 
[]9/23, 16:07[] Please be okay.
[]9/23, 16:10[] I miss you.
His heart is about to be ripped to shreds. 
Hotch feels terrible, because Spencer is right. 29 sounds so young, and it keeps repeating in his head over and over. But 29 isn’t the same as 21, he isn’t some college student still stumbling around trying to figure out his life. He has five Ph.D.’s, runs three departments at one of the best universities in the country, is consulted by the FBI and Homeland Security and very obviously has a reputation he upholds to the highest regard. Hotch had guessed Spencer was 32 not so long ago, what was the big difference between that and his actual age? From what little Spencer just shared of his life story, he’s never gotten to be a kid, so who was Hotch to consider him one? What gave him the right to be floored by this, did it actually change what he thought of Spencer? How he felt about him only moments prior to reading that?
I miss you.   Come back.   Please be okay.
I’m 29.
It could be the recent flirtation with death, the anesthesia or the morphine, even the gratitude that Hotch will get to see his son again and not leave him without both his parents -- there’s so many reasons for him to take pause as he considers the messages in front of him. 
But it feels a lot like the months of talking, and the countless late nights spent together, that pile up and up in his chest. A rising pressure that reminds Hotch that he and Spencer have something, and it’s not a normal, regular situation for either of them. Something that precedent, and everything Hotch has ever been told to hold to standard, doesn’t seem to fit. He and Spencer don’t seem to fit, when looked at afar or even on paper -- but they do. They really do. It was never supposed to be something that could be this easy, or normal in any capacity.
But what about their lives ever was?
[]9/23, 18:26[] I’m so sorry I worried you.
[]9/23, 18:26[] I miss you, too.
[]9/23, 18:27[] If I stop answering you, the nurse took my phone away. I hate hospitals.
[]9/23, 18:29[] Hotch, you scared me to death.
[]9/23, 18:30[] I know, I’m sorry.
[]9/23, 18:31[] From what I heard, you saved my life.
[]9/23, 18:33[] I don’t even know how to begin thanking you for that.
[]9/23, 18:36[] Just get better.
[]9/23, 18:38[] Which means resting, don’t glare at your nurses too much. They’re there to help you.
There’s a long stretch of a pause in their correspondence, which picks up so smooth and easy it’s as if they had never stopped. Like the last few days hadn’t happened at all. But they had, they were both looking at the messages to prove that. He does take pause, maybe more than he should, and Hotch knows miles away Spencer is just as nervous. Staring at his phone.
Hotch isn’t wrong. Spencer let out such an exclamation of relief at Hotch’s name on his notifications he about sobbed with it. He never cries, hasn’t in years -- but his eyes sting with relief and worry and… an emotion he doesn’t want to name.
[]9/23, 18:44[] What day is your birthday?
[]9/23, 18:45[] October 28th.
[]9/23, 18:45[] Same week as mine. November 2nd.
Hotch pauses, again, considers his next response… and 3,000 miles away Spencer can barely blink as he stares at his phone with mounting dread. 
[]9/23, 18:49[] I understand why you didn’t want to tell me. It’s alright.
[]9/23, 18:51[] Am I correct in assuming you’ve never been in a relationship with this much of an age gap?
It takes Hotch a moment to even gather the courage to type that out and send it. Knows it sounds almost too formal, for them, but Hotch also knows that he and Spencer are balanced on the edge of a knife, here, and… no matter what the outcome, everything is about to change between them.
Spencer licks his lips in nervousness, reading the line over and over although he has no need to. It feels like a tipping point, and he’s still… terrified this will be his last conversation with Hotch outside of case work. Ever. 
[]9/23, 18:55[] Never. 
[]9/23, 18:57[] I haven’t had many relationships at all. My peer groups have always been older than me, and people my own age never understood me enough to be interested. So it’s just something I was used to, going without.
[]9/23, 18:59[] This has been… the closest thing to what I’ve been told is normal that I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never had the chance to have something like this with someone, or connect in this way. I gave up, for a long while there.
[]9/23, 19:01[] I’ve been in a similar situation before, on an intellectual spectrum.
[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never--
Hotch pauses, again, putting his thoughts in order. Weighing it all, before taking that final leap. Spencer waiting with baited breath, all the more. 
But Hotch doesn’t regret what he sends. Not one bit.
[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never dated anyone younger than me like this, before, so we’ll both be on a learning curve.
[]9/23, 19:03[] But we will figure it out. Together.
Spencer’s breath catches, and he can’t seem to release it again. He can’t believe what he’s reading. What Hotch has sent him. 
He said ‘dated’.
He thought they were dating. Spencer isn’t quite sure he can trust his own eyes, despite the words being there in stark black and white on his phone screen.
[]9/23, 19:06[] Dating?
Hotch smiles, because he just knows -- from that single word text -- that Spencer has sent it not in admonishment or anything negative of the sort. But in hope. Confident that he recognizes the nuance in Spencer's voice even without ever having heard it, Hotch just knows, and it makes warmth blossom anew in his chest. Sends his heart rate monitor skittering across the machine all over again.
[]9/23, 19:08[] Hate to be the one to tell you, but all of those late nights where we talked for hours instead of playing chess? Those were dates.
Spencer has his hand over his mouth, still in disbelief that he hadn’t… fucked this up beyond repair. That his age hadn’t been the deal breaker he’d feared so vehemently for months now. That everything is still as it was, age difference and life-threatening situation, aside.
They were dating. All this time.
[]9/23, 19:10[] I should have worn nicer clothes.
Hotch laughs at his phone at the same time Spencer laughs at his own, having reread what he’d sent. 
3,000 miles away, and their quiet laughter coincides perfectly. 
[]9/23, 19:11[] Our next one I’m sure I’ll be in a hospital gown, so I think you’re in the clear.
[]9/23, 19:12[] Sounds like you’re making plans, already. 
[]9/23, 19:12[] You still need rest.
[]9/23, 19:14[] Well, I have to thank you somehow. And, I saw something about poker instead of chess? I’m actually not bad at poker.
[]9/23, 19:15[] … you remember I’m from Vegas, right?
[]9/23, 19:16[] We’ll play for fake money.
[]9/23, 19:18[] No such thing.
[]9/23, 19:19[] I do play for favors, though.
[]9/23, 19:19[] Oh? 
Hotch feels a wild, youthful thing unfurl in his chest as he types away. Mischievous, almost, in a way he only gets when he and Spencer are hours deep into conversations in the middle of the night. But it’s broad daylight, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide. Getting lost in the thrill of it all. In the officiality of it, now, and another curtain unveiled between them.
[]9/23, 19:20[] Did you have something in mind?
Spencer has to be blushing seven shades of red, right about now, and he hides his face from his phone for a moment before he realizes how ridiculous that is -- Hotch can’t see him. He can stop messaging the man any time he wants to.
Except he doesn’t want to.
[]9/23, 19:24[] I’ll get back to you.
Hotch can’t help it as he grins at his phone. A wry, suggestive thing, but he manages to school it before a passing nurse can see him -- how his eyes are alight with possibility. With elation, just from talking to the younger man that had seemed to capture a part of him he thought wasn’t available to anyone any more, and types out one last -- slightly more flirtatious subtext to put a cap on their conversation. To indicate he’s awaiting more, always wanting a little more of Dr. Spencer Reid.
He can blame it on the morphine, later. 
[]9/23, 19:25[] Looking forward to it.
Tagged List:  @spencehotchner @ssa-sarahsunshine @gothamapologist @reidology @marsjareau @dragon-snaps-fandom​ @emmyraebird @just-an-emo-rat​​​ @aaron-hotchner187 @dk18077 @more-heid-pls @fakin-it-til-i-make-it @merpancake
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interstellarflare · 11 months ago
Bend and Break || Homelander
Warnings: Gore, violence, course language, angst.
Summary: People can only bend their morales so far before they break. Homelander is the world’s greatest superhero, and you, a tech analyst, somehow become entangled in his world when he learns that you provide intel to The Boys. He makes it his personal mission to find out exactly what you know, but he never expected such resistance from someone as damaged as you. But broken things can be mended, sometimes in the most unexpected ways possible.
Author’s Note: As a bit of a disclaimer, I have only seen snippets of The Boys. I haven’t actually watched all of it, so forgive me if there are some details that are wrong, as well as the many spelling errors that will undoubtedly be in this series. There is a tag list open for those who wish to be added. I apologise for the long chapters. Gif by @cruisified​ DOUBLE UPDATE? OH YEAH!
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Stillwell’s car crashed into his invulnerable form head on, the driver dying upon impact. He remembered hauling her panicking form from the wreckage, enjoying the fear that came from her in droves.
His blood roared through his veins, as Madelyn turned to face him with a wild expression. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?” She shrieked, throwing her arms out wide as her eyes shone with anger. John stormed towards her, his eyes narrowing into a glare that promised death. “What have you done?” He growled, his eyes glowing faintly. Madelyn laughed bitterly, the blood from her forehead dripping onto her pure white dress. “You thought, that I didn’t know about your little adventures with The Watcher? You thought, I didn’t know that she would try and hack into hour systems again, John?” Madelyn scoffed, running a hand through her dishevelled hair “Look at yourself, John, that bitch is changing you in ways that I-” She stopped mid-sentence, her hands beginning to tremble as the man before her, The Homelander, stepped closer.
She did this out of jealousy. She did this out of her own hatred for you.
John released a shaky breath, closing his eyes as he tried to calm all of the unforgiving emotions swimming through his chest. Clenching his jaw, John opened his eyes and released a bitter breathless laugh. “The shooter, he wore the same prototype armour in the schematics of Project Cerberus” He stated blatantly, pressing his lips into a thin line as Madelyn stiffened. Her gaze fell to the road, in what little space was left between them as John now stood inches away from her form. “How do you know about that? That’s top secret-”
“Well...” John began, now standing intimidatingly close “turns out that bitch, is smarter than you thought” “Don’t do this...” Madelyn pleaded, reaching up and cupping his face in her hands “you can’t do this. You are mine, you always have been. Come back to me, come back to us”. John pulled away, feeling physically sick by the woman before him, at the way she held his face. At the way that there was no emotion, no ounce of guilt or regret in her eyes for what she had done. 
He didn’t feel guilty for what he did next. It was the only thing he could do.
John slammed his hand into Madelyn’s chest, tearing through flesh and breaking through bone. The Senior Vice President of Vought International’s Hero Management team barely had enough time to breath as John’s hand enclosed around her heart, and crushed it with terrifying ease.
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You stared at the man before you with a bewildered expression, the pain in your chest suddenly becoming less prominent as you searched for something to say.
The Homelander, the leader of The Seven, had killed Madelyn Stillwell.
John washed the blood from his face, his hands trembling as your crusted blood stained the white cloth red. “You killed Stillwell...” You breathed, eyes wide with shock as the man before you began to panic. As he began to break.
“What have I done? Oh god, what have I done? I’ve ruined everything, I...oh god. I can’t go back-”
“John, look at me”.
“I almost got you killed! I heard your heartbeat getting slower and slower-”
“John, stop!”.
“What do you want me to do Y/n!?”
“I want you to fucking listen to me!”.
You collapsed on the vinyl floor before you could comprehend what had happened. Somehow, amidst all the shouting and screaming, you had forced yourself out of bed without thinking. The agony that coursed through you forced air from your lungs, collapsing to the ground and gasping for something, anything. The tiniest sliver of air that was just out of reach.
And then he was there.
John lifted you into his arms, practically cradling you to his chest as you tried to steady your pained gasps. When you realised that you were breathing somewhat normally, you lifted your gaze slowly to find that John was already staring down at you. His cheeks were tear stained, his blue hues shimmering in the dark light of the room. You gave him a soft and reassuring smile, carefully reaching up and tenderly cupping the side of his face with your hand. Perhaps it was the morphine making you delirious, or maybe it was the shadows of the droplets of rain cascading down the window, but you could have sworn that the Supe holding you leaned into your tough, closing his eyes and savouring it as he breathed deeply. “I’m okay...” You whispered quietly, your eyes stinging with unshed tears as John’s eyes opened, a soft smile of his own tugging at his lips as his hand lifted up to envelope your own. Holding your hand closer to his face, he squeezed your hand tightly.
The two of you stayed in this position until you drifted off into a painless sleep, the morphine having caught up and luring you into a peaceful darkness. John listened to your heartbeat as you curled up against his blood-stained suit, and released a long sigh of relief as your heart returned to its normal steady rhythm. 
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Tag List: @lauraaan182 @tardis-23 @freshmakertaco@shilsvampsinger @cynthianokamaria  @delicatetimetravelarcade@coloursunlimited @clean-soap @themarch-oftheblackqueen@soft-hargreeves @kennedywxlsh @itskatrinahere @morven-aranea @sublimebearalienhuman @unlikelyllamanerd
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Can you do the bad batch having to tell reader to take a binder break
Yes you can! I had to do some research first and find effects of wearing a binder for someone who wears one to wrong, reading some of them. I hope whoever binds, binds safely
I was also thinking, maybe I do other ones like she transitioning into a they, or a he. Maybe the batch getting use to that, I have to do research to do these because I dont want to get anything wrong, so if you'd guys likes to help, I'd gladly take it.
Reader: Female
Safety First| The Bad Batch
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Y/n took cover besides Crosshair.
"So this is what happens when we try and save your ass huh?!" Y/n laughed as Crosshair chuckled.
"Wow I really missed your bantering!" Tech shouted over the blaster fire, across the way taking his own cover.
Y/n laughed happily, "Get in here!" Echo argued through the comn link he had started the ship up.
Y/n covered the group of men and child as she fired at the soilders, rushing back she tried to make it to the ship but was shot in the shoulder.
Wrecker rushed forward grabbing her as the men covered the two, they making it into the ship as she was set on a chair.
"Tech, Echo! get us out of here!" Hunter demanded.
"Im working on it!" Tech argued.
Crosshair with the help of Wrecker moved Y/n to the back to assest her wound.
Within a matter of mintues Tech was shouted something about Hyperspace and there was a large sigh of relief from the cockpit.
They set Y/n down, both Crosshair and Wrecker removing her armor as easy as possible, but tried to be quick.
Stripping her down to her blacks Crosshair delicately removed her shirt.
"Hey you upgraded since last time." Crosshair comented on her binder as she laughed in pain as he put an anti-bac injection in her arm along with a morphine injection.
"Not helping."
The others made there way in the back.
Tech pushing past the group and kneeling infront of her.
"Is she gonna be okay?" Omega questioned as Hunter nodded.
"She'll be fine." Hunter told her.
"Hey kid." Wrecker spoke, "Lula might make her feel better."
Omega nodded rushing off to get the doll with Wrecker.
"We'll have to take this off to do a full inspection for precaution." Tech spoke as Crosshair sat next to her, "I can see part of this scar from last time is also healing over well."
"Nothing new." Y/n spoke as Tech asked Hunter to go get something from his bunk.
Y/n took off the binder as she leaned back, Tech inspecting the scar that went down the center of her chest.
"Did I put that on you?" Crosshair asked.
"No." Y/n responded.
"Oh." Crosshair spoke, "good...good."
Y/n nodded as Tech was looking for bandages, Echo handed them to him as he looked back at her.
"Atleast blaster fire usually cartirizes the area on contact..." Tech contuined to ramble as Echo found himself staring at her.
Well not at her, but her scars. She was prone to getting hurt and it wasnt uncommon that Echo or one of the guys patched her up. Omega had even put a pink bandaid on her head happy she had helped.
But last time she had been injured Echo took over most of the treatment, he may have only had one hand but had the steadiest of hands out of them all- besides Crosshair, but the clone had been busy shooting at them during that mission.
"Here, your data pad." Hunter spoke handing it to Tech.
Echo watched as she rubbed her non injured shoulder in discomfort.
"It looks like this opened up again." Tech responded looking at another cut, his hand holding her wrist, two fingers pressed to her skin firmly, "I highly recommend stop the binding for a week, you're skins tender and you're heart isn't increased much but has increased, are you having trouble breathing?"
"Yes." Echo corrected, "I've seen you in battle you're not as efficient as usual, and your scarring easier."
"Please. Im not scarring easier." Y/n responded.
Echo took Tech's data pad from him, pulling up the medical log,
"Most of your stiches are done by me, but I log them. Ever injury." Echo responded, "I had logged the other day's scars and new stiches the momment after you left."
"And?" Crosshair questioned, "she's always been prone to getting hurt. It's Y/n. Thats why Im surpised I didn't shoot her dead."
"Thank you Crosshair." Y/n thanked for the support.
Echo stopped scrolling, "Okay. See." He showed Tech and Hunter.
"These red ones are fresh ones, these white ones are current stiches and these gray ones are healed no matter stiches or regualr cut." Echo explained, the body chart filled with marks and areas of multiple colors, white overlapping gray and red overlapping gray.
"Okay so whats the blue for?" Hunter questioned.
"The pink repersents what she's strained, broken, and or disclocated, see its changing from pink to gray slolwy, shes healing."
"Okay so whats the blue for." Hunter questioned again looking at the data pad.
"Thats not my bussniess." Echo responded, "and stop asking."
Hunter was taken back by the tone of Echo as Echo contuined to explain.
"This ones new, this is new, that ones new, this shoulder that had healed is most likely strained." Echo responded.
"Oh please, it cant be that bad." Y/n spoke snatching up the data pad, as Crosshair leaned over to look.
There was a number of new scars littered across her abdomen and shoulders.
"And we haven't even seen your back." Echo responded.
" I have to agree." Crosshair responded.
"I thought you agreed with me-"
"Yeah, its one thing to see scars I put on you." Crosshair responded, "but you're putting these on yourself-"
"You make it sound likes Im some depressed fuck!"
"Now Y/n, we don't mean it in that sense-" Hunter tried to explain, he would admit maybe they should of had this conversation more controlled, maybe only one of them should of talked to her at a time.
Y/n was angered, "My body! My choice!-"
"Yes but your not being safe." Tech tried to argue.
"And what we're doing out there every day is?!" Y/n argued grabbing her things and walking off slipping on her black turle neck as she did, pushing past Wrecker angerily as she winced holding her shoulder as she only pushed her way on.
"What happened to Y/n?" Omega questioned.
"She looked like she wanted to cry." Wrecker chipped in Lula in hand, "I thought you guys were helping her."
"Truth be told we don't know what she's going through," Hunter told the men.
"Well we do know-"
"Emotionally Tech." Hunter cut him off.
The room went quiet as everyone thought, it was true, they didn't, but two did know the feeling of being singled out, overwhelmed, or overprotected.
"I'll talk to her."
Echo and Crosshair looked at each other.
"I'll talk to her." They repeated.
"I'll talk to her." Wrecker spoke up.
"Uh." Tech responded, "no offense Wrecker- but uh-"
Hunter stopped Tech, "just you two."
Wrecker nodded as he walked back to the front of the ship, walking out the ship and down the ramp.
"Y/n?" He called out, the sky had been taken over by the night.
"Over here."
Following the sound of her voice he walked around the side of the ship, he found her, shirt lifted up to her collar bone as she looked at herself in a shard of mirror she had found on one of there trips, she winced touching her fresh brusies as Wrecker frowned.
"It hurt?"
"J-just a bit..." Y/n told him a small shake in her voice.
He frowned walking over as she pulled her shirt down with a wince, sitting herself up on a crate, Wrecker sitting besides her on a separate crate.
"Come to tell me I need to stop? Because there's no reason too."
Y/n was a bit confused, "Oh. Well good."
"But I get it."
Y/n looked besides her, "You do?"
"Yeah...I. I know Im not all smart like Tech. Or quick as Hunter and Cross. Or an easy climber like Echo is..." Wrecker spoke, "and Im especially not as small as all of them..."
Y/n frowned as Wrecker rang his hands together.
"But uh, well. I get not likin yourself and all." Wrecker admitted, "I don't like myself sometimes when I stand besides the others, Im so big- so I uh think I understand why you wanna change yourself to feel comfortable, its why Im always sitting when with them. It makes me feel better."
Y/n listned, "and as much as I'd like to be shorter. My brothers wouldnt want me cutting off my feet or anythin to make me shorter."
"Well no kidding, you'd be in serious pain for a while you're brothers don't want you in any pain and neither would I-" Y/n responded, but stopped, "oh."
"Sure it isnt as painfull as cutting your feet cut off. But Im sure it will eventually be that painful. Like you're shoulder."
Y/n rubbed her shoulder, "I seen you flinch when you ran into me, I don't like seeing you hurt."
Y/n stayed silent, "I-" she tried to explain.
"You don't have to explain," Wrecker spoke, "Just know. We understand, we're your brothers."
Y/n nodded, "We should probably get your shoulder looked at."
"Oh uh...yeah."
Wrecker and Y/n walked back to the entrance of the ship, hearing arguing.
"Don't you have a book- or something on it?!"
"Well if I did I'd be applying it to Y/n! Do you understand how hard it is to grasp this concept, I don't know the diffrence between fabrics! Why can't she just use bandage wrap! What it really does!"
"Well it makes her feel better so figure it out!"
"Oh yeah! Therapist Echo in the house people! Do you understand this crap?!"
"Well- No-"
"Do you understand the anatomy of breast-"
"What do you!?"
"I do."
"Crosshair shut up you havent even slept with a woman! This isnt a game!-"
Tech turned around seeing Y/n and Wrecker standing side by side.
"Um...mind ranting after patching me up? Or during?"
"You're okay?" Tech questioned hands setting on her shoulders as she winced.
"Uh." She repsonded pulling away and looking at the men infront of her, "No. Actually can you help?"
"We'd never thought we'd never get to say yes to that question in our lives to you."
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captain-josslett · a month ago
Enigma - Part One
Summary: Emma Swan’s world gets turned upside down when her memories are altered, erasing her knowledge of a magical town and those she loves.
Things start to look up when Emma meets a striking redhead and a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.
Words: 3.1k+
Warnings: Fluff, Angst,
Pairings: Emma Swan x Regina Mills, Emma Swan x ??
This Part: Emma has to leave her life and love behind and begin a new life in New York with Henry.
Well! Here is a story no one asked for! 😅 This is the first thing I ever wrote, I have edited it a lot as I was high on oral morphine while writing! Also I have no idea about tagging.
Thank you for reading and let me know if you wanna be tagged or any general feedback will be greatly appreciated. Please! I like knowing your thoughts.
Taglist: (Let me know if you want to come off this one) @finleyfray, @life-is-hella-unfair, @natasha-danvers, @supergirl-writingz, @camslightstories, @thinking1bee, @aznblossom, @crispykidcookiebasketball
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(Not my Gif)
June 2011
Emma feels sick to her stomach as she stands by the town line. Staring at Pan’s curse as the green cloud slowly looms towards them. Earlier she had watched Regina, her secret girlfriend of over a year, collapse while they tried to figure out how to stop the curse. When Regina finally came round she had looked at her with such sorrow before she explained what needed to be done. That Regina needs to pay the price for the curse by sending everyone back to the Enchanted forest and leave Henry and Emma behind.
Emma wants to scream and shout over how unfair everything is. They had worked so hard to get here. Their relationship had started off very rocky. They had begun as enemies. But through the love of their son they put aside their differences to save him from a collapsing mine. Regina had shown vulnerability and Emma allowed her guard to lower.
From that moment gazes would linger longer, small talk made way for personal conversations and slight caresses became intimate touches that would inflame the skin.
Enemies became friends who became lovers.
However, due to Regina’s past she was terrified of making their relationship public. Of allowing her heart to fully surrender to love. Then the curse broke and Regina retreated back into herself. It also didn’t help that before they could talk Emma had been an idiotic saviour and pushed Regina out of the way of a soul sucking wraith. Only for Emma to be pulled into a portal to the Enchanted Forest, being closely followed by her newly awoken mother, Snow White.
In the days after, worrying if Emma had survived, Regina reflected, remembering the words of her first love to “learn to love again”. Then finally when Regina saw Emma return to Storybrooke her cold, dark heart leapt. But courage failed her again and kept her rooted to the spot. Her past as the Evil Queen told her she was unworthy of Emma Swan.
She tried to push Emma away but Regina was surprised and touched by how Emma still stood with her, how Emma would try and break through her walls again and again. How she was patient and listened to Regina’s fears. How Emma would try and ease that fear with words of love and encouragement, that it was okay for them to be seen in public.
To make their relationship official.
But Regina held firm, needing more time to combat her demons.
Though frustrated, Emma held true to her word and they only showed their love behind locked doors.
Because of this Emma spent more time at Regina’s home, stating she was spending time with their son and using the guest room. Only to sneak into Regina’s room during the night and slip in-between the sheets. They always woke up before their son so that was never an issue but soon a family dynamic grew and routines began.
Until strangers came to the town and Henry was kidnapped to Neverland. The mother’s didn’t hesitate to go after their son and reassured each other along the way. Stealing kisses and moments of love in the cabin they shared. Eventually they found Henry and returned to their town. To their home. All seemed to go back to normal. Until Pan released another curse. And Emma’s dream of being a true family with Henry and Regina was stolen.
So the blonde bitterly glares at Pan’s curse, until Regina grabs her hand. Breaking Emma’s heart further as she looks into Regina’s solemn brown eyes.
“My gift to you, is good memories, a good life for you—” Regina looks behind her to where their son is standing with Neal, his father he’d only recently met, she beckons their son to them. “And Henry.” Emma cannot hold the tears and starts to sob. “You would have never given him up.” Her girlfriend looks at their son with such love in her tearful eyes, her voice cracks as she continues. “You’d have always been together.”
“No, please don’t do this, it won’t be real.” Emma says brokenly.
“Your past won’t, but your future will be.” Regina hugs her son tightly. Savouring every second and remembering his warmth. She kisses him on his forehead and painfully lets him go. She turns to see her girlfriend being kissed on the forehead by Snow. Emma’s devastation is written all over her face as she whimpers. How Regina wishes she could kiss away Emma’s tears and reassure her.
Instead Regina steps towards Emma and they hug fiercely. She whispers gently in her ear. “I need to do this Emma.”
“I know.” Emma whimpers. Regina’s heart breaks at how broken Emma sounds. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Regina whispers back.
Emma desperately wants to kiss Regina at that moment but a thunderous noise breaks them apart. The green clouds loom even closer towards them.
They gaze back at each other and finally, Regina steps away from Emma, nodding to her that it will be okay. Emma hesitates for a moment before quickly moving to get into the bug with Henry following her. She only looks back when they start to cross the town line. Staringing at the parents she had just found, and lost again. She watches Regina lift her hands and use her magic to change the curse. The clouds colour morph from green to purple.
‘Regina I lo—’
A wave of calm comes over Emma as she drives towards a new life with her son. She blinks a few times, feeling a sense of emptiness. Something she has forgotten. Like trying to remember a dream after you wake up.
“Ma? Are you okay?” Henry looks at her with concern.
“Yea kid, why?” She smiles at him, hoping her confusion wasn’t written on her face.
“Well, you're crying.”
Emma lifts a hand to her cheek and realises her face is drenched in tears. “That’s weird. Must be allergies or something.” She smiles at him again and he smiles back. But a deep sadness sits within her. Something she cannot place.
“So have you been to New York before?” Henry asks, excited at the new move.
“Yea a few times, more for—” She stops, unable to remember what she was going to say.
“More for what?” Henry queries.
“More for sightseeing than anything else.” Emma lies smoothly, unable to say she couldn’t quite remember. “It will be cool to live there right?”
“Yea!” Henry bounces in his seat. Emma smiles at his excitement. “Do you know why it's called the big apple?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Maybe we can find out when we go looking around?”
“Sure kid.” A comfortable silence descends on the two as they listen to the radio. Emma hums along to almost all of them, not wanting to sing loudly like she usually would because Henry would just whine at her for embarrassing him.
The bug continues on and gets them safely to the outskirts of New York. They are both blown away by the skyline in front of them.
“How long do you think we’ll stay here?” Henry queries as they make their way through the traffic.
“Hopefully for a while.” Emma smiles at her son before concentrating on driving. ‘Please let it be for a while!’ Emma begs any higher power out there.
“Yea I imagine a lot of bad guys in New York?” Henry says gleefully and Emma grins back at him. Henry always says his mom is a hero, once making her cry as a teacher showed Emma a paper Henry had written about her work as a bail bonds person.
“You’re right there Kid!”
Emma continues driving and soon they approach a bridge into the island of Manhattan. Henry practically vibrates in his seat. “Hey Henry, can you look at the directions we need to take to the apartment please?”
She listens carefully to Henry’s directions, laughing when he tries different sat nav voices and making notes of the stores around them. They finally approach an underground parking gate when a friendly security guard comes out to meet them. Rolling her window down she is greeted with his big smile.
“Hello Ma’am, young sir! How may I help you on this fine day?”
“Hi, we are moving into apartment—” Emma looks at the information in Henry’s hand.
“311.” Henry speaks out.
“311.” Emma says to the security guy.
“Ah the Swans! Welcome, welcome! Please come through!” The security guard presses a button for the gate to roll upwards, allowing Emma to drive down.
“Thanks Mr?”
“Matt. Matt is just fine.” He nods his hat to her with a wide grin.
“Well then you can call me Emma and this is Henry.” Emma motions her hand to her son and Henry does a small wave and smiles at the kind man.
“Pleasure to meet you Emma and Henry. Anything you need just give me a shout.”
‘I thought New Yorkers weren’t this friendly?’ Emma wonders as she nods, driving the bug down the ramp and around the car park until she spots their designated space. She rolls up her window and takes a deep breath. Hoping the apartment is as good as she imagines. Especially after their apartment building in Boston caught fire. They managed to save a few items but they were mostly restarting their lives. Something Emma has done multiple times through her life and had hoped Henry would not to experience it too.
They both exit the bug and go round to the boot to grab their suitcases. Emma is relieved that the new apartment is partly furnished with beds. Relieved to not having to sleep on the floor.
The duo make their way to the elevators, waving again at Matt as they wait.
“He seems nice.” Henry breaks the silence.
“Well part of our fees are paying him.”
“Yea but he could have been a grouch.” Henry politely points out.
“True.” The elevator pings open and they enter.
“What floor?”
Henry quickly presses the button and they move upwards. As the elevator doors open again Henry rushes out to find their apartment, excited to see their new home. Emma smiles as she follows after him. She hands him the key and he quickly unlocks the door.
As they enter their new home Emma hopes this new beginning will be good for them both and can fill a gaping hole that she has in her heart.
-- -- --
The next couple of days go quickly for both Henry and Emma. They unpack in record time with plenty of pizza and decide to spend the next day having time to visit many of the sites.
Emma is still blown away by the height of the skyscrapers and feels a sense of déjà vu at seeing areas that appear in the films she’s watched.
Henry is especially interested in going to Stark Tower, which they can see from the apartment. But up close it’s gigantic.
“When I grow up I wanna be as cool as Iron Man!” Henry proclaims as they gaze up the shining tower.
“You’re already as cool as him kid.” Emma nudges him lightly with her shoulder. Henry beams at her and they turn around to head back to the apartment.
“Ma, if you were a superhero, what powers would you have?” Henry asks, holding her hand as they weave through the bustling crowd.
“Hmm, well I have my lying super power.”
“That doesn’t count.” Henry scoffs.
“Okay, er… I haven’t really thought about it kid.” Emma ponders her answer. “Does a Jedi count?”
Henry snorts loudly. “No Ma! It has to be real!”
“Hey! Jedi’s could exist! They are just in another galaxy, far, far away!” Emma extends her arms outwards, almost knocking a guys hat off. She quickly apologises and laughs as she watches her son roll his eyes at her. “Okay! I know it's cliche but I would love to fly.” Emma looks up at the sky as pigeons soar overhead. Wondering how it must feel to glide with the wind.
“Yea that's so not original!” Henry rolls his eyes again at his mom. “Would you just fly or would you have powers that helped you fly? Like Iron Man’s jetpacks but it was you?”
“What like energy?”
Henry shrugs. “I guess.”
“Yea probably with energy, cause then other powers would be available right?”
They both laugh hard at how serious the conversation got. They continue discussing different powers and Emma smiles at how Henry wants every power he could think of.
Feeling too tired to cook they decide on getting another take out pizza from the restaurant by the apartment. Emma makes sure to pick up a loyalty card as she has a sneaky suspicion they will be eating from there a lot. Though she has a nagging feeling that she needs to fill him up with more vegetables and decides to order more veg as their toppings.
With a sigh Emma opens the apartment door and allows Henry to enter first. The excitement of the day catching up to both of them as they slowly make their way into the L shaped living area. She places the pizzas on the kitchen island while Henry grabs some glasses for the Pepsi max in the fridge. They settle on the island stools as they don’t have a sofa or chairs or a dining table yet.
Biting into a slice of pizza Emma looks around at the bare room. “Shall we go furniture shopping tomorrow?”
“Ikea?!” Henry attempts to say while shovelling more pizza in his mouth.
“Henry!” Emma tries to scold him but can’t help but chuckle at him instead. “Sure, you’ll need to help me put it together though.”
“I will if we can have a ton of meatballs!”
“Deal!” Emma wipes her hand on a napkin before holding it out to Henry. But he grasps it in a greasy handshake. Henry laughs at the mild disgust on his Mom’s face.
After a few hours of Diablo III, sitting on pillows on the floor, they both called it quits and head to bed. As Emma flops into bed she feels a spike of excitement at making the apartment more of a home. Their home.
-- -- --
The next morning they don’t rush up and get to Ikea mid morning. They spend hours trying out different sofas, chairs and tables. Henry laughs at how his Mom keeps changing her mind. Emma thanks her lucky stars that she had the idea to measure the apartment to know what could and would fit.
She fell in love with a L shaped sofa but to her dismay it was just too big. She didn’t fancy having to always climb over the back to get to its heavenly seats. Henry writes the numbers for each item and as they make their way through the maze, they stop and look at different items. They spend even more time debating on what colours they want in the apartment. Henry wants a deep blue wall in his bedroom and becomes fascinated with the display of the clocks on the wall.
Before going down into the market place Emma’s stomach rumbles, calling time out, they go to the food hall to refuel on the heavenly Swedish meatballs. Henry chooses to have fries with his meal while Emma decides to have the mashed potatoes, though she will steal a few of Henry’s fries later on.
After filling up they descend into the chaos of the market hall. Henry goes to grab a shopping trolley while Emma pulls out a list from her leather satchel, of items she notices they are missing. Like cutlery.
‘Totally starting anew.’ Emma thinks sadly as the pair debate on what colour cutlery to get.
Thankfully picking up these items doesn't take as long as deciding what furniture to choose. They go with rugs they like the look of and cushions of different colours that will go well with the grey sofa they have selected. They go with a few of Ikea’s typical uplighters as Emma prefers having an orange glow from the up lights rather than the blinding white light from the ceiling. Nearing the end of the market hall they come across the photo frame and picture area.
Henry immediately goes to a comic section while Emma slowly follows behind, looking at the different frames and pictures. Imagining where things can be placed. She stops short when she comes across a photo of a picturesque town. A clocktower above a library in the distance, a diner called Granny’s in the foreground.
It feels like home.
Something stirs in the back of Emma’s mind. Almost like a memory, though Emma has never been to such a place. She looks away and sees a brunette in the distance, a scar on the upper right side of her lip. Familiarity rolls through her and she blinks. Sad, warm brown eyes connect with hers-
Emma turns quickly towards her Son’s voice and sees Henry waving her over from across the room, obviously wanting to show her something.
“Coming.” She calls back. Emma looks back to where the brunette was but no one was there. Just a wall of mirrors. She quickly gazes down to the photo, tempted to buy it, but she pulls her hand back and shakes her head. ‘Why buy a photo of a place I’ve never been?’
Soon they get to the collecting stations and they grab the packed table and chairs they want. Unfortunately the sofa they want will have to be delivered so they grab two Poäng rocking chairs to go in front of the TV. Not wanting to sit on the floor another night.
Emma spends a while negotiating a price for the delivery of the sofa and to hire one of Ikea’s vans to get the rest of the stuff to the apartment. She knew before coming that it would be ridiculous to bring the small Bug.
A few minutes later Emma walks away smiling, while she twirls the van’s keys on her finger. Happy that she only had to pay half of the hire fee if she gets the van back the same day and she wouldn’t need to pay anything for the sofa delivery.
Now Emma can neither confirm or deny that she may or may not have leant forward a bit too much, revealing more of her chest to the flirty Ikea worker.
Thankfully the drive back to the apartment went off without a hitch and Matt cheerfully greets them as they pull into an offloading space by the elevators. He kindly helps Emma lift the heavier items onto one of his trolleys and promises to watch the rest of the stuff while the duo go back and forth to the apartment. Henry is given the task of unpacking and assembling what he can while Emma takes the van back to the store.
When Emma returns she smiles when she sees Henry has put together one of the chairs and is happily putting the other furniture together while pouring over the instructions. He looks up and smiles widely back at her.
‘I think I’m going to like it here.’
(Part Two)
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justthehiddleswrites · 7 months ago
Anesthesia | Tom Hiddleston x Reader
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Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader
Summary:  Tom suffers a serious car accident and the reader is the nurse on duty in the ER. Tom and anesthesia don't mix and Tom acts very out of character. Can Tom regain his composure or will he continue to shamelessly flirt with the reader? And is Benedict going to work all of this to his advantage?
Warnings: Car Accidents, Hospitals, Anesthesia Makes people act crazy, Tom quoting Shakespeare
Tom’s eyes fluttered, and he blinked several times, adjusting to the bright white light.
“Nurse! He is waking up!”
Nurse? Waking up? Tom reached out and cold metal hit his hands. Safety rails. The air was cool, dry, and sterile. As he attempted to sit up, he felt a cold air hit his bare back.
“Hey buddy, lie back down. You gave us quite a scare,” the familiar voice reassured him as he lowered himself back down to the bed.
Tom turned his head to the sound and once he saw Benedict’s face he smiled. Ben smiled back.
“Welcome back to Earth, Tom.”
“Thanks, what happened?”
The last thing Tom remembered was climbing into the stunt car to rehearse the big action shot. After that, it was just flashes of fire, screams and sirens.
“The brakes failed and the stunt coordinator doesn’t know what happened. But the important thing is you got out alive.”
Tom attempted to sit up again and felt winces of pain throughout his body.
“What was the damage?”
Benedict looked down.
“To you or the car?”
“The car… of course me! I feel as though a Mack truck hit me.”
“You are not far off. You broke your clavicle, wrist, and a few ribs. Um… lacerations everywhere and a… a ruptured spleen.”
Tom twisted to see his friend’s face better and felt the stitches and bandages strain. He winced at the sharp pain on his left side. Benedict hit the call button and in minutes, the nurse arrived.
She smiled as she approached the bed.
“Feeling pain?”
Tom nodded.
She looked at your chart before adding some pain meds to Tom’s IV.
“That should do. I would suggest lying down and the doctor should be in about twenty minutes.”
Tom thanked her and couldn’t help but notice her gazing over her shoulder as she left the room. Her smile barely contained her giggles. Tom’s eyes widened.
“Do they know who I am?”
Benedict averted his eyes and rose from the chair, feigning interest in the generic artwork on the wall. Tom narrowed his eyes at the clear avoidance of the question.
“What are you not telling me?”
“Oh boy, you don’t remember anything when you got here, do you?”
Tom shook his head.
“No, what happened?”
“You were in a lot of pain. Tell me have you ever been under anesthesia before?”
“Maybe, once or twice…” Tom questioned, but then he stared his friend down for answers.
“What did I say, Ben?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do. Sit down and tell me, and I will decide if you live or die.”
Dejected, Ben returned to the chair and let a sigh out.
“I’m sorry, Tom.”
Four Hours Earlier
The gurney burst through the ER doors just fifteen minutes after you started your shift. Emergency room shifts are never boring but physically and emotionally draining. You put down your cup of coffee and headed in to assess the patient.
A man lied, groaning on the gurney. His face covered in scrapes and blood staining his ginger whiskers. His left wrist sat at an unnatural angle and his shirt cut away by the paramedics to administer help.
“Car accident,” the EMT relayed, “stunt gone wrong.”
A specific hazard unique to Los Angeles. They wheeled him to the examination room and put him onto the bed with care. He wore a C-collar, but the jostling stirred the man. His eyelids fluttered open and his blue eyes work to focus on his surroundings.
“Hey…” you looked down at his chart, “Tom. How are you doing?”
“I know you are in pain, but where?”
Tom gestured to the left side of his abdomen.
“Okay.” You grabbed some morphine and added it to his IV. “Any allergies?”
He shook his head.
“Anyone come with you?”
As if on cue, Benedict pulled back the curtain.
“I did.”
You recognized the man standing before you. Benedict Cumberbatch was quite the movie star.
“Really?” You attempted to keep your cool. This was no time for fan girling.
Within minutes, Benedict could communicate the information about not only the accident but Tom’s medical history as well. It had all been on file with the production company.
The doctor came in and did a quick examination.
“We need to get a CT scan and X-rays. Looks like there may be internal injuries.”
You nodded as you prepared to wheel Tom down the hall.
“Ready to go for a ride?” you asked.
Tom nodded and gave a goofy smile.
“What’s your name?”
“Y/N, Y/N. That’s a beautiful name. My name is Tom Fucking Hiddleston.”
The drugs were doing their job.
“Nice to meet you, Tom. We will take you for some tests.”
“But I didn’t study!” he sounded dismayed.
You could not suppress your laugh.
“I think you will be fine.”
Tom grabbed your hand and looked up at you, tears in his eyes.
“Will you help me study?” he asked with a serious tone.
“Of course.”
Tom continued to babble on for the rest of the trip to imaging. He spoke about how nice you smelled and how pretty your eyes look. The full court press of flirting. As you reached the room, you and the other nurse lifted Tom onto the machine.
“Here you go.”
Tom grabbed your hand once again.
“Please don’t leave. I’m scared of the dark.”
While his words spoke of her fear, his eyes and smile said something else.
“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Hiddleston?”
His smile only grew.
“Is it working?”
You leaned in to his ear to whisper, “No, but the drugs are.”
Tom pouted.
“Not fair.”
“But you are cute.”
His face lit up once again.
“I came, saw and overcame.” Tom was being dramatic.
At that point, the other nurse started up the machine, and you walked away to let the rest of nurses to care for his needs. After his scans, you headed back to the waiting area. You found Benedict pacing the floor in anticipation. His long fingers alternating between steepling in front of his face and raking through his hair. As you approached, you cleared your throat.
“Yes?” his voice shared a tone of concern and hopefulness.
“A few broken bones but the big thing is that his spleen has ruptured. He needs surgery right away.”
Ben’s face fell.
“Will he be okay?”
You nodded.
“He will make a full recovery. Would you like to see him before they send him in to operating?”
You led Ben back to where they were prepping Tom for surgery. The anesthesiologist added drugs to the IV and Tom was now in a full hospital gown. His tattered rags of clothes in the garbage.
“No fair!” Tom bellowed as you entered with Ben throwing the thin sheet over his legs. The two of you shared a knowing look, “You have seen me naked but I have not had the chance to see you naked.”
You leaned into Benedict.
“It would seem that the medicine does not agree with your friend,” you smirked.
“Oh, I don’t know, I rather like him like this, so not proper. So not Tom Hiddleston.”
You smiled as you looked upon Tom who, in vain, tried to cover his body. Even loopy on drugs, he charmed and warmed your heart.
“I will leave you to it.”
As you turned to leave, Tom shouted at you.
“I love thee, Y/N. By which honor I dare not swear thou lovest me, yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, not withstanding the poor and untempering effect of visage. And therefore tell me, most fair Y/N, will you have me?”
You suppressed a small giggle.
“I will see you later,” you let them both know as you shut the door.
As soon as the door latched, Tom grabbed Benedict’s arm and pulled him down close.
“Ben! Ben! Have you met my wife?”
Benedict screwed his face up with confusion.
“The nurse? That is just the drugs talking, Tom. You barely know her.”
“Nonsense. She will be my wife and you shall be my best man.”
Benedict looked at Tom with an exasperated face but Tom’s only contained earnest. With a chuckle, Benedict conceded.
“Very well, Tom. I will be your best man.”
Tom slapped Benedict’s shoulder.
“That’s the spirit. As my best man, I require you to acquire my future bride’s number.”
Benedict could not resist at this point to play along with his friend’s drug-addled fantasy.
“I will, on one condition.”
“Name your price.”
“Name your firstborn after me.”
“Consider it done.”
“Then consider the number yours.”
Tom’s face beamed and as if on cue, the nurses came to wheel Tom into surgery.
“Oh dear, God. I quoted Shakespeare.”
Tom hung his head and his face and neck turned a bright shade of red.
“Yep. The Henry the Fifth wooing speech too. Honestly, it was one of your better performances. Might I suggest doing all your roles drugged from now on.”
Tom shot Benedict a withering look.
“Ha ha. Very funny. I can’t show my face to her again.”
At that moment, the door opened, and you entered. The color drained from Tom’s face, while the smile grew on Benedict’s.
“Y/N!” Benedict cooed, “We were just talking about you. So nice of you to stop in.”
Your shift ended half an hour ago, but you wanted to check in on Tom before going home. Today was not the first time a patient hit on you, although they are usually not an award-winning actor with a penchant for quoting Shakespeare. But, you would remain ever the professional. You checked the chart before wishing the two men well.
As you turned to exit, Benedict walked you out.
“Thank you, Y/N for attending to Tom.”
“My pleasure. Even under the influence, he is quite charming.”
Benedict took this opportunity.
“Speaking about that…”
3 years later
You yelled down the hall of your London home, beckoning your husband. At six months pregnant, getting up and down was no easy task. Tom rushed to your side. He gave you his arm and with a rocking start; you extracted yourself from the chair.
“Thanks, darling.”
“I am at your beck and call.”
You rubbed your swollen belly as you waddled your way down the hall. Tom followed you to the kitchen.
“Now about names for this little young man here.”
Tom grew ashen. He thought he could avoid this conversation, but it seems his luck had run out.
“Yeah, I have I mentioned today that I love you.”
Tom kissed your lips, and you looked at him with distrust.
“What have you done?”
Tom smiled and rubbed his neck, a nervous habit.
“I may have promised to name the child after Benedict.”
Tom flinched.
“You what? Why on earth would you do that?”
“It was for a good cause.”
“Which was?”
“Your phone number.”
With that, Tom took off down the hallway. You smiled as you walked with much effort behind him.
“We are NOT naming our child after breakfast food!”
You heard Tom’s laughter fill the house.
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