#a devereux | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

adidascoleslaw · 2 years

Text

fall at your feet.

the midnight hours - when twilight strikes pairing: a devereux / reader wc: 7.5k a/n: literally am rushing to put this up bc i’m leaving for a trip LOL. this version does NOT have the italics, but the one posted up on ao3 does! thank you to @evertidings for making my current obsession

edit 7/10/22 - fixed the italics + ao3 link!

Devereux is your first in every way. First to text, to call, to tell all news, be it good or bad—

“Well, I’m seeing someone.”

—but they’re never first in a way they want.

The next breath they take in pricks at their throat. They swallow. “Really?” Devereux asks. “Who?” It feels like fire in their lungs.

They listen as you speak about this someone, the excitement in your voice filling their veins with a bittersweet happiness. A gentle smile graces your lips as you recount the events of your back-and-forth messaging, how all of it culminated in a date planned for tonight, and how fun you think it’ll be because you haven’t gone on a proper date in years.

Proper date.

Devereux flinches at the wording; there’s an implication sewn between the letters. Proper date. Like you’ve been on other dates, other outings that don’t constitute as a date because you weren’t asked, weren’t invited.

Their heart beats and stops, it ignites and stalls. Some tiny part of them (they’re lying—it is every inch) hopes that those improper dates count them and all the nights you’ve spent together. Their blood pumps at the thought of each hangout being a date, of every midnight run to the bodega by your apartment being a little taste of dating you.

Devereux thinks of the early mornings spent with you, the sunrises and sunsets watched from the roof of their apartment complex—how they never really looked at the sky.

How they only ever watched you.

Just as quickly as the warmth spreads through their body, their blood runs cold as they wander into the territory of you getting tired of waiting for them to confess.

To say something.

To ask you out.

“I know there’s a new café, one across the street from that bakery you like,” you say. Your hands are splayed out, weaving through the air like a needle through fabric. Each gesture is made with more and more gusto. When you talk with your hands, it’s as if the room lights up.

Devereux relishes in these moments—ones where they watch you be loud and open. At work, you are more reserved. Quiet. They admire the persona you put on, but seeing who you are outside of the job is a luxury they can’t give up.

Won’t.

“She said we’d be meeting there for our date. I think opening a café by a bakery that already sells coffee is silly, but…” and you continue your rambling.

Their fantasy is ruined again when you remind them that this is a date. That you’re happily out with someone who isn’t them.

Being jealous feels pathetic. Devereux has convinced themself that they can’t be jealous. Shouldn’t be. They’ve kept their feelings locked up to spare the heartbreak, so they can’t be mad that you’re seeing someone.

But they are.

Devereux throws on a lopsided smile, one that just barely reaches their eyes. “Weren’t we supposed to go there together?” Their tone is half teasing and half begging. Even if they hated this proper date, this “someone,” this—whatever—they’d act happy.

Because you’re happy.

Any feeling of annoyance or jealousy is quelled by the sight of a smile on your face. You bite your lower lip and they can’t help but let their gaze trail down.

Goodness grief.

“Next time, DevDev?”

Their heart crashes. A bright blush crawls up their neck, hidden by the turtleneck they’ve thankfully worn. Still, how flustered they get at the nickname is evident in the way the heat makes its way to their cheeks.

Devereux looks down, blonde curls blocking their view of you. They hide a cheek with a hand and pick up their latte with the other. “I can’t say no to that,” they force out. They sip at their drink and keep their gaze turned down. “Not when you’re my number one partner.”

You laugh at the sight. “Thanks, DevDev! You’re the best.” Devereux fidgets and you laugh harder. The blush has spread across their whole face.

“Are you embarrassed?”

They sip louder. “No!”

***

The date goes well.

Too well.

Devereux is happily annoyed. You don’t talk about her, not always, but between tasks they find you looking at your phone. The lull in conversation is often accompanied by the rapid tap, tap, tap against your phone screen.

Though the work day is over, the two of you are still attached at the hip. At least, as attached as two people can be without being... together.

Devereux stands at the stove in their apartment while you sit at the kitchen table. The bottom right burner is turned on. A soup-filled pot rests on top, the liquid not even close to simmering. Next to the stove are styrofoam containers full of noodles packed to-go.

The scene is normal on evenings like these. One of you orders takeout, and the other sets up the table to eat.

Tonight, you took the liberty of ordering.

Leaning against the counter, Devereux looks at you, arms crossed against their chest. Your attention is still directed toward your phone, and they watch you grin at the screen. Their gaze trails up, first to the way your nose wrinkles with your growing smile, then to your eyes and how soft they are.

A fire stokes in their stomach, their skin burning with envy.

(How silly, Devereux thinks to themself, that they look like you when it’s the other way around. When you text them, call them—it doesn’t matter. You could never speak again and they’d still rise with the sound of your smile.)

Devereux turns their head to look at the pot.

Simmering.

They know it’s a bit nonsensical to heat up fresh takeout—you always tease them about it—but the habit of heating up soup is just as habitual as being by your side.

“I still don’t get why you dump the broth in a pot right when you get home,” you tell them.

Devereux looks back at you. “It’s nothing serious, partner,” they joke.

Your name scorches their tongue. It burns to be spoken, to be released in the air, but Devereux kills it with the clenching of their jaw. They can’t trust their voice; the thought of speaking your name has their blood trembling.

“Number One,” Devereux sighs out, “you don’t have to worry about it.”

You smile and, grief, Devereux watches the way your lips quirk up at the edges, how much deeper it gets when you talk to them.

“Not serious, huh?” you tease. “You make it sound like it is, Number Zero.”

They can’t hold in the grin that cracks through their skin.

Number One, Number Zero. Even if they put you first, you find a way to put Devereux ahead of you.

“You’ll hold the whole thing over my head.”

You snort. “Yeah, me and a pair of platform boots. DevDev,” you mock. They feel the blush start to rise through their skin. “I promise I won’t make fun of you. Pinky promise.”

Devereux reaches over, pinky extended, and wraps it around yours. The touch sends electricity through their veins and fuels the fire in their blood.

Somehow, they keep it together.

For a moment, one that feels not long enough, they keep their pinky hooked around yours. You make eye contact with them and tilt your head, as if to prompt them into speaking.

Devereux clears their throat. “My brother,” they say, pulling at the collar of their shirt, “got sick a lot when we were young. I think it’s because the goof was always out in the rain with no shoes on.”

“Yuck!” Devereux laughs as you wrinkle your nose again, this time in disgust. “Your brother? Dev Junior? He looks too... clean to be playing in mud.”

“Yeah, now,” they emphasize, “but when we were kids, he left dirt tracks everywhere. I would know—I had to clean them.”

You lean forward in your chair, a signal that Devereux takes as ‘get on with the story.’ Before they can open their mouth, the sound of bubbling reaches their ears.

Devereux quickly turns to see the pot nearly boiling over. They rush to set the pot on an empty burner and turn off the stove.

“Hold on a sec.” Devereux doesn’t need to look to know that you’re nodding in response.

They grab the takeout boxes and place them next to your empty bowl on the table. Devereux goes back for the scalding hot broth on the stovetop, the weight of the pot familiar in their hand. They walk to your side, carefully pouring the broth into your bowl.

“That goofball only wanted soup when he was sick.” Devereux sets the pot down on a placemat. They open your takeout box and, with a plastic fork, slowly start dunking your noodles into the broth. “He loved soup. Still does. Even if it was hundred degrees outside and he was running a fever, he’d ask me to heat something for him. When we were really young, I’d just make him canned soup. As we got older, I got a little better at cooking, so I could skip on buying a lot of the canned stuff.”

“You’d make it yourself...” you trail. “That’s... Dev, that’s so sweet.”

Devereux hands you the fork, smiling as you dig into the dinner. “It’s nothing,” they say. “Taking care of others is what I know how to do, so I try my best.”

“All the soup-making talent and you still nearly burn—”

“Shut up about that!”

Devereux juts their hand out blindly grabs a fork. They shove it into your bowl, ignoring your protests, and eat a forkful of your dinner.

***

“Are we still on for our usual on Sunday?”

Devereux stands by the sink, washing the dishes and handing them to you to dry.

You purse your lips. Devereux catches your brows knitting together from the corner of their eye.

They know the answer.

“It’s alright. To say no, I mean.”

“…are you sure?” You place the damp bowl face down on a drying mat. “We do this every week. I’d feel awful missing out on—”

Devereux raises their hand in the air. “It’s okay. I get it. Remember when I canceled on you back when I went out with that one guy? With the beat-up truck?”

You stifle a laugh. “I never really understood why he had it when he insisted on you driving everywhere.”

Despite the ache that grows in their chest, they’d sooner give up one day with you if it meant you’d be happy. They muster up a half-smile before asking, “Are you forgetting that he tried running me over in that piece of garbage on wheels?”

“Nope!” you say, loudly popping the ‘p’. “I just choose to ignore that part.”

They could live like this forever—stuck in a banter with you in the middle of their kitchen, moon peeking through the half-closed blinds.

Devereux would take any life if it meant they could share it with you.

They turn off the faucet. A tense silence settles in the air.

For a while, the two of you stay voiceless. Devereux absentmindedly plays with the soap suds in the sink, gaze turned away to stare at the clock on the wall. You tap your fingers against the counter.

“You’re my best friend,” they hear you say. Devereux’s eyes flit toward you, resting on the way the ceiling light hits your skin. “You know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” they scoff.

You throw the drying rag over your shoulder. “Good.”

The sight of you scatters any coherent thought. Devereux wonders if this is what a living with you would look like—disheveled, tired. Shirt wet from the drying rag that should have been replaced five dishes ago. Pants wrinkled from a long day of work.

A smile, goodness, the one that makes them go crazy every time they see it, finds its way to your face again. Before Devereux can take it in, you press a palm against their shoulder blade.

They short-circuit.

“Huh?” they sputter out. Garbled words tumble from Devereux’s mouth when they feel the tips of your fingers curl into the fabric of their shirt.

“Just... look, Dev—” you start, then screw your lips shut. Your fingers flutter against their shoulder, hesitating in their spot like a flickering flame.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!”

You shift and, suddenly, the feeling of your forehead pressed against their shoulder replaces the curling of your hands.

(It’s not.)

Silence strikes then—shatters. You say their name, syllables whispered through bitten lips. It fills the air with honey. You say it again, louder, and with intention. The feeling of their name on your tongue, the sound from your voice (how right it feels to hear it), glues their lips shut.

“You can tell me anything, okay? If something annoys you, or makes you sad, or frustrated. All of it, okay? You’re”—you press further into their shoulder, mouth covered by the fabric— “you’re my number zero.”

Devereux doesn’t say anything. They lean against the counter, unbothered by the cold puddles of water that soak into their shirt; they do nothing to stop the heat that flushes their skin.

You’re my number zero.

“I know.”

***

5:21 AM.

Devereux rubs their eyes as they blearily stare at the screen of their clock.

Up again. Late, like always.

The weekend is meant to be enjoyed, savored. For work, they are right on time, but for the weekend, they rise with the flow of their body.

Sunday, the first day of the week they have reserved for you, is spent preparing for the sunrise.

(Their mind flashes back to a few days ago. The little moment by the sink, the feeling of your hand on their shoulder, your lips barely—just barely—grazing their shirt.)

On a normal Sunday, Devereux stumbles out of bed. Some days, you’ll be knocking on their door, a thermos in hand and full of hot cocoa for the morning. On others, you’re already inside. You’d be on the couch, turned away from their door as you sip on the cocoa and wait for them to get out of their room.

The best days are when you’ve slept over.

You take the floor, always, despite Devereux’s insistence on giving up the bed. The shaky compromise you’ve made is sleeping on the floor together.

Devereux piles blankets and pillows until the carpet is a made-up fantasy and all that exists are pieces of bedding on the ground. You’d lay in the middle, hogging the best pillows, but they’d hit you with a flat, decade-old pillow and roll you over with their feet.

(“My house, my rules,” they joked one night. Devereux had pushed you off the blankets and onto the tile of the kitchen next to the living room.

You hurled a stray pillow at their face. It landed and sent them stumbling back onto the couch.

“Last time I checked, you’re a renter.”

Devereux groaned. “Semantics!”)

There is no knock on the door, no sign of you in their apartment, and no blankets that litter the floor.

Devereux sinks into their bed and sighs. They grab their phone off the nightstand, gaze pausing on the old polaroid in the back of their phone case. Written in tiny, black script on the bottom is the date it was taken. The photo was after your third mission together; you invited Devereux to get takeout from a restaurant a few blocks away from your apartment and to celebrate you had taken the picture on an old, beat-up couch that you no longer own.

They squeeze their eyes shut, forcing away the memories. Turning their phone around, Devereux turns it on to see two unopened messages from you. Without reading them, they already know what you said.

Sorry that you can’t come over today. You’ll get them something to make up for it.

Devereux half-imagines asking you for a date as a way to make it up, a request they’d never truly make for fear of ruining what they already have.

They swipe open the messages and skim through the words.

You: thank you thank you thank you <3 i’m really sorry i can’t watch the sunrise with you today. jeanie asked me out to the cafe again You: i’ll stop by your place right after i swear!!! they have an almond latte with caramel and mocha that i think you’ll like!

Devereux sets their phone back on the nightstand.

Jeanie. The girl you’ve been casually seeing for the past three weeks. They silently curse her name before backpedaling. It’d be a pain for fate to come back and bite them in the ass for it.

Devereux heaves themself out of bed, squinting as the sun from the open blinds shines into their eyes. They shimmy into a pair of pajama pants strewn on the floor and stuff their phone into a pocket.

They shuffle from the bed to the door and open it. Despite the earlier messages, Devereux halfway hopes that you’re on the other side waiting for them. That Jeanie canceled the coffee date and you’re free to spend the morning with them like you always do. That something will finally, finally go their way.

But the apartment is empty.

And Devereux is alone.

***

Sunday passes without any other problems. You held up on your promise and showed up a few hours later, latte in hand and a sparkle in your eye that Devereux could only compare to the shining of a star.

Today, you’ve opted to spend lunch in the media room despite the fact that it is Blane Rekner’s second home.

Rather than spend a few hours arguing with Rekner in what is meant to be a quiet place away from the rest of the workplace, Devereux mopes by the latte machine. Two empty cups sit beside them as they sip on a third and look down at their shoes.

“Hey, stranger,” they hear from their side. Devereux shifts their gaze up to see Alves clad in a ruffled button-up and lab coat.

Devereux crosses their arms. “Hey yourself, Alves. Not hiding out in the lab the whole afternoon this time?”

Alves laughs at the comment as they step around Devereux. They reach out for the pot of coffee and pull out a mug from their bag. They have their own little coffee routine that Devereux’s picked up on over the years; Alves always brings a coffee mug—ceramic, decorated with red and yellow leaves—and fills it just above halfway.

As Devereux expects, Alves takes two brown sugars and a single cream to stir in before topping it off with more coffee.

“Just taking a bit of a break,” they say. Alves leans against the counter with Devereux. The hum of the coffee pot fills the air before Alves cuts into it like a knife into butter.

“What’s wrong?”

Devereux stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“Well”—Alves takes another long, drawn-out sip— “you aren’t with a certain someone. And you’re out here on your third cup of coffee.”

“Third latte.”

Alves shakes their head and chuckles. “Yes, third latte.” They set their mug down next to Devereux’s empty latte cups. “Anyway, the only time I see you alone is when you get into a fight with your partner. Of course I’m going to ask you if you’re all right.”

Devereux’s mouth twists into a lopsided frown. Were they really that obvious? They chug the rest of their latte before turning their head away from Alves.

“It’s nothing! Seriously. We aren’t fighting right now.”

“Right now,” Alves emphasizes. “Sounds like there’s a little more to this.”

“Alves, please. I—We’re... there’s no fighting going on. It’s just... Lord.”

Alves nudges Devereux with an elbow. “I have a feeling this is about that girl—Jeanie?” When they stiffen, Alves knows they’ve struck a chord. “I guess I’m right.”

“Y-yeah.” Devereux buries their face into their hands. “This whole thing is so ridiculous. I wish I wasn’t so miffed about her taking up all their time, really. I bet Jeanie’s nice, but...” they trail off.

The coffee maker fills the air again, its humming a welcome participant in the conversation.

“...do you get it? Like, wishing someone felt the same?” Devereux’s cheeks flush a bright red. “I just don’t want to mess things up. I care a lot about what we have, and if I do something, I might lose it.”

Alves stares at Devereux, eye contact unbroken until they let out a strangled sigh.

“I do,” Alves says after a tense moment of silence. They shut their eyes for just a second too long, but not long enough for Devereux to notice. Alves smiles at them. “I understand that fear of ruining everything, but”—Alves pats Devereux’s arm—“how would you know if you don’t say anything?”

“Wh—Say—” they sputter. “Alves, I can’t say something now! Not when things are going well with them and Jeanie. She makes them happy and I won’t take that away!”

“Call me crazy, but I have a feeling you’ll get your chance soon enough.” Alves rolls up their coat sleeve to check the time. They take their mug and step away from Devereux. “Look, I have to head back to the lab soon, but I’ll see you around!”

Devereux can only nod and watch as Alves walks off.

(You’ll get your chance.)

They keep Alves’ words running through their mind.

***

Face hot with anger, you step out of the media room. In your arms are carelessly stacked papers and booklets. A few of the papers are creased and wrinkled, but you could care less.

Blane Rekner sure has a way with words, you think to yourself as you walk off to grab a late lunch. The hunter, as prickly as ever, gave you more than a few choice words before you left the room.

How you ticked Blane off, you aren’t sure, but you think it has to do with your existence in general.

Whatever.

Your mini journey from the media room to the cafeteria is put on pause when Alves runs into you.

Literally.

“Agh!”

The impact from smacking straight into Alves forces a sound from your lungs as you fall onto your rear end. Papers scatter into the air and the booklets land on the ground with a smack.

“I’m so sorry!”

You look up to see Alves, still standing from the collision, reaching a hand to help you to your feet. They pull you up in a swift motion and quickly snatch at the papers falling through the air.

“No, no! I should be apologizing,” you say as you kneel back down to pick up the last few documents. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Standing up—without help this time—you dust yourself off and clutch your reorganized papers. Alves hands you the ones they managed to catch.

“Where are you headed?”

“Ah, just grabbing lunch. I hope there’s still something decent to eat at this time.”

Alves raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t eaten yet?”

“Eh, kind of,” you wave them off. “I had some chips from the vending machine.”

“I don’t think that’s a real lunch. Or breakfast.”

You shrug. “I’m not too worried. I’m supposed to be getting dinner tonight, anyway,” you laugh. “I guess I’m just saving my appetite until then. I might just grab a drink instead.”

“Dinner? Are you heading out with Devereux?”

You know Alves is just trying to make conversation—it is their way of showing kindness to you when Blane so often gives you the opposite. The difference between the two makes you laugh; how they work as partners, you don’t know, but you’re happy that Blane has someone as forgiving as Alves by their side.

“Ah, um,” you stutter. You scratch the side of your cheek and look away from Alves. While you’ve scratched the surface of an acquaintanceship with them, Alves still knows a few things about your personal life, including the recent updates dating-wise. “No. With that person I matched with! The one I told you about a few days ago.”

The admission has you pulling at the collar of your shirt. Match. It feels a bit embarrassing—going on dates with a person you met through a dating app—but she makes you happy.

“That’s great!” Alves exclaims. “I’m glad it’s going well for you.”

You hug the documents to your body, trying to hide how flustered the whole conversation has you feeling. “Thank you!”

“I’ll let you go now—I wouldn’t want to be in the way of you eating lunch, you know? I was supposed to be back in the lab earlier, to be honest,” Alves says. They beam at you. “Let me know how dinner goes?”

“You’re too nice, you know that?”

Alves rubs the back of their head. “Really?”

“Really,” you reply. “You and Devereux, honestly. I don’t get how you two are still on the market.”

Alves shrugs with a kind smile then waves goodbye as you turn away. You miss the way their gaze lingers before you disappear behind a corner.

***

“Moping again?”

Devereux tenses at the sound of your voice.

“I’m not moping.”

“It’s your fifth cup, partner,” you drawl out. “I think something is up.”

“How do you know this isn’t water?” (It isn’t.) “What if I’m just drinking water in a coffee cup?”

“Because I know you.” You roll your eyes and set your stack of papers down next to them. “The last time we went to Chipotle and I told you to just get soda in a water cup, you chickened out.”

“That’s different!” they exclaim.

You lean toward them and, just as quickly, Devereux leans back. Reaching up, you pinch their cheek. “No, it’s definitely the same.”

Devereux grumbles. They bring a hand up to pull your fingers away but struggle against your grip.

“Let go!”

“No.” You pinch harder. “Not until you admit I’m right.”

“You are not—ouch!”

You finally let go when Devereux pouts. They rub their cheek and clutch their cup. Devereux has half a mind to stick their tongue out at you, but they know you aren’t afraid to grip at it.

Devereux sips at their latte. “Takeout tonight?” they ask.

You sigh.

Devereux casts their gaze to the side. They read the papers you set down and skim over the printed words. It’s easier to take the rejection when they’re distracted.

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

***

Much like Sunday, the week flies by. Weeks turn into one month, then two, and—

—Devereux finds themself standing at the door of your apartment. It has been three months, two weeks, and five days since you started your whatever with Jeanie.

And it’s been one week since she broke it off.

You’ve been inconsolable ever since.

At work, you pretend everything is fine; it’s easy to make it seem like it is. With the amount of chaos that happens on your floor, it’d be hard not to.

You keep it normal—you have to.

IAOS watches one half of its top duo eat lunch and drink coffee like you haven’t experienced your first heartbreak in years since you graduated from university. You keep the jig up by acting more friendly, more warm toward your coworkers. The more you talk, the easier it is to get your mind off the pseudo-breakup.

The change in attitude has been the latest gossip, however. Some people have loudly whispered that you finally got into a relationship, while others have decided that you’re playing some sort of long con.

They haven’t seemed to notice the dark circles that have gotten darker. The redness in the whites of your eyes that hasn’t gone away. The sandpaper sound of your voice when you speak.

Devereux is the only one who has.

When they knock at your door, a long silence follows. All that fills their ears is the sound of their beating heart. They knock again, a little louder, and wait for the sound of shuffling to come closer.

Metal against metal, Devereux listens as you slowly unlock the door of your apartment. Their heart freezes when you peek through the crack.

The time it takes you to fully unlock the door is excruciating.

“What are you doing here?”

If it were any other situation, Devereux would scold you. They’d call you out on running away from them. Any form of chastising dies at the back of their throat when they take in how exhausted you look.

A blanket sits around your shoulders, held closed by your fists. They can hear the tiny hiccups you make despite how hard you try to cover them up. Your eyes are red-rimmed, and your cheeks are both tear-stained and shimmering with new tears.

Devereux wraps their arms around you. The thought of personal space briefly escapes them, but before they can pull away and apologize, you weakly put an arm around their shoulders. The action is a bit of a struggle with their height. Devereux leans further down and closer to you, adjusting so your arm wraps fully around them.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your apology is whispered over and over, voice cracking with each repeat no matter how hard you try to steady your words. Fresh tears start to run down your cheeks, burning the rubbed-raw skin of your eyelids.

“Don’t apologize. Please,” they beg into your neck. “How could this be your fault? You didn’t ask for this.”

Slowly, Devereux eases you back into your apartment. You hold onto them the whole way, fingers gripping into the skin of their arm as they lead you to your couch. They sit you down and clear the coffee table. From your seat, you sniffle and watch as they throw away old cans and crumpled snack bags.

“You don’t have to do that, Dev,” you whisper. The words come out forced, uneven. It takes all of your energy and then some to speak.

They ignore your protests. When you try to stand, Devereux places a hand on your shoulder and gives you a pleading look. Their eyes are glassy, full of unshed tears that you know they’re holding in for your sake.

You relent.

Devereux goes back to cleaning your living room. You don’t miss the little glances they send your way, as if making sure you stay rooted on the couch cushion.

They plop down next to you once they throw the last of the mess away. It looks much more livable; the only thing it’s missing is a sense of peace.

Devereux crosses their arms and tilts their head backward, resting it on the couch. You scooch closer to them. A sigh escapes their lips.

“I want to,” they say.

You rest your head against their shoulder. “Want to what?” you ask. Closing your eyes, you listen to Devereux’s quiet breathing. You focus on the warmth that radiates through their shirt, on the slow beating of their heart.

“To take care of you.”

You laugh. It sounds nothing like your usual laugh. It rings hollow, devoid of the usual sweetness that fills the action. Behind the laugh sits the taste of bitterness that licks at Devereux’s skin, seeping down into their tender nerves.

“Why?”

Devereux tilts their head and places it atop yours. They press your cheek against you. “Because I want to,” they reply. “Because you’re my best friend and the best partner. You’re my number one.”

You swallow the lump growing in your throat, but it does nothing to stop the new flow of tears that cascades down your cheeks. A sniffle escapes you.

Then a sound of disbelief.

It all devolves into a cacophony of choked sobs that echo in the air. Your heart bursts into pieces, it breaks and shatters despite how sloppily you try to keep it together.

“Why?” you wail into their shirt. “Why, why, why? I don’t understand what I did wrong, Dev. I don’t know why I’m so bad.”

Devereux feels their own tears start to break free. They flutter their eyes in an attempt to keep them at bay, but they fall when you look at them, snot-nosed, and beg for an answer to why you can’t be happy.

“There’s something wrong with me, there has to be. I wish I knew why”—you stumble with your words, mouth moving but not speaking until you find your voice—“why I’m so fucking awful. Why I ruin everything I touch.”

You hiccup as you try to breathe. Tears run along your lips, dripping down your neck. They stain the collar of your shirt and dribble onto Devereux’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe out.

Devereux crushes you into a hug, mostly to comfort you, but partially to hide their tears. They rub circles into your back as you continue crying out into their chest. Your wailing dies down, soothed by the vice-grip they have around you.

You feel Devereux loosen their grip, but not enough to let you go. They pull back to look at you, eyes red and puffy from the quiet tears they shed. Devereux brings their hand to your cheek. Their thumb brushes against your skin, slowly moving to wipe the tears from your face.

Devereux leans in and looks you in the eye. They’re a breath away. The closeness would normally have them flustered, but the feeling is drowned out by the need to ease your insecurity.

Their hand rests on your cheek. “There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, your gaze is pointed away from your partner, too scared to lock back with their intense stare. “You don’t know that.”

Devereux glares. “I do know,” they assert. “She had three months with you, so what? I know you.” They press their forehead against yours, an action that has you locking your eyes back with theirs. “I know you,” they repeat, their tone much softer than before.

Just as abruptly as they pressed against you, Devereux pulls away. “I’m with you all the time. I’ve seen your worst, and even lower than that.” You frown at that statement, but Devereux continues, “And I’ve seen you at your best. I know you in-between and mediocre. I know you with morning breath and with food between your teeth. I know you at work and at home.

“Someone who could only catch you in the morning with a cup of coffee she made you pay for doesn’t know you—not the you that matters most. So what if she paid for a few dinners? And so what if she drove you around? All I know”—Devereux takes a deep breath and closes their eyes—“is that she’s missing out. Who cares if she already has someone else lined up after you? It means jackshit about you.” They open their eyes. “Besides, I’ll always be here.

“You’re my partner, always and forever.”

Devereux watches as you muster up a smile, one that gets stained with a few tears that slip from your eyes.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Number Zero.” You pull Devereux into a hug. “You’re too good to me.”

***

Three weeks.

4:36 AM.

Devereux wakes up to the sound of the TV playing in the background. They rub their eyes, their vision blurring together before it slowly clears up. A video game commentary plays on a low enough volume to not disturb the neighbors, but loud enough to have them jolt awake.

They sluggishly look around, taking in the room through the darkness. They stretch out and feel their joints crackle and pop. Devereux tilts their neck and groans at the loud cracking sound it makes.

They had fallen asleep on the couch.

Devereux breathes in and out, steadying their heart. They feel their eyes start to droop as they listen to the droning sound of the commentator on the TV. Right as they drift back to sleep, they hear a shuffling sound from behind.

Like a spring, they jump at the sound and find themselves on their feet.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

Devereux blinks.

“How did you get in?” The sleep laced in their voice is evident in the way Devereux’s words slur together. “I thought you lost your copy of the key.”

“You have a bad hiding spot for your spare.”

Devereux groans. “Are you the one who keeps moving it? I got locked out a few days ago and couldn’t find it.” Despite the way they scold you, a sweet playfulness wraps around their voice, lightly casting away the sleep from earlier. They climb over the couch and shuffle toward you. “Really though, what are you doing here?”

You tug at the hem of their shirt and drag them to the table. The action is done in silence, but Devereux doesn’t mind. They pull out a chair and drop into it, uncaring of the creaking sound it had made. Pulling out the chair to them, you carefully sit down.

Devereux blinks and, like magic, you’re holding a mug of hot cocoa in front of them. They accept the drink and hold the mug close, letting it heat their frozen fingers.

“It’s Sunday.”

“It is?”

“Duh.”

They sip the cocoa. A rich, white chocolate hits their tongue. “Almond milk?” You nod. “It’s good.”

You smile in response and Devereux feels a familiar heat running up their neck. They’re relieved when you avert your gaze and focus on the open window by your side.

After going to your apartment and letting you cry it out, Devereux stayed with you for a few days. They were reluctant to leave you alone—too scared of the thought of you bearing it all by yourself. The image of you crying still haunts their dreams. They only left at your insistence that you’d be alright, but even then they tried to stay.

As excruciating as it was, they let you have your space, pinky promising that they wouldn’t drop by unless you asked. It took a week for you to be comfortable with getting takeout, and another for you to let it be the common occurrence it used to be.

Still, Devereux held off on any weekend visits until you made it explicitly clear you could handle it.

Devereux stares at you as they sip at the rest of their cocoa. They linger on your folded hands and follow the twiddling of your index fingers. Trailing up, they take in the way you look out the window; the barely-there sunlight that crawls up your torso, the fluttering of your eyelashes. Your lips quirk and Devereux feels their thoughts wander as your smile grows softer.

You turn your head and make eye contact with Devereux. They quickly look down into their half-empty mug, flushing at being caught. You don’t let their wandering eyes ruin the silence, not yet.

It is only when your face twists into a grimace and your eyebrows knit together that Devereux knows what you’re about to say. “I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing.”

You frown at Devereux. “I’m going to do it, anyway,” you argue. “I’m sorry about the other day, Dev. I... I should have told you about it sooner. I just didn’t want you to worry so much.”

“You can’t expect me not to worry,” they sigh. “When it’s you, I’m always worried. I never want you to feel bad.”

Devereux’s statement makes you bashful, but you do your best to shake off the feeling. “Still! I didn’t want you to see me like that, you know? Crying over a little rejection.” You let out a little laugh as you sink deeper into your seat. “You break peoples’ hearts all the time, Dev. Do you ever wonder if you make them feel like me?”

“I hope not.” Being the reason someone goes sobbing doesn’t sit well with Devereux. They think of you, alone—alone—wrapped in a blanket and wiping away a fresh set of tears. Of you, hand wrapped around your mouth, trying to muffle the sound of your wails while you breathe through your nose.

“I hope I’m never the reason you go home crying,” they say. Or why your heart breaks.

You pull your knees to your chest. “You could never”—you pause, pursing your lips as you try to think of the right words—“make me feel bad.”

The hitch in your statement is enough to make Devereux raise an eyebrow, but not enough to make them ask what you mean. It’s too early in the morning to indulge in the fantasy world where you love them back.

(They still think of confessing right then and there. Of going down on their knees and squeezing your hands while they look up at you. They pretend that you’ll accept.

That their fantasy is a few steps short of coming true.)

You turn your head to look at your phone and click it open. A small grin adorns your face. They’ve forgotten how much they missed it.

“Looks like the sun is about to come up all the way.” You place your hands on the armrests and drop your feet down to the floor, using your muscles to push yourself up and out of the chair.

You step in front of Devereux. “Did you want to join me and watch the rest of the sunrise, Number Zero?”

“What kind of question is that?” Devereux looks up at you and your hovering hand that waits for them to take it. “I think you’d be a little mindless to think I’d say no, Number One.” Devereux takes your hand and grips it.

You squeeze back.

***

Bonus:

Devereux walked you home after your morning escapade. Normally, you’d insist on going home alone, but you felt no need to deny their presence. They dropped you off and, with your ear pressed against the door, you listened for the jingling of their keys to fade away before you slid down to the floor.

And here you are now, a few hours later, still against the door.

The speaker from your phone crackles before a distorted voice comes out.

“Did you say something?”

You sigh. “No, Alves. I chickened out at the last second.”

Alves laughs on the other end. You hear a crinkling sound through the phone—likely a wrapper from an energy bar to keep them sated until they head out for lunch later.

“I get it, you know? Confessing is a scary thing, and it’s worse when you’re still getting over a heartbreak.”

“Yeah...” you mumble. “Maybe I should just wait. I don’t know.”

“Well, do you think you’re ready for something?”

“Right now?”

“Mhm.”

“...not really, no.”

You can feel Alves’ smile through the phone, a feat you think only they are capable of. “Then I think you shouldn’t worry about this. At least, not at this point in time. Wouldn’t it be better to get ahold of your feelings first before running into something new?”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you grumble. “I’ll get out of your hair now, Alves.” You shut your mouth, then add, “And thank you. You didn’t have to check up on me. It’s your day off and I know you’re supposed to be seeing Blane later.”

“It’s fine! Just because Blane doesn’t like you doesn’t mean I can’t help you out,” they laugh. “See ya!”

“Bye.”

You at the end call button on your phone and drop your head into your hands.

Alves’ concern is logical. You shouldn’t be running into a relationship, not when you still get misty-eyed thinking of the failure of your recent fling.

But they don’t know that the only reason you had one was to ignore the bubbling feelings you had for Devereux.

It was easy the first few weeks, especially with the bout of infatuation you went through with your match. And it helped that your partner had been supportive of the whole thing; not once did you hear an open complaint about Jeanie. Their insistence on you getting to know her only fueled the need to forget about your feelings—

—because how could they love you back if they wanted you to be with someone else?

Losing Jeanie was only a small part of your breakdown. Most of it went off from all the overthinking that accompanied the breakup—all the thoughts of being unwanted, undesirable... unloved.

If Jeanie could so easily bend your heart out of shape, then what would rejection from your best friend—your number zero—even begin to feel like? You just kept breaking your own heart with each scenario of losing Devereux, of being told that you could never be someone they loved in a way that you wanted.

(Besides, I’ll always be here.)

Devereux’s words of comfort are seared into your mind.

(You’re my partner, always and forever.)

Days like those, ones where Devereux takes care of you when you fight against their compassion, give you enough hope to keep on going.

A buzz from the floor distracts you from your thoughts. You unlock your phone and read the message.

Number Zero: coffee later?

You tap a response, unable to hold the smile that starts to stretch across your face.

You: what time? i’ll pick you up

Maybe they’d love you back—you don’t know—but you won’t be the one to say it out loud.

Not yet.

So you’ll pretend, in the morning, that these little moments are dates; that this is the closest you can get to the real thing. And you’ll pretend, at night, that these coffee shops and sunrises mean more than just a close friendship. That maybe, one day, you’ll get your chance.

#reader insert #a devereux #when twilight strikes

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