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honeypiehotchner · 3 years

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winter love (all i want for Christmas is you) -- Hotch x Fem!Reader

Hi hi hi!! I have literally been writing this on and off since September, and now I finally get to share it!! A few quick things: this fic has very much Hallmark vibes but does have a good dose of angst too; for the sake of this fic, Aaron was born and raised in Virginia; and Jack was never born (sorry buddy!).

I listened to Michael Bublé’s songs “All I Want for Christmas Is You” and “Cold December Night” a lot while writing this, so feel free to play those while you read! xx.

(The gif is from google because once again, my gif search is broken on here because apparently this post is too long?? Rip me)

Summary: You’ve returned back to your hometown after leaving to get your education, but you didn’t expect to run into your childhood best friend (and first love).

Word count: 9.4k

HOTCH MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST

If you told yourself a few months ago that you’d be moving back to Virginia, you would’ve scoffed and probably laughed -- loudly. Your mom, on the other hand, would’ve been elated, and swore she knew it.

Like she’s doing now.

“I’m just so excited to have you home again,” she gushes, helping you carry boxes of your clothes up to your old childhood room.

The room needs some work, like taking down all these embarrassing posters and changing the sheets to something not so cringe-worthy (thankfully, it’s a full-size bed instead of the old twin you grew up sleeping on). But it’ll be fine for the time being. It’s not like you’re going to find an apartment right before Christmas, or that you even want to. It’s been a while since you’ve spent a full Christmas season with your mom.

You’ve been studying out of state for the past six years, working to get your masters and doctorate degrees — which you’ve completed. But now you need a job and a new start, which is why you decided to come home.

You’ve missed Virginia a lot more than you’ll admit. It’s hard not to miss your hometown when you’re gone from it for so long.

“We need a Christmas tree,” you say, as you come back down the stairs. “Christmas is next week, how do you not have a tree up yet?”

“I wasn’t going to get one without you,” your mom says like the fact should’ve been obvious to you.

You laugh as you plop down next to her on the couch. “I know. We should go tomorrow.”

“Whenever you want to,” she smiles, squeezing your arm. “Have you been to your coffee shop yet?”

“My coffee shop?” You raise an eyebrow. “Since when has it been mine?”

“Since you practically lived there during high school,” your mom counters.

She has a point. “Well, no, I haven’t. I just got here.”

“You should go.”

You raise both eyebrows this time, turning your entire body to face her. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you trying to get me to go back there?”

“Why don’t you want to?”

You give her a look. “You know why.”

“I don’t.”

She does. She knows exactly what happened there.

“I’m not repeating it,” you mutter. “And I’ll be finding a new coffee shop, thank you very much.”

“Oh, you can’t let one bad experience stop you from going there!”

“So you do remember!”

“How could I forget? When you were a wreck for months after. I still never forgave him for that, you know.”

You shake your head, settling back against the couch pillows. “It’s been long enough now that I think forgiveness won’t hurt anyone.”

You say that, and yet you don’t want to step foot in that shop ever again.

+++

It was the summer before your junior year. Aaron was a rising senior, so there was the weight of it being his last year already hanging in the air. Especially when he was already looking at a pre-law track for college — meaning he’d be insanely busy after graduation with not much time for you.

Unfortunately, you didn’t realize that his being too busy for you would start before then.

You were a year younger — technically almost two, but the way your birthday fell, you were only one grade younger — but that didn’t stop Aaron from being your friend. At first you thought he had ill intentions (as most older boys in high school did), but he didn’t. He genuinely enjoyed your company, and you genuinely enjoyed his.

More than genuinely. You say now that you don’t believe in love at first sight, but you know that’s because it already happened for you, and you believe it to be a one-time deal.

That one time was when Aaron sat across from you at the lunch table.

You were alone and reading a book. You were a freshman then, and being an extra year younger didn’t exactly help in the whole making friends department. Especially when a lot of your peers were already aware of your age.

But Aaron wasn’t aware, nor did he even care.

He saw that you were alone, and reading, and he decided to sit with you. He wanted to read too, anyway, but he knew he didn’t always like being alone when he read. Something told him you were the same way.

He was correct.

It took almost the entire fall semester before either of you said one word to each other. Sometimes you’d be too engrossed in the book you were reading to even notice he’d sat down in front of you. And when you would finally notice, he would be the one with his nose too deep in the book to notice.

But eventually, you started sharing book recommendations.

Which eventually turned into helping each other with homework. You were always better at math and Spanish than he was (you were already in the sophomore levels of these classes as a freshman), but he was always good with history and English. He must’ve noticed you were in freshman English and history, but he never commented on it — at least not in a way that said he was bullying you.

That winter break was when you started going to the coffee shop together. It was within walking distance of the high school, so the two of you would go at the end of the day until your parents could pick you up. Sometimes your mom would drive him home, or vice versa.

And when Aaron got his license, he’d drive you both there and drop you off at home.

The two of you were inseparable. Almost literally.

Until Aaron met Haley.

Haley was in theatre. She was everything you weren’t. Aaron’s age, pretty, funny, outgoing, and worst of all: popular.

You watched your best friend fall in love.

And that wouldn’t have hurt as bad as it did if it wasn’t Haley he was falling for.

You kept your feelings for Aaron quiet, even to your mom — though you found out later that she always knew. You had almost thought he felt the same, or that he might be beginning to, and then suddenly he was talking about some girl named Haley.

Only she wasn’t just “some girl” to him, or even to you. Everyone knew Haley Brooks.

Slowly, your lunch table conversations were less about what the two of you were going to do the coming weekend, and more about Haley. How he was going to get her to notice him (join theatre, even though he never liked theatre before her). How he was going to ask her on a date (it wouldn’t be a date at first, just dinner after theatre rehearsal, that ended up being with the entire cast, but he sat next to her). How he was going to win her over (he brought flowers to the first performance and surprised her backstage). How he was going to ask her to be his girlfriend (that was the same night as the flowers, completely unplanned, but she said yes).

How he thought he might want to marry her one day.

The last hurt most of all. He confessed it to you one night out of the blue as he was driving you home after school. You knew you could handle him being in love with someone else. Some sick part of you knew — or hoped, rather — that the relationship wouldn’t last. What high school relationship lasts longer than a few months, anyway?

But when Aaron fell for Haley, he fell completely. And hard.

He started cancelling plans with you to spend time with Haley — before they were even dating. When they were dating, he stopped making plans with you altogether.

Then came the summer before his senior year.

It had been months since you saw him last. You had a new lunch period the second half of the year because one of your favorite teachers asked for help during the period, which meant you didn’t have lunch with Aaron — but you don’t even think he noticed.

June came and went. The two of you barely saw one another, barely talked when you did. But when you did, you clung to those moments like they were your only lifeline. In a way, they were.

July finally came and he actually made plans to see you. He said he wanted to get coffee again, catch up, hang out for a few hours, sit in silence, even, whatever you wanted. You were excited.

Some part of you thought that he had broken up with Haley — wishful thinking, but you were sixteen and in love, what else were you supposed to think?

But he hadn’t broken up with her. They were very much in love. You know. You witnessed it.

Apparently, Haley didn’t like the idea of Aaron getting coffee and lunch alone with a female friend. So, she took it upon herself to tag along.

You saw them sharing a kiss through the window, Aaron’s back facing you. When they pulled away, Haley’s eyes caught yours, but she said nothing to Aaron, just pulled him back in for another kiss.

You didn’t go into the shop that day. And you haven’t since.

The last time you saw Aaron was the day before he moved to college. He was stopping by to say goodbye to you.

You were reading a book in your room, and your eyes caught the movement on the driveway. You told your mom to say you weren’t home.

You watched him leave from your bedroom window, hands stuffed in his pockets.

+++

You heard that Aaron and Haley got married. Not because you wanted to hear, but because your mom told you. She probably meant well, but you drank an entire bottle of wine that night. You weren’t even 21 yet at the time.

Of course, it’s been years since then. You’re all fine now, and you’ve got the student loan debt to prove it.

But even with three degrees, job hunting can be a bitch. Especially this time of year.

You need coffee.

You blame the fact that this coffee shop is the best one around. And the fact that it’s Christmas season, meaning they have your favorite drink again.

Dark chocolate peppermint mocha. It’s a godsend. And you haven’t had one in years.

Well, you have. But they haven’t been from here. They haven’t had this shop’s specially made peppermint whipped cream, or the peppermint stick that can be used to stir.

You hate how much you have to psych yourself up before you walk inside. You don’t even know where Aaron is these days or what he’s doing. He could be halfway across the country for all you know.

So, with that fact in mind, you walk inside. You embrace the familiar sight and smells, remembering what it felt like the last time you were here.

You move toward the counter, falling in the short line to the register. And your stomach flips when you see a familiar face standing in front of you.

Well, his back is facing you, so you don’t see his face, but you know it’s him. There’s this thing about first loves. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since the last time you’ve seen them. You’ll always recognize everything about them. The back of their head, their shoulders, their hands, the way they walk.

Their voice. Even if it’s deeper than the last time you heard it.

Maybe he won’t recognize me.

But what you don’t know is that no amount of time could pass to make you unrecognizable to Aaron.

Or that he saw your reflection in the glass case next to him when you got in line, and he’s been internally trying to figure out what the hell to say to you since.

If it hadn’t been for his voice, you wouldn’t have recognized Aaron at all. A black coffee? That’s it?

The barista pours it and slides it over to him before he’s even done paying. He’s at a coffee shop -- this coffee shop, and he orders a black coffee?

Who is he?

You step up to the register as he steps away, and you swear you see him looking at you through the corner of your eyes. But you must be seeing things because why would he do that?

You focus on ordering -- a medium peppermint mocha, complete with the whipped cream and peppermint stick. After paying, you step to the side to wait for your coffee.

You nearly knock right into Aaron, but you stop yourself, well aware of his presence.

Another thing about first loves: you’re always painfully aware of their presence.

“Hi,” he says, awkward and fumbling even though it’s only one word. He’s wearing a stuffy suit and tie, which seems odd, but you’re positive that’s just normal lawyer attire. He probably lives in a suit these days. His hair is shorter than it used to be and he looks older, but so do you. Despite all of this, he’s still Aaron. He’s still the same Aaron Hotchner you fell in love with at sixteen.

“Hi,” you return the awkward smile, tugging on the strap of your purse. After a beat, you nod toward his drink. “Black coffee, huh?” You try to tease. “Who hurt you?”

He laughs loudly then, shoulders and head shaking. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Hotchner,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around yourself.

The conversation dies for a moment, so you busy yourself by looking at the different cakes and pastries in the glass case. You probably should’ve gotten one, but maybe another time.

Another time. Fifteen minutes ago you wouldn’t be caught dead in this shop and now you’re already thinking about another time.

“Are you busy?” Aaron suddenly asks, prompting you to look at him with furrowed brows. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” you smile gently, knowing you might regret this later. But it’s been over a decade since you’ve seen him last. One coffee won’t hurt.

And I’m over him, you remind yourself, no matter how untrue it might be.

Once you have your peppermint mocha -- finally, you think, it’s been too long -- you walk with Aaron to find a table. A lot has changed about this shop, but one thing that hasn’t (because there isn’t much that can be changed) is the seating.

Aaron leads you to your old table. The table the two of you practically lived at.

It makes your heart warm and ache all at once. The drink you decided to order isn’t helping matters either.

“So…” You pause, shifting in your seat. “What are you up to these days?”

“You stole my question,” he jokes.

“Tough,” you smile into your drink. “I asked it first.”

He chuckles, but answers anyway. “I’m working for the BAU now.”

“The B-A-What?”

“The-- FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Your eyes widen. “Did you… Did you really just say you’re working for the FBI?”

“I think so,” he says. “I’m the unit chief.”

“You’re the-- Okay. So, you don’t work for the...the BAU, they work for you.”

“We’re a team,” he offers.

“Said every boss ever,” you quip, taking a long drink of your mocha. You take the peppermint stick in between your fingers and stir, eyebrows furrowing down at the swirl of coffee and whipped cream. “So...what do you do exactly?”

He opens his mouth to answer, then stops, hesitating. “Do you really want to know?”

You give him a look. “Of course I do.”

“It’s not great.”

“Aaron, just tell me, or I’ll start reciting my dissertation word for word.” Your statement stuns him to silence, so badly that you almost laugh. “That’s boring. Working for the FBI can’t possibly be boring.”

“Oh, it’s never boring, that’s for sure,” he mutters. “We profile serial killers.”

“You what?”

He laughs. “We look at their behaviors and crimes and build a profile, what they might look like, their age, that stuff.”

“Intriguing.”

“I can’t believe you’re interested.”

“I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t be,” you counter. “You know I thrive off this stuff.”

“I remember,” he says quietly.

And just like that, you remember, too.

It’s so easy to forget about all the hurt he caused, all the pain he left behind. Especially because you know he never intended to hurt you. He would never do that, not to you, not on purpose. You never told him how you felt. It’s not his fault he couldn’t read your mind.

“Well, you’ve got a doctorate,” he says, shifting the conversation. “What else are you up to?”

“How did you know it’s a doctorate?” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you profiling me? Did I use that correctly?”

“Yes,” he smiles. “And no, not intentionally. You said you’d recite your dissertation. Those are normally written to get doctorate degrees. You always wanted one, I assumed you met your goal.”

“You assume correct,” you nod. “I’m back to start job and apartment hunting, but after the new year. I wanted to spend some time with my mom.”

“How is she doing?”

“She’s good, she--” You pause, shaking your head with a laugh. “She actually brought you up yesterday.”

“Me?” Aaron looks genuinely shocked.

“Yeah, you,” you knock your foot against his leg without thinking, but you pay no mind, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to it. “She’s actually the one who put the bug in my ear to come here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I haven’t been back here since…”

It takes him a moment, but he nods slowly. “Right.”

“Yeah,” you draw your legs closer to you on instinct. “But that was a long time ago. How are you and Haley?”

You don’t expect the way his face falls. You glance down at his left hand. No ring.

“We got a divorce a few years ago, split up about a good year before that,” Aaron explains. “She’s good, last I heard. Remarried already.”

“Wow,” you murmur, not knowing what else to say. “What-- I mean, what happened?” When he hesitates, you backpedal. “Sorry, I shouldn’t even ask, it’s probably a sensitive question.”

“It’s okay,” Aaron chuckles. “I don’t mind talking about it with you.”

That sends a dangerous flutter through your stomach. “Okay. Well I’m all ears.”

“Oh, it’s not a long story, it was just my job,” he shrugs. “I took the unit chief position and she was happy at first. But then, there was a period of time where we had what felt like case after case after case.” He shakes his head. “I was barely home, but I was barely in one state for long, anyway. It was a stressful time. We were everywhere at once.”

“That does sound stressful,” you frown. “Has it slowed down now?”

“Kind of, it has its moments,” he admits. “But being gone so much, it took a toll on her. She wanted to start a family, but said she couldn’t do that if I was never there.”

“But I mean she had to have known how your schedule would be with the new job, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, then shrugs. “It’s been so long now that I stopped trying to understand her thought process.”

“I get that,” you say sincerely. You understand not wanting to waste energy on something like that anymore. Sometimes you just have to give it up and have peace with the fact that you’ll never understand.

“What about you?” He asks suddenly, catching you off guard. “Seeing anyone?” He adds it quietly, like he’s shy.

Aaron Hotchner. Shy. Around you.

“Oh,” you nearly laugh at the prospect. “No. No, I’m not. Do you really think I would be if I was moving back in with my mom?”

He laughs, bringing his coffee to his lips. “You have a point there.”

A comforting silence settles over the two of you after that.

You shouldn’t feel slightly giddy that his and Haley’s relationship didn’t work out in the end. You’re over him by now, anyway. But something about being right has you fighting a smile. You smother the urge, though, knowing he probably doesn’t want to hear anyone, let alone you, say, “I told you so.”

You do feel bad for him, genuinely. Divorce is never easy for anyone, and you hate he went through that. Especially like that. Haley knew his work schedule would change. Why would she act supportive if she knew this in advance? Just sits uneasy with you, that’s all.

Of course, you feel that overprotective-best-friend nature coming back to you.

“What plans do you have now that you’re back?” He asks, keeping the conversation up, but you can tell he’s earnest — which makes you smile.

“Nothing, really. My mom and I are getting a Christmas tree later, but that’s all I have on my schedule.” You pause, giving him another look. “We both know you were my only friend in high school. Who do you think I’m going to see while I’m here?”

“Hopefully a lot of me,” he replies easily, smiling around his coffee.

And for once, you don’t hesitate to reply. “I hope so, too, actually. I didn’t think you were still around here. And I really didn’t expect you to be working for the FBI.”

“This might be presumptuous of me, but what are you doing this weekend?” He asks, quickly adding on, “A good friend of mine is hosting a Christmas party for the team, and I’ve basically been threatened to bring a plus one.”

“Threatened, huh?” You raise an eyebrow.

He nods seriously. “They won’t let me inside without one.”

You gasp comically, keeping up the act. “Well you can’t miss the party!”

“I know,” he sighs, propping his head in his hand.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to come with,” you say, still deadly serious.

But Aaron’s lips split into a grin the same time yours does. “It’s this Saturday.”

“Lucky for you, I’m free.”

He doesn’t stop grinning. “I can pick you up, if you want.”

“Yeah, I’d love that,” you say. “I should probably give you my number, shouldn’t I?”

“I was going to ask,” he admits.

You roll your eyes playfully. “I figured.”

After exchanging numbers, the two of you return to your idle conversations. Only, they’re less idle than they ever have been before.

He vents about still not understanding how people can be capable of the things he sees. How he knows that everyone is capable of unspeakable things, but it’s how they do it that still makes him stumble sometimes. And you try to sympathize, though you know you can’t. But still you tell him not to try to understand.

“You’re a good man,” you say. “You’re not going to understand it because you’re not like them.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I know that, consciously. Sometimes it’s good to hear it from someone else.”

Then he tells you it’s your turn, and again, you don’t feel the need to hesitate.

You tell him how you weren’t planning on moving back here at all. But the job market where you were didn’t...fit you, for some reason. You never felt like you belonged, and so maybe that’s why you wanted to come back here.

Because even though you left this place heartbroken, you still felt like you belonged when you were here. You felt like you belonged when you were with him, but you don’t tell him that.

Something tells you he heard it anyway, though. Being a profiler and all. Which you still don’t quite understand, but you’re sure he’ll have plenty of time to tell you in the coming future.

+++

After an hour or two, you decide it’s time for you to head back home. Partly because you need to make some lunch for yourself, and partly because you’ve watched Aaron dismiss at least three phone calls in the last twenty minutes.

But he didn’t say a word each time, so you know he won’t tell you who it is or if he needs to go. It makes your heart warm at the thought that he wants to spend more time with you, but if it’s his job, then he needs to go.

He walks you to your car and you hug him around his neck, unashamedly taking a deep breath of his cologne when you stretch up to wrap your arms around him. He didn’t wear cologne back in high school. But this one smells good.

You mentally prepare yourself on the way home for the amount of questions your mom is no doubt going to ask.

You’re supposed to be going to pick out a tree with her today, which means you were supposed to be home a little earlier than this, which means your mom probably already knows what happened and you won’t even get a chance to explain yourself.

In the end, your prediction was correct.

“How was your peppermint mocha?” You glance over to the couch and find your mom sitting there, idly reading a book.

The question is as directly indirect as they come. You raise an eyebrow and kick the front door closed (yes, she asked before you even stepped foot inside the house). “It was good,” you reply, shrugging your jacket off your shoulders. “Why?”

“Oh, you enjoyed it for almost two hours, so I was just wondering.” Your mom fights back a grin, but she’s not doing a very good job.

You sigh. “Just go ahead and ask.”

She closes her book. “Alright, fine, I will. How is Aaron?”

There it is.

“He’s good,” you answer rather pointedly, making your way into the living room. “He’s working for the FBI now.”

“Oh, I knew that already.”

You plop down next to her on the couch. “Seriously?”

“Of course!” She cries, like it should be obvious. “Small talk happens when you see someone in the store.”

“Right,” you scoff. “Anyway, thanks for not telling me him and Haley divorced.”

She grimaces.

“Yeah, exactly,” you nod at her expression. “That’s how I felt. I bet it was just awesome of me to ask about how him and his ex-wife are doing.”

“I’m sorry,” your mom says. “It completely slipped my mind. It’s been so long since those two split.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?”

“Because I didn’t want to bring him up,” she answers sincerely. “You seemed like you had really moved on. I figured it didn’t matter, and I didn’t want to make you start thinking about him again when you had finally gotten over it all.”

“Oh,” you murmur. “Well, thank you, then, but...still. I feel like an idiot.”

“Did he seem angry when you asked?”

“No, the opposite,” you sigh. “He explained what happened and I let him talk about it for a second, but he seems mostly moved on from it.”

“I don’t know how he can be,” your mom scoffs. “She’s already remarried, you know.”

“Yeah, he told me.”

Your mom shakes her head. “I should’ve shook some sense into that boy when he came to say goodbye that day.” Then she pauses, poking your leg. “And I should’ve made you say goodbye to him. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“I didn’t wanna talk to him,” you shrug. “We barely had all year, anyway. And one goodbye would not have stopped him from going to college and marrying Haley, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” She sighs. “It’s fun to think about, though.”

“Well stop thinking about it,” you mutter. “We are friends and he’s probably seeing someone by now. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here, so.”

Your mom raises her eyebrows. “I never said anything about what you guys are now.”

Damn. Caught. “I know, but I’m just...catching you before you do.”

“Mmm, more like catching yourself.”

“Shut up.”

She lightly hits you with a pillow. “Don’t say that to your mother,” she jokes. “Especially not when I’m right and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Are you ready to pick out a tree?”

“Of course,” she replies. “Just let me find my shoes.”

While she’s getting ready -- because “finding her shoes” really means fixing her hair and makeup and changing outfits a couple times -- you get a text from Aaron.

Aaron: It was nice catching up with you today

You smile and type your reply. Ditto. We should do it again sometime.

He doesn’t reply, but you figure he’s busy at work, anyway. And you’ve got a tree to pick out and decorate, so you’re technically busy, too.

You try not to think too much about it.

+++

And truthfully, you don’t think much about it, until Aaron finally replies. It’s hours later when you’re decorating the freshly-cut Christmas tree in the living room, with Michael Bublé’s Christmas album playing through the stereo speakers. It’s just like when you were younger.

You check your phone and see that it’s Aaron texting you back, but you pocket it before reading the message. You’re busy.

Your mom notices the change on your face. “Everything alright?” She asks as she places a snowflake ornament on one of the smaller branches.

You nod without thinking, hating yourself for even feeling what you’re feeling right now. A glittery red ornament hangs from your index finger as you try to find the right branch to hang it on -- and while your mind wanders all over the place.

“Clearly not,” your mom replies. “But alright.” She turns and reaches into a different box, picking up one of the golden jingle bells that she always hides deep within the tree each year. When you were younger, she’d hide them without you seeing, and then on Christmas Eve you’d have to search the tree for them before you could open one present before going to sleep.

You snort a laugh, always loving her way of getting you to open up: sarcasm. “It’s just Aaron.”

“Aaron?”

“Texting me,” you explain, looking down at the glitter coating your fingertips from the ornaments.

“Aren’t you going to reply?” She asks, grabbing another jingle bell.

“Technically he’s the one replying from earlier today.”

“Okay…”

You sigh. Time to cave. “He invited me to a Christmas party this weekend.”

Your mom doesn’t even try to hide her excitement or her wide grin. “Really? That’s great!”

Is it? You want to ask, but you stop yourself. “Yeah,” you shrug. “I guess so. It’ll be nice to hang out with him more.” You pause, finally hanging the small glittery red ornament on the tree that you’ve been idly holding for the past two minutes. “Apparently a friend of his is hosting it and basically told him he wouldn’t be allowed inside without a plus one.” You chuckle quietly, knowing Aaron had to have rolled his eyes when his friend told him that.

“So it’s...a date, then?”

“What? No,” you shake your head. “No, no. Not a date. He didn’t phrase it that way.”

“Sweetheart, plus one implies date.”

“Who says?”

“Everyone!” Your mom laughs. “Bringing a plus one to a wedding is usually a casual date, if not bringing your significant other along.”

“This isn’t a wedding, it’s just a Christmas get together.”

“Same difference.”

“Well, I think you’re doing that thing again where you try to plant seeds in my brain for things that are unnecessary,” you raise an eyebrow at her when she avoids eye contact, so you know you’ve caught her red-handed. “All that aside,” you sigh. “I’m over him. It’s been so long. If something was going to happen, it would have already.”

“Whatever you say,” she shrugs indifferently, grabbing the final jingle bell to hide in the top of the tree. For a brief moment, you wish you hadn’t been watching where she hid them, so you could do the search on Christmas Eve one more time.

+++

You bump into Aaron one more time, two days later, at the same coffee shop.

“Back for more?” He teases as he slides into the seat across from you, another black coffee in his right hand.

You’re sitting at the table the two of you call home with yet another peppermint mocha sitting in front of you and your laptop. More job hunting is the task for today, even though you’re ready to give up and just pick it back up after the New Year. It’s not like your mom is making you pay rent, and you have enough in savings to help with groceries (without her knowledge, of course, because she refuses to let you pay for anything) and buy your own coffees. But, you decided to give it one last go today.

That is, until Aaron slid into the seat in front of you. Now, you close your laptop and place it back in your bag. “Just needed some fuel for more job hunting,” you grin. “What are you doing here?”

“I took off for lunch for once and thought I might find you here.”

“Oh?” You raise your eyebrows. “Were you seeking me out, Hotchner?”

“Maybe a little,” he admits with a shy smile. “Are you still good for tomorrow?”

“As long as you are,” you nod. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at five, if that’s good?”

“Perfect,” you smile. “Are you ready to introduce me to your friends?”

“Depends,” he exhales exasperatedly. “Are you ready to meet them?”

“They can’t be that bad.”

“They might be. If you aren’t used to them.” He pauses. “They don’t know you’re coming, by the way.”

“What?” You almost laugh. “Why not?”

“I told them I was bringing someone, but I didn’t feel like hearing it all week about who I was bringing.” He pauses again, like he’s holding something back, and then he lets it out. “They know all about you.”

You blink. “They do?”

“Yeah,” he smiles gently. “I talk about you all the time.”

“No,” you shake your head. “No you don’t. There’s no way.”

“You’ll believe it tomorrow,” he chuckles. “I’m sure they’ll try to embarrass me.”

“I-I mean...what do you even say about me?”

He shrugs. “That you were my best friend in high school and...that I missed you and wondered what you were up to these days, and how we used to hang out here.” He looks around the shop, then back to you and your bewildered expression. “What?” He laughs. “You didn’t talk to your friends about me?”

“No, I did,” you laugh quietly. But I said different things. And most of the time I was crying because I missed you, especially my first year of college when my roommate tried to get me to go on a double date with her boyfriend and his roommate, but I refused and had to confess that I wasn’t over you and that you broke my heart, and I was such a mess that she brought ice cream and chocolate back after their date.

But you don’t say any of that. Obviously.

“I just didn’t expect you to even...think about me, I guess,” you finally spit out, still shaking your head. “I mean...we haven’t talked since high school, I figured you’d forgotten or moved on, at least. Especially since you had Haley.”

Aaron’s expression softens and turns sad, quickly. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know you thought any of that.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you wave his worry away. “It’s years ago. Water under the bridge.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. Then, he says, “Haley was jealous of you, you know.”

You immediately look up from your mocha, your eyes wide in shock. “She was what?”

“Oh yeah,” Aaron laughs. “Devastatingly jealous of you. She swore we were dating or that I was in love with you or something.”

Or something. “Wow,” you chuckle, trying to mask your hurt as much as possible. “Why did she even think that?”

You know why. You know exactly why. Because before her, you and Aaron were attached at the hip. You sat together during lunch, walked each other home, hung out at the coffee shop, went to school functions together (well, you’d actually go with a big group, but you two always ended up together anyway), and so on and so forth. Anyone would’ve been an idiot to not assume you two were dating.

“We were so close,” he shrugs. “She said she was so surprised when I asked her to be my girlfriend because she swore I was dating you. She actually asked me that, when I gave her the flowers. She said, “What about Y/N?” And I said, “Y/N? She’s just my best friend.” And she didn’t believe me.”

“That’s so crazy,” you say, but you’re really thinking back to that day you and Aaron had decided to meet up here and hang out after so long. When Haley crashed the hangout. When she locked eyes with you and smirked before pulling him back in for another kiss.

She was jealous. She was jealous and she knew exactly what she was doing that day.

Aaron’s phone starts ringing and he sighs heavily, pulling it out. He almost declines it, but then stops himself. “It’s the boss,” he says. “My boss. I’ve gotta take this. I’ll text you later?”

“Sure,” you smile, knowing he might forget or get too busy to think about it. But that’s okay. “Good luck with the phone call.”

“Thanks,” he chuckles. “I’ll need it.” And then he brings his phone up to his ear. “Agent Hotchner,” he says, and you hate that you find it so hot.

+++

You almost cancel with Aaron a dozen times before 2p.m.

You blame the conversation the two of you had yesterday. For some reason, the thought of Haley being jealous of you had never crossed your mind. Because to you, it was so obviously the other way around. Of course, you weren’t vocal about your jealousy, but you were certain she knew. Not that it was the other way around.

Old feelings have already resurfaced, which is bad enough, but the talk about Haley and about how Aaron’s friends know all about you made things worse. Especially the latter.

Why would he talk about you so much if the two of you hadn’t spoken in years? Not even years, but like an entire decade. Why would he still talk about you and think about you that much?

You have dwelled over those questions since he left the coffee shop yesterday.

But now, you have no idea what to wear, and Aaron will be here any minute. You’re assuming the attire is casual, not fancy, since it’s just a get together with his friends -- who all happen to be his team of agents. FBI agents. Because he’s just casually the Unit Chief of the BAU.

It still baffles you. He wanted to be a lawyer. Not in the FBI. God.

He’s still your Aaron. That’s what shocks you the most. He’s experienced law school, marriage, practicing law, working for the FBI, becoming a Unit Chief, divorce, and yet he’s still the Aaron Hotchner you were best friends with in high school.

You wonder if you’re still the girl he was best friends with in high school. Or if you’ve changed so drastically that he doesn’t see you that way anymore.

You take a deep breath, going back to digging through the many boxes of clothes that you have yet to unpack. You need a sweater or something. That’s safe enough, right? It’s too cold for a dress, and frankly, you’re not in the mood for wearing one, anyway.

Finally, you find the sweater you were looking for. You tug it over your head, figuring your jeans are fine enough. You’ll wear some low heels to make it look like you put in a little more effort.

Your quick thinking is to your benefit because the doorbell rings almost as soon as you’re done doing the clasp on your second heel.

But because your mom is quicker than you, she’s already opened the door and let Aaron in before you can make it downstairs. And by the time you are coming down the stairs, Aaron is sitting on the couch with your mom, making idle conversation.

“Hey,” you smile at him, resisting the urge to glare at your mom. “Ready?”

“If you are,” he nods, standing to his feet.

When he turns, you shoot your mom a look. “We’ll be back later.”

“You’re not in high school,” your mom laughs. “You two have fun for as long as you like.”

“I know,” you say. “But I also know you’ll wait up until I get back.”

“And you can’t stop me,” she replies pointedly.

Aaron laughs at the two of you, your banter just as he remembers from all those years ago. Neither of you have changed one bit.

After a final moment of bickering, you bid your mom goodbye and leave with Aaron.

In the car, you ask, “Have you told them about me coming yet?”

From the driver’s seat, he shakes his head. “No, so prepare yourself for a lot of questions.”

“I think you’re the one that’ll be in hot water, but alright,” you chuckle. “I can hear them now. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were bringing her!’”

He laughs loudly. “That’s not a bad impression, actually.”

“Why, thank you,” you smirk. “It’s a hidden talent of mine.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mhm.”

The two of you share a grin as he keeps driving.

+++

After some time -- long enough that you were beginning to wonder where he’s taking you -- Aaron finally turns into a subdivision. But it’s still not what you were expecting.

You assumed FBI agents must make good money, but not this good. This is a mansion. It’s massive. There has to be at least six bedrooms in there, maybe more.

“Is your friend a millionaire or something?”

Aaron chuckles, “Maybe. Probably. Maybe more.”

“More?” Your eyes widen. “Wow.” And then Aaron pulls into the driveway. “Wow.”

He puts the car in park and says, “Try not to look too surprised. Dave won’t shut up about the house if you get him started.”

“What if I want to hear everything?” You ask, scrambling out of the car to look up at the house. “Jesus Christ.” Then you whip your head around to look at Aaron exasperatedly. “Does your house look like this?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “No. This is too big. Dave’s crazy for buying it.”

“He’s definitely insane,” you nod. “I mean, what do you even need a house this big for?”

Aaron shrugs. “Christmas parties, I guess.” He pauses, holding out his arm for you. “Ready to face the lions?”

You roll your eyes through a laugh, loosely holding onto his arm. “Quit being so dramatic. I bet it’ll be just fine.”

“Let’s hope so,” Aaron replies. Because truthfully, he is a little worried that they might scare you off. They have a habit of doing that.

The two of you walk up to the front door, and you try your best to act like you’ve been in the general vicinity of a house this big before. Dave must be a really good friend of Aaron’s, because instead of knocking or ringing the doorbell, Aaron twists the doorknob and walks right in with you on his arm.

“Dave’s making pasta,” Aaron whispers, smelling the air. He shuts the door gently, wanting to surprise the team as much as possible.

You sniff the air, too, smiling happily. “Smells really good. Is that carbonara?”

“Good nose,” a voice says from the kitchen.

“That’s Dave,” Aaron chuckles, walking you down the hall toward the smell.

The team’s eyes all widen dramatically and comically when Aaron Hotchner steps inside the kitchen with a woman on his arm.

“Well, hello,” one of them says, sliding off the stool at the counter to saunter over to you. He’s all suave and swagger.

“Derek Morgan, this is Y/N,” Aaron introduces you quickly, knowing the reaction your name will get.

“Hold up,” Derek pauses, glancing between you and Aaron. “Y/N? As in the Y/N?”

“I don’t know about being the Y/N, but that is my name,” you laugh. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Derek says, a hand over his heart to add to the sincerity. “Where have you been hiding all this time?”

“Getting a doctorate,” you shrug, only now realizing that your hand is still holding onto Aaron’s arm, but he doesn’t seem fazed by it either, so you don’t move.

“Oh, alright,” Derek chuckles. “Hey Reid, we’ve got another doctor here.”

The man in question, Reid, looks up from the book he was reading with furrowed eyebrows. “Hi.” He waves.

“Hey,” you wave back. “What’re you reading?”

“War and Peace. In Russian, though.”

“In-- Wow, okay.”

“He’s a genius,” Morgan explains.

“I see that,” you chuckle.

Aaron finishes the introductions for you. “That’s JJ, handles the press for us because none of us want to do it.”

“He’s not wrong,” JJ replies with a laugh. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You too,” you smile.

“You met Reid, his first name’s Spencer,” Aaron supplies, and Reid is too far gone in the book again to notice. “This is Emily Prentiss.”

“And I have been dying to meet you,” Emily says. “You are exactly how he described.”

“In a good way, I hope?” You laugh nervously.

She nods. “Definitely.”

Aaron points to the other woman at the counter. She’s dressed in all sorts of crazy colors with glasses that match her outfit. And before he can introduce her, she says, “I’m Penelope Garcia, technology extraordinaire. I keep them out of trouble.”

“And we love you for it,” Derek adds.

“And this is Dave,” Aaron finishes.

“It is very nice to finally meet you,” Dave says, and actually shakes your hand. “Do you know how to make carbonara?”

“Yes, actually,” you say, earning a surprised look from Aaron. “I went through a phase when I was younger, wanting to make anything and everything that sounded good, so I’ve made this a few times. My mom loves it.”

Dave loves the sound of that. “Would you like to help me?”

You practically light up inside and out. “Seriously? I’d love to!”

“Oh, here we go,” Derek groans. “He’s roped her in.”

You ignore him, slipping away from Aaron to grab the other apron off the hook by the entrance to the kitchen. You slide your head through the loop and tie it at the back in a matter of seconds, too excited to contain it.

“I almost went to culinary school, you know,” you say to no one in particular, but Aaron is listening, and so is Dave.

“Why didn’t you?” Aaron asks.

You shrug. “Didn’t seem practical.” Which isn’t the real answer at all. The real answer is you got your heart broken and needed to do a complete 180 in life, so you did. Culinary school was out. Getting a doctorate was in. You turn on the water in the sink and begin washing your hands. “What do you need me to do?”

For the next hour, you help Dave make the carbonara, occasionally answering any questions Aaron’s friends have for you.

Aaron pours you a glass of wine and sits at the counter, watching you cook. You look more at peace than he’s seen you since a few days ago when he first bumped into you again.

You catch him looking at you more than a handful of times. It feels good. Spending the evening with his friends, his team, with him. You’ve missed spending time with him more than anything else.

Dave serves up the carbonara, telling you to sit down since you helped so much already. You don’t make him ask twice.

+++

After dinner, everyone moves into the living room, scattering on the various couches and chairs. Reid has finished reading War and Peace, so the book sits discarded on one of the coffee tables.

You take the spot on the couch next to Aaron, careful not to spill your wine. Penelope sits on the other side of you, with Derek on her other side, which all but forces you to move closer to Aaron, and something about the look on Penelope’s face tells you it was done on purpose.

You’re not exactly complaining, though. With a full stomach and a fresh glass of wine, Aaron’s presence is even warmer than before. You pay no mind when he shifts his left arm, stretching it over the back of the couch and allowing you to scoot closer, your legs pressed against each other’s.

The conversation continues, and somehow the subject of relationships is brought up.

“Yeah, why was I the only one asked to bring someone?” Aaron asks. “I’d like to see all of you find a last minute date.”

Another warm rush goes through your body at the word date. This is a date. Alright then.

“I think you did just fine,” Dave says, nodding to you. “Don’t you?”

You shrug, not sure of what to make of it. “I’m having fun, so I guess so.”

“See?” Dave gives Aaron a look. “You did fine.”

Aaron gives his friend a tired glare. “Only because she happened to be back from getting her degrees. Otherwise, I would’ve been stuck.”

“Nah, man, you could’ve called Beth.”

You feel Aaron tense next to you, but you aren’t sure if he tensed up or if you did. Maybe both. Probably both. You weren’t aware there was someone else.

“Who’s Beth?” You ask as casually as possible, ignoring the heated glares Penelope, JJ, and Emily alike are sending Derek. Seriously, Derek would be dead three times over right now if looks could be deadly.

Aaron shrugs before answering you. “Her and I dated briefly last year.”

You nod slowly, trying not to seem hurt or upset or anything by this because it’s ridiculous of you to be fighting back tears, but you can’t help it.

It’s high school, goddamnit, it’s fucking high school all over again.

The topic of conversation shifts thanks to Reid being the endless supplier of random facts. One question about Russian from Emily and he’s taking over, washing the awkwardness away in two languages.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work as well for you as it does for everyone else.

You set your wine glass down on the table and tell Penelope you’re going to use the bathroom. You have no clue where it is, but she doesn’t know that.

Aaron does. And Aaron hears the tone of voice you use.

He waits until you’re down the hall before he stands to follow you, foregoing any explanation to his friends. They already know what he’s doing.

Aaron’s suspicions are correct when he hears the front door close and sees your coat no longer hanging next to his on the hook by the door. He grabs his and only gets one arm through a sleeve before he’s opening the door, eyes searching the premises for you.

Thankfully, he finds you after two seconds, and his racing heart slows a little. You’re standing by the reindeer lights on Dave’s front lawn. Your coat is only hanging on your shoulders, something you’ve always done since high school when you were upset.

“It feels more like a blanket,” you had told him one day. “Blankets are more comforting than jackets.”

He doesn’t see the difference, but you do, and that was enough for him.

He has both arms through the sleeves by the time he’s next to you. He gently touches your arm to get your attention, adding a soft, “Hey,” for good measure.

You turn your head at the sound, having already known he was coming because you heard the front door open. In the back of your mind, you had wanted him to follow you out here, but now that he’s done it, you aren’t so sure this is what you wanted.

You wanted to ignore the feeling. Get it to disappear on its own. Survive the night, then never talk to him again. You were heartbroken, but it was better when you weren’t speaking to him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says softly. “Beth and I haven’t spoken since our last date a year ago. It was only three dates. We weren’t serious at all.” He pauses. “I have no idea why Derek said that. He doesn’t think before he speaks sometimes.”

You nod, not having it in you to laugh at Aaron’s small jab, even though he is entirely correct. Derek is a quick thinker with a sharp wit, but you can see how it might backfire sometimes. Like tonight.

You believe Aaron, you really do. But it’s so hard. “Did you love her?”

Aaron is stunned for a moment, but says, “No. I don’t think I did.”

“Okay.” You shake your head, looking down at the grass. “I’m just trying to figure out why Derek would’ve brought her up if...if you guys dated so briefly.”

Aaron sighs. “I don’t know.”

“And is this a date?” You blurt, finally finding the courage to get that one out. “Because if it is, I…I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

You shake your head again, trying to find the right words, but they always seem out of reach. “Just...tell me this won’t be like high school.”

This time Aaron is too stunned to form a real answer. “What?”

“Please,” you sound like you’re about to cry and you feel so pathetic that you wish you had never agreed to come tonight. But you’re here anyway. “I was in love with you then, and I’m still in love with you now, but I can’t do that again. So if this is a just friends thing and always will be, I need you to tell me before I hurt myself all over again.”

Aaron can’t believe his ears. He swears he heard you wrong. He must have. “You were in love with me in high school, too?”

“Yes-- Wait, too? What do you mean too?” Now you’re looking at him, eyes wide in confusion, shock, every emotion possible. “Too?”

“I was in love with you, Y/N,” he chuckles, reaching for your hands. “I thought you just saw me as an older brother. That’s why I never...said anything.”

“What?” You breathe, letting him thread his fingers through yours. “Are you serious? You better not be pulling my leg, Hotchner. Don’t do that to me.” You tug on his hands for emphasis, giving him a stern look.

“I’m not joking,” he says, taking a step closer. “I wouldn’t joke about this.”

“Oh my god,” you say, disbelief a powerful thief of words. “I can’t believe… So you went after Haley because…”

“Because I heard from one of her friends that she had a crush on me,” he admits. “I did love her, but not as much as I loved you. Never as much as I loved you.”

You don’t know what else to do or say. He looks so beautiful in this light that it hurts, and now he’s saying words you never thought you’d ever hear.

“Do you forgive me?” He asks. “For breaking your heart?”

“Only if you forgive me for breaking yours,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “I broke my own. I should’ve told you how I felt.” He pauses. “I even talked to you about Haley all the time. Is that why you didn’t say goodbye to me?”

You nod. “It sounds so stupid now, but I was so hurt.”

“I’m an idiot,” he laughs. “I’m the dumbest fool to ever walk the Earth.”

“We both are,” you correct him, taking a step closer. It’s cold out here, but he’s warm. He’s always been so warm. Like home.

And you-- you’ve always been who Aaron thinks of when he thinks about being happy. It’s always been you. A moment like this, and a thousand others. He wants them all. And to think, you do too.

His lips meet yours in a long-awaited kiss, cold noses bumping against one another, his warm hands holding your face, your chilled fingers finding their home on his neck, stealing his warmth.

From the window, the team watches, and Emily exchanges money with Derek.

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amyscascadingtabs · 3 years

Text

darling, you should know i’m a helicopter

a healthy dose of hurt/comfort with added baby snuggles, because i truly felt for amy in this episode. it's been a long time since i just wrote something quick but i hope you enjoy! 🥰

oh and if you want a picture this is the pajamas mac is wearing, okay cool

read on ao3

Amy doesn’t mean for it to be a breakdown.

She’s not surprised when Mac’s familiar piercing cries wake her up again a mere hour and a half after she’s fed him and put him to sleep for the night. As miraculous as Charles’ methods seemed, she still believes some babies are just fussy, and her son is one of them. It’s the only logical conclusion she’s come to after six, eight, ten, and twelve weeks all passed without any notable improvement in Mac’s ability to sleep longer stretches, and now he’s five months old and defying every single baby book and website that informs her he should be well settled into a sleeping schedule by now. He’s just fussy, or a high need baby, or whatever other term with needlessly negative connotations there is to make Amy feel like she's doing a bad job. It’s who he is and it’s what she’s used to, so she just scoots to the edge of the bed and picks him up from his travel cot in her still hurting arms before he can wake up the rest of the house.

On another night, she might have tried to walk around with him first, play some white noise or bounce on the yoga ball with him, but she’s tired and dejected and scared to wake up anyone else, so she goes for the easy option. The buttons of her pink striped pajama shirt are easily accessible for this exact purpose, and resting Mac’s head in the crook of her right arm, she gently guides him to her chest and exhales in relief as the crying comes to a stop. At least this, she can do, and the idiots who write advice pages about how you shouldn’t get your baby used to falling asleep at the breast have probably never even met a real baby.

She leans back against the pillows when she’s sure Mac’s found a good latch and she can hear his content grunts and swallows. His hand has found a steady grip on her newly washed hair, probably getting drool in it again, but she can’t be bothered to try and unclench his little iron fist when he’s finally happy. Watching his perfect chubby cheeks as they hollow and fill, stroking the soft baby curls that are getting lighter and more like Jake’s every day, Amy’s overcome with another wave of that crazy all-consuming love that keeps surprising her, and then she’s the one who can’t stop her tears from falling.

The only thing she ever wants is to keep him safe. In a world of pandemics and injustice, where the news gives her anxiety attacks more days than not and everything she thought she knew keeps changing, at least she can make sure Mac has his every need attended to. It’s been her life while staying home for the past five months, and she likes to think she’s handled it well all things considered, but after Charles’ nip tips and three-hour imprisonment of her child, Amy can’t help but feel like she’s done it all wrong.

Her son is at his happiest when she can’t bother him. Once again, her high-strungness and failure to just be chill have proved her unfit for motherhood. She’s too anxious, too stressed, too overprotective, and the baby in her arms looking up at her with the warmest, roundest brown eyes she’s ever known is seriously unlucky and he doesn’t even know it.

She doesn’t know where the negative thoughts are coming from, but sometimes breastfeeding has this effect on her – another sign, the self-hating voice in her head whispers – and it’s been an exhausting day, so she lets the tears come and hopes Jake is too deeply asleep to notice her mini-breakdown. Why is this so hard for her, and why can’t she just relax? How come Mac seems to be the only child she’s heard of whose sleeping habits at home have gotten worse and not better after his first few weeks at daycare, and how come even the most gentle of sleep training methods break her heart when Mac cries like he’s been abandoned?

She’s wiping her tears with her free hand before wiping Mac’s cheeks with the muslin blanket when Jake begins to stir next to her, and even that makes her feel guilty, because he’s had a long day, too. He rubs his hand against her upper arm as if sensing that something’s off, yawning as he pushes himself up into a half-sitting position.

“Hey,” he mumbles in his softest sleepy voice, a worried crease appearing on his forehead. “Are you okay, Ames?”

“Yeah,” she tries, but her voice breaks, so she shakes her head. Mac is starting to pull away, so she unlatches him and sighs when she realizes that the shirt she’d packed clean already has milk stains on it. She rests him upright with his head on her shoulder instead, patting him on the back and trying to stop the tears that won't stop coming.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. Is it Charles again? Because I really think he felt bad, but I’m happy to tell him off again if you want me to.”

“It's not Charles.” Amy sighs. “Well, it kind of is, but it's more that... I can't believe the best Mac has ever slept was when I wasn't even there. I try everything and nothing works, and Charles straight-up locks him in a room, and that makes him fall asleep? It feels like more proof I wasn't meant to do this,” she says, and she can see him immediately opening his mouth to protest. “Like even Charles is a more natural mom than I am.”

Mac makes a hiccuping noise, spitting up a little bit of milk on the muslin blanket Amy put on her shoulder. Jake wipes it away before laying an arm around them, half-hugging them both.

“No offense, but that's the worst lie I’ve heard today, and that's including the stuff Terry said about me.” He strokes Mac’s back through the blue pajamas with little moons and clouds with faces as he begins to whimper again. “You're the best mom to him ever, Ames. You do everything for him. You literally kicked down a door to get to him today. Why do you think someone would be better?”

Amy sighs as she adjusts Mac in her arms, swaying him slightly and being surprised when it actually makes him go quiet. He has his eyes closed, fists up in front of his face, and just the thought that she could be doing something wrong by him makes her heart shatter.

“Because I try too hard,” she whispers, just loud enough for Jake to hear. “When he was locked in by Charles, I couldn't check on him, and it was the best nap he's ever had. All because I worry too much about him. Because I don't know what else to do. I want to keep him safe, but instead I’m somehow not doing enough and doing too much at once.”

She tickles that adorable baby chin with her index finger. Mac grips it, bringing it to his mouth with determination, and it makes both parents laugh. Why he likes this but rejects every single kind of pacifier Buy Buy Baby had to offer, she’ll never understand.

“He knows you love him,” Jake says, as if that was an obvious fact. He likes to claim he can read Mac’s mind about these things, a skill which Amy thinks would have been a lot more useful if it had also worked to figure out what it is their son needs during their worst nights of crying. It's what she needed to hear right now, though, and she leans her head on his shoulder as a silent thank you. “And just because he might be a little introverted sometimes doesn't mean he doesn't love you like crazy, too. I mean, that's what you tell me when I interrupt you when you're reading, right?”

She smiles. “I guess.”

“I know you worry,” he continues. “But just because Mac likes his peace and quiet sometimes doesn’t mean you’re doing a bad job. Maybe we could even let him start sleeping in his nursery at night, you know, just see what happens?”

Just the mention of not having her son within arm’s length at night makes Amy freeze and a million nightmare scenarios flash through her head, and Jake laughs a little as he feels her shoulders tense. “Okay, I can tell that was too big of a step and you’re freaking out, so maybe not. But one day?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she decides, carefully trying to pull her finger out of her son’s mouth. “Thanks, babe. I just really want to go back to sleep.”

Mac’s eyes are fluttering, a telltale sign that he’s starting to fight his sleep, stretching his legs and letting out the most adorable of baby-sighs. Jake runs his thumb over his son’s forehead and nose in an attempt to make him relax, and shakes his head as Mac only forces his eyes open again.

“He’s lucky he’s so cute, isn’t he?”

“He’s lucky we love him,” Amy mumbles, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

“Yeah. I mean, who needs a full night’s sleep anyway, right?” Jake says, and Amy just stares at him with a blank expression.

“I know you’re joking, but I would almost leave him in Charles’ hands for a night again if it meant I got a four-hour stretch, and that’s saying something.”

“Yeah.” Jake grimaces. “I shouldn’t have said that. Now I’m kind of thinking about it too.”

Thinking that maybe Mac will repeat his magical streak of at least managing to fall asleep on his own, Amy tries to put him down in the cot again, but she’s barely moved before he lets out another unhappy cry. She lifts him upright against her chest again, biting her lip and trying not to feel defeated as she starts the hushing and rocking all over again.

“Hey, I can take him,” Jake says, reaching for him. “You need to sleep so you can stop crazy-spiraling, and I’ve barely held him all day. I’ll walk around with him outside for a while, that might do it.”

It’s not the typical declarations of love they used to share, but as he puts the muslin blanket on his shoulder before taking Mac and getting out of bed with him, Amy’s confident that she’s never loved her husband more. This, right here, watching him with sleep-tousled curls in just his t-shirt and pajama pants as he adjusts his son and bounces him slightly in his arms while the crying turns into a more gentle fussing, is far hotter than any sex dream about Sanjay Gupta could ever be.

#my writing #b99 #peraltiago #b99 fic #b99 fanfiction #jake x amy fanfiction #here it is i hope you enjoy!!!

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keilemlucent · 4 years

Text

i am your salvation

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~13k

For years, Keigo had trained his body, fucking perfected it’s abilities. Every part of him was honed and forcibly designed to be the winged-hero, Hawks. But, now? He was the defunct number two, ‘Hawks’ and at home— reality? He was the comically broken Keigo Takami who struggled to do basic physical therapy.

Only you know him like that.

warnings: manga spoilers, suicidal ideation, abuse, ANGST with a capital A, just sad :^(((

this piece is hellish, enjoy ;^))) beta’ed by the lovely @keiqos, bless u

----------------------

Keigo was fucked.

He was so beyond fucked.

He was dead.

Basically.

He was half-alive in a hospital bed. An IV drip in each arm, pumping him full of god knows what. He didn’t care to ask. All he knew was that he fucked up.

He’d gotten sloppy.

Stupid.

Pompous.

And now his wings were fried off his back.

(By fucking Dabi no less.)

The first conversation he’d had with his doctor upon waking at the HPSC hospital was one where he legitimately contemplated suicide for the first time in a long while.

“Hawks... There’s no good way to say this. There just isn’t,” The doctor began, looking through Keigo’s chart, sighing deeply. There was something so grave about the way he moved through the sterile hospital room.

The doctor handed him a handheld mirror.

Hawks slowly raised it up with weakened arms, knowing what he’d see.

A gruesome burn tore down the left side of his face. It puckered the skin around his eye, narrowing his field of vision (thank god he still had any vision at all). The soft flesh around his eye was so angry and blistered, pockets of puss gathering beneath the surface of his skin.

But what was worse than the scar, so much fucking worse, was the absence.

The complete absence of his wings.

No stubs, no nubs. Just nothing.

His back ached against the hospital bed as he handed the mirror back to the doctor.

The doctor sighed again. He spoke to Hawks like he didn’t think the hero already knew what he was going to say, “Your wings are gone. Fully. The scans we’ve taken show that the... well, roots of them in your flesh are still present, they’re encased in scar tissue. Even the sections that the feathers grow from are cauterized. In our professional opinion, we don’t think that they’ll ever grow again.”

His heart fell in his chest.

It fell so deep.

So far.

He didn’t let himself cry.

Instead, he contemplated how hard it would be to overdose on morphine they were undoubtedly dosing him with.

The doctor continued as Keigo stared sightlessly at his lap, “As established, the muscles that control the roots of your wings are still intact, yes. But, they’re heavily damaged in a way that will affect your everyday life. Even without your wings, the recovery to stabilize your injuries is going to be strenuous.”

Who fucking cared.

Hawks had spent the vast majority of his life training to be a hero and now the very thing that made him the best was literally burned from him. It felt unholy. It felt awful.

Fire wasn’t cleansing, it was putrid. Desecrated was his body as well as his mind.

He didn’t listen to much else of what the doctor said. He let himself go blank, wishing tears would fall.

...

That was yesterday.

Today, he was allowed visitors. His PA came, informing him that the Commission was putting him on extended, indefinite (thankfully, somewhat paid) leave in exchange for media appearances. They also informed him that half of the top ten were dead after the war with the PLF. Ryuku, Miruko, Edgeshot, Kamuiwoods, Crust, all lost. And countless others, too. Even some students. It seemed that there was no clear winner of the fight that took so many and changed so much.

One of the most hard-hitting pieces of news was that Endeavor was in a coma, on life support, with a brain injury that would most likely kill him. At best, he’d be a vegetable.

Keigo felt nothing but hollow as he laid in his hospital bed. He was half machine, based on all of the tubes and monitors that he was hooked up to. He felt truly mechanical and falsely alive. Truly, he was used up. He wanted to die. He was sure of it.

Keigo wanted to ask his PA to smother him.

He didn’t.

The next person to visit him was you. His PA had informed him that they were legally obligated to see him first, otherwise, you would’ve been clawing his door down.

You.

Keigo didn’t want you to see him like this. All the reasons you had fallen for him were gone. There was no confidence, no lip, no charm, no drive, no stunning scarlet wings— nothing. He even had the bonus deterrent of a nasty scar covering half his face. He was so sure that you’d take one look at him and turn right out the door.

Leave him for good.

Maybe spit on him for good measure.

The old muscles of his wings twitched as you walked through the door. It burned like an old hell.

You’d clearly been crying, face and eyes puffy.

But you were strong for him.

You pulled a chair up next to his bed wordlessly. You sat, laying your head on his antiseptic smelling sheets and mattress. Your eyes went half-lidded, just barely looking up at Keigo’s terrified expression. You reached out, grabbing one of Keigo’s clammy hands. You squeezed it.

“I’m here, Kei’,” Your voice was so quiet. “It’s alright. I love you. I’ve got you.”

It made him break.

The machines that he was reliant on screamed as he desperately grabbed at you, dragging you up with the little strength he had. You pushed him down, moving to half kneel on his bed. You didn’t make Keigo work for your touch.

You cradled his head to your chest as his scarred hands fisted your sweater. He screamed into your sternum. Keigo wailed and cried with everything he had. He was losing himself, raging for far more than just his current injury.

He bawled for every single time he couldn’t in his hero training, forced to be broken by the demands of the Commission. He sobbed for every casualty and death that was on his hands, righteous or otherwise. And, selfishly, he cried for himself. He let tears fall in mourning for the version of himself that died by Dabi’s hand.

He let himself shatter in your arms for the burning muscles and scars of his back, the ache of his face, and the emptiness and vulnerability that his lack of wings graced him with.

You more than let him; you encouraged it.

You stroked his hair, matted with sweat and grease. You whispered soft adorations, validations and love into his ears. He can hear your tears too, but it didn’t stop you.

“I love you, Keigo.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re safe.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I’ve got you, Kei’.”

“No one else will hurt you. I won’t let them.”

You were far too late on the last one. But, you were quirkless. Powerless to stop the destruction that ravaged his body and now, his mind.

Additionally, Keigo was relieved you didn’t say that ‘everything will be okay’.

He knew it wouldn’t be.

You let him crumble against you for hours.

Finally, he was spent, falling back in his bed, and letting you slump back into your chair. You took the liberty of finding a warm towel to wipe his face down with.

The rest of visiting hours, you laid your head on his mattress, holding his hand as he drifted in and out of sleep. Nurses came and poked and prodded him. They didn’t bother making conversation with either of you.

They understood, to some degree.

You were both together in mourning.

A nurse came by later, night had fallen, telling you visiting hours were over.

Keigo audibly whined.

You shook your head, running a thumb over Keigo’s knuckles.

“It’s alright,” You soothed both him and the nurse. “I’m not leaving.”

The nurse didn’t fight you, merely exited the room.

Keigo watched, awed. You retrieved a decently sized duffle bag and pillow that you’d brought (he hadn’t noticed). You set up a blanket and the pillow on a couch in the corner as a makeshift bed.

“Y-you’re staying?” Keigo asked, voice raw.

You, somehow, smiled. So gentle and precious, nodding, “As long as you’d like me to. I told you, I’m here.”

Keigo relied on you for comfort in the past, sure. But not like this. Not like you were his anchor, tethering him to his existence now that his pride and preen were plucked from him. You were his salvation in that hospital room. You were the ground that he desperately and necessarily needed to learn to walk on.

You both fell asleep quickly, dreaming of better things outside of your waking nightmare.

---------------------------

Keigo was discharged two weeks later.

It is thoroughly confirmed that, unless by some medical miracle, his wings were truly toast. Gone for good.

The Commission brought in at least a dozen folks with spectacular healing quirks. Truly, the best the country had. Turns out, the Commission was clawing for hope too, in the wake of everything.

The efforts were in vain, of course.

Nothing stuck.

The scar tissue wouldn’t shrink. The damage was too severe. The cauterization was so intense, it altered him. Forever.

You stayed with him the whole time.

You went home, just a bit, maybe an hour a day. You showered then, changed clothes.

You’d come back and do what you had been the whole time.

Just being there.

You didn’t make him idly chat or make him watch shitty, hospital cable. You let him ruminate, stew, and simmer. You let him be crushed.

You were smart enough, empathetic enough to know that nothing you could do or say would lift him right now.

He just needed you there.

And so, you were.

After being discharged with several prescriptions, orders to limit activity to allow for his other injuries (and concussion) to heal, the two of you went home.

Your first task was Keigo getting properly washed.

At first, Keigo resisted.

“N-no, I’m fine, I’ll take one tomorrow,” Truthfully, he wouldn’t probably, not without your help. He just didn’t want you to see him so intimately in this state.

You shook your head, speaking as you brought several plush towels into the bathroom. You turned to Keigo who had wrapped his arms around his frail-looking form, looking at the floor.

You brought him into your arms, rubbing at his neck, not wanting to aggravate the injuries on his back, “I know you don’t want to, but it’ll feel good. Let me take care of you, please.”

You spoke so earnestly, it made Keigo fall apart. He hated being so helpless.

He nodded against you.

You sat him on the toilet seat while you ran a bath in Keigo’s spectacular tub. You poured in epsom salts and some lavender bubble bath, filling the room with a familiar, herbal scent.

You helped him strip, mindful to not linger on any part of his body. Carefully, you lowered Keigo into the water. He could help but be surprised by the strength in your body to do so. Perhaps foolishly, he had never taken you as physically strong. After stripping yourself, you got in as well, across from him, so you wouldn’t see his scars. You were perhaps a bit too considerate.

The water burned his wounds, yet calmed his muscles. It was a different sensation than the ones he’d had for the past weeks. He welcomed it.

Keigo sagged in the bathwater, looking somewhat relaxed for the first time in so long. You knelt in the water and suds, lathering up his hair and body. So carefully did you wash away the sweat, smells, and lingerings of the hospital and the war that preceded it. You went through his hair with your own conditioner, figuring that the familiar smell might help keep him calm. Keigo didn’t say anything, just let you do as you needed. You carefully untangled any and all knots from his tresses, rinsing him down.

You dried him off, putting a few scented body oils on his dry patches of skin, parched from his time in the hospital. You still didn’t look at his back.

He felt ashamed and thoroughly disgusted. He smushed his face into your shoulder, gripping onto your like if he wasn’t, he’d die.

You find him fucking repulsive, right?

“Kei’,” Your voice quiet still, “You okay?— Wait, don’t answer that.”

You chuckle at yourself. Keigo would’ve laughed too if he could.

Keigo dressed himself, a semi-self sufficient act that made him feel better. Though, you picked out the clothes. Some of your own, soft, old garments that Keigo had seen you in a hundred times.

It was only before he put on a shirt that you gave his back the quickest once-over, “You can put your shirt on now, Kei’. I just wanted to make sure it looked okay. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Even that much sight and contact of the old roots of his wings made him feel so ashamed. It burned the corpse of his ego like the hot fire that crisped his wings.

Despite those nasty feelings, the simple act of wearing your shirt made him feel better. It felt so good, so good, to be surrounded by you instead of the sterility of the hospital.

You had been kind enough to leave the hospital for a bit longer than normal the day prior to go shopping. You bought Keigo a large, fluffy, ivory blanket. You even washed it, so it smelled like home (and you) too.

After you helped him to the wide couch, custom made to accommodate Keigo’s now torched wings. It was a small burn (ha) to his psyche, but he tried to let it go as you got him comfortable.

You gave him your special pillow. The one Keigo loved to steal and take naps with. You covered him in the new blanket.

“Is that okay?” You asked, tucking him in. Keigo would normally be embarrassed by something childish like that, but he couldn’t make himself care. It felt so good to be comforted.

So softly, he replied, “You made it feel like home already.”

You let a sad smile drift to your face, massaging Keigo’s scalp as he sobbed into his new blanket.

He was so glad to be surrounded by you, no matter how rotten he felt.

-------------------

The first week home was the hardest. Sleeping was painful, even next to you. Eating was a fucking labor as he had no appetite. Nothing interested him in the slightest other than staring at walls and pretending he would wake up from this nightmare soon.

An at-home physical therapist was brought in. He had to retrain the muscles in his back to relax, now that they weren’t carrying the weight of his wings. The constant tension in his back would cause long term damage (not like he wasn’t already riddled with chronic injury), least of all tension headaches.

Your job let you work from home. Thank god.

...

Keigo hated his exercises. They hurt so bad.

For years, Keigo had trained his body, fucking perfected its abilities. Every part of him was honed and forcibly designed to be the winged-hero, Hawks. But, now? He was the defunct number two, ‘Hawks’ and at home— reality? He was the comically broken Keigo Takami who struggled to do basic physical therapy.

Only you knew him like that.

Keigo’s fists slammed against the floor as he strained with his PT exercises, the therapist themselves long gone for the day. You worked from your laptop on the couch. You weren’t supposed to aid him with his exercises unless necessary, as the therapist had instructed.

“Do you want me to help you?” You asked, almost coaxingly.

Keigo beat his fists once more, crying out almost like a petulant child, (he hated himself for it oh my god—), “I don’t want to fucking do this! I can’t do this!”

And Keigo sobbed into the floor with abandon.

You moved from the couch to haul him into your arms, pressing his face into your neck. You said nothing, you just let him scream and die against you.

“I can’t do this!”

“I hate this!”

“Make this fucking stop!”

“Just make this all fucking stop!”

“JUST FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY!”

This got you to speak, not shushing him, but just trying to soothe—

“IF YOU REALLY FUCKING LOVE ME, THEN YOU’LL SLIT MY THROAT IN MY SLEEP AND LET THIS FUCKING NIGHTMARE BE OVER!—”

You froze.

He didn’t.

Keigo kept begging you to kill him.

Incessantly so.

He didn’t know what to do.

This was a tantrum, maybe. More like a breakdown. It felt dramatic. But, his thoughts were real. He’d be happy to die, especially by your hand. Then you wouldn’t have to take care of him and he wouldn’t be able to feel as awful as he did.

You kept holding him, squeezing him harder and harder still.

Finally, Keigo tuckered himself out and sagged against you.

You reached up to the side table, grabbing your own glass of water, and offering it to him. You still hadn’t spoken.

Part of him thought to apologize, crack a joke even. But he couldn’t make himself do either. Instead, his shaking hands grabbed the glass. You didn’t fully let it go, just guided it to his lips where it dribbles down his chin.

Keigo sputtered a sob.

He couldn’t stand being so weak.

“Love,” You spoke so softly as he sipped. “I will never hurt you like that. I won’t let anyone else, either.”

Keigo suddenly started fucking laughing, for the first time in so fucking long, ripping the cup fully from your hands and throwing it across the room. It shattered in a wild display of raining glass and water. He hadn’t laughed in what felt like months. He let it loose, grabbing your face and directing it right at you, breath curling over your cheeks.

He knew it was cruel, to take it out on you. He hated himself for it even as he was doing it.

“How the fuck do you think you’ll protect me?” Keigo cackled into your face, horror beginning to overtake your features. He didn’t care. It felt good— “You’re just some stupid, weak, quirkless civilian— how the fuck do you think someone as powerless as you can protect me when I can’t even protect me—!”

He kept laughing, but he was crying. He couldn’t tell which was which. Keigo could only tell he was hysterical.

This whole time, since he had woken up in the hospital, you had been nothing but the perfect partner. You had been so kind, asking for nothing in return.

And yet, he’d verbally strike you like this for no other reason than his own hurt.

How fucking cruel.

You let Keigo go, unable to disguise the pain in your expression. You didn’t say anything back to him. As you left the room, you were covering your eyes with your arm. Keigo caught one of your sobs as you fled to the bathroom, almost slamming the door.

Keigo heard your muffled cries for hours until you fell asleep on the bathroom tile as his old burns and guilt ate him alive.

He tried his exercises again.

-------------------

That night, Keigo was too deep in sleep to hear you enter your shared bedroom. Part of you didn’t want to sleep next to him. You thought about returning to the bathroom or moving to the couch. But, you couldn’t make yourself.

Keigo’s words hurt so bad.

Partially because they were cruel. They gnawed at your insecurities, the fears you were desperately suppressing for him.

Partially because you hated the fact you couldn’t do more, despite already doing so much.

Partially because you knew that Keigo would never say things like that to you if he wasn’t being eaten up on the inside.

Partially because the love of your life asked you to snuff his life out.

It all hurt. Stung. Ached. Burned.

There was a small detail that hurt in a different way.

He called you quirkless.

You weren’t quirkless.

Your quirk was so weak and so taxing, sure. It was basically unusable. For fucks sake, you never even bothered to tell Keigo directly as you never used it. He had access to citizen quirk records, and you figured he checked in the several years the two of you had been dating. Apparently not.

But, you did have a quirk.

You stood next to your bed, Keigo covered in the comforter and soft white blanket you’d gotten for him. You could see the peakings of his back. His skin was marred with burns, cuts and scars that looked unimaginably horrible. You’d been avoiding looking at it, for him. You’d seen how it made him cringe.

But now with Keigo sleeping so deeply? You took it all in.

You looked at the nearly black scarring where the roots of his wings were. The fanning out of puckered, red skin from the burns. His back, which once rippled with the muscles that controlled his crazily powerful wings, was now a charred plain.

...

You had an awful, far-fetched, fucked up idea.

You sat, sinking into the bed as you contemplated your idea.

You brought your hands to your face, concentrating on your fingertips.

Small, tiny vines and green shoots left your fingers.

There’s absolutely no way that this will work.

But, you’d hate yourself if you didn’t try.

Life reclaimed life, you supposed.

You drummed up a half-assed plan. It was a weak, frail idea— it would need a lot of support. Even then, you didn’t want to give yourself false hope. You couldn’t give Keigo false hope. It would ruin him.

...

You’d have to fix your diet. Eat lots of nutrient-rich food. Take more vitamins too.

You slotted yourself next to Keigo who, in sensing your warmth, turned into you, pressing into your front. His head nuzzled into your chest, an arm wrapping around your waist.

You heard him wince at the motion, flinching in his sleep.

You had to try.

One of your hands went to his back, brushing down the comforter to reveal the particularly gnarly scars where Keigo had lost part of himself. You laid your hand flat on the fire-flayed skin, praying you don’t wake him. You concentrated, watching small greenery go from your fingers to his flesh, desperately trying to repair the damage that had been done.

------------------------------------

Keigo apologized to you the next morning. He clutched your chest and told you how sorry he was. He told you how he knows he’s acting out, he’s just so fucking sad—

You told him that he didn’t need to justify himself. Not to you. Though, you accepted his apology and asked him to not say those kinds of things to you again.

“I’m trying my best, and I know it's not enough sometimes... but it's all I’ve got,” You speak to him in your own small voice. One that portrayed a weakness that you hadn’t shown since Keigo had been injured.

He felt even guiltier.

But, the second week was better.

His exercises were getting easier. Eating came a little better too. You started cooking more, not getting as much takeout. Part of him missed the comfort of familiar street foods, but another part of him craved the home-cooked meals you made so much more. They helped him feel better too, packed with veggies and lean proteins.

Keigo didn’t notice, he was far too out of it, but you were already looking more haggard.

It came with using your quirk in general, let alone to the extent you were pushing it. It was a pitiful quirk and you’d never strained it half as far as you were then.

It had a price.

To heal others, even something as small as a paper cut would take from your own body.

And, you were dedicating at least thirty minutes a night to attempting to ‘heal’ (read: reconstruct) the tissue of Keigo’s back. You had to start so deep in his muscles; it hurt to push your quirk that far down. Within the first five minutes, that first night you tried, you were silently crying from exertion.

But, you didn’t relent.

Each day, it was a little easier.

Sure, you had bad nights where it was extra hard. You blamed it on not eating well enough, using up too much of yourself during the day.

It was a shitty excuse, notably. Your quirk was weak and self-destructive, it was beyond your bodily capabilities. There was no way to tell if it was even working to heal Keigo’s body. It was a gamble.

And your wager was your health and body.

Even eating optimally and taking a bevy of new vitamins each morning before Keigo awoke, you could tell your physical health was suffering. You were losing a bit of fat already. Dark circles were punched under your eyes from the exhaustion. You had developed the slightest shake when you moved.

And the worst part was, you knew that you’d only get weaker from here on out.

So, you upped your calorie intake. You kept careful track of the foods you ate, the same with Keigo’s. He didn’t seem to mind the delicious meals you now coveted crafting, no matter how tired you were. If he was eating better, it would probably help you too, right?

You could only hope, resting it all on a long shot.

--------------------------

Week three was good, but hard.

The HPSC commission forced Keigo to do a media appearance. He told them, bluntly, that he couldn’t fake it right now. Probably, forever.

They told him to suck it up, get out there, and put some hope into their society that was being pulled apart at the seams.

Keigo refused to let you come. He didn’t want to think about how you’ll look at him when he’s all dressed in his hero uniform, wings absent from his back, forcing him to bear the two empty slots of his jacket.

When he mentioned it, you offered to sew them up.

Keigo felt horrible, but he just gave a nod, handing you his jacket without looking at you.

You stitched the slits shut for him. Keigo requested red thread for the stitching and you obliged him.

(You made note that Keigo truly had no hope. You couldn’t tell him a thing about your quirk usage until you were positive that it would have results.)

The media appearance went okay. Not great, but okay. ‘Hawks’ was dead, and Keigo was not a performer like he was. Though he still went by his hero name, his real name only known by himself, the Commission, Dabi (may he rot in hell), and you. He coveted that you had the intimacy in knowing his identity, but it felt dirtier now that Dabi (Touya?) had that name in his throat as well.

When Keigo came home from the media appearance, he was keyed up. He flitted around the apartment while you made dinner. There was an anxiousness in his movements.‘Hawks’ would’ve taken to the skies to fly off some of this fractious energy. Keigo just had to wait for food to be ready and pray that the feelings went away.

Just before dinner, he decided to try exercises outside of the one his physical therapist assigned him. He was feeling energetic enough, right? Might as well pull out some of the easier moves from his hero training.

Keigo moved to his now seldom-used at home gym. He picked up a dust-covered five-pound weight and proceeded to try and curl it. The moment Keigo brought it above his head, his back tensed and burned something fierce.

The weight fell from Keigo’s hand, half-thrown, luckily missing any and all of his toes and feet.

He cried in frustration, stuck staring at himself in the wall of mirrors.

Keigo truly thought he looked pitiful.

He was still wearing his hero uniform sans the jacket. He’d lost a lot of muscle mass with his more sedentary state. His hair was too long. He had gotten more pale, losing his few freckles. His eyes were bloodshot and his teeth curl over his lips in a snarl—

“Keigo?” You opened the door to the gym, eyes wide with shock, but your tone didn’t change. He just glowered at you from the mirrors. You spoke again, staring him down with an almost scarily neutral poker face. “Dinner’s ready. Would you like to eat? Otherwise, I can save it for you.”

Keigo didn’t reply. He went back to trying to pick up the weight, screaming each time and hating how his back burned so intensely.

You left without saying anything.

---------------------------

Week four was hard because you and Keigo’s relationship is beginning to suffer. Or, it had been, but it was reaching a fever pitch.

Keigo’s lack of human contact, lack of physical activity, and general cabin fever were getting to him. He was lashing out more and you, kind as you were, were having trouble dealing with it.

Your own run downstate was eating you alive, literally. No matter how much you put into your body, you needed more to heal Keigo. You were up to two hours a night of working at Keigo’s tissue with your quirk. By the end of your ‘sessions’, you would simply pass out and fall into listless slumber. You were losing a lot of sleep each night, but you were determined to keep going.

Your exhaustion, in general, was making you a bit more prickly towards Keigo’s increasing frequent outbursts.

It all came to a head on a Sunday night.

The two of you were curled up on the couch, half-cuddling and half-watching TV.

A notice for breaking news showed red on the screen.

Both of you tensed. Before Keigo’s injury, he’d be rushing to throw on his hero gear and fly to help. Now, he just sat next to you, stiff as a board with pin-pricked pupils.

A picture, pre-PLF injury Endeavor flashed on screen.

“The Hero Public Safety Commission has just made the press release the former number one hero, Endeavor, is no longer in comatose.”

You watched a real, happy smile, spread on Keigo’s face. For a moment, there was a sliver of hope—

“But, he still remains in critical condition. Due to injuries affecting his central nervous system, he is reported as being in a state of paralysis. As of now, his life still hangs in the balance, though he is lucid.”

Keigo stiffened again.

There was rage painting his face.

And pain.

You stiffened with him.

You did not have it in you that night to deal with one of Keigo’s explosive moments.

“Endeavor has left us all with this message—”

The camera flashed to an old video of the old ‘number one hero’, healthy and strong with a fist raised in the air.

You braced for impact as Keigo stood, shoulders hunching over.

Endeavors voice washed over your living room,

“Go Plus Ultra!”

And Keigo, honest to god, shrieked.

He fell to his knees and beat the floor beneath him. He slammed his fists in the hardwood over, and over, and over again. You slipped to the ground with him, trying to grab at his fists.

“Keigo, you’re gonna hurt yourself—” You tried to tell him. You managed to capture one of his fists, urging it to stay down-

But, you looked up to see Keigo giving a feral look with a frenzied, white-hot sneer all for you.

And his free fist flew towards you. It connected hard and solidly to your jaw.

You hadn’t been expecting it. Keigo had never struck you before, not even close. For fucks sake, he had never even raised his voice at you before his injury.

So, how could you expect to brace yourself for it?

The force of Keigo’s blow knocked you back. You jolted, falling onto your side and turning your head to the side, away from Keigo.

You brought a hand up to cup and shield your face, your jaw and eye socket throbbing.

All you could feel was shock.

And sadness.

And horror.

And anger.

And terror.

Keigo snapped out of it.

The news report was still playing, but he couldn’t hear it.

There was only the rushing of blood in his ears.

His mouth turned bone dry.

He had watched you move with his strike, falling more to the ground, hiding yourself—

“Oh my g-god, (Y/N),” Keigo’s voice was slippery and warbling. “I-I d-didn’t—”

“No,” You stood up, still holding and hiding your face from him. His heart was crumbling in his chest.

You looked at him with only fear and heartbreak.

Keigo scrambled up, trying to apologize, hold you, mend this before it got worse—

But you put the hand that wasn’t cupping your face out, just barely touching his chest. You refused to let him any closer.

“H-hey Kei’?” Your voice sounded so, so shaky. It’s hardly there. You were holding back tears and it was so obvious. It made every part of Keigo burn with shame. “I can’t today. Maybe another day, I could deal with this, y-ya know? But not today, okay? Have a g-good night.”

You walked away before he could say anything else.

You dashed off to the guest room, shutting and locking the door before falling against it and breaking. You cried and rocked yourself as you tried to self-soothe your shattered body and mind.

The month prior had been so hard. The person you love was hurt so deeply, and though you were trying with everything you had to help, it didn’t seem like enough. You were getting verbally beat up semi-frequently and now Keigo had fucking hit you.

You were scared. You were terrified that this would become the norm. That Keigo’s outbursts would continue to worsen, as they had been, and you would become a physical punching bag for him.

It especially hurt because you were trying so hard to help Keigo.

You weren’t delusional enough to think you could really fix him, were you?

The fact that you were secretly and silently trying to regenerate Keigo’s body with a quirk he didn’t even know you had struck you bluntly in your mind.

“I’m just so fucked up, aren’t I?” You laughed and sobbed to yourself at the same time, slamming your head backward on the door, relishes the pain that floods your skull. It was a reprieve from the bruises blooming across your cheekbone.

You eventually managed to cry yourself to sleep, literally. You curled up in a ball on the floor next to the door, worn down to the bone.

In the early morning, far before dawn, you pulled yourself into half-wakefulness.

You were relentless and you were coming to hate yourself for it.

You needed to work on Keigo, no matter how you shitty felt.

You crept into the master bedroom, trying to be silent. You didn’t want to wake him. Only when you were fully in the room did you notice a soft lamp is still on despite it being early, early morning.

Wide awake and upright, Keigo looked horrified to see you. He looked at you, shaking and half-sobbing into a pillow he clutched to his chest.

You both seemed shocked to see each other.

You sniffled as you turned off the lamp, stripping down to just a t-shirt and panties before climbing into your side of the bed.

You refused to face him while he was awake. You got as comfortable as you could (which wasn’t much).

There was half an hour of disgustingly awkward silence. It coated the room, bearing the two of you who refused to sleep.

“I’m s-sorry,” Keigo had yet to move. He was frozen in place as you were turned away from him in the dark. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N).”

Silence.

Your mouth felt dry and your mind parched.

“Keigo,” You spoke like a being empty. You truly felt like it too. “If you ever touch me like that again, I will do worse than just leave you.”

It was a threat.

You let yourself have it, in all of this. You deserved one low blow.

Keigo slowly slid down into the covers, babbling apologies and beginning to cry again.

“Stop, Kei’,” You finally turned towards him, cupping his face. He blinked at you, eyes wide and glassy. “I love you. Just stop. Apologizing doesn’t make something like this better. I can’t do this if you keep hurting me, you know that. Just be better.”

Keigo winced at that. He knew it was true, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t painful.

You fell asleep on each other that night. You let your headrest nestled up against Keigo’s chest. He breathed softly above you, arms wrapped securely around you, holding you tightly like he was afraid you’d leave. You wouldn’t. You made the decision to stay at the beginning of all this. Your threats would always be empty.

Idly, you had an arm thrown over Keigo’s waist, snaking up the back of his shirt to press your fingertips against his scars. Your roots and greenery didn’t have to go as deep now, as far as you could tell.

But, it had been a month with no discernable progress, visual or otherwise.

But, you held onto hope.

Because you had to hold onto hope that Keigo would get better.

All of him.

-------------------------------

The second month was... different.

Keigo tried with his whole heart to earn back your trust.

You flinched at him for the first week or so.

He hated himself so fucking much each time you did. But, he never blamed you. He couldn’t.

(Even as you twitched away from him in the daylight, you tirelessly worked on his scars in his sleep. You couldn’t give up, no matter how awful you felt).

Keigo did his exercises several times a day. He made a few more media appearances but refused to be seen with Endeavor. He (and truthfully, the Commission) knew that he could not psychologically handle it.

You were rapidly getting weaker, but you didn’t care. You ate more, slept when you could, and pushed on. You were up to three hours of healing a night. Tears rolled down your cheeks the whole time.

You were clinging to the prayer that you could unburn Keigo’s back like it would save you from your personally made hell.

This was despite the fact he was already crawling out of the pit himself.

Your existence was eased slightly as Keigo was starting to help out more.

Keigo wasn’t anywhere near normal— normal Keigo was dead in a disintegrated building, miles from your shared home. But, he was getting better.

His muscles felt better. He wasn’t sure how, but they did. His PT exercises must’ve been working. The outbursts he had thrown so often during the first month pittered out to maybe once or twice a week. They were calmer now. You were still his anchor, of course, that was undeniable. But, it was mostly crying and clutching and not screaming and breaking.

It was a welcome shift.

Most of the time, Keigo would pull you into his lap and wrap you in his embrace. Softly, he’d sway and rock the two of you, like he was trying to lull and calm not just himself, but you in tandem.

A lot of the time, this was true.

Your flinching subsided and Keigo had no more close calls with any physical violence towards you. In a few high strung moments, he still snapped at you. He’d apologize, and do better. At least, you told yourself that. That’s how you saw it anyways.

Keigo was thoroughly traumatized. His mind was an open nerve and that had consequences. You were so endlessly tired. What kind of wounds and trauma were you incurring?

You forced yourself not to think about it.

Part of you, during this month, wanted to simply pack a bag and leave without a trace.

But, you stayed with Keigo. You stayed determined.

(Or, you stayed out of spite. On your bad days, you really had trouble figuring it out.)

Your body looked like shit. You were endlessly glad Keigo still wasn’t in a position to be having any sort of sex because he probably would’ve noticed how fucked up your body was getting.

You shook constantly, always quaking like a leaf in a rainstorm. Your skin bruised with almost any contact beyond light touch. Your eyes, once vibrant and expressive, had sunk in.

Your body, no matter the several thousand extra calories you forced yourself to eat a day, still ran through your fat reserves. It was leeching muscle from you. It made your joints feel raw.

It almost hurts that you noticed how Keigo is so pained, but he didn’t notice you falling apart.

-----------------------

The third month was when shit hit the fan.

It was near the end of the month.

You were doing so badly. You stretched yourself far beyond your body's abilities.

You felt particularly sick, but you needed to get groceries. Keigo couldn’t himself for a host of reasons, which made it your job. You kissed him on the cheek as you left for the market.

Meanwhile, Keigo’s physical therapist dropped by for a check-in appointment.

Keigo did his exercises beautifully. He had to admit, his muscles didn’t ache in nearly the same way they used to. They only really hurt when the weather changed, like he was some old, arthritic man.

“Wow!” His therapist gasped, watching him complete his exercises. “It’s looking great, Hawks. It looks like you’ve gained back a lot of strength.”

The small amount of praise made him beam as he sat up.

“I just want to check the actual wounds around your back, if that’s alright? Just feel the scar tissue,” The therapist asked. Keigo bit his lip, slowly pulling off his tee-shirt. He didn’t like the idea of anyone’s hands being that close to the intimate roots of his dead wings.

But, it was necessary.

Keigo faced his back to her.

All he got was an audible gasp as the therapist’s hands traced at his spine.

“The progress back here- Hawks this is insane,” The other was alight, pressing a thumb somewhere near the root. It hardly even hurt. “The scar tissue— it’s not gone, but it's a lot more tender than it should be. Like it's actually healing.”

“Is that why it doesn’t hurt so bad?” Keigo asked, letting a few slivers of joy light him up from the inside out. During his initial prognosis, multiple doctors had said that he was going to be on fire for years, not months.

The therapist nodded, “Looks like it. Even the scarring on the surface looks pretty good. Must have some damn good genes to be healing like this.”

The two laughed, Keigo feeling more lighthearted than he had in months.

You, on the other hand, were greatly struggling.

You were so, so fucking cold; yet another bi-product of your overextension. You were wrapped in an oversized cardigan on top of one of Keigo’s mock necks. You couldn’t stop trembling as you try to shop as quickly and effectively as possible. Anything to get you home as soon as possible.

You had a great deal of difficulty doing this, though.

If you moved too fast, your vision blacked out. It had been like that for a while, a week or two. You’d lost track. You figured it was your iron, maybe blood pressure.

It was an easy thing to hide at home, but much harder in public.

You reached for something high on a metal shelf, tossing it into your cart. You needed another item, on the bottom shelf. You dropped to your knees, your body aching and rolling.

Almost done.

So close.

Then you can go home and rest.

You stood up too fast. Your vision went black ringed for a second. You stumble, trying to catch yourself as you lost sight.

You felt weightless for a moment, spinning, Though your limbs felt weighed down, impossible to move. As your vision returned, its field wouldn’t move, pointed up at the ceiling of the crowded market.

There were people speaking, shouting around you.

Alarmed.

Speaking to you?

You didn’t care.

You were so, so tired.

You let your eyes slip shut.

------------

Keigo had been waiting for you for several hours longer than it took to go grocery shopping, sure. And, to have you gone from the apartment so long made him itch too. It had been eating him, making him pace around. You hadn’t been answering your phone either. He figured you had made a detour and let your phone die.

When he received a call from the local civilian hospital about you, he feels his blood freeze in his veins.

“You’re listed here as (Y/N)’s emergency contact as a partner, yes?” The nurse asked. “They collapsed at a local market. They’re stable, but we’d recommend coming to the hospital as soon as you’re able to.”

Keigo nodded, head swimming.

You’re hurt.

You’re safe, but you’re hurt.

...

Keigo was whisked to the back of the hospital in a poor disguise. He gets recognized, given some extra security. The scar that marred his face was enough of a marker even if he didn’t have wings. He hardly cared. He couldn’t.

Your door opened to a very dark room, soft beeps and hums filling it.

He imagined that he must've been feeling close to how you felt, seeing him in such a similar position those few months ago.

The nurse enters ahead of him, clicking around on a tablet to pull up your chart.

Keigo could hardly pay attention. He felt like he was going to die, seeing you like that.

You had an IV, pushing fluids into your thinned arms. Your face was hollow looking, sockets sunken, especially with your eyes closed like they were. You had several blankets on you, piled over you. Yet, you were still visibly shivering.

The nurse whispered, “They’ve been asleep for a while now. A doctor will be in soon. Just sit tight.”

She left the room while Keigo pulled a chair up to your bed.

The smell of the hospital burned his nose. It reminded him far too much of his own time. All that pain.

The ache in his back flared, but he figured it was somatic.

Keigo reached out as he sat, holding one of your frail-looking hands in both of his own (had you looked this purely death stricken this morning? Keigo couldn’t recall either way, and he hates himself for it).

Your eyes slowly opened.

Keigo met your gaze, breath caught in both of your throats.

Neither of you got a chance to speak, not a moment of fucking comfort, before a doctor barged in, flipping through your chart with a bored look on his face.

“We finished up your testing. Lucky for you, no concussion or fractures from your fall,” The doctor nods. He doesn’t even seem to notice Keigo, or rather, Hawks. “The rest of your results aren’t looking so great though.”

Your hand stiffened violently in Keigo’s grip. Your face went from worn and exhausted to filled with terror and... guilt?

You were fucked.

The doctors and nurses had mentioned to you that they were fairly certain that all of your symptoms came from quirk overuse. You started weakly crying at that, your nurses looking confused. You didn’t elaborate then. You knew, the moment you woke up in the hospital that you were going to have to confront your own damage to your body.

You were going to be forced to explain it.

To Keigo.

The doctor continued.

“Low levels of nearly all essential vitamins and minerals. Particularly low iron, magnesium, and potassium. In general, your test results and physical state would lead me to think you’re suffering from malnutrition. But, your panel shows that your metabolic rate is actually going abnormally quickly in a way that could only be linked to-”

Wait for it.

“Quirk overuse-”

Keigo barked out a laugh, letting go of your hand, “I’m sorry, but what? They’re quirkless, it has to be something else.”

You didn’t say anything. Your eyes, glassy and unfocused, are trained on your lap. You’re taking sharp, quick breaths.

You’re going to have to tell him everything.

The doctor flips through your chart again, shaking his head and bringing it over for Keigo to look at, “I apologize if this seems out of turn, but they’re listed in the public files as having a quirk... It’s marked as a weak healing quirk, but all the same, any strength of quirk has overuse.”

Keigo is stone still.

There’s tension so thick in the air of the room that the doctor excuses himself.

Keigo, for months now, had been in a traumatized stupor. His normally sharpened senses, aided by his wings, were the key to so much of his cunning. Both his physical and mental states were affected, which had made him less observant.

It had caused him to disregard so much.

But now, in your stupid, acrid hospital room, he was quickly putting it together.

His back burned again.

You felt frozen. You couldn’t force yourself to move. You couldn’t do anything other than look at your lap and roll in your head. Your body hurt so bad, your head hurt too, and so did your fucking heart.

“Can I clarify? Because I think I have an idea of what’s going on.” Keigo had physically moved away from you. He leaned back in his chair, staring down with a mix of expressions you couldn’t suss out. It made you feel even sicker.

You nodded.

“Breath, (Y/N),” Keigo reminded you. He watched you take a massive inhale, followed by tears beginning to gather. You still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Have you been... using your quirk on me? Without me knowing?” Keigo asked, trying to keep his voice firm, but truthfully, it wanted to waver and bend so badly. “Please be honest.”

You nod, breaking down to rub at your eyes.

Keigo doesn’t stop the instinctual way he moved towards you, leaning over your bed and wrapping his arms around me.

With his cheek pressed to the top of your head, he broke the illusion:

“Please tell me what’s going on. Please.”

And so, you did.

It came out tearfully, you spilling and cracking as you did. You felt stupid and guilty and awful, but at least you were out of this fucked up lie.

It all poured out of you. Your fear and your desperation were all laid out and Keigo was reading the cards.

You explained that your quirk has always been weak in addition to taxing on the body. Hence, you had seldom, if ever, used it as an adult. You were effectively quirkless and you were okay with that. Keigo had never asked so you never told him.

You tell him, voice shaking, what happened the night Keigo had pleaded with you to kill him.

“I-I, Kei’,” You push out, pressing your face into his shoulder. “I didn’t know what to do. You were so hurt and so sad and I had this stupid fucking idea that maybe, maybe I could use to my quirk to heal you.”

Keigo’s breath catches. He doesn’t say anything for a moment before asking, “Why didn’t you tell me? Ask me?”

“I didn’t know if it would work. I still don’t know if it does. It didn’t wanna... I didn’t want to get your hopes up. E-especially since it would’ve been coming from me.” You pressed harder into him like you’re scared of him disappearing. “You were already so crushed.”

Keigo didn’t know what to say. There was a swirl of emotions bubbling and writhing in his body and mind and he didn’t know what to say for the first time in a long time.

So he didn’t say anything.

Keigo sat back in his chair, putting his elbows to his knees, using folded hands to rest his head on, parsing through his own feelings.

“K-Keigo?” You asked, wiping a tear away. As much as Keigo hated seeing you like this, he also recognized your state was by your hand.

Right?

“Sweetheart, I love you—” Keigo stopped himself, sighing deep in his chest. “But, I can’t... I just need some time.”

You nodded, tears coming back to drip down your face.

Keigo just watched with a neutral expression.

-----------------

Despite not being able to handle talking to you, Keigo was more than willing to help you out of the hospital. You were discharged with a prescribed diet and vitamins as well as a followup appointment in a few weeks.

“And, most importantly,” The doctor made eye contact with you. “Don’t use that quirk of yours until further notice. Honestly, with it being so destructive, I can’t understand why you would in the first place.”

You burned with shame.

The night you came back from the hospital, Keigo took incredible care of you. He didn’t talk much during it, not to you anyways. He was nearly constantly speaking under his breath, all unintelligible. From his tone and myriad of expressions, you guessed he was verbally processing.

Keigo gingerly gave you a bath, scrubbing away the smells and stickiness of the hospital. He managed to cook you one of the nutritious recipes you had shown him a few weeks ago. You sheepishly had to ask for another portion, explaining how your metabolism burned so quickly.

“Have...” Keigo finally spoke while making you another plate. “Have you always been eating this much?”

You nodded, sipping your water, “For a long time, yes.”

He hated himself for not noticing such obvious things.

Keigo kept carrying you from place to place, no matter how much his back hurt. He didn’t care. He couldn’t.

He laid you in bed at some point, sliding in next to you. He still hadn’t spoken much since you’d left the hospital.

You had tried to babble apologies and beg for forgiveness, but selfishly, Keigo wasn’t listening. He was trapped in his own head. Even when you clung to him in the bath, he could hardly make himself hold you up from sliding too far into the water.

It almost hurt to touch you.

It was late when Keigo finally verbally, directly regarded you.

“Why?” Keigo asked. You’re both turned away from each other. The bed had been vibrating with your harsh breathing and crying for an hour or so now. “Why did you do all this?”

You stop shaking, but only for a moment.

Your voice is so soft, weak, “Please don’t blame yourself. It was my choice.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Keigo could hear the anger in his voice. “Why. Did. You. Do. This?”

You’re silent for a moment.

And then you’re sitting up, yelling.

“Because I didn’t know what else to fucking do!” You gripped your hair at the roots, pulling. “You asked me to fucking kill you, Keigo! You begged me to!”

Keigo sat up, staring you down. He felt so much anger and rage in him, it was bubbling up, “That doesn’t mean you had to hurt yourself like this for me!”

“I didn’t want to hurt myself! I wanted to help you! Using my quirk was all I could do!” You looked over at him, digging your nails into your exposed thighs. “What else was I supposed to do!”

“Exactly what I thought you were doing, helping me!” Keigo screamed back at you. “You were doing so good at it!”

“You wanna know why I could even help?!” You shouted. You grabbed Keigo’s shoulders and brought him inches away from your face. “Because, every night, I got to give myself just a shred of hope that you would get better. That maybe, maybe your wings would come back and you’d smile like you used to instead of yelling at me, and hitting me, and asking me, begging me, to slit your fucking throat!”

You couldn’t stop crying. Your body was so run down, so depleted, but it still musters up the energy to drip tears like a flooded creek. You wanted to run and leave the bed, retreat to the bathroom where you can break down on the tile in peace, alone where Keigo wouldn’t have to watch. You’d done it enough prior to know he wouldn’t check on you.

Keigo stared at you with wide eyes.

He didn’t know what to say at first

He was feeling so much—

Keigo didn’t know what to do or say.

So, he just twisted the knife, one could say.

“You should’ve just left if you were really that miserable with me.” Keigo regretted it the moment it left his lips. You tense up, looking at him with a gaze he could only call broken.

“No,” You grabbed your shoulders, rocking yourself. “No, Kei’, I couldn’t, I won’t—”

“Then stop complaining.” Keigo shrugged. God, this was awful, wasn’t it? Why wouldn’t he just shut up? “You’re the one who stayed and tortured yourself. That’s on you.”

“So you’d rather have that I... left?”

“Duh,” Keigo laughed, staring down your crying form. You’re so decrepit in your current state. He hated looking at you, purely because he knows he was at least a portion of what led to this. But, he’d never admit it. “Fuck, (Y/N), you didn’t have to kill me, and you didn’t have to kill yourself either.”

He’s splitting inside as he watches you break in front of him. Some fucked up, sadistic part of him relishes it. The other, muted, more sane part is screaming at him to stop fucking talking-

“You really got yourself hospitalized for overusing a quirk on me that I didn’t even know you had. You were so desperately trying to get me my wings back, all while acting soooo supportive of me trying to live without them?!” Keigo bellowed at you. You cowered, bent legs beginning to slide off the bed — “Do you realize how fucked up that is? That, behind closed doors, while I was fucking asleep, you were trying to fix me? Well, guess what, (Y/N), I’m broken beyond fucking repair, and no cute little shit you pull is going to fix me!”

Keigo shrieked his last words.

You fell off the bed, slamming onto the floor. A sickening crack filled the room as your head, basically unsupported, met the hardwood.

“Stop it!” You were screaming yourself silly from the floor. Your head hurt so badly. Maybe you were bleeding. You didn’t care. “Stop it!”

You knew you couldn’t handle this.

You were raw. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t confront any more than you had already that day. Your body hurt so badly and your mind hurt too. Everything Keigo said just rubbed salt in the wounds he helped to create.

“Keigo, just fucking stop it!”

Your vision spun. You thought that maybe you were hyperventilating. You couldn’t feel your hands, numbness beginning to pull at your extremities.

“I’m fucking sorry!” You wailed. “What would do if you were in my position, Keigo?! Just watch me suffer and not do anything even if you could?!”

Keigo leaned over the bed, giving you the most empty look you’d ever seen him wear.

“I would’ve just fucking left, (Y/N),” He spoke in a monotone, eyes like dead coals. “I would’ve just left.”

You stared up at him.

This horrible feeling had filled you from toes to top and you couldn’t escape it.

Keigo didn’t say anything else as you panicked on the floor. He simply got up, left for the guest room, and slammed the door.

Neither of you ever felt as awful as you did that night.

--------------------

Keigo didn’t sleep that night.

Neither did you.

He figured (he hoped) you’d be gone by the morning. Maybe you would just pack your dusty suitcase and get the fuck out.

...

Truthfully, not a single fragment of Keigo wanted you to leave. No piece of him wanted you to go out of his life. God, if he really thought about it, the prospect of not being side-by-side in this world together threw him into bends of anxiety and pure grief.

Truthfully, as Keigo silently, tearfully, examined your actions, he felt his anger ebb away.

He understood.

Why you did what you did.

But it didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt.

Guilt was eating him, too. For all the horrible things he had said. The things he’d done that hurt you without regard for months now. The fact he never noticed you deteriorating. And all the nights you crept back into your shared room, for comfort and to keep trying to help him, though perhaps cruelly.

It was dawn when Keigo exited the guestroom. He figured that you were either gone or would be soon.

He was clearly mistaken.

Keigo stopped when he saw you at the kitchen table, head down, and resting on your folded arms. You were wearing a huge sweater, one of his, and a blanket around your shoulders.

Keigo had, incredibly selfishly, somewhat forgotten your physical state.

He ached.

“I made coffee,” You said quietly. You looked up, meeting Keigo’s gaze with bloodshot, puffy eyes. “It’s still warm.”

“Why are you here?” Keigo asked, heart starting to beat too fast again. “Why haven’t you left-?”

“Do you really want me to leave?” You asked with an unfamiliar edge to your voice. It’s not anger or malice, but something different. You stand, bracing yourself on the table, wobbling. Keigo wanted nothing more than to scoop you into his arms and apologize. But, he doesn’t.

You looked at him with this edge of fierce determination, asking the penultimate question, the core of this all, “Keigo, do you want me to leave because of my actions, or do you want me to leave because you don’t think you deserve help?”

There was a poignant quiet over the apartment.

The birds of the new day interrupted it from outside, chirping with the eos of dawn.

“I don’t think... I—” Keigo was speechless again, stuttering. “You shouldn’t have hurt yourself so bad.”

“That’s been established, I went too far. I should’ve told you, offered and asked, and go from there. It ultimately was a complete breach of boundaries and for that, I’m sorry. Fuck my good intentions, it was selfish.” You squeezed the edge of the table, eyes low. Your gaze turned up sharply to meet his, that edge of determination and fierceness in it that Keigo was unfamiliar with. “My question is, do you want me to leave?”

Keigo stared at his feet. His head was swimming, “You should leave.”

“I asked if you want me to,” You asked again. You were being more firm than you had ever been. You sounded unbreakable. It was that stubbornness that kept you there with him, right?

Keigo met your eyes with a sharp glare, “You should’ve left the night I asked you to kill me.”

You sighed, shaking visibly, but still keeping yourself so strong, “Please just answer me. Do you want me to leave? If we’re going to break up, let’s just call it that, and get it over with, okay Kei’?”

Oh, hearing you say ‘breakup’—

That broke Keigo.

Having to truly think and reckon with a reality where you weren’t with him and you weren’t facing the horrors of the world together was purely the stuff of nightmares.

The stupid little facade Keigo had so carefully crafted broke. The burns on his body started to ache anew, somatically. The scar over his eye twitched as tears were gathering anew.

“N-no,” Keigo hugged himself, shaking his head. “N-no— I don’t want you to go—”

You didn’t say anything, just watched him with a sad expression.

“Then I won’t.” You sat back down. “Keigo, I know that this is all fucked beyond belief. I know. But, I won’t leave. I really, really don’t want to. I won’t, not unless you want me to go.”

And Keigo was breaking for you again.

He somehow stumbled next to your chair, managing to fall to his knees and rest his head on your cold, cold thigh. He pressed his nose into your flesh, trying to fucking absorb your smell like you could disappear any moment.

“Why did you do it-” Keigo sobbed into your skin, nails biting in the flesh of your calves. It made you jerk in your seat. “WHY DID YOU HURT YOURSELF FOR ME!”

You didn’t have a good answer for him, so you didn’t reply.

Keigo’s grip on the flesh of his leg started to break skin as he wailed into your leg.

You just looked down at him with this expression of pure remorse, melancholy coloring your eyes.

You grabbed his clawed-hands, recalling the last time you tried a move like this with a twitch. You held his hands in your own, pulling him up, “You can’t do that, Keigo. You’re hurting me.”

“All I DO is hurt YOU!” Keigo crushed you into a tight hug, knocking the wind from you. You jolt forward into his death grip.

“It was my choice,” You remind him, so much weakness in your choice. “A very, very selfish one. If I was going to try to heal you, I should’ve asked.”

You started crying with him.

You both were just torturing yourselves, truthfully.

At his core, Keigo was a fucked up man who was so thoroughly repressed and manipulated, it was hard to see his psychological shortcomings. They were all so meticulously hidden.

But not then, not after losing his wings.

“I’m so fucked up,” Keigo kept crying into you as you had his hands locked together. “I hate myself for being this upset at you when you were trying to help me.”

“Love,” Your voice was so soft, releasing Keigo’s hands to pet his hair. “It wasn’t right for me to try and do what I did. You can’t help how you feel.”

“I could before I lost them!” Keigo muffled himself with your flesh.

Them being his wings, obviously.

You hauled him upwards, forcing him to sit in your lap. Keigo had always had a bit of size on you, but in your shrunken state, it was even more pronounced.

“Then you weren’t feeling,” You pressed your face to Keigo’s chest, wrapping your arms around his waist. He entangled himself with you, and you both just held each other for a long, long time.

------------------------

In the following six months, a many very important things happen.

Keigo got a place for you for two entire months, just so you two have some separation. After actually having a calm talk about your relationship dynamic since Keigo’s injury, it was comically apparent there were so many fucked up things that had happened and that you both needed a bit of time to collect yourselves.

It was a hard separation, but you still see each other at least half of the days of your time apart, and even a few that you snuck over for the night to stay over. Keigo was so, so thankful. Being wrapped in each other was a different experience, something actually healing.

You both got therapists, next. A couples therapist too.

Thank God.

Keigo had oodles of trauma to sort through, and you had your own shit to deal with as well. Not to mention the whole ‘Keigo being a dick to you because he was hurt doesn’t justify it’ kinda broke your brain for a second. Also, Keigo having to process ‘he was capital A abusive to you after he got hurt, and your only stability being the hope in healing you is much more complicated than just them trying to ‘fix’ you’ was a case of note.

It was weird, really.

When you moved back, fully, to Keigo’s (you weren’t sure if you could call it ‘your’ apartment anymore), it was nerve-wracking. It was under the understanding that you could move out if you needed to, that separation and an ending were just a corner away.

It made you feel more unstable than you had in months, but you kept up with it.

Keigo noticed, much more observant than he had been. About two weeks into you returning to the apartment, he asked the question, “What if we moved?”

You had been quietly eating your breakfast, but this startled you, “Move? Why?”

“I mean,” Keigo sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. His gaze flickered to the living room, recalling the times he broke down and was so awful to you. It shifted to the bedroom door where you broke boundaries over and over. “A lot of bad stuff happened here. If we’re going to have a fresh start, might as well live somewhere new, right?”

You mused on it for a moment, then nodded, “Yeah, that would be good.”

The next few weeks were the most healthy and productive that you and Keigo ever had, pre- or post-injury. Apartment hunting turned into purchasing a two-floored, highrise, insanely nice condo across the city. Keigo suggested buying a house, but you refused. You both liked the views too much to live somewhere so close to the ground.

You packed your things, mutually. You both threw away plenty, bits and bobs that had been relatively unused for a long time. Lots of old memories were thrown out to make way for new ones. Though it was sad and there was plenty of grief in it, you actually had each other this time.

When you found Keigo sobbing, clutching an old picture of him and Touya, one of the only of him from his childhood with the Commission, you held him and rocked him. You cried with him, not just settling for ‘dealing’ with him anymore.

When you cleaned out the kitchen, you found the two dozen extra vitamins and extracts you had been taking while healing Keigo. You stared at him, idly, for ten minutes, somewhere far off in your head. Keigo came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you. Softly, he pulled you back from your mind. He helped you throw away each bottle, talking reverently to you so your gaze and mind would stay in that moment, and not those past and unsavory.

You helped each other, or, were learning to.

You and Keigo both had to agree that shopping for furniture was probably the most fun the two of you had in a while. With a facemask and a beanie on, Keigo appeared a lot less like his former self, allowing for the two of you to covertly search for new homewares without prying crowds.

The old apartment had originally been Keigo’s from his early years of being a hero. You simply moved in with him, adding yourself to his space. This time, you were making it together.

“What do you think of this one?” You turned to Keigo, next to you. Both of you laid on top of a fairly nice mattress, the store relatively empty aside from the employees and the two of you.

“I think it's good, it’s not too soft,” Keigo turned and smiled at you, speaking from behind his mask.

You couldn’t help sitting up, tugging the cloth mask just a bit lower to drop a sweet kiss on the side of his mouth, “Get out the credit card then, babe.”

The condo was sorted within a few weeks, full of furniture and slowly being decorated.

You also had the opportunity to christen the mattress, if you will.

...

How long had it been since you and Keigo had laid together like this?

Your bodies were sticky with sweat and cum, several rounds having passed throughout the night. Your new mattress was going to need a fresh change of sheets after this.

“Hey, angel, come over here,” Keigo tugged you closer to him, laying your head on his chest. You smiled softly, pressing closer. You missed it, truly, the warmth of his body and the feeling of his skin on your own like this.

“Alright, check-in,” Keigo pressed a kiss to your damp forehead. “You feeling okay?”

“I feel great,” You hummed, throwing a leg over his waist. “I can honestly keep going.”

“Should you?” Keigo raised an eyebrow and chuckled, nudging a knee between your legs. You flinched, knowing how sore you’d be in the morning already.

Though your body had recovered somewhat, you weren’t fully back to where you were before Keigo’s injury. You didn’t mind, though. Keigo had taken to doting on you a bit more than he used to.

You shrugged and Keigo just chuckled, bringing you ever-closer.

“Are you okay?” You straddled Keigo’s hips, cocking your head to one side.

Keigo was silent for a moment, stormy almost. He bit his lip, tracing hands and eyes over your figure, finally landing on your face. His softened hands cupped your jaw.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” His thumb rubbed over your lips. There’s something so melancholic about him. “I just missed you.”

You knew exactly what he meant by ‘miss’.

It was a feeling beyond sex, but rather intimacy. Sure, Keigo had been balls deep in you for the first time in months and that was ecstasy you wouldn’t trade the world for. But, this feeling Keigo regarded was different.

It had been so long since the two of you had been so softened around each other.

Guards, after months of being raised high, had begun to fall.

Thank God.

Your eyes watered as you lowered your face to his, ghosting your lips over his, “I missed you too, Kei’. I missed you so, so much.”

How many minutes of hell had your both endured? And how many were there still to go? Thoughts of fear and anguish constantly swirled within the two of you for so long. They certainly hadn’t stopped, but they were lessening. Therapy helped. Being in the new place with a fresh start did wonders for the two you. Keigo’s passion for cooking continued to grow and you had taken up a few new hobbies of your own.

It was the mundane, you supposed, that was the stitching for broken relationships. The real healing of proverbial flesh and bone was intimacy, vulnerability, and love.

“Hey, Kei’,” You kissed him breathless, once, twice, three times. “I love you, you know? A lot.”

“Yeah?” Keigo giggled, something high and light that he wouldn’t have released a year ago. “I love you too. So much.”

The night continued in tender fucking, the two of you visibly watching wounds begin to grow smaller and scar, no more fire, and no more forced stitchings.

Salvation came from time and small things, you supposed, half-asleep and nestled neck to Keigo, feeling better than you had in a long time.

---------------

You supposed, some time later, that karma gave the two of you a small gift. In the eyes of all things, it must’ve been just a spec, but God, it was something.

...

They had come back over a year and half from when you had tried to heal Keigo.

The attempt wasn’t forgotten, no, but it certainly wasn’t at the forefront of your minds like it used to be. Except the one morning that Keigo got up before you, sleepily yawning his way to the bathroom.

You heard his sharp gasp, loud exclamations in your half asleep state.

“Babe?” Your voice hoarse with sleep, you spoke. “You okay?”

Keigo jumped onto the bed, straddling over you and the comforter.

“(Y/N)!” Oh, his eyes were wet. Soft, gooey tears were streaming down his face as he shakily grabbed your wrists. He pressed them to the scars of his back.

Your eyes went wide as your hands brushed against small, soft feathers.

“Keigo!” You shouted, sitting up, urging him to turn around so you could take a better look.

Keigo trembled as he bared his back to you.

Your breath caught as your hands trailed down his marred flesh.

The scars, old and worn now, had faded a great deal. The charred plain calmed with time, perhaps by your own touch and very much so by Keigo’s own cells and flesh.

But, in the center of his back, where the roots of his wings once were, was something growing anew.

Small, burgundy feathers were growing from spindly looking, down-covered bones and skin.

They were small, nothing like his old wings. More aged, with their darker color. The feathers felt softer as you ran your hands along the largest, no bigger than your hand from wrist to tip.

Keigo shuddered.

“Do... Do they feel like they used to?” You asked, transfixed.

Keigo shakily shook his head, “N-no, they feel less sensitive I think. They feel different.”

...

As Keigo had healed and changed, so had his body.

His wings never grew to their own old size and power, not even close. They couldn’t support his own body weight, so Keigo never flew again. But, the feathers, wine-colored and almost bruised looking, could be sent to do small tasks, much like his old ones.

At first, it seemed cruel. After so long and so much, his wings grew back but in such a decrepit form. For days, the two of you waited and waited to see what the final form of his regrowth would be. In the end, at their best, they stretched out to about the span of Keigo’s arms. The feathers weren’t symmetrical either, even at their peak regrowth. Some grew in fluffy and rounded, while others were jagged, sticking out awkwardly from the rest of his form.

Over time, the inherent disappointment and despondence turned into appreciation.

Because they had come back, it just took time.

...

With enough time, Keigo wore them proudly, no matter how oddly they stuck out from his marred skin. Keigo’s body was still too damaged to do hero work proper, but he still was kept around.

At the end of the day, the feathers colored like dried blood represented something far larger. If the completely destroyed number two hero could come back to even a fraction of his former, angelic glory, that was something, right?

It was like in the eyes of all things, you were both awarded a physical manifestation of healing. The gnarly wings that grew from Keigo’s body may have been off-putting to some, but to the two of you, it was a testament to it all.

It just took time.

#salem writes #hawks #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #keigo takami x reader #keigo x reader #reader insert #my hero x reader #mha x reader #fanfiction #reader x my hero academia #takami x reader #keigo x y/n #angst #manga spoilers

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the-iceni-bitch · 3 years

Text

My Body Aches to Breathe Your Breath

Pairing: serial killer!Charles Blackwood

Words: another mobile guess, ~2k

Summary: Charles is sick of you upsetting his plans, and now he has to spend Valentines Day with you.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (oral sex (f receiving), unprotected vaginal sex), mentions of murder and descriptions of side effects from long term poisoning, SMUT, 18+ ONLY!!!!

A/N: my second gift for @drabblewithfrannybarnes @chrissquares and @amythedvdhoarder’s Happy Hoelentines Day 2021 challenge!! My giftee was @literate-lamb and she requested a Valentines Day themed serial killer fic, so I figure Charles Blackwood would be a perfect fit. There’s nothing too dark in this one, just mentions of death and descriptions of poisoning symptoms, but please be mindful anyways! I hope you all enjoy, and have a happy holentines!!!

Check out my masterlist and join my taglist if you want!

Charles watched you like a hawk from the giant window in the bedroom.

You’d just come back from your afternoon ride, your hair tousled and your breath coming in shallow pants as you dismounted. You removed your riding gloves and tucked them into your belt as you handed the reins to the stable hand, giving your mare an affectionate pat on the nose before turning to head inside.

He’d been obsessed with you ever since you came to stay with your aunt, his wife, six months ago. Your easy grace and poise cut by a wicked tongue that endeared you to him immediately.

It was worrisome. He would have typically moved on by now; your aunt had already changed her will, and he’d started slipping the thallium into her evening drinks ever since then. But every time he got close to administering that final dose, the dose that would finally free him from his seventh false marriage, the thought of leaving you staid his hand.

He was determined to finish it tonight. Finally put the old bitch out of her misery, and on Valentines Day no less. She let out a pained groan from the bed behind him and he rolled his eyes before turning to give her a sickeningly sweet smile, full of false sympathy.

“Do you want me to call the doctor back here, my love?” Charles murmured, doing his best to look lovingly at the creature in front of him.

“No darling, he’s no help. Just, help me to the bathroom please.”

He felt his stomach churn at the thought, but bent to help her stand anyways. Your aunt wasn’t beautiful by any means when Charles first met her, but now she looked ghastly; a rattling mess of skin and bones whose hair was falling out in clumps. Charles couldn’t believe his luck that the doctor hadn’t thought to do any tests for poisoning or he would’ve been fucked.

“Oh no, Auntie!” You cried as you flowed into the room. “Is it your stomach again?”

“Yes dear.” She let out in a pained sigh, leaning heavily on Charles’ arm as she hobbled through the bathroom door, collapsing in front of the toilet and heaving.

It was all he could do not to run out of the room. His own stomach was roiling as he did his best to ignore your aunt, turning his gaze to you instead.

You moved from where you were leaning on the wall to come help; not rushing, but gliding past Charles at a smooth pace. Your hand brushed his arm as you moved past him and made him suck in a breath.

He watched you kneel beside the pathetic creature and you gave him a sad smile as you held back the little hair she had left and stroked her back soothingly. You were the embodiment of life and vigor next to your dying aunt, and all he wanted to do was shove her aside and fuck you senseless.

You’d been teasing him for weeks, and he couldn’t tell if you were doing it on purpose or not. Whether it was just a lingering look with a wicked grin or tracing your fingers absentmindedly on his thigh while you chatted, it seemed like every action you took was specifically geared to drive him crazy.

Now you were bent over your aunt making soft cooing noises, but the angle you were at gave Charles a view right down the front of your blouse. He felt his cock twitch in his slacks as he stared at the valley between your breasts, and fought to swallow a moan.

“Charles, dear, I don’t think I’ll be able to join you for the lovely dinner you have planned for us. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am that I’m forcing you to spend Valentines Day on your own, but you can see that I’m in no shape for romance.”

“Darling, I don’t care about Valentines Day, I’d much rather take care of you.” He said through gritted teeth, trying to move his thoughts away from all the filthy things he wanted to do to you.

“I’ll be fine, I just need to rest. Darla can bring me my tea this evening, you should take some time for yourself. You’ve done so much for me. I just wish you didn’t have to be by yourself.”

“Aww, don’t worry, Auntie. My date canceled and I’d be happy to keep Charles company for the evening.” You murmured as you helped her back to the bed, giving Charles a grin and a wink over your shoulder.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Not about your date but I’m so glad my two favorite people will at least have each other.” Your aunt sighed as you pulled the blankets over her. “Please have Darla bring me my tea darling, then I’ll sleep.”

Charles’ jaw clenched as he bent to give her a soft peck in the forehead before moving to the doorway.

“Just give me a few minutes to wash up and I’ll be right down.” You said, still beaming at him as you sauntered away, your hips swinging suggestively in your riding boots.

He swallowed a groan before turning towards the kitchen running a hand over his face as he did his best to school his thoughts.

He set the kettle on the stove and chewed his lip in frustration. He should’ve been long gone by now, living off your aunt’s fortune on some tiny Greek island. But here he was, thinking of nothing but going up to your room and tearing all your clothes off then fucking you until you were begging him to let you cum.

The tea kettle let out a high whistle and he removed it quickly, pulling your aunt’s favorite tea off the shelf and placing a sachet in a cup before pouring boiling water over it. He pulled the amber vial out of his pocket and gazed at it before pulling the stopper and emptying it into the cup.

He placed the cup on a tray along with a single rose and called Darla into the kitchen, instructing her to bring the cup to your aunt before moving to the dining room and pouring himself a drink. He downed his first glass of bourbon in one shot, bringing the bottle with him as he sank into the chair at the head of the table.

He had already finished three drinks by the time you swept into the dining room, and he swallowed a moan when he saw you. You were wearing a burgundy dress that billowed behind you, its slit going almost up to your hip.

“Hope you don’t mind me dressing up.” You beamed at him. “Figured I should get some use out of this dress.”

“It’s fine.” He said, wincing at the crack in his voice that he hoped you didn’t notice before taking another gulp of bourbon.

You gave a light laugh before moving to the bar and pouring yourself a glass of rose. He watched you as you turned back to him, giving him a wink as you sat down in the seat beside him.

“So, what’re we eating?” You said after taking a sip of wine, watching him squirm under your gaze as the staff brought out the appetizers. “Ooh, oysters.”

He had to pour himself another drink as he watched you reach across the table to serve yourself. He almost choked as he watched you swallow your hors d’ouevres in one gulp, humming your satisfaction as you reached for another.

“Good?” He asked as he watched you swallow again, his cock twitching as he thought about your lips wrapped around him.

“So good. You gonna eat or just watch me?” You teased as you leaned back in your chair, taking a swig of wine.

He chuckled before taking an oyster for himself. His eyes never left yours as he scooped the meat from the shell with his tongue and swallowed thickly.

You tittered into your drink before looking over your shoulder as the staff brought in the next course.

“Jesus Christ, lamb? You trying to get in my pants, Charles?” You teased before taking a bite. “Fuck me, that’s fantastic.”

“That language typically work for you, darling?” He said, shaking his head as he tucked into his own meal.

“You tell me, sweetheart. You’re the one who can’t stop staring at me.” You teased, laughing as he spluttered around his food.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said after taking a drink of water, trying his best to avoid making eye contact with you now.

“Sure you don’t.” You said with an eye roll, moving your focus back to your food.

The two of you finished the meal without any more conversation. Charles did his best to ignore the small sounds of pleasure you kept making, little hums and sighs escaping from you as you enjoyed your food. He had drunk almost half of the bottle of bourbon by the time the staff came to clear the table.

He was about to stand up to leave when they came back into the room with the dessert and he cursed under his breath.

“Well, well. You sure know how to treat a lady, Mr. Blackwood.” You teased as you accepted a champagne cocktail, taking a sip as you winked at him suggestively. “Look at all this chocolate.”

You popped a truffle into your mouth and let out a moan that was almost pornographic, your eyes rolling back into your skull dramatically.

“You need to try some of these Charles.” You said as you wrapped your lips around a strawberry.

“I don’t have that much of a sweet tooth.” He said as he watched you slurp the juices from your lips.

“Aww, c’mon, just a taste.”

He didn’t have a chance to respond before you had moved to sit on the table in front of him, grabbing another strawberry and holding it in front of his mouth. He parted his lips and gazed up at you through his lashes as you pressed the strawberry against his tongue. You bit your lip as he took a bite and moved your foot to rest between his thighs.

“What’re you doing?” He asked as his gaze ran over your leg where it had escaped from the slit of your skirt.

“I think you know.” You murmured, scooting even closer to him. “I’ve seen you watching me.” You moved your foot to hook under the armrest of his chair and dragged him towards you. “I’m gonna tell you a secret. I never even had a date tonight.”

He tried to stand up to leave and you pressed your stilettoed foot to his chest, pinning him to his seat as his breath started coming in ragged gasps. You tutted you’re disappointment at him as you leaned back on your hands.

“You need to stop fighting it, baby.” You murmured as you twisted your toe into his shirt. “I know there’s no way my poor sick aunt has been taking care of your needs. When’s the last time anyone aside from you touched that cock?”

“Fuck.” He hissed as your foot moved to press into the bulge that was forming at the front of his slacks. “We shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I think we should.” You moaned as you tossed your skirt over your other leg and spread your thighs, bringing a hand to run over the soaked lace that covered your core. “I’m so fucking wet for you, baby. Don’t you want a taste?”

He growled at you before digging his fingers into your hips and running his teeth over the inside of your thigh. You let out a whine as his fingers moved under the straps of your panties and ripped them off you before diving between your legs.

You wrapped your fingers in his hair as he ran his tongue over your slit in a heavy stripe, moaning against your entrance as he finally tasted you. He lapped at your greedily, slurping up your arousal with a series of obscene sounds. His hands dug into the soft skin of your thighs as he ate you out, drawing bruises.

Your arms collapsed when he thrust his tongue inside you, massaging your canal with the thick muscle as you writhed against his face and whimpered. His lips brushed against your clit as he tongue fucked you and you tugged on his hair until it was almost painful.

“Shit, don’t stop.” You muttered as his lips wrapped around your clit and you felt your pussy clench around nothing. “I’m right there.”

He held your hips down as he sucked your pearl into his mouth and you let out a shriek. Your back tried to arch back on itself as the wave of your orgasm crashed over you, your release flowing over Charles’ mouth as your thighs clamped around his head.

You were panting heavily when you finally released him, your muscles still occasionally spasming with aftershocks as he undid the fly of his slacks before yanking you off the table until you were straddling his lap and leaned against his shoulder, your legs spread wide over his thighs as he ran his teeth over the curve of your neck.

“I’m sick of you teasing me darlin’.” He growled into your hair as he ripped the sleeves of your dress down your shoulders, exposing your breasts and bringing his hands up to tweak your nipples to the point of pain. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you. Thinking there’s no consequences to your actions.”

You yelped as he slipped a hand between your legs and slapped your pussy, making you throb with with need before letting out a low moan. His teeth sank into your shoulder as he drew his cock from his slacks and teased it against your entrance before spearing into you, sheathing himself to the hilt in one quick motion.

“Jesus, you’re so fucking tight.” He murmured before he started to move his hips, driving up into you in slow, fluid thrusts that had him dragging against every angle of your canal. “God, you feel even better than I imagined.”

You rested your hands on his knees and tossed your head back as his mouth moved down to your breasts and wrapped his lips around one of your nipples, rolling it between his tongue and teeth as his hands dug into your waist. Your back arched into his mouth as you sighed, your cunt clenching around him as he moved to your other nipple and rolled it through his teeth.

He groaned against your chest as your breath hitched, a coil starting to tighten in your abdomen as heat spread from your core. You squeezed him with your thighs as he brought you closer and closer, your nails digging into his knees.

“C’mon pretty girl, give it to me.” He ordered you, gazing up at you through his lashes as you let out a thin whine. “This pussy’s squeezing me so good. I wanna feel you cum.”

You swallowed a scream as your torso rolled against his as the coil in your abdomen snapped violently. He wrapped his arms around you to hold you in place as your vibrated against him, your pussy fluttering around him as your released flowed out of you and soaked the front of his slacks.

Charles hooked his hands under your knees and drew them over his shoulders, his cock hitting you at an even deeper angle that made you whine. He brought a hand between you and started to strum his thumb against your clit.

Your arms almost collapsed as he wrapped an arm around your waist to steady you. You moved your hands to grip his forearms desperately as another orgasm threatened to rip through you. His cock twitched inside you as you clenched around him sporadically, making him groan.

“Fuck, are you cumming again already?” He asked as your fingers gripped him painfully, striving for something to anchor you as he pushed you over the edge with a final drive of his hips and a press of his thumb against you.

You let out a wordless cry as a wave of pleasure wracked you, your body trying to fold in on itself as you fluttered around him. He let out a hiss as his hips stuttered and his cock twitched inside you before his spend filled you up, mixing with your release and leaking out of you in a thick mess.

“Jesus fuck.” You muttered as you unfolded yourself, resting your head against his shoulder as he panted into your hair. He drew your face to his and brushed his lips against yours before pressing them to you desperately, his tongue slipping between your teeth and tangling with yours.

“Run away with me.” He said, his eyes gazing into yours as he pleaded with you, his tongue running over his kiss swollen bottom lip.

“Did you finally use that little vial you’ve been carrying around, babe?” You asked as you gave him a wicked grin. “Cuz I don’t really feel like having my aunt chase after us.”

“It’s done.” He said, not fully registering the fact that you not only knew what he had been planning, but that you had done nothing to stop him. He was too intoxicated with you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, stealing the breath from his lungs as he dug his hands into your waist. He groaned when you pulled away from him, drawing the sleeves of your dress back over your shoulders to cover your breasts.

“I’ll go pack.” You said bending to give him a quick peck before leaving to head back to your room. You left Charles on his own to tuck himself back into his slacks, and dream about starting a new life with you.

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specialagentsergio · 3 years

Text

all we can do is keep breathing || chapter one

summary: He’s out of prison now, but your boyfriend is very much not okay. When he isn’t reinstated, he spirals down quickly, and you don’t know how to help him out of it. (or, spencer relapses post-prison and goes to rehab)

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: angst (eventual happy ending)

content warnings: swearing, drug abuse & addiction, an overdose, substance use disorder, ptsd, mentions of suicide, mentions of/implied sex, references to sexual assault, description of a panic attack/ptsd episode. please read with caution; this content can be triggering.

a/n: honestly, i just wrote this for myself. but it was partially inspired by @zhuzhubii ‘s brilliant and heart wrenching fic i know what’s best for me (but i want you instead). mine takes a different turn, but theirs is amazing as well.

a/n 2: disclaimer that while i have both been a patient at a residential treatment center and currently work at one, i don’t have substance use disorder and we don’t treat it specifically at my current workplace. my experience is also all in adolescent centers rather than adult ones, so this won’t be entirely accurate.

word count: 8k

song: paralyzed by nf

fic masterlist || masterlist

Nothing’s been the same since Mexico.

You weren’t naïve. You hadn’t been expecting things to go right back to normal when he got home from prison. You were prepared for Spencer to struggle. And you were ready to do whatever it took to help him recover from this trauma.

But you had never expected that that dedication would lead you to here—sitting on the couch at 11 o’clock at night, tired but wide awake, waiting for him to return from god knows where. A few cardboard boxes filed with the last of his things are stacked neatly beside you.

Spencer’s six-year sobriety coin sits in your hand. You’d found it in the trash a few days after he got home. You had tried to talk him into keeping it—"you were drugged; it’s not your fault”—but he had refused, leading you to believe there was something he wasn’t telling you. But you hadn’t pushed him on it, as that would just be a surefire way to make him double down on keeping it to himself.

He didn’t want the coin, but you kept it, hidden from his sight, hoping he’d want it back someday.

Now, three months later, you weren’t sure that day was going to come.

He had managed to get by for six weeks. He’d been plagued by nightmares and suffered multiple panic attacks, but he’d pushed through the cravings, gone to all his mandated therapy appointments, and attended refresher courses on procedures and firearms. He did everything the bureau required to consider reinstating him.

The day of the meeting, Spencer had seemed a little nervous, but stable. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, free of bad dreams, and he had given you a kiss goodbye that felt just like the ones he’d always given you before. Then he walked out the door, and you didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day.

You got the news from Emily. The bureau had decided not to reinstate him “at this time”. They recommended that he reapply in six months, but for now, he wouldn’t be getting his badge and gun back.

Your initial reaction had been relief. Although you had shown Spencer nothing but encouragement, you weren’t sure he would ever be ready to go back, let alone so soon. You didn’t even know why he was reapplying. He’d worked for them for over a decade and become a well-respected agent, but when he needed help, the bureau had abandoned him and refused to help him prove his innocence. You had been so furious you could barely speak when JJ told you their decision.

Spencer didn’t share your sentiment—or if he did, he didn’t want to face it. On some level, you understood. The BAU was his home before you were, and you could imagine that after the chaos of the last three months, he desperately wanted his life to just go back to normal. So even though you weren’t sure that this was the best decision for him to make—especially since he seemed to have barely thought about it at all—you’d supported him. Whatever he needed, right?

You tried calling him after talking to Emily, but he didn’t answer. It didn’t worry you too much at first—Spencer often needed space to process things on his own before talking about it. You wouldn’t be able to have a proper conversation until you were off work anyways.

It was around six when the anxiety kicked in. You’d tried calling him a few more times throughout the day to no avail. You hadn’t even gotten a text back. Then you started getting messages from his team, asking how he was doing and if he was okay. They hadn’t heard from him either.

When you’d gotten home, you had immediately looked to the chair Spencer always left his bag on. It was empty. You’d looked through all the rooms anyways, trying to ignore what your gut was telling you he was off doing.

It was a few more hours before he stumbled through the front door, his eyes glassy and footing unstable. You stood in front of him, putting your hands on his upper arms to keep him steady. When he had caught your eyes, he had started to cry.

He’d been more or less inconsolable for the rest of the night, blubbering out apologies as you guided him through the motions of getting into bed. He’d clung to you and you’d murmured reassurances against his skin and into his hair that you still loved him, that you didn’t think any less of him, that he would be okay. You had truly thought he would be at the time.

But he wasn’t okay, not at all. He quickly became stuck in a cycle of using, promising it was the last time, staying clean for a little while, then relapsing. You had pleaded with him to get help, but he’d become... aggressive when you suggested inpatient treatment.

“Don’t ever say that,” he’d snarled. “I’m not my mother.”

Then later that same night, he had crawled into bed next to you at 2 AM, curled up against your side, and begged in a trembling voice, “please don’t send me away.”

You haven’t had the courage to bring it up again until now.

Four days ago, you hit your breaking point. You’d come home from work and found him limp on the couch, barely breathing, a syringe and little glass vial next to him. You’d dialed 911 as you ran into the bedroom, yanked open your bedside table, and pulled out the auto injectable dose of Narcan you’d acquired a few weeks ago just in case. Thanks to that, Spencer was conscious again by the time the EMTs arrived. He resisted being taken to the ER, alternating between scowling at them and looking at you with pleading eyes.

But you didn’t give in. When he had checked himself out of the hospital an hour later (you had refused to do it for him), you had driven him home, but the entire time you were formulating a plan. You’d realized that you were padding his rock bottom, and you couldn’t do it anymore.

So now here you are, waiting on the couch. You hope it will work this time. About a month ago you had tried staging an intervention with his team, but as soon as he saw them, he’d walked right back out of the room and you hadn’t seen him again for nearly two days.

It’s another hour before he arrives home, and it takes his drug-fogged mind a full minute to process what he’s seeing. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “You’re leaving?”

“No,” you reply. “You are.”

Spencer sways slightly on his feet as he thinks. “You’re kicking me out,” he realizes.

You try to ignore the prick of tears in your eyes and focus on keeping your voice steady. “Yes. I am.”

His bottom lip starts to tremble. “You... you can’t do this,” he whispers.

“No, I can,” you say. You take a deep breath before you continue. “But more than that, I have to.”

For the first time in months, Spencer doesn’t try and hide his tears from you. He cries openly. His back hits the wall and he slides down it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It’s unbelievably hard to watch.

You stand and approach him cautiously, almost as if he’s an animal that you don’t want to spook, reaching into your back pocket and holding out a keycard. “I booked you a room for the night at that motel a few streets over, so you can... sleep it off. But after that, you’re on your own.”

He looks up at you with those big brown eyes that you love so much, but they don’t look like they used to. Now they’re bloodshot and his pupils are pinpricks. “(Y/N), please, please don’t do this,” he whimpers. “Please, this is the last time. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

You just shake your head. His words are nothing new. “Your car is already in the parking lot there with the rest of your things.”

It’s like a switch flips, his broken expression contorting into a glare. “Fine,” he practically growls. He pushes your hand away and staggers to his feet. “I don’t want that shitty motel room. I’ll just go stay with JJ. She actually cares about me.”

You expected him to lash out like this, but the words still sting. “You really think JJ’s going to let you be around her boys like this?” you ask quietly.

The anger on his face is offset some by the tears and snot still running down it.. And you know he knows that you’re right. “So this is it, huh?” he says coldly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Six years together, all we’ve been through. It’s just over now.”

You retreat back to the couch, placing the keycard on top of the boxes. “That’s actually up to you.”

His laugh is derisive. “You could have fooled me!”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I don’t want this to be permanent. You can stay now, or come back, on one condition.”

Spencer folds his arms over his chest defensively. “Which is?”

“You have to agree to check into a treatment center.”

The look of betrayal on his face breaks your heart. Tears spill out of your eyes before you can stop them; you swipe them away and take a deep breath to try and hold the rest of them off.

It’s a while before he speaks again, and his voice is quiet when he does. “How can you say that.” It’s not a question.

“It’s what you need, Spencer,” you answer. “You’re not coping with what happened to you. Not just prison, everything that’s happening to your mom, too—”

“Don’t talk about my mother!”

You flinch. He’s never raised his voice at you before. It’s the drugs, you try to remind yourself. It’s just the drugs, he doesn’t really mean it.

He storms forward and you scurry out of the way on instinct. He scoffs. “What, you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“You’re scaring me right now,” you admit quietly.

Spencer tries to cover up the hurt with a scowl, but you can still see it in his eyes. “You really think that little of me?”

You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. You don’t know what to say. Spencer would never hurt you, you know that without a doubt. But the Spencer you know, the man you fell in love with... he’s not the same person when he’s using. And with how high and emotional he is right now, you don’t know what to expect. “I... I don’t know anymore, Spencer,” you answer honestly.

He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right to think that. I did some awful things in there, you know.” He says it matter-of-factly, but you recognize it as a glimpse of one of the things he’s using the drugs to escape from, one of the things he won’t talk about.

He gathers up the boxes in his arms; you pretend not to notice him pocketing the keycard. You’re worried about him carrying them safely in his current state and almost reach out to steady him before recognizing from the tension in his shoulders that touching him right now will only make things worse.

He stops at the door and you hurry to open it for him. “I really believed you loved me, you know,” he whispers, the anger falling off of his face.

The words are like a blow to the stomach; it knocks the breath out of your lungs. “I do,” you choke out. “I do love you.”

Spencer doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and walks out the door.

He doesn’t look back.

---

It’s been the longest two weeks of your life.

You haven’t heard from Spencer since the night he left. You weren’t expecting him to come around to the idea of rehab quickly, but you thought he might try and call you within a few days and try to talk his way out of the hole he’d found himself in.

He didn’t.

All you could do was wait, and hope that that night wasn’t going to end up being the last time you saw him alive. In a way, it was worse than it had been when he was in prison, because this time, you were the reason he was gone.

His team has mixed feelings on what you’ve done.

JJ is mad. She asks, “how could you?”, and, “you really think this will work?” You try to be patient with her—you know she’s so upset because she loves him. She already lost her older sister and now she’s scared of losing the man who’s practically her brother. But when she (perhaps unintentionally) insinuates that you did this because you’d just had enough of him, you snap, telling her she has no right to say that when you know she wouldn’t let him stay at her house while he’s using. She keeps her thoughts to herself after that.

Emily is sympathetic. She was there the first time he started using and had subsequently gotten her head bitten off when she tried to reach out and help him. “I know how hard it is to get through to him when he’s... like this. You just let me know if I can help at all.”

Luke is much the same. He’s had his own struggles with PTSD and understands the toll it takes on everyone, not just the one with it. He’s always happy to offer you some time with Roxy, because he’s right—things really do feel better when you’re petting her.

Rossi isn’t... indifferent, exactly. He just doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion one way or the other. You think it’s because he doesn’t know what an alternative would be. For all his experience in psychology, he’s unsure of how to help Spencer.

You don’t know Matt very well yet, but he’s kind to you, even going so far as to bring you a dish of his wife’s lasagna.

Penelope is an absolute angel with her warm hugs and baked goods. She keeps an eye on Spencer’s cell phone location for you, in the event that he ends up at a police precinct or hospital.

Out of everyone, you like talking to Tara the most. She’s so supportive and understanding. You feel like she’s the only one who truly knows what the past few months have been like for you. She just gets it, having lived with a partner with substance use disorder before. “You’re doing the best you can and that’s all that matters,” she tells you. She even goes to a Narcotics Anonymous family meeting with you.

It’s day fourteen without Spencer, and it doesn’t feel much different. It feels bleak. You go to work and run errands, but you only manage it because it’s habit.

You’re rinsing off your plate from dinner when there’s a knock on the door. Your heart leaps into your throat. You aren’t expecting anyone. You try—in vain—not to hope too hard as you go to answer it. It could just be someone dropping by on a whim, or, god forbid, a police officer with bad news.

Please, Spencer. Please let it be you.

When you look through the peephole, you’re unable to hold back a sob of relief. His eyes are fixed on the doormat so you can’t quite see his face, but you’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, even in its current unwashed and disheveled state. You take a few deep breaths before opening the door, for his sake. You crying all over him is likely the last thing he wants or needs.

He doesn’t look up when you open the door, and you realize he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“Spencer,” you say softly.

It’s a few more moments before he responds. “I’ll do it,” he finally mutters; you can just barely hear him.

Your breath catches in your chest. “You’ll do what?” you ask.

He glances up then, a look of annoyance flashing across his face.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you say, voice shaky from the effort of holding back tears. “I just... I need to hear you say it.”

He sighs and looks back down, tugging on the ends of his sleeves. “I’ll... I’ll go to... to re—rehab.”

Tension you didn’t even know you were holding in your body melts away. You step to the side. “Come in,” you whisper.

He shuffles inside. When you turn back from closing the door, he’s just standing still in the middle of the room. You get a better look at him now. His clothes are rumpled and his hair is an absolute mess, tangled and dirty. It doesn’t look like he’s had a shower or shave for at least a week—you figure he’s probably been sleeping in his car. His face is pale and his hands are trembling; as you move closer, you can see a light sheen of sweat on his face, leading you to believe that he’s currently sober and starting to experience withdrawal symptoms.

You touch his arm gently and he makes a distressed whining sound. You guide him to sit on the couch. When you sit next to him, he looks at you with teary eyes. You open your arms in an invitation and he collapses into you, bursting into tears. “’m sorry,” he stutters out between sobs. “I—I didn’ mean it. I... ‘m so s—sorry, (Y/N).”

You cry too, holding him tight against you. “I know, baby,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I know.”

---

Spencer’s mostly nonverbal for his intake process. Whether it’s by choice or not is something you’re unsure of. In a private room a few hallways away from the main ward, you’re introduced to the admissions supervisor, Susan, whose voice you recognize from the phone calls you’d made to get him into one of the beds here. You also meet Spencer’s new therapist, Lara. She has a kind face and seems to have a good sense of humor. You just hope Spencer will like her.

You’re both given paperwork to read through and sign, as he’s on your health insurance now. Naturally, he’s done with them before you’ve finished the first page. Susan is taken aback. “Oh. Um, sir, we do need you to actually read this paperwork,” she says.

Spencer folds his arms and stares down at the carpet. “I did.”

“He, uh, he can speed read,” you explain. She still looks skeptical, so you add, “I’m serious. He reread War and Peace on the drive here.”

He doesn’t talk again until everything’s in order and you’re given five minutes alone to say goodbye. “I don’t want to do this,” he whispers.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” you ask. When he nods, you pull at his arms gently until they relax and fall open, then take one of his hands and squeeze it. “I don’t want to, either. I’m so tired of being away from you. But...” You take a deep breath. “But I also don’t want to bury you. You know this is what you need, right?”

He shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes. You can’t quite tell what that means—whether he agrees but wishes that wasn’t the case, or if he’s only doing this to appease you. You hope it’s the former. While it’s a possibility that this might not work either way, you feel like that’s more likely to happen if he isn’t doing this for himself as well, if he doesn’t want to get better.

But it’s out of your hands now. All you can do is trust in the people here to take care of him and that they want what’s best for him.

You put your hand on his cheek and turn his head towards you, trying to get him to look at you. His words from that night run through your head—I really believed you loved me. When he glances up, you seize the moment.

“I love you, Spencer. So much. If there’s just one thing you can trust in right now, please let it be that,” you plead.

He sniffles and you think you see a nod from him, but you can’t be sure. And it hurts a bit—you’re not used to him not saying “I love you” back. You can’t dwell on that now, though. You’ve only got a few minutes left before you have to leave him.

You stand, pulling him up with you. “Can I hu—” you start, but you’re cut off by him lunging forward and clinging to you. You comfort him as best as you can, running one hand up and down his back and using the other to cradle the back of his head as he cries into your neck, muttering incomprehensible words against your skin.

When the door opens, his entire body tenses against you. “Spencer,” you say gently, trying to stop your voice from wavering too much. “You have to let go now.”

He doesn’t budge. If anything, he holds onto you tighter. “Baby—“ you start.

“No,” he says suddenly, his voice louder than you’ve heard it in days. “No, I can’t—I won’t—”

Before you know it, he’s twisted around to stand behind you. You open and close your mouth a few times, startled and unsure what to say. “Spencer, what—what’s wrong?”

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I can’t do it again. I—I won’t.” Then he starts to rub at one of his eyes in the way you’ve seen so many times since he came home from prison and it hits you—he feels like he’s getting locked up again.

A glance at the door shows expressions of sympathy on Susan and Lara’s faces. What with the “war on drugs” sending addicts to prison, this probably isn’t the first time they’ve seen a reaction like this.

You doubt any of their previous patients were framed for murder and had their mother kidnapped by a vengeful psychopath, though.

Spencer’s entire body is trembling when you look back at him, and it’s not from the lingering withdrawal symptoms. It’s heartbreaking, but it only affirms your belief that he needs to be here. It’s clear that he can’t tolerate what he feels and what he knows without turning to self-destructive coping mechanisms.

“Take me home,” he whimpers. “Take me home, please. I want to go home.”

You swallow hard. “I can’t.”

“But they’re gonna hurt me,” he cries. “They’re gonna hurt me because I hurt them; don’t you care if I get hurt?”

You think you know what he’s talking about. You don’t know the details—Spencer wouldn’t let Emily or JJ tell you—but you do know he was hurt in prison by the other inmates. You had seen the bruises yourself. And then you’d heard that some of the inmates were poisoned. He’s a graduate chemist—you’d put it together. You don’t know why he did it, but you assume that he hadn’t had much of a choice.

“They’re not here, Spencer.” You try to stop him from scratching so hard at his eyes, but he flinches at your touch. “They’re not here; they can’t hurt you anymore,” you repeat instead.

Lara comes up to your side. “Let us take care of him, okay?”

Oh, but you don’t want to. Spencer’s so upset and you can’t bear the thought of leaving him like this, not when all you want to do is hold him and never let go. It’s what you’ve wanted since the moment he stepped out of Millburn. But isn’t this the whole point of bringing him here? You can’t help him on your own. You have to let him go.

When Lara coaxes you to take a step back, Spencer makes the most awful, wounded noise. “Don’t leave me, please,” he begs. “Don’t leave me again.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth to hold back a sob. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” you manage to say. “And I’ll visit you as soon as I can.”

“No, it’s not o—okay,” he protests, his voice breaking. “It’s not—I—” He presses his hands into his eyes and backs up until he’s in the corner. He drops to the floor and curls up, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in them.

Susan is able to get you to take a few more steps back; Lara takes a step forward, in Spencer’s direction.

“Um, don’t—don’t touch him,” you stutter out, desperate to help somehow. “It’ll—it’ll just make it worse.”

“I won’t,” she assures you. And she doesn’t—instead she sits on the floor several feet away from him; not close enough to be threatening but not far enough that he’d be completely unaware of her presence. It makes you feel a little better, because that’s what you do for him at home.

You let Susan guide you out of the room and to the entrance. “He’ll be okay,” she tells you as you walk. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and Lara’s fantastic. It’s actually a good opportunity to start building therapeutic rapport.”

You just nod as she talks, not quite listening to what she’s saying. You just keep thinking of his face when you took a step away from him, and how small his voice sounded. It’s a storm of emotions inside of you, but among them is... relief. You don’t have to worry about keeping him safe anymore.

Leaving him in that room, terrified, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, is one of the hardest things you’ve ever done. You just hope it will be worth it.

---

It’s Spencer’s thirty-sixth birthday. You have the day off, but the alarm still sounds early in the morning. You rub your eyes and stretch, trying to shake off the sleepiness. You were up late last night, looking through the entire apartment just one more time for anything you could have missed.

It’s something you’ve done half a dozen times since he was admitted. You haven’t found any needles or Dilaudid since the first time, but you keep doing it anyways. For some reason, when you were feeling anxious about... well, everything, it would calm you down.

You can’t stop yourself from checking once more before you leave to pick him up—though not as thoroughly since you don’t have the time. You just check his hiding places—the desk drawer with the false bottom, the pair of socks he hates that stay in the back of his sock drawer, the gun safe (he’d told you the code years ago just in case and hasn’t changed it since, more worried about you being in danger and needing it than you finding things he doesn’t want you to), and the two hollowed out books at the back of two different bookshelves.

You want to believe that even if there were anything there, he wouldn’t go looking for it anymore, but you aren’t there yet. He’s been in treatment just shy of six weeks, and it’s been up and down. Two steps forward has always seemed to be accompanied by one step back.

While he usually thrived on routine, the enforced structure of the treatment facility would remind him of Millburn multiple times a day. It took the better part of two weeks for him to adjust to it. The first time you visited him, he had curled up in your arms and cried about it, saying that he was barely sleeping because he didn’t feel safe and that he just wanted to go home.

It didn’t help that he didn’t get along with his roommate. Spencer found him to be too loud, complaining to you multiple times that he always wanted to talk during quiet time. Apparently he was also working on his GED, and would constantly ask him for answers to his homework. “I wouldn’t mind helping him, but he just wants me to give him the answers instead,” he’d told you. So Spencer had just tried to ignore him.

But his patience had finally snapped a few weeks ago when his roommate drank both his own and Spencer’s shampoo in a suicide attempt, because he’d “read somewhere that shampoo was toxic.” Spencer had yelled at him, calling him a “fucking idiot”, among other things (they were promptly separated). His roommate was fine in the end—he just threw up a lot. But he was permanently moved to a different room, to both you and Spencer’s relief.

Spencer had a meltdown the next night, though, when it was time to shower. He had been given replacement shampoo from the treatment center’s supplies, but he didn’t like the smell and couldn’t stand the texture, so he’d refused to take a shower. That then resulted in him losing points for not following the structure. (Points were given for good behavior and meeting goals, and were mainly how privileges were earned.)

Naturally, Spencer had protested that this wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have shampoo that he could use. He’d been told that these were the rules, and he wouldn’t be given an exception. In response, Spencer had thrown the shampoo across the room, thrown himself onto his bed, buried his head under his pillow, and refused to talk to anyone.

But that night ended up marking a turn for the better in his treatment. He hadn’t responded when shift change happened and one of the night staff, Matt, checked in on him—in fact, he hadn’t moved at all. When he’d said, “tell me if there’s anything I can do to help you feel better”, Spencer had had no intention of taking him up on it.

A couple of hours later, though, when everything was quiet and he couldn’t sleep because he felt sticky and dirty from not showering, he wandered out into the commons area, holding his favorite blanket from home around himself. When asked what he needed, he’d shrugged, because he didn’t know what he needed, besides his old shampoo, and there wasn’t much to be done about that at midnight.

“I heard you had a rough time this evening,” Matt had said.

Spencer nodded absently, looking at everything but the two of them sitting on the couches.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“Okay,” Matt had replied. “Well, you can sit out here with us for a little while if you want. How’s ten minutes sound?”

Spencer had shrugged again, but sat down on the corner of the couch, pulling his legs up against his chest. He pressed his nose into the fabric of the blanket and breathed in deeply. He’d held off on washing it since got here because it smelled like you. It was comforting, and he felt himself relax some. Then, without thinking about it consciously, he opened his mouth... and talked.

He started with the shampoo incident. His voice had raised an octave and hot tears stung his eyes as he talked about how much he hated the replacement shampoo and how he felt that he was being treated unfairly by people who didn’t understand why it bothered him so much. And then he had just... kept going. He didn’t talk about specifics—he said he was framed and wrongly incarcerated, then went straight to everything that had happened since he got home. He talked about losing his job and his first relapse because of that. He talked about how he couldn’t seem to stop going back. He talked about your ultimatum and his two weeks living out of his car.

When he finally stopped, he was breathing heavily and exhausted, but he felt... lighter. It was like the dam burst. The next morning, he started talking, really talking, to his therapist. When you came by that evening to bring him new shampoo, he’d told you all about what had happened, sparing no detail. To say it shocked you was an understatement—he hadn’t been so open with you since Mexico.

The two weeks since had gone well. There were a few bumps, but otherwise he was improving, and he’d been able to earn a day visit for his birthday.

Spencer looks... good when you see him. He’s fully dressed, wearing the cardigan he knows you like the best, and it no longer looks baggy on him. He’d come back from prison a little underweight, and it had only gotten worse since. But he’s been steadily gaining it back here thanks to sobriety and regular meals. He’s got his satchel across his shoulder but he isn’t clinging to it protectively and the way he rocks up on the balls of his feet appears to be excited rather than nervous. It looks like he may have even run a brush through his hair for once.

Then he sees you, and the smile that spreads across his face... he looks like himself again. Your smile back is so big that it probably looks goofy, but you don’t care.

He hugs you as soon as you’re close enough. It’s tight, but he’s not clinging to you like you’ve grown accustomed to over the past six weeks, which you think can only be a good thing—he’s not feeling insecure or unsafe anymore.

“Happy birthday,” you say. “You look really nice.”

“Really?” he asks. “Because I got up a little early to get ready, but I didn’t shave since I’d have to check out my razor and that’s a hassle, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine. I’m not really sure myself—”

“Spencer, I don’t mind the facial hair at all,” you interrupt. “You look great. I mean it.”

He glances away shyly, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

You both sign the checkout paperwork and head out. Spencer insists on holding your hand the entire time. When you get to the car and start to let go, he tightens his grip instead and pulls you closer to him. “(Y/N).”

“Yes?”

He hesitates just slightly before placing his other hand on your cheek. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

You blink, realizing that it’s been a long while since you’ve kissed. And just like that, you’re aching for his lips on yours. “Please do.”

Spencer lets your hand go then. Cradling your head in both of his hands now, he leans in and kisses you so gently. You soak it in, feeling warm inside as something you didn’t realize you were missing returns to you. When he pulls back, he looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in months.

You just look at each other for a bit. Eventually, you place a kiss on his cheek and say, “We should go before we get in trouble for loitering.”

He wants to hold your hand whenever he can on the drive home, and you let him. He tells you how his week has been going—someone in his group therapy is graduating the program in a few days, and they’ve started a new project in art therapy. You knew about the art project already, since he’d spent half of his phone time on Monday telling you how much he didn’t want to make a pottery project because he can’t stand how the clay feels on his hands when it dries. But you’ve always loved to listen to him talk, so you don’t remind him of this.

As you’re getting off the freeway fifteen minutes later, you tap the back of his hand twice to signal that you have something to say. He pauses in his infodump about the history of pottery so you can speak. “I’ve got a few presents for you at home, but I was thinking we could go to the bookstore and you can pick out some more things?”

He makes a happy humming noise. “That sounds great! There’s something I want to read up on.”

He veers off to the nonfiction section when you enter his favorite bookstore; you idly browse your favorite section as you wait. When he returns to your side, he’s holding a stack of five books, all on the same subject.

“Horses,” you say.

He nods enthusiastically, his hair bouncing. “I’m starting an equine therapy program next week.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I hope it goes well.” You don’t know much about horse therapy—seems like that’s going to be what you read about on your phone in bed tonight while you wait for sleep to come.

Spencer’s quiet on the car ride home, content to flip through his new books. He doesn’t notice when you park the car; you have to touch his arm to get his attention.

“What?” he asks without taking his eyes off of the full color spread of a mustang in his lap.

“We’re home,” you point out. With how many times he’s told you he wants to go home in the past weeks, you expect him to be excited, but he’s not. He tenses when he looks up and sees the building in front of you. “What’s wrong, Spencer?”

“Um...” He fiddles with the book’s dust jacket. “There’s... there’s not a surprise party waiting for me inside, is there?”

“Oh. No, there’s not. Just a few balloons and little banner. You, uh...” you wince a little as something occurs to you. “You weren’t wanting one, were you?”

“Absolutely not,” he immediately replies.

You chuckle a little at his certainty. “Well, good. Because I had a hell of a time convincing Penelope not to throw you a birthday party, and I don’t know if she’d ever forgive me if it turned out I was wrong and you did, in fact, want a party.”

That gets a small laugh out of him; your heart leaps at the sound. It’s been far too long since you’ve heard that.

He seems a little apprehensive as you unlock the front door, and when he walks in, he stays standing on the living room rug for a while, his eyes traveling from one side of the room to another, looking over everything. “It looks the same,” he says eventually.

“Were you expecting it not to be?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers, running his fingers across one of the seams of his satchel. “It’s not that I thought you would change anything, it’s more like... I feel so much different than I did the last time I was here that it’s kind of strange to see that everything’s just like I remember it.”

You’re reminded of the last time he was standing still in the living room like this, stick-thin, dirty, and trembling from withdrawals. “Different in a good way, I hope,” you say, nervously fussing with the pile of presents on the coffee table.

He gives you a small smile. “Yes, in a good way,” he affirms softly. He notices the presents and scrunches his eyebrows. “I thought you said you only had a few presents here.”

“Most of these are from the team,” you explain. “Emily brought them by last night. They had to fly out this morning, but she wanted you to have them on your birthday.”

“Oh.” He raises his hand and it looks like he might rub at his eye but he presses his knuckles to his mouth instead. You can’t really tell what’s going on in his mind. You figure his feelings towards his team are complicated. On the one hand, they got him out of the prison, and he’s known some of them for over a decade. On the other, he wasn’t allowed to rejoin the BAU and the whole experience had made him feel humiliated. You think he wants to see them, but he also doesn’t; he’s stuck in the middle and can’t decide.

Either way, it doesn’t matter today. It’s his birthday and you want him to have a good one, so you redirect his attention. You sit on the couch and pat the spot next to you. “Will you show me your new books?”

The corners of his mouth turn up and he pads across the floor towards you. “Yeah. So, here’s what I’ve learned so far....”

The day continues in much the same fashion—quiet and laidback as you simply enjoy each other’s company. Once he shows you all of the books, you move on to the TV, catching up on the episodes of Doctor Who you’ve both missed (you didn’t want to watch it without him). You order his favorite takeout for dinner, after which you bring out his dessert—half a dozen chocolate frosting and sprinkles donuts arranged in a circle around two candles displaying 36.

“You know, it’s not really sanitary to blow all over food before sharing it,” he says.

You roll your eyes fondly. “We go over this every year. We kiss; I’m not worried about your mouth germs.”

“But it’s not just my “mouth germs”,” he corrects, making air quotes with his fingers. “It involves the entire respiratory track, so—”

“Spencer, as always, it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you interrupt. You’ve heard this explanation before. “Now make a wish.”

He takes a moment to ponder it, then blows the candles out. You put the plate down and hand him a napkin. “We’re not going to be able to eat all of these before I have to go back,” he says, but the way he bites eagerly into the first one nearly makes you question that.

He gets through two; you only eat one, mostly full from dinner. He wants to go lay down on the bed after, “so we have more room to cuddle”. And cuddle he does, pressing as much of his body to yours as he can. One of your hands settles in his hair automatically. “Did you have a good day?” you ask, running your fingers through it.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Obviously this situation is not ideal,” you start carefully. “But I’m just so happy that you’re still... well, around for your birthday.”

Spencer turns his head into the fabric of your shirt and breathes in deeply. “Me, too,” he says quietly on the exhale.

You lay together in silence for a while, and you savor the feeling of having him in bed next to you again. Sleeping alone wasn’t anything new in your relationship, as his job took him around the country. You’d gotten used to it for the most part, but every night he wasn’t with you because he was in prison was just plain awful. After, you had him back for six weeks, then it became sporadic again as he started using. It’s been so much easier to sleep since he went into treatment, but you still miss sharing the bed with him terribly.

You look at your phone briefly to check the time. “We’ve got about three hours until we have to start heading back. I’m happy to stay like this, but we still have time to do something else if you want to.”

All he says verbally is, “okay”, but the way he squirms against you tells you that he does have something on his mind.

“Just let me know if you do,” you say gently; you don’t want him to feel pressured into speaking. Plus you’re content to lay here playing with his hair and listening to his breathing.

“Well, there is something,” he admits after a few minutes.

He doesn’t continue, so you say, “Okay. What is it?”

He sighs and sits up. “It’s... it’s nothing bad, or—or even that big of a deal, really. At least, it shouldn’t be.”

You push yourself up into a sitting position next to him. “Well, why don’t you tell me so I can help?” you ask. “I can tell that it’s bothering you.”

“That’s exactly the point. It shouldn’t be bothering me,” Spencer complains. “Because I really want to do it. It’s just...”

You put your hand on his back and run it up and down to try and comfort him. You don’t say anything; you just give him time to get the words out.

He takes a deep breath. “I want to have sex,” he says. “I really do, I’m just... not entirely sure I’m... ready yet.”

“Oh.”

It’s not where you expected the conversation to go, because it’s something that hasn’t really been in your life at all since Mexico. He’d... taken care of you a few times during those first six weeks, but hadn’t let you return the favor. Each time he had scurried off to the bathroom and run a cold shower before you could even touch the waistband of his pants. Then on the night he came back to you, you had been helping him undress since his hands were trembling so much. When you unbuttoned his pants, he had breathed in sharply and frantically pushed your hands away.

Clearly something had happened to him, but he’d never even alluded to anything of the sort. And that was okay—you didn’t need to know. You just wished you knew how to help.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid,” he says, running his hands down his face.

“Oh, baby, no,” you soothe. “It’s not stupid at all.”

He just shakes his head. “You deserve more than this.”

“I don’t know about that. But,” you continue, pushing his hair back so you can see his face better, “I do know what I want, and what I want is you.”

Spencer chews on his bottom lip, doubt clouding his eyes. “Look at me,” you implore. He meets your gaze hesitantly and you take his face in your hands.

“I love you, Spencer Reid. And nothing is going to change that.”

His eyes grow wet. He sniffles once, then lunges forward, capturing your lips with his own. You kiss him back just as passionately, holding onto him as tight as he is to you. It may have been a long time since you kissed at all until this morning, but it’s been even longer since he’s kissed you like this.

“Love you, too, (Y/N),” he mumbles against your lips when he pulls back to take a breath.

You press your forehead to his with a happy sigh. But he’s only content to stay like that for a few moments. He bumps your nose with his and tugs slightly on your shirt, requesting permission to kiss you again. You’d love to do that, and you’d love to do more than that, too, but you don’t want him to rush into something he’s not truly ready for.

“You know what we could do?” you ask, running your hand through the curls on the back of his neck.

Spencer’s eyes keep flicking between yours and your lips. “What?”

“A good old-fashioned high school make out,” you say, smiling at him softly. “And I’ll keep my hands above your waist.”

When he visibly relaxes, you know it’s the right decision. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. “I mean, I never kissed anyone when I was in high school, but I get the idea.”

The shy look he gives you before climbing onto your lap reminds you so much of how he was when you first started dating. He’s still there, your Spencer, the Spencer you fell in love with. You never truly thought he was gone, but there were plenty of moments of doubt, moments when you wondered if he’d ever be able to pull himself out of the wreckage, out of the grip of trauma. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t do it for him.

As it turns out, he could. He can.

It’s far from over. He still has a long way to go. You both do. But for the first time since the day he came home from prison, a return to normal seems possible.

It won’t be the same as it was before. He’s always going to be a little different. But... that doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.

He kisses you, and it feels like it used to, full of respect, adoration, trust, and love. It feels like Spencer.

Despite everything, it’s still him.

---------------

tell me what you thought here!

if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. this was very much a personal work but i decided to share it anyways because why the hell not, i'm proud of it. the next chapter will explore horse therapy, a treatment i did and loved, among other things.

i'd like to encourage you please seek this kind of help if you think need it. i see how it changes lives every day at work and it changed my own as well. there's no shame in getting the treatment you need, whatever that may be. recovery is worth it.

if you’re interested in learning more about trauma and the treatment of it, i cannot recommend the book The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D., enough. it was my favorite book i read last year and i referred back to it several times while writing this.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid #angst #my fic #the shampoo incident is something that actually happened on one of my shifts last august #and yet that's not the craziest thing that's happened while i've been at work lol #don't drink shampoo kids #tw substances #tw suicide

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wordstro · 3 years

Text

[5:53 PM] + hero/villain au + "we don't need a weapon with opinions." + part 3

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 masterlist

2.5k, wooyoung is pretty mean and this one's angsty

you have blank spaces in your head.

there are snippets of memories in those blank spaces, blurred faces, loud voices shouting indecipherable words, but nothing is clear. with each passing day, you are grateful for that reprieve.

you do not think you could live with yourself if you had the ability to relive watching hongjoong, san, mingi, and yunho discover you'd betrayed them too. you do not think you could live with yourself if you were aware of all the civilians you'd likely killed for them.

you try to fight back, but yeosang speaks the fight out of you most days and most nights you are too exhausted to resist. they keep you in close proximity to them, in an apartment carved out deep underground. they do not trust you enough, however, to give you the room near the door. despite yeosang speaking all ability to escape out of you and speaking away your ability to tell anyone what they did to you. you know escaping would be fruitless. too many doses of the serum live inside you. one series of words and you're theirs to control, a mindless weapon who does terrible things. you're terrified of what they could make you do to punish you for escaping.

for the first month, you'd refused to leave your room or eat or live really. you thought they'd force you to obey, you snapped as much to them when the door swung open and wooyoung or seonghwa or even jongho stood at your door with a heaping plate of food in their hands. you screamed at them and you hated how guilty you felt when seonghwa's eyes fell to the floor or when jongho frowned. that first month, you attempted escape enough times that yeosang had to use his powers and speak the attempts out of you, his brows furrowed together as he spoke his commands before you could even try to cover your ears. he'd left quickly after, shutting the door gently behind him, and you called him every expletive you could think of before you sunk to your knees and forced your tears back.

still, they let you scream and shout and refuse. they let you be.

maybe they knew you'd give in sooner rather than later. your methods were not sustainable.

the first night you slipped out your room in the dead of night and raided the kitchen, stomach tight with hunger, guilt filled you to the core. guilt was becoming a constant companion for you. that wasn’t sustainable either. the lights flickered on then, and you stood like a deer caught in headlights, while wooyoung merely stared at you.

he tilted his head, and you stiffened, preparing for something hurtful to leave his lips.

instead he said, “hungry?”

you nodded, keeping your mouth shut. you’d learned long ago to never bite the hand that feeds you. you’d done it once when you were little and you starved for a week. you knew wooyoung could be petty.

wooyoung’s face softened at whatever he saw and he moved into the kitchen. you stepped away from him. he either didn’t notice or he chose to ignore it. he reached past you, pulling out a pan, and then ingredients from the refrigerator.

“you don’t have to -” your stomach growled, cutting you off. wooyoung raised a brow at you, an amused smile gracing his tired features. you glared in embarrassment. he’d let out a loud laugh, clamping his hand over his mouth to quiet it, and you hated how you’ve missed the sound.

“sit,” he said, gesturing at the kitchen island. you obliged, watching as he turned his back to you and the kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of food. a small voice at the back of your head whispered of how vulnerable he was, how easy it would be to incapacitate him and run, but yeosang's persuasion was stronger.

he placed the food in front of you, the steam warming your face and your stomach growling in anticipation, mouth watering. he leaned against the counter, smiling as he watched you take the first bite. he'd always liked watching the reactions of anyone who'd eat his food. that didn't change at least.

"you're welcome to eat with us, you know." he said, after a few minutes of silence.

you looked up.

"we want you to eat with us." he insisted.

he looked so sincere and now that your thoughts were no longer clouded by hunger, your anger returned. it was dampened by exhaustion, by yeosang's persuasion and the serum, but it returned. it made you vindictive.

"is that a command?" you bit out.

wooyoung's jaw tightened at your tone and the look on your face. he said, "maybe i should make it one."

"maybe you should."

you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. he'd scowled and you did not look away, waiting. he spun on his heel and left the kitchen without another word.

~.~.~.~.~

the first time you'd joined them for a meal, you were reeling from too many blank spaces in your memories and your fingers shook from the knowledge of what you may have done under their control. a whole week was missing.

your terror quelled for a moment when seonghwa smiled at you, with all the brightness you'd always remembered, patting the chair next to you. jongho grinned. even yeosang looked happy to see you. wooyoung smiled kindly. you knew it was wrong to feel comfort in their presence, but maybe your unconscious mind knew if you didn't find comfort somewhere you would crumble. maybe you were lucky they were the ones keeping you instead of eunwoo or the other villains in the alliance.

you'd sat in silence through the first meal (and many meals to come), but they let you be. seonghwa passed you food when your plate was still half full. they poured you water whenever your glass was even a little empty. they did what they used to do during team dinners. you wondered how hongjoong, san, mingi, and yunho were doing.

only as the meal came to an end did wooyoung speak to you, "we're upping your dosages to once weekly."

you'd grimaced. they'd take you to eunwoo and his laboratory whenever they needed you to do a job, and wooyoung would murmur the words that activated the remain serum inside you so he could tell you to stand still as eunwoo injected you with more of the serum. then he'd tell you to sleep, and the last thing you'd see was wooyoung's face before the gaps in your memories started.

wooyoung sighed, "this is for the greater good, y/n. you have to understand that."

"the greater good?" you'd laughed, and your voice was hoarse from disuse, "is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep easier at night?"

"you were there," wooyoung scowled, "at the outskirts of the city. you saw the conditions they force our kind to live in. we're doing the right thing and you know it."

you didn't remember it. that was the most jarring part of it all. the anger curled then at the pit of your stomach, "you think you're doing the right thing, and you want to justify it. it's different and you know it."

you mocked him, and his anger surged just as quickly as yours had.

seonghwa stepped in, as he always used to when inter-fighting broke out on your team. "hey, let's all take a deep breath and step back."

he looked at wooyoung mostly. yeosang and jongho hovered close, wary as they watched you.

"you guys can't possibly think I'm suddenly okay with this," you snapped, fingers curling into fists, "just because i'm eating with you doesn't mean i want to be here. and it definitely doesn't mean that i like you. any of you."

"you'll change your mind," wooyoung said, stubborn as ever, "once you see the full extent of the vile shit you've been defending."

you won't see it. you knew from the blank spaces in your memories. how did he not know that?

"you'll never change my mind. about anything." you spat, "you'll have to fucking shoot me up full of your serum to get me to ever fall into line."

"maybe we will." wooyoung said, tone sharp, unwavering. serious.

"wooyoung." seonghwa reprimanded, turning a sharp look on him.

"what?" he rolled his eyes, "they suggested it first. frankly, i think it's a great idea. they'd be less of a brat for once. besides, we don't need a weapon with opinions."

seonghwa glared and jongho's frown deepened. jongho reached out to you, pressing a palm to your shoulder, but you shoved it off, spinning on your heels. you stomped into your room and slammed the door shut, so hard it shook the floor and the ceiling before the door cracked in half, slipping from it's hinges. it did the exact opposite of what you wanted, which was to be alone, and you groaned as you sunk into your tiny bed, shoving back the seething tears threatening to spill over.

~.~.~.~.~

wooyoung stopped staying when eunwoo injected you with the serum. every week, like clockwork, he walked you to the laboratory and he had you walk in alone. you had too much pride to ask him to join you, to admit that you found comfort in a familiar face before the burn of the injection. eunwoo terrified you, with his mask and raspy voice and what you realized was a metal arm that could turn into anything he wanted. he's demonstrated it's capabilities once, when you'd acted up too much, and seonghwa glared at the scalpel wounds he had to clean up later that day, his touch kind.

the constant serum dosages made each week worse. your heart felt as if it would burst out of your chest. your blood burned. you couldn't remember a full month at one point. you wondered all too often if this time you would die. you wondered if they would care.

the week before had been horrible, but eunwoo merely told you to get some rest, walking away while you clutched at your chest in pain. you'd stood in front of eunwoo's heavy lab doors filled with a terror you hadn't felt since you were a child.

"what are you waiting for?"

wooyoung's voice rung high and clear up and down the maze of halls he'd escorted you through.

"are you trying to make a point?" you asked, turning to him.

he raised a brow, bristling at your tone. "what the hell are you talking about?"

"why do you make me do it alone?" you wanted to sound angry, but your voice cracked on the word alone and hurt curled at your chest, right where you'd always feel the pain of the injection.

your vision blurred, "it's cold in there and it hurts and every week it gets worse and worse and eunwoo just laughs at me when it gets really bad. there are weeks," the tears threatened to spill over but you blinked them away, "where i don't remember anything except for the lab and the injection and eunwoo and... i mean it's working how you wanted it to. i'm a thoughtless weapon. but it's just. i can't go in there alone, wooyoung. i'm sorry but i can't."

wooyoung looked at you the way he used to. with a gentleness, a fondness, that made your stomach curl. he reached over and pressed his hand to your cheek, brushed the tears that escaped away.

"okay." he'd said, nodding as you looked at him.

he stepped into the laboratory with you and he held your hand tight when eunwoo injected you with another dosage of the serum. wooyoung's eyes flickered from the exposed burns he left on your skin to the injection scars over your heart, his grip on your hand tightening.

you looked wooyoung in the eye as eunwoo pressed the needle into your skin.

you hoped wooyoung would agree, so that he'd have to watch you suffer. you wanted to force him to see the consequences of his actions, to the fullest extent, and witness the bodily autonomy he'd taken from you. you wanted to make him understand.

and then you'd escape, even if it was the last thing you did.

~.~.~.~.~

"what did you mean when you said there were weeks where you don't remember anything?"

he's uncharacteristic in his quietness. you sat on the kitchen island stool, poking at your dinner, wrapped in a sweatshirt that wasn't yours. wooyoung leaned heavily against the counter, so close you could see the bags under his eyes. his gaze was a steady thing, like his hand had been in the laboratory.

"there are gaps in my memories. whenever anyone says the trigger words, i... disappear."

"where do you go?"

"i don't know," you stared at him, "but isn't that what you wanted? a weapon with no opinions?"

he let out a deep breath, hanging his head as he dragged his hands through his hair.

"i...didn't mean that."

your stomach flipped at the sincerity there, "you didn’t?"

"no," he leaned his chin against the palm of his hand, closing his eyes once, as if steeling himself, before he admitted, "i just wanted to hurt you."

"well, you've succeeded. multiple times."

"i know," he sighed, biting his bottom lip, "and i'm sorry for it. i'm so sorry."

you wondered if he was apologizing to you or for everything else too, for the way he betrayed all of you, for the burns, for forcing you into something you never wanted. a part of you wanted to forgive him, but you knew you never could. though he was sorry for the pain he caused you, he did not regret it. still, you had to ask. to make sure.

"but do you regret it?"

he remained quiet.

"it's all for the greater good, isn't it? taking away my free will? breaking all our hearts?"

he closed his eyes once more.

but wooyoung was no coward. he was many things, but he never shied away from his resolutions. he nodded.

"i'm sorry," he said as if it meant anything.

you wanted so badly to walk away, but you had to make him believe he'd swayed you. so you returned your attention to your food, seething internally.

~.~.~.~.~

the next day, you swiped an extra serum when eunwoo disappeared into his lab after injecting you. you secured the serum into a pouch mingi had given you long ago onto your belt loop, along with a note scrawled with a simple help along with instructions to use the trigger words in battle. they were thorough in what you were and were not allowed to say regarding your circumstances, but they had forgotten about that part. it was a long shot, all left up to luck and divine forces, so you sent up a prayer to whatever god existed out there to let the pouch slip from your belt loop next time you were let into the field. you prayed hongjoong, san, yunho, or mingi would find it and recognize your handwriting or the pouch. you prayed they actually wanted to help you, especially after all that you might've done to them. there were too many variables, but it was your only hope.

that evening, wooyoung looked at you with a twinkle in his eyes that you’ve missed.

he asked, “you understand our cause now, don’t you?”

seonghwa and jongho looked on with bated breath. yeosang's brows furrowed.

you'd missed them, and you knew after this you would continue missing them. you would have understood their cause, joined it even, if you were given the choice, but you were not. you never liked being told what to do.

the stolen serum and note lay heavy on your hip.

“yes,” you lied, smiling as you used to, “i do.”

#wooyoung angst #ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez angst #wooyoung #hero/villain au

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kanene-yaaay · 3 years

Text

You’re going to tickle me first, right?

Kanene’s note:��One day I will carefully plan beforehand a title. But that day is noooot today! sdfghjfrgtyujikdfgh.

I consider this the last story from that idea of lers + lees in more different scenarios. I already did all the sides and I am very proud of the results! Thankys for all the support <3333

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* This characters don’t belongs to me! They all belong to Sanders Sides!

* This is a SFW tickle fanfic, so, if you don’t appreciate this kind of content, please, look for another blog. There are a plenty of fabulous arts in this site!! ^w^)b

* This is Ticklish!Logan with Ler!Patton and Remus. Their relationship can be viewed as romantic or platonic. Around 2.300 words.

* Some fabulous works that inspired me with the idea and the teases (they’re from bnha)

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any and every advice is very very welcome! \(-w-)/

* Take some time to remember about the litol cool things that you saw today! Fanfic, series, movies, a bird or a beautiful flower... anything that maded u happy! Drink water, sleep and eat! Today is another day and I’m proud that we’re both still here.

[~*~]

"Looking good, hot stuff." Arms hugged him from behind and Logan scoffed, as usual when confronted by feelings, behind his cup of coffee, drinking the remains of the liquid in a few gulps as he relaxed on the warm chest behind him. The morning was quiet and Patton’s humming on the kitchen was one of the few sounds that cut the air. Logan let his attention swim back to his book when the other began to nuzzle his neck, a small 'tsk' escaping between a tiny smile when his mustache hit a sweet spot on his shoulder.

They both knew what that meant, after all, Remus wasn’t fond on keeping a subtle demeanor and they already had played this exact game thousands of times before.

"Remus..."

"Tickle me, Logan!" The pout was crystal clear on his voice, discarding the need of the other adult to turn back to notice it. "It’s been almost a week since last time! And. I. Need. My. Daily. Doses of. Tickles."

Logan growled, ignoring the amused crackle behind him and instead focusing on hiding his now complete red face on one of his hands, the other tightly gripping his book and depositing it on the tabletop in front of him. "How can you say this so nonchalantly?" It was his almost inaudible muffled whisper.

"Because watching you become a blushy-blushed mess is sooo fun. ~"

Another nuzzle, Logan scrunched his neck, containing his reactions.

"Now, now, Re. Teasing Logan about how he is the most adorably-adorable bumblebee when he gets all blush-y and soft-y about tickling isn't very nice." Patton chirped from his spot, almost finished from doing the dishes, since the most serious of their group had been responsible for their breakfast and Remus would be making their dinner today. He could even pass as being very serious if it wasn’t for the smirk on his features betraying his words. "You know he can't stand hearing the word tickle. Or tickling. Or tickly."

"Or ticklish, or tiggle, or even tickle, tickle, tickle-"

In a smooth, quick movement, Logan turned his body, now being the one encircling the taller waist with his arms, fingers clawing on his sides, but not moving. Yet.

"That is enough of you, squeaky toy."

And Remus knew that just their previous playful banter had been more than enough to prompt Logan to get some revenge.

However…

Seeing him like this was just too much fun.

His eyes glinted, a grin expanding on his face. "He is sooo flustered. Pat! Look at him! Isn't he adorable?"

"I know, right!" Patton squealed in delight at the tiny, infinitesimal smile showing on the most serious one, ignoring Logan's grunt as he tried to hide his face in Remus' shoulder, grumbling something about teases and stupid, confident friends "But we can't be mean with him, sweetpea. Even if he is so precious and full of such beautiful reactions that makes us want to tease him over and over and over again." He whispered the last part, as if he was sharing a secret and the person they were talking about wasn't dying in the middle of their room.

"Even his ears are red, now!!" Remus also lowered his voice, blowing a light steam of air on them as he talked. "You're the one being mean to me.” Logan more felt than saw Remus pointing a finger accusingly to the other, “telling me I can't tease him even knowing he will be all helpless and shy and cute.”

"I would like to state that I hate you."

"Shhh, Lo-lo! We're whispering! Which means you can't hear us."

Snickers floated freely in the air. Logan’s warning jab at Remus’ side only made part of them evolve to amused crackles.

"I am literally between you two, unless you talk in a language I do not master nor understand I can very much process the exact meaning of what you're pronouncing."

They giggled harder. Logan's scoff deepened, he tried to untangle himself from the hold and walk away to the security of his room and his valorous notebooks where he could carefully think and plan a very special, tickly revenge for both, but a soft kiss on his flaming cheeks placated his impulse, - although not his mostly dramatic scoff and roll of eyes.

"Patton!!!!” The one wearing a green pajama whined as if the world was ending and he was not the one to blame because of that, drops of fake-sadness dripping on his tune. “He is even pouting!”

"FALSEHOOD!"

“That is not fair!! Not. Fair."

"Okay, okay, my dear.” Patton gave in, calm words. Logan looked smugly at Remus, who was now in the hold of the pout.

“You can tease him more, but just a little."

Logan squeaked when Remus triumphally shoved his face on his neck, working his way across the spot, mustache tickling and itching, until he was able to deliver a couple of nibbles right under his chin, drinking up the muffled yelps and snickers that that caused.

Patton's gentle voice hit his ears just as he threw his head back in an attempt to escape the attack. "Just say 'glasses’ and we stop, okay?"

Remus didn't say anything, although he stopped his attack, a hand finding his and squeezing reassuringly. The shorter smiled, a warmth flooding on his chest and pouring out of it in the way softness found the corner of his eyes, immediately hiding any hint of it on Remus' shoulder and nodding. Quiet, mumbled words.

"Green."

“Aw, what is the matter? Not so serious now, are we?” Remus purred, each word vibrating on his skin. “What a shame, what a shame, what a sad end for our rational, professional nerd boy. Just a few tickles here,” he quickly pinched the other’s thigh, making the arms tight around his waist, consequently pulling him closer, “some attention there,” nails found and traced whatevers on the length of his lower back, “a couple of teases and tickles aaand then you’re already all defeated. Aww, my poor, poor, sensitive ler. ~”

His confident tone was broken by a squeal when the fingers resting on his sides squeezed that spot, wiggling for a few seconds before stopping, enough for the taller to try to squirm away, only to find himself well stuck on the arms securing him in the same place. His gaze found danger on Logan’s glare.

“Oh,” shivers ran his spine, “is that so?” Another squeak flew from him when the fingers curled, nails grazing the ticklish skin. “Please, care to elaborate?”

Remus' excitement was written over his entire face. He began to bounce, however his giddy energy was controlled enough for him to be able to lower his head, a shit eating grin plastered on his lips, hands locking behind the other’s neck, exposing even more the spots on his torso.

"Do your worst, my ler. ~"

“Gasp! Lo-lo!” Logan blinked and, oh, when he opened his eyes Patton was on his vision field, with an adorable pout and arms crossed. “I can’t believe you’re going to tickle him first. I thought I was your favorite Gigglebug!”

Another grunt escaped from his lips. That was it. Logan was done.

“Patton…” He warned, mind already running to how to turn the tables before he got caught on their teases again.

“You’re definitely our favorite gigglebug, Pattycake.” Remus nodded, extending one of his arms behind him and pulling Patton swiftly when they locked their hands, succeeding in making them both sandwich the taller in a hug. He danced his fingers on the other’s neck, making his pout disappear in a soft huff. “Buuut, I have the best snorts and squeals here. So, sorry not sorry, it seems like I will be getting all the tickles today.”

“No, no!” Patton quickly jumped in on the playful demeanor, smiling and clinging on Logan from behind, bubbly giggles already escaping from his mouth. “My ler!!” He nuzzled between his shoulder blades, the sudden move leading the coffee-addicted one to arch his back, a silent gasp escaping from his lips.

“You are both being ridicuLOUS-” His voice hitched as Patton focused on a rather… sensitive spot on his back, too much next to his ribs and not away enough from his spine. “P-p-patton. Sssstop!”

Unfortunately, the fact of him holding the wrists of the hands resting peacefully under his armpits, trying to pry Patton away also meant he wasn’t paying nearly enough attention to the dangerous gleam surging on Remus’ eyes, nor the way his hands clawed in the air for a few seconds before descending on Logan’s hips, fishing a surprised shriek.

“REMUS!”

The aforementioned only smirked, thumbs digging on the ticklish flesh with ease, batting his eyelashes when Logan's awareness turned back at him, legs trying to kick himself away as his body squirmed in despair with the unexpected ruthless attack. “You’re going to tickle me first, right, nerd?”

“No!!” The adult didn’t even get a chance to answer before kisses were being deposited on the sides of his neck, an index finger tickling that exact spot where it connected with his back, switching between encircling the spot to lightly scribble, scribble, scribble right on the middle on it, being careful to not let a single inch unattended. “I am the first! You’re such an amazing, lovely and good Ler, Logan! I won’t even cover my face this time! All the giggles and laughter and smiles just for you, cutiepants.”

“Well, with me,” he highlighted the word by energetically scratching his others, previous free, fingers on his sides, delighted with the way the shorter’s laughter improved with it, “we can play all the tickle, tickly games he wants to! Hands up, Countdown, Don’t Smile, How Much Minutes Can You Endure… You name it, hot mess.”

And a mess he was, indeed. Especially when Patton decided to pull his shirt up, slowly spidering his hands under the fabric, a tingly sensation following his path, and giggling as he prodded his way up to skitter his long, absurdly, horribly, amazingly long nails on the back of his ribs, sending shivers and tingles non stop on his torso. Both attackers cooing in synchrony as guffaws and squeaks started to paint his frantic laughter.

“Lo-lo, don’t listen to him! I can help you to sing those nice, cute nursery rhymes that you like so much, remember? I love when we sing them together because you’re so great, smart and mean about it! Always doing things like crawling your fingers up, up, up, our ribs…” he punctuated his sentences by doing exactly what he described, “and then running them aaaaaall their way back to the sides!”

“Wait!! Damn! Wait, please, wahahahait!”

“Or when he discovers a new, horrible, unbearable spot,” Remus ignored the series of ‘nonono’s from the ‘victim’ as he focused two fingers on the patch of skin above his bellybutton, poking and pinching there, his free hand holding down the wrist that shoot in order to stop him “and he focuses all his attention on it, being sure to thoroughly tickle it and to remember us that we can wiggle and giggle all we want because we do absolutely nothing to stop it.”

“And also, how much we love all of this! All the attention,” Patton kissed behind his left ear, traveling to the other with small raspberries when Logan clued it on his shoulder, shaking his head, “all the care,” kiss “all the teases,” a big raspberry “all the tickles,” a series of tender, soft pecks along his cheeks and ears “and how much happy that makes us feel!!”

“And the best part? We will go on and on tickling you for hours and hours until we are all satisfied.”

“I can’t! I cahahan’t!”

“Yup!! We will just stay riiight here, giving you all the kitty kitty coo’s and coothie coothie coo’s you could ever want until we ask us to stop, okay? So, you just relax and enjoy it, Logie-bear.”

“Plehehease!”

“Tickle, tickle, tickle, nerd. What with that smile? Can’t take what you like to dish out? Tsk, such a pity, really. You know what is even greater, though? You can beg, you can say you’re sorry, you can promise to do anything we want but that won’t work. Do you know why?” Logan shook his head, a smile plastered on his face. “Because there is no reason for me to be doing this other than see you get tickled to pieces.”

“Oh no, my dear, it seems like the tickle monsters got you! Isn’t that amazing? Having two lovely monsters who knows all your melt, fluff spots giving you exactly what you love? Knowing precisely what to do or what to say to make you a cute, adorable puddle of laughter and giggles that you so much love and crave to be? Huh? You absolutely love this, don’t you, my blushy bear?”

“Enough! Enough!” Logan’s legs gave up, and in between his wheezing laughter, his yelps, squeaks and pleas a breathless ‘glasses’ made itself known, leading the tickling to a stop and to the three of them to lay carefully on the kitchen’s floor. Happy chuckles filling the silence.

Silence.

“So, did you choose which one of us you will tickle first?”

“Actually, Pat-Pat, I think we make a great team.”

Patton flung himself to the other, hugging him with a squeal. Remus couldn’t help but to reciprocate the touch, cooing over his excitement. “We do!!”

“I agree.” Maybe it was how much closer and lower Logan’s voice was, or because of the thousands of memories that tune brought that made both froze so instantly, goosebumps traveling across their bodies with shots of adrenaline. “And I am sure you will make a much more endearing one, with matching helpless laughter and excited smiles, when I catch you. ‘When’ and not ‘if’, because I will find and catch you two, my ticklish lees. And when we are all reunited I am certain you will love all the ideas and experiments I have for you.” They slowly turned back, joyful expressions as their gaze found the malefic, playful glint shining along with the slightly blush on the Logan’s face.

“You have five seconds.”

Patton grabbed Remus’ hand, pulling them up.

“Run.”

#:D #Honestly I saw the idea of tickling the ler until they tickle you back and this is just so mind blow I had to write something #asdfghjdfghjfghj #Logan being a shy ler is my everything #Remus and Patton woke up and choose violence/j #Ler!Patton #Ler!Remus #Lee!Logan #welll.. kind of #Ticklish!Logan #Sanders Sides tickles #Sanders Sides tickling #Kanene's fanfic #Kanene's fic #one day I will post this idea without feeling silly but that day is not today sdfghjdfrghyuj. I am proud of this tho <3 #mouth tickles #raspberries e tickly kisses #rough and light tickles

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capaimagines · 3 years

Text

jeong yunho - let me

Pairing: mafia leader!Yunho x Reader | Genre: angst | Warnings: mentions of physical assault, mentions of miscarriage, depression, alludes/suggestions to suicide, suicidal thoughts, weapons, swearing | WC: 2.3k

Request: Oh I'm glad you're requests are open! Can I request for a yunho mafia au where the reader is pregnant and was planning to tell him but the rival gang kidnap her. Maybe she gets really badly beaten and she's scared and yunho and San find her and she's even hesitant when they go to touch her??

You honestly don’t know how much time has passed since you’ve been trapped in this dark room that smelled of mold and rust. One of your eyes was swollen shut, your lip was bleeding because you could taste the iron every time you swallowed. You're pretty sure your wrist is broken unless it’s supposed to bend almost all the way to the back like that. Yet, you no longer felt any pain.

The last thing you remember was talking with San about how excited you were since you had found out you were pregnant. While San was part of the notorious mafia syndicate, ATEEZ, he was a softy on the inside, you were like his sister. He was helping you plan a small reveal party with the other boys so you could tell Yunho that you two were in fact going to have a baby.

Instead, now, you were here. In this crappy warehouse or house or room, you weren’t too sure. It’s too dark to tell and you had been knocked out before they grabbed you. You weren’t naïve enough to believe that something like this would never happen given Yunho’s career choice. You had just hoped that it would have happened before you were pregnant or after because even though it was the early stages, about ten weeks or so, you just knew earlier when your kidnapper kicked you multiple times in the stomach that there was no chance that kind of trauma could be good for you or your baby.

Which is probably why you felt numb now. You knew if you didn’t cough up information your life would be next, but you didn’t care. All that was running through your head was that there was way too much blood on the ground that you know didn’t come from your split lip or bleeding head. You wanted to throw up, you wanted to scream, cry and thrash about. Though, with your hands being tied way too tightly behind your back and your feet secured tightly, you couldn’t do that.

Plus, your life or not, you would never sell out Yunho. He was your husband. You loved him, despite how violent he could get. He was never violent with you or the people he cared about though. You were able to see the sweet, puppy-like features that you saw when you first met him in the small café you had been working at. You heard the door creek open and you stiffened.

“Ready to give me what I want?” You scoffed at your attacker’s voice, spitting blood on his feet.

You were instantly punched in return which caused you to let out a whimper, “Just kill me. I’m not giving you anything,” You tried to sound tough but you knew your voice sounded like anything but tough.

You weren’t giving him any information, especially now that you knew that blood was because of your baby. What more did you have left? It was your fault that you couldn’t protect your unborn child enough. You should have fought back more, blocked your stomach, begged or pleaded for him to hit you anywhere but there. Dying would be better than the torture your head was giving you. Torture that the guilt was giving you.

You closed your eyes when you saw him raise his knife, waiting for the blow but it never came. Instead, a single gunshot that had him screaming in pain and dropping his knife to the ground. You opened your eyes wide as more gunshots rang out, more screaming, eyes searching wildly for the one person you needed right now but you were soon distracted when you felt someone come up behind you which caused you to scream with the little energy you had left.

“Y/N! Hey, it’s me! It’s San!” He yelled frantically as you let yourself fall limp whilst he cut your bindings off and picked you up, staring at you worriedly.

“Y-Yunho, I need him. S-San, where's Yunho?” You whimpered as you gripped the collar of his shirt.

“He’s here, baby. He’s here, I promise. Now, let me get you out of here first,” He said as he expertly carried you out to their awaiting car, sprinting once he was outside. He saw the blood on the floor. He saw how pale and sickly you looked. He knew you didn’t have long if you didn’t get help now.

He threw the back of the door open, “Yeo! Hwa! You need to help her! Now!” He shouted in fear as he laid you down across the back seats.

Yeosang and Seonghwa gulped once they saw your state and immediately got to work. All of the boys loved you, you were their family. Sure, not all of them had been as welcoming as you would have hoped when you first met them, but that was expected. They were trained not to trust outsiders. Though you had a knack for making others feel comfortable around you. Thankfully it didn’t take too long for them to warm up to you.

“You can’t let her die,” San yelled as Yeosang glared at him, “She’s not going to San. Now shut up and get out of the way.”

As San went to move to get in the driver's seat, he remembered something vital, “Wait Yeo, Y/N’s pregnant. She only found out last night that she was a few months along,” Yeosang and Seonghwa wanted to be excited, wanted to be happy for you, but they couldn’t right now. There was certainly no baby if there was no you.

“I’ve got it San. Start driving and get us back home,” Yeosang said anxiously.

Once the boys arrived home, they cleaned and bandaged you up. Yeosang had already given you a heavy dose of a sedative, wanting you to at least sleep through tonight in some sort of comfort instead of crying out in pain.

“The baby?” San questioned weakly as he sat next to your bed. Yeosang looked to the floor, as Seonghwa intertwined his fingers with his and squeezed them to hint that it was okay to go on.

“We- there- no,” He said nervously, not being able to think of the right words to say in this kind of situation to which San looked confused, eyes darkening.

“What do you mean, no?” He stood up, feeling a little pissed to which Seonghwa cleared his throat, standing to full height, reminding him that he was not the one to blame.

“There was no heartbeat San, the baby is gone,” Yeosang explained, doing his best to keep his tears at bay. At that moment, Yunho burst through the doors, blood splattered on his clothes as he took your hand.

“Y/N, baby. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m here, I’m here now and that’s what matters. You’re okay, we’re okay,” He said as he kissed your temple and squeezed your hand. He looked up at Yeosang, eyes pleading for good news.

“She’s alright Yunho. Pretty banged up, but physically, she’ll heal with time,” Yeosang went to open his mouth, to tell him about the baby but San’s glare and Seonghwa’s harsh pinch to his arm had him closing it in a matter of seconds.

A few days later, you were awake and in an immense amount of pain. Your body hurt, your head hurt, your heart hurt. You had barely spoken three words since you woke up. Currently, you were seated by the window, staring out at the blue sky and bright sun. However, nothing felt right. You still felt empty and cold inside. Yunho had tried to hug you when you had first woken up but you flinched away, panicking at the thought of him holding you, someone touching you.

He had backed off and hadn’t tried to since. San had tried to grab your hand but you harshly pulled it away, refusing to look at him. It had hurt; San was probably the one boy you were closest too and now you could hardly bring yourself to face him. Let alone, your husband. You weren’t blaming them for anything. You weren’t angry or upset with them, but you were with yourself.

How could you look at your husband, knowing that you had killed your child? The little boy or girl that would have been running around in months, bringing joy to everyone’s lives, was now gone. All because you didn’t try hard enough to protect them. How could you look at San, your best friend, knowing that the reason he would never get to see the face of his niece or nephew was because you didn’t block your attackers kicks? It was all your fault, only you were to blame.

Wooyoung had tried talking to you, but you refused. How could you look at the people that have treated you like nothing but family and tell them that all you thought about when sitting by that window was if it was high enough to kill you if you jumped? How could you tell them that you wanted nothing more than to just die? It would be much better than this guilt you were carrying.

Yunho frowned as he watched you, staring blankly out the window as he slowly made his way towards you, placing a kiss on your head. You jumped, turning around with wide eyes but relaxing when you saw it was him.

He had his hands held up in surrender, “Sorry, I’m sorry baby. I just- missed you, that’s all. I forgot,” He sighed.

You offered him a weak smile, patting his hand. You could hold his hand for a minute, until the guilt ate away at you and you’d have to let go.

“Let me help you, Y/N. Please. I love you. Just talk to me,” He begged.

You felt even more guilt pile up as his voice cracked. How could he still love you after all this? You bit your tongue, refusing to say anything. You just couldn’t. Not now and maybe not ever.

“S-San told me about the baby,” He said as he noticed the way you tensed up and refused to meet his gaze. He now knew why you were acting this way, “It’s not your fault, not even close. We’ll get through this, please just let me help you. I’ll have someone to come talk to you. Someone who knows nothing of this life. Please, baby. Please.”

You still didn’t say anything, unshed tears building up in your eyes. He knew that you failed to protect one of the most precious things to you. He didn’t want to leave, but he had too. He had another job and he needed to be there, “I’ll find someone. You’ll talk to them and everything will be okay soon,” He hoped it would be okay, but you knew you would never be okay again.

You were left alone, still trapped in your mind. Then, you couldn’t take it anymore. It was silent but you knew Yunho had left one of the boys behind in case you needed anything. So, you did your best to stay quiet as you made your way to the bathroom and grabbed the pills and you swallowed them all, without hesitation. It didn’t take long for you to feel numb, dizzy, it was hard to breath, but a broken rib or two could do that to you. You laid in your bed, closing your eyes and for the first time in a week, you felt at peace.

***

“Don’t you dare let her, die! She is not going to die. I swear to god if you let her die, I will NOT forgive you,” Yunho bellowed.

You were cold and clammy. Barely breathing as Seonghwa and Yeosang tried to bring you back. Yunho was not going to let you die. He shouldn’t have left. He should have sent someone else and stayed here with you, because now did he not only lose his child, he was also close to losing his wife. Until he heard the beat of the heart monitor. Until he saw you gasp in a breath of air, starting to scream as to why they saved you. Why they brought you back. How could they bring you back after what you did?

His heart broke and before he could stop himself, he was wrapping his arms around you and squeezing you to his chest. Kissing your temple and letting his tears fall, “It’s okay, Y/N. You’re here. I’m here. The boys are here. We’ve got you and we’re going to get through this. By God, we’re going to get through this,” He said as you clung to him, screaming and sobbing. You missed his touch, his comfort.

One by one, the others wrapped themselves around the two of you. They would be damned if they let you die. They’d be here, always, and if that meant getting out of this life, they’d do it. They would do it if it meant they could help you, keep you. Yunho had already made up his mind. Maybe they couldn’t leave this life entirely just yet, but someone else could run the business until you were healed.

Until then, he was going to sit by your side every day. He was going to be there for you every waking moment. He was going to spend whatever time he had left in this life showing you, telling you that you deserved to be here. That it wasn’t your fault and that he would always love you.

For the first time, you felt that maybe, just maybe- it would be okay. Maybe not now, maybe not anytime soon, but one day it will be okay. You will be okay.

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disgruntledspacedad · 3 years

Text

in defense of Din’s subdued reaction to losing the kid...

gif by @quantam-widow

I know we were all thinking it. We got a 2 second reaction shot to the destruction of the Razor Crest (may she forever rest in peace), but then, Grogu gets taken, and... nothing?

What the fuck, Din? we all protest. That’s your baby on that ship! Don’t you care? Scream, curse, kick a rock, cry, make a fist, something!!

I will acknowledge that so far, the show has been excellent with giving us emotional payoff, am I right? I mean, just today we got Din laughing, twice. Twice in a row. I honestly never thought we’d see that. There have been so many excellent, precious soft!Din moments this season, and they all feel deliciously earned.

So, from a meta POV, I guess I’m saying that I have faith in the writers to get it right, and in Pedro to deliver. Duh.

In universe, though, I think it’s fair to point out the obvious - that Din is a pretty reserved guy. He’s much more of a thinker than a feeler. He’s used to keeping things bottled up, and I would even argue that his life often depends on his ability to dissociate from his emotions. Din’s entire journey so far has been about how one little baby yodito shakes his worldview to its very foundations. He’s getting there, but it’s a slow process.

And also, consider this - we haven’t seen Din alone yet, not since Grogu was taken. For a guy who lives a guarded life literally encased in fucking armor, any display of emotion is going to be carefully protected until he’s in private.

But anyway, Din is detached, rational, a little emotionally constipated, and definitely comfortable in a stressful situation. A true ISTP if you ask me (yeah, I know you didn’t, but whatever). Often, it seems that these cool headed, logical types who have never ruffled a feather over anything in their lives are the least adept at handling genuine fear. In other words, when panic does strike, it strikes them hard.

And guys, Din was definitely panicking during this episode.

He’s clearly unsettled from the jump - that outburst of “dank farrik!” in the cockpit sells it, and his distress only becomes more obvious from there. Talking out loud, trying to convince himself that the best thing for Grogu is for him to be trained as a Jedi. Reminding himself of the creed. His overt caution as they approach the seeing stone. His impatience, “Are you seeing anything??”

Then there’s the effects of long term stress. Sure, a bounty hunter in the outer rim doesn’t exactly live an easy life, but Din is definitely used to the drama being on his terms. Compare Din’s body language in the opening scene of season one to when Boba confronts him in chapter fourteen. You can just feel the anxiety, the weariness, the frustration. Din has been on the run for months now, constantly looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open. Notice how he even startles at Fennec’s voice? Season one Din would never have given that much away, regardless of the situation. Long term stress has clearly taken a toll on him.

So we have unsettled, stressed out Din in an emotionally charged situation. He’s exhausted, he’s scared, he’s desperate. This scenario is a recipe for even the most level-headed of adrenaline junkies to loose their cool, and that’s exactly what happens to Din. He panics, and he makes some pretty big fuckups because of it. Leaving Grogu unprotected, twice. Trying three different times to break through that “force field,” even when he knew he couldn’t. Dropping that jetpack and then just forgetting about it (I know we were all screaming about that one, or at least, I was).

So, fear is a positive feedback loop. Those neurotransmitters that do us good in a bad situation - raising heart rate, narrowing focus, shunting blood to the muscles - can also be detrimental if we get too high of a dose - tachypnea and tachycardia, inability to think critically and see the big picture, lack of blood and oxygen to the brain. Epinephrine, in particular, even inhibits the laying down of new memory pathways. In other words, stress leads to poor performance, and poor performance leads to more stress, which leads to... you get the idea.

Then, in the middle of all this chaos, they fucking blast the Razor Crest.

More epinephrine, more cortisol, more stress.

By the end of it all, Din is a fucking shitstorm of stress hormones and pent up emotions. Notice how he seems to be on autopilot in the immediate aftermath, robotically scanning the ashes of the Crest for anything that might be left intact. Notice how empty his voice is when he says, “the child is gone.” This is a dead man walking. Din has nothing left. His whole life has just gone up in smoke, and he can do nothing about it.

Guys, Din is holding onto his sanity by a fucking thread in this scene. “The child is gone,” he says, like he’s reminding himself, grounding himself in his shitty reality. He’s stunned.

And helpless. There’s literally nothing he can do for Grogu. He has no ship, no credits, no resources, nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer. Din literally cannot allow himself the luxury of feelings right now. He’s just got to focus on surviving this very shitty day.

Then, Boba Fett upholds his end of the deal, and suddenly, Din has something to hold onto. An ally, a badass friend, some hope. I don’t think Boba shows Din that chain code in order to verify his claim on the armor - he’s already wearing it, for godssake. I think Boba shows him the code in order to catch Din’s attention - hey friend, I know you’re hurting, but I’m a man of my word. When I make a vow, I keep it. Let’s regroup and go find your kid.

And Din would totally latch onto that. A fighting chance? Din fucking leaps at it. There’s a job to do. A kid to save. All of those stress hormones are going to keep on stewing, because Din has never really come down from his adrenaline high.

It’s like this in real life, too. There isn’t time to be afraid. There isn’t time to be sad, or second-guess, or say, oh how terrible, or wonder what if it doesn’t work? There’s just you and the job, and if you are the only thing standing between life and death, you will put everything else aside and do what you have to do, for as long as you have to do it.

And that’s where Din is at this moment. He’s running on the fumes of his adrenaline, all tempered focus, all strategy and no bullshit.

Emotional shock, my therapist buddy calls it. Apparently, it’s normal. Expected, even.

But guys, the fallout of this kind of crazy ass adrenaline high is insanely intense. I’m talking collapse to the floor, legs won't hold you, trembling, crying so hard you sling snot, shuddering breaths, stare dead-eyed and spent at the ceiling because you’re just too wiped out to even sleep kind of intense.

And then, after the breakdown comes the angst. The detailed thinking. The oh god, what if this had happened, or, should I have done that instead? It seems like every emotion that gets put on the back burner in the moment comes back to bite you with twofold intensity when all is said and done.

In other words, Din is definitely going to feels some things .A lot of very intense things. A reckoning is coming, my dudes. Trust me. It’s just not quite here yet.

That being said, here’s what I can expect from Din going forward:

Just like he’s is slow to acknowledge his growing parental feelings for Grogu, I think Din’s going to be slow at processing his grief at Grogu’s loss. In the next episode, he’s got plenty to distract him - getting together his hit team to take back the kid and coordinating an attack on the empire.

However, I do think we’ll get a slow moment with Din, probably sometime at the beginning of next week’s episode if the pattern holds. I doubt it’s the full-blown breakdown that we’re all needing, but I’m willing to bet money that we’ll see Din grappling with the fact that his kid is gone. I also think that badass beskar murder machine Din from chapter three will resurface. Stress and desperation make us do irrational things, and anger is one of the stages of grief that Din will inevitably have to work through (I think he’s flickering between denial and bargaining for now).

But then, after Din gets Grogu back? I think that’s we’ll have our big, dearly earned emotional payoff.

For one thing, Din won’t be able to deny his feelings anymore. He wants to keep this kid, it’s so very obvious. Losing him just forces it all to the forefront.

And then the relief/joy/regret/guilt that Din is going to feel once he’s got Grogu back? Not to mention the physical exhaustion? All of the fear/terror/angst/grief that he ignored in favor of just going pedal to the metal, guns blazing, get the kid or die trying? That shit’s going to crash into him with all the subtly of a fucking tsunami. I guarantee you, we’re going to get some sort of confession, or adoption vow, or face revel, or other sort of profound softness from Dad!Din in the falling action of this season (At least, I hope we get it at the end this season but I wouldn’t put it past them to kick it into the premier of season three, just for pacing reasons, but then again, I obviously have trust issues).

Personally, I would love to see Din grappling with the long-term fallout of losing Grogu - night terrors, guilt, paranoia, etc. That’s probably the stuff of fanfiction - mandalorians don't have nightmares on screen, surely - but still, some lingering effects Grogu’s kidnapping would be realistic, and I would absolutely live for it.

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hale-13 · 3 years

Text

Detached

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 25 Prompt - Isolation

Truth is, Peter didn’t do the best alone. He was an extrovert at heart and probably had some repressed abandonment issues he’d rather not think about right now but this was fine. He was fine.

Words: 3213, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, May Parker, Tony Stark

TW: Depression, Delirium, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Descent into Madness

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

Peter groaned, squinting his eyes shut further instead of trying to open them. His head was throbbing and his thoughts were sluggish and dizzy. He could tell he was lying down but everything seemed to be spinning around him making him feel nauseous – he swallowed down the bile attempting to rise in his throat and took deep breaths through his nose. Mind over matter and all that. Once he felt a little more steady, Peter took stock.

The floor he was lying on was hard and cold and he was positioned awkwardly with his arms folded under him, tingles running through them painfully from the compression of veins and arteries. Carefully, Peter cracked his eyes open. The room he was in was dark and the air had the damp quality of somewhere underground and Peter blinked his eyes shut again. Yeah he had no idea where he was or how he got here.

With effort, he rolled over to lie flat on his back but made no attempt to try and sit up yet. The last thing he remembered was getting up for school. It was Friday and he was looking forward to going to Ned’s after school and spending the weekend having movie marathons and building the newest Star Wars Lego kit Ned had picked up with his birthday money. He remembered getting ready to leave, pulling his Spider-Man suit from his bag and hiding it in his closet (he had promised to take a break since he had been overdoing just a little over the last few weeks), he thumbed past a text from Mr. Stark – he didn’t want to read anything from him right now, fighting stressed him out and he didn’t want to deal with it…

He left his apartment. He was going to walk to school instead of taking the subway because it was hot out and he was feeling a little sensitive today and he wasn’t sure he could handle the smell. His Spidey sense had been tingling since he had gotten up that morning but it had been doing that off and on for days since his fight with…

He was walking to school. Everything was fine.

But now he’s here? How did it happen? Peter’s head throbbed lowly and threateningly as he tried to wrack his memory for the answer so he stopped and tried to make himself relax. He was probably kidnapped right? He had been kidnapped a couple times before and he knew how this worked. Once his assailants realized he was awake and semi-aware they would come in to highlight their terms, probably rough him up a bit and then Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes would track him down and break him out.

But… would Mr. Stark really come to get him now? After everything.

‘Don’t think about that Peter,’ he told himself. He was already about five seconds from a panic attack and that just wouldn’t do. He needed to keep it together. If his captors thought he was breaking so early things could get so much worse. He was fine. Just some deep breaths.

Peter opened his eyes again. The room was almost too dark to see anything, lit only by a small red emergency light in one corner that left strange shadows and distorted shapes and colors. The room was small – maybe ten feet by ten feet if he was lucky – and mostly empty. There were three large cases with water bottles and a few boxes of crackers in one corner and a metal toilet was in the other. A haphazard pile of ratty looking blankets that smelled like mildew were a few feet away from Peter.

This was new. He was almost never provided water or food in the few times he had been taken before, not that he was gone long enough to need anything.

Something felt off.

Using every bit of strength he had left, Peter levered himself up and leaned heavily against the wall while his vision span in circles and nausea crept back up his throat. Whatever he had been dosed with must have been pretty potent to leave him feeling like this. So plans. He would wait to see what the people who took him wanted. He would let his metabolism work off the drugs. Maybe he would crawl over and grab a bottle of water once he felt a little more steady and hope that they hadn’t been tampered with.

It was all a waiting game.

————————————————

Okay so this was weird.

Peter took another sip of his - up tampered thank god – water and swirled it around in his mouth. It had easily been at least a few hours since he had woken up and no one had come through the solid metal door that Perter had yet been able to break through. Someone always came in to monologue.

And it just proved that whoever took him knew he was Spider-Man since he wasn’t able to break out.

“This is fine,” Peter said out loud just to hear something. “They’re just working on a longer timeline is all.”

Truth is, Peter didn’t do the best alone. He was an extrovert at heart and probably had some repressed abandonment issues he’d rather not think about right now but this was fine. He was fine.

More time passed.

And more time.

Pulling one of the blankets around his shoulders and wedging himself into a corner Peter curled tightly around his legs. He was tired and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the drugs or if it had been that long he had been trapped here. Regardless he figured he may as well take a nap. Hopefully it would encourage some asshole into bursting into the room to wake him up and, if it didn’t, maybe sleeping would help clear the remaining fog from Peter’s head.

His sleep was anything but easy though. He woke up continuously as if startled and it took forever to relax enough again to doze. He had nightmares; little nebulous things that made little sense and faded the second he woke up but left his respiratory rate elevated and his heart thudding in his chest. It took time but he eventually was tired enough to sleep deep enough not to dream.

When he woke up the room was completely unchanged and Peter gulped. His mind was spiraling and taking him to dark places and it wasn’t the time to go there yet. He hadn’t even been here for that long he didn’t think. Maybe not even a full day. It wasn’t time to freak out yet.

Peter distracts himself by grabbing another water bottle and a pack of the peanut butter crackers. He eats three of them and saves the rest of the pack for later. Washes it down with a few sips of water and tries to ignore the aching and cramping in his stomach as it growls. Something is telling him to ration his food and water. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to be stuck here after all but it can’t be that much longer right? Mr. Stark will come to get him. He wouldn’t leave him here.

The ‘day’ passes slowly. Peter paces the full length of the room, he searches every nook and cranny for cameras or microphones. He tries to take apart the emergency light but its completely sealed and he doesn’t want to tamper with it and potentially leave himself in complete darkness. He counts his water bottles (one hundred forty-eight since he already drank two) and his crackers (forty-nine and a half packs) and organizes and reorganizes them. He paces some more and practices his breathing exercises.

He falls into an uneasy sleep.

“Okay time to come up with a plan,” Peter tells himself the next day. “A feasible plan.”

He comes up with nothing. He likes brainstorming but he’s always needed to write things down to properly organize anything and he has nothing to write with but blood and nothing to write on but the wall. He’s not desperate enough to do that.

Instead he does fifty push up and sit ups. It feels good to do something physical so he jogs around the room for what’s probably a few hours. He stops when he drains a full bottle of water in a second and he can’t do that. He doesn’t know how long he’s here and he has to ration and what if no one comes to get him and he’s stuck here forever and he runs out of food and water a human can only go without water for a few days and…

Peter gasps and collapses to his knees, bowing his face down to rest his forehead on the cool stone floor as the room spins from lack of oxygen and he tries to control his breathing. Four-Seven-Eight. He remembers that from his, very few, therapy appointments after Ben. Four-Seven-Eight. Four-Seven-Eight.

It’s not working.

Peter sobs brokenly and his throat feels like its closing, his vision is spinning and dimming his muscles are weak and-

He wakes up with a gasp and a cough some untold amount of time later. His head hurts from the panic attack and he lets himself cry quietly for a few minutes. He’s alone. He hates being alone.

How long has he been here?

The laugh that bubbles up from his chest is a little unhinged and that just won’t do. Peter needs to lock it down and get his shit together because he can’t just sit here and lose it because that is flat out unacceptable.

So he gets up and walks around the bare room. He does some yoga that he had been learning from Pepper and May and focuses on his breathing since breathing is important in yoga. When he’s done he does some cool down stretches and feels a lot better. More steady. He eats the other three crackers in the pack he opened up and drinks some water. He’s tired so he curls back up in the corner with his blanket and pillows his head on his arm.

He wakes up and the room is unchanged.

Again.

How long has he been here?

Peter’s stomach feels like its actually eating itself so he eats a couple crackers and indulges in half a bottle of water. It does nothing to make him more full but he pretends it does. He feels a little weak and out of it this ‘morning’ and he stumbles as he walks laps around the room. He hasn’t gone this long without a decent meal since he was bitten and its freaking him out a little.

The yoga worked yesterday. He’s going to do more of that he thinks.

His limbs are shakier than yesterday and he gets out of breath on some of the more advanced poses so he slows down and really takes the time to work through each new position and hold it before slowly transitioning to the next. He’s exhausted when he finishes and can barely do a short cool down due to his painful muscles so he just lies flat on his back for a while and breathes through it.

His head itches from the sweat he’s worked up and when he scratches at his scalp his fingernails come away with little balls of dead skin and blood under them and he crinkles his nose. He hasn’t gone this long without a proper shower in… a long time and he hates it. He wants to be clean. His hair is greasy and flat and flopping into his face.

He could use some of the water. He doesn’t have soap and its not the same as a shower but…

No. He needs to save the water. He can handle being dirty for a few more days. A week tops. He’ll be out of here soon. Maybe he should take a nap to pass the time? He is kinda sleepy from his workout, a nap would be nice.

When he wakes up again he doesn’t bother moving. He’s really tired and its not like he has anywhere to be so what’s the point?

He closes his eyes again.

He’s only eaten two full packs of crackers since he got here so Peter decides to gorge himself and eat a full pack of six and drink a full bottle of water. His throat is dry and his tongue is sticky and tacky in his mouth from dehydration so the food and water are like nectar and ambrosia to him. But…

He had more water right?

Peter counts the bottles and comes up two short. That’s impossible, he’s alone and he didn’t drink two extra bottles so where did they go? His breath is coming out in hasty pumps as he panics and counts again. No! He’s missing three bottles! How is this happening?

Peter stumbles up and goes to the door. Someone has to have come in while he was asleep and taken the water so that means the door was opened. He scrabbles at the edges, tearing his nails to shreds and smearing blood everywhere as he tears at the hinges to try to get it opened. It has to open!

His breath is coming too fast and his lungs are burning and his eyes are burning and he’s choking and falling to the floor and-

He wakes up curled in a ball by the door feeling out of it but more in control. He drags himself back to his pile of water bottles and, very carefully, counts them again.

And once more.

He isn’t missing any after all, he just didn’t count correctly. Peter wants to laugh. Peter wants to cry. He does neither. His muscles are tight and on the verge of cramping so he does some light stretches to try to work everything out. It helps a little but he feels too tired and out of it to do laps around the room or yoga and he’s afraid to meditate so he curls back up in the corner again. He’s hungry but he doesn’t dare eat anymore crackers since he had a full pack already today.

Or was it yesterday?

He decides it doesn’t matter – he can’t eat them right now. What he can do is sleep so he does.

His dream is about May. About sitting in the kitchen and listening to classic rock and pretending to do his homework but really gossiping about his classmates and her about her coworkers while she burns pork chops in the oven. They laugh while they fan the smoke away from the blaring fire alarm and out the open window and pull out a take out menu at random from the drawer. They aren’t picky eaters and they’re curled up on the couch watching Stranger Things with tacos. May jumps and launches her taco toward the ceiling and they spend the rest of the night cleaning avocado off the popcorn ceiling.

He wakes up with silent tears leaking down his face and a feeling of desolation eating up his insides. It feels like his heart is clenching and like his chest is closing in painfully and his stomach doesn’t ache from hunger for once but feels like a tightly clenched back hole instead. Peter doesn’t bother wiping his face, just turns over to face the wall and curls up even tighter. It’s too hard to move.

It’s a few days later that his legs start cramping whenever he moves them too suddenly and he feels like screaming from the resisting burning pain. He isn’t really hungry anymore but he forces down a couple of crackers everyday and tries to drink at least half a bottle of water. He’s losing weight as his metabolism eats at his minimal fat stores before starting on his muscles and he panics again when he notices his stomach is starting to become concave.

How long has he been here?

Peter supposes it makes sense though. Why would Mr. Stark come for him now? After what he did? His mentor may be the very definition of a helicopter parent but he wasn’t strict and if Peter would have just listened to him… but now he’s alone.

Peter sniffs loudly. He’s cried a few times since he’s been here but he hasn’t let himself break down. He’s tried to keep it together but is it really worth it? He’s alone. No one’s coming for him.

He’s going to die here. Alone.

He sobs. He wants to cry but the tears won’t come so all that’s left are painful, hitching breaths and horrible whining sounds. He doesn’t think he even sounds human anymore and maybe he isn’t. He doesn’t feel human.

He doesn’t make the effort to eat or drink that day and the next time he wakes up he’s too weak to even crawl over to the pile of water bottles and crackers. He decides that it’s a good thing. He can feel himself losing it, can feel himself falling apart and at least this way he’ll go quicker. He can’t stand this. He can’t stand being alone. He wants May. He wants Ned and MJ. He wants Mr. Stark. He doesn’t want to die and he really doesn’t want to die alone.

This isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t-

He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. He hadn’t seen May in two days before he was taken due to her schedule and now he’d never see her again. He was the last of her family and he was being selfish and leaving her alone. He’d already taken away he husband and now look at him? He breaks everything he touches.

He’s tired. He’s so tired. Peter lets his eyes close. He’s just going to nap.

“Kiddo? Rhodey he’s not responding he looks… fuck Rhodey clear me a path I’ve got to get him out of here! Peter, its me kid. You’re okay I’m going to take care of everything now so you just relax alright? Rhodes I swear to god if you don’t handle it.”

Peter frowns in his delirium. That voice sounds like Mr. Stark but that’s impossible. Peter’s dead. He was dying. He gave up right?

“I’ve got you buddy you’re going to be just fine,” the voice says again and it sounds a little robotic – just like Mr. Stark does in the Iron Man armor actually. He feels like he’s floating. “You’re aunt and I have been worried sick Petey, you didn’t even send a postcard!” The voice is trying to be humorous but is falling flat. It’s nice though. It’s been a long time since Peter has heard anything but his own thoughts.

“Just a quick little flight Webs,” he’s told, the ground rocking under him. It almost feels like being carried and it warms him just a little. His brain has been sabotaging him at every turn but at least its making his death peaceful.

“No no buddy,” the voice sounds a little frantic but its like listening through a pool of water. “Stay with me Peter, you’re going to be okay just stay with me.”

He hates disappointing the voice but he’s tired.

So tired.

Peter drifts.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump25 #Prompt: Isolation #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump 2021

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elisaphoenix13 · 3 years

Text

Family Bonds

"Trade you my turkey sandwich for yours."

William stares at his twin as he slurps his soda noisely, ignoring the annoyed look Cassie is giving him from across the table. He had adopted quite a few mannerisms from the family after he finally felt comfortable expressing himself, and the noisy drinking could have easily been learned from Harley or Peter. Thomas didn't even look bothered. He just lifted the top slice of bread to show the fixings of the sandwich and it was enough explanation for his seemingly weird question.

It was devoid of honey mustard. William despised the stuff, but for some reason Thomas loved it. It was disgusting and he had no problem shoving the sandwich in front of him over to his twin. Once he got his blessedly honey mustard free sandwich from Thomas, he finally set his can of soda down.

"Mom probably wasn't paying attention when he was putting our lunches together." Thomas says.

"I don't blame him. He was frazzled this morning because Valerie and Lucy are sick." Cassie points out and then takes a bite of her salad. "Tony has meetings all day today so he can't help with them."

"How do you even know this? You weren't upstairs at all this morning." William points out.

"Dude, she's Mom's underling. Cassie is starting to just know things." Thomas snorts.

Cassie smiles. "Actually, he texted me and asked me to pick up some medicine for them after school. But I'm flattered you think I'm at that level."

"You are." The twins say in unison.

Cassie just rolled her eyes in response and they ate their lunch with the usual chatter. Classes, teachers, assignments, the newest rumor, and what they planned to do after school. The three of them normally walked home together (or William portaled them if he was up to it), and one of the things they knew they were going to do is go buy some medicine. Cassie also said she wanted to pick up some stuff to bake and decorate cupcakes and when Thomas asked about the occasion, she said it was just because. William didn't mind. He really liked her baking, not just because it always tasted amazing, but she also did a really great job decorating them. She even decorated them without going overboard with the icing which some professionals did.

The amount of icing should not equal the size of the cupcake.

"Maybe we can pick up some strawberries and whipped cream? Val likes to share those with me." William says.

"Sure. Mom said we could pick up whatever snacks we want anyway." Cassie replies.

"I need more pens too." Thomas says around his mouthful of sandwich.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Cassie huffs.

William half expected his twin to open his mouth just to gross Cassie out, but Thomas didn't and instead chewed and swallowed his food. Stephen reprimanded him for it on occasion as well, so it was probably finally starting to sink in. When they finished their lunches and tossed their garbage into the nearest trash can, the bell rang for class and they said their temporary goodbyes before they headed to their classes. William had a class by himself next period, but Thomas and Cassie had their next class together. In the past, when he didn't have classes with Thomas or Cassie, he used to feel alone. Now he didn't care. School actually got a lot better for him and his brother ever since Stephen and Tony took them in.

They used to be bullied for jumping from one foster home to another, for the crappy clothes each home barely managed to put on their backs...and they even went days without food, bathing, or adequate sleep. It was depressing. William and Thomas decided they would prefer to live on the streets than deal with more abuse, and it was barely a week later when Cassie brought Stephen to them. At the time, William barely trusted her, but he trusted her enough for him and his brother to go home with them. Maybe it was some kind of desperate hope that it would be different than before, that they would be shown the care and love they deserved.

When it was, William and Thomas didn't know what to do. Right off the bat they were given a hot meal, a hot shower, warm beds, quality clothing...an endless list of things. William was personally afraid that it was too good to be true, but as time went on, nothing changed. Well nothing except him and Thomas being moved up to the penthouse once Tony was done building their rooms. The penthouse was huge and probably had room for five more bedrooms, but it was nice to be close to their new parents and siblings. The twins, of course, still went downstairs to visit Wanda and Vision for movies or lunches, but being upstairs made them happy. At least William. He enjoyed the feeling of family he got from the two men and the other kids. He even felt part of it. He was part of it.

Now he was happily in a relationship with Harley, and he also enjoyed spending time with Valerie. He was one of the few she would spend time with if Stephen wasn't available and it made him feel special. He also liked that she was so easy to please. If he needed to keep an eye on her, he could put on her favorite movie and she would lay with him until she ultimately fell asleep, or she would color while he did his homework. Just like Diana followed Cassie around a lot, William had his own little duckling following him.

When the school day was finally over, he went to his locker to put away the books he didn't need and Thomas and Cassie met him just as he was closing it.

"Ready to go?" Cassie asks.

"Yeah. Maybe I'll help with Val today." William says.

"Mom will probably appreciate it. Apparently Tony has work he needs to do and can't put it off any longer." She says as they walk out of the building.

They walk as quickly as they can to the nearest store, and William has to keep himself from laughing when he notices how antsy Thomas seems to be. He was constantly found bouncing his knee while sitting or looking ready to bolt when standing that one would think Stephen and Tony didn't regularly try to give him a place to run as much as he wanted. Which wasn't the case. Their mother always opened a portal to the lake house for Thomas when he looked ready to vibrate out of his skin or whenever he asked. William was a little luckier that he could practice his magic as long as he was careful.

Cassie was quick to find the medicine Stephen wanted for the little girls, and then the three teens gathered the snacks they wanted before heading to the front to buy everything. Usually they would be picking up Diana by now but she had a half day so someone else picked her up. All they had to do was walk home. William teleported them this time because they had cold items that he wanted to stay cold when he made his and Valerie's usual snack.

"Hey Mom!" Thomas grabs the box of cheez-its that Stephen was already holding out for him when they arrived. "Thanks!" He says before running into his room.

"Here's the medicine." Cassie says as she digs it out of the grocery bag and hands it to Stephen.

"Oh, good. Thank you. It's time for their next dose." Stephen sighs as he digs out a small medicine cup and also a medicine dropper. "I knew I had just enough until you kids got home. Would you mind taking Diana downstairs with you for tonight?"

"Sure!"

William pulls out the strawberries and whipped cream and joins Stephen at the counter to cut the fruit. He could hear Cassie telling Diana to get her homework, toothbrush, and pajamas together and saw Lucy sleeping in the playpen in the living room. Considering that Stephen looked a little tired when they got home, one or both of the girls had been fussing all day because they weren't feeling well, but William was intent on helping him out now.

"Is Val asleep?" William asks Stephen.

"Maybe. She's in bed watching The Little Mermaid if she's not." He replies as he gently places the cup filled with pink gloop in front of the teen. "Don't let her have too much whipped cream and make sure she finishes this please."

"Okay."

William scoops the strawberry pieces into a bowl and some whipped cream into a smaller bowl before gathering them together and grabbing the medicine and juice box that Stephen also set in front of him. He also grabbed a breakfast bed tray on his way out of the kitchen so Valerie would be able to access the snacks easier and not spill. William had put his backpack down on one of the stools at the counter so it was out of the way, but if he didn't grab it soon, he was pretty sure he would find it in his bedroom. Stephen knew he was good about taking it straight to his bedroom, but considering the circumstances, he would send it to William's bedroom through a small gateway. So he left it on the stool in favor of getting up to Valerie.

She was sharing Diana's room now that Stephen and Tony had moved the toddler out of their room, but she was still prone to getting up in the middle of the night and climbing into bed next to Stephen. Once she was past that stage, she would be moved permanently into her own room. It was already ready for her, and she used it to play in and sometimes for naps, but Diana's room was closer to the master bedroom. Valerie's was closer to William's, and he fully expected to find her in his bed when she was in her room.

Diana and Cassie pass by William as he walks into the bedroom, and he closes the door once they leave and turns to look at Valerie in her bed. She was awake and blearily watching her favorite movie as William placed everything on the nightstand so he can set up the tray. When she notices his presence, she immediately makes room for him and he lays on the bed next to her, smiling when she snuggles into his side.

"Hey angel. Brought you a snack." He says softly.

"Berries?" Valerie whispers.

"You know it. You gotta take some medicine first though okay?"

"Yucky." She makes a face when William grabs it from the nightstand but takes it and drinks it anyway.

"You can wash it down with juice and strawberries." William laughs and grabs the juice box and opens it while the little girl sits up. "Here you go."

"Thank you Liam." She says quietly and sips her juice.

"You're welcome."

He then grabbed the two bowls and put them on the tray that he had set up over her legs and she puts her juice box on it to eat some of the fruit. William didn't even have to cut her off from the whipped cream. Valerie didn't seem very interested in eating much of it, and he was able to make up for it since she didn't double dip. He made sure to teach her not to do that when she started sharing snacks with him.

"Can you stay?" Valerie asks softly after a few minutes.

"Like sleep in here?"

"Uh-huh."

The teen looks over at Diana's bed and then back at Valerie. "Sure. Dia is gonna stay with Cassie tonight so I can sleep in her bed."

The smile his answer brought to his little sister's face was worth it. He was almost one hundred percent certain she would crawl into bed with him eventually but he wasn't worried about getting sick. If he did, it wouldn't be a big deal. Stephen would undoubtedly stay home again and make sure William was taken care of despite the fact that he was older than the girls and capable of taking care of himself, but the teen was happy knowing he had someone to go to for something as simple as not feeling well. He didn't really have that luxury when he was in the other homes. The foster parents would basically tell him to suck it up and go to school anyway. He learned to suffer in silence after a few times of that happening.

He and Thomas even did their silent suffering after being taken in by Stephen and Tony, but the silence didn't last long. Stephen very quickly found out (as Harley and Peter warned it would happen) and he gently scolded them for not going to him. The sorcerer dropped everything to take care of them and it was the best thing the twins ever experienced. Stephen brought them soup, medicine, and made sure they were warm and comfortable enough. William hardly noticed he was sick.

Stephen came into the room about an hour later, and halfway through Cinderella, to find Valerie cocooned in her blankets against William and sleeping soundly. The teen had since set the tray aside to get more comfortable and he pointed to the empty medicine cup before the sorcerer could even ask.

"She took it all."

Stephen smiles softly. "Thank you. Tony is finally done with work so he's taking care of Lucy now. Did you want to get up?"

"No. I'm okay for now. I told her I would sleep in here with her tonight anyway." William replies quietly so not to disturb the toddler.

"I'm sure that will keep her from being scared. Any requests for dinner?" Stephen asks.

"Food."

The sorcerer looks at him flatly. "You're no longer allowed to date Harley. He's clearly rubbing off on you."

William smiles. He knew Stephen wasn't actually serious, and the smile his mother gave him before leaving the room was confirmation. He ended up having to eat dinner in the room with Valerie when Harley brought it up for them later that night, and he did his homework on Diana's bed while Valerie watched another movie before going to bed for the night. Fortunately he didn't have much homework and was able to go to bed at a decent time, and he double checked to make sure his sister was asleep and okay before he went to sleep.

As he predicted, he woke up with Valerie in bed next to him, curled against his side, and the plus side?

Her fever had broken.

#mama bear au #william kaplan #thomas shepherd #cassie lang #stephen strange #valerie stark strange (oc)

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snarkythewoecrow · 3 years

Note

Okay I’m so obsessed with all your writing especially looking for normal! Idk if you’re interested in writing any more ~drug~ related stories but I think it would be really interesting to see Peter starting to abuse Adderall in order to study or finish college applications or something! Like if Peter was super jittery and on edge and Tony discovering the pills and just like all the angst pleaseeeeee

This was such an awesome prompt and came at the perfect time. I wrote this kinda fast and it might have errors, but I hope you like it.

Trigger Warning for Addiction and Drug Abuse

Read on AO3

“Be right out,” Peter called over his shoulder towards the door of his room. Quicky, he shook out another pill from the bottle and popped it into his mouth, swallowing it down with a grimace. He stuffed the bottle back into his bag, shoving his hoodie on top and zipping the backpack closed.

Using Adderall had started simply enough. It wasn’t like Peter didn’t know where to get them. In a STEM school, a lot of kids used them to study, and it wasn’t like these were real drugs, not like heroin or speed. Okay, maybe they shared some molecular similarities to drugs like meth, but they were still different, and these were prescribed, just not to him. They were totally safe, though.

That was what he told himself anyway.

Peter charged out the door to his room, slinging his backpack onto his shoulders and nearly tripping over his own feet. He was running late. Happy would be there any minute to pick him up to go upstate for the weekend. Tony had given him his room at the compound, and they planned to spend the next few days working on some projects and going over college choices, though Tony had already made his favorite known. He wanted Peter to attend MIT, just like he had. Peter hadn’t written the option off, but he wanted to stay closer to home if he could.

May peeked out of the kitchen and rolled her eyes as Peter patted at his hair, trying to tame it.

“You should really eat something before you go,” May said, wiping her hands on a towel and throwing it over her shoulder. “It’s a long ride.”

Peter’s brows went up, and he blinked. “Oh, yeah, maybe. I can just grab a granola bar or something.”

She shook her head and went back into the kitchen, appearing again a moment later with a brown paper bag. She held it out to him, and Peter smiled, walking over to her.

“Don’t get too excited. It’s just a tuna sandwich and a few Powerbars. I’m not going to responsible for you passing out. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how jittery you’ve been lately.”

Peter took the bag, looking inside. He grabbed a Powerbar and tore into it with his teeth. Truth be told, his appetite wasn’t that great since he’d started using Adderall, but he didn’t want to worry May. Taking a bite, he spoke around his mouthful. “Thanks, May.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Holding the Powerbar between his teeth, he dug out his phone. It was a message from Happy saying he was out front. He typed a quick reply, saying he would be right there, then stuffed his phone back into his pocket, took the Powerbar out of his mouth, and said goodbye to May.

The ride to the compound was quiet, and Peter used the time to work on his Physics homework. He had a lot to catch up on after a Spider-Man related injury took him out of school for three days last week. He’d finally been able to get most of his work caught up with the help of the pills. They allowed him to get into the zone and focus in a way he couldn’t otherwise.

It was like time was irrelevant when he was using them. He didn’t feel it pass. Everything around him blurred out, and he could give the project he was working on his full attention. It felt good, even if it made him a little shaky and his heartbeat a bit too fast, but that was only because Peter needed to use more than the average person. He could burn through twenty milligrams in an hour or two, so he had to keep popping them on the days he wanted to get things done.

But that had created even more of a problem, not that he would admit it.

When the drug wore off, he’d crash hard, feeling depressed and tired and like his body was moving through cold molasses. Another pill always made the feeling go away, but he didn’t have an endless supply, and they cost a lot of money.

He didn’t like to think about it, but he’d used some of the money Tony had given for his college fund to buy them. It wasn’t like it made a dent in the account. The saving account had an obscene amount of money in it. Peter had always thought that what he didn’t use for college, he would donate to charity. Using it for drugs made Peter feel a little sick, but he reasoned that buying the Adderall did go towards his future. They ensured he could study and get good grades.

He finished the last of his homework as the car pulled through the gate at the compound. The Adderall Peter had taken at home before he left had already worn off, but that was fine because he’d gotten a bottle of sixty just the other day, so he had plenty.

Peter didn’t stop at this room. Instead, he went straight to the workshop, backpack over his shoulder.

The door to the workshop opened with a whoosh, and Peter winced at the loud music. When he stepped into the room, Friday lowered the volume, and Tony straightened from the workbench he was stooped over, bracing his back with a hand and stretching. He turned to Peter and smiled.

“Hey, kid.” Tony wiped his hands off on his jeans. “Got an engine from one of my babies taken apart, doing a rebuild. I could use your hands if you want to help.”

Peter’s gaze flitted over the tools and parts. His knowledge of engines was all academic, nothing hands-on, but he was willing to learn. “Sure, I just need to, um—” He motioned to the bathroom.

Tony waved toward the shelf. “Grab one of the welding helmets on your way back. You’ll need it.”

Peter nodded, jogging toward the bathroom, but Tony’s voice made him stop.

“You know you can leave your bag here, right? Just saying, might be easier, but what do I know?”

Peter’s mouth twitched, and his grip tightened on the strap over his shoulder. He’d wanted to take another Adderall before they started working, but he couldn’t do that with Tony watching. Forcing a smile, he said, “Right, yeah, what was I thinking?”

He tossed his bag into one of the chairs and walked off to the bathroom.

When he got out, he grabbed a helmet like Tony had asked and went to stand beside him.

“Ever weld before?” Tony asked, his own helmet flipped up.

“No?”

“You don’t sound sure.”

Peter blinked. “I tried it in shop class last year, but it didn’t go well. I may have started a fire.”

Tony’s eyebrows lifted, and Peter rushed to explain.

“A small fire, barely counted as a fire, really, and I may have dropped some molten metal on my shoe, but it was fine.”

“Put your helmet on.” Tony nodded at it. “I’ll explain what I’m doing, and then you can try, and we’ll try to avoid any fires or close calls with death.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure, kid.”

Peter watched Tony, trying to listen and focus, but the heavy feeling he didn’t like was seeping into his bones. He was starting to crash, and it made it so hard to focus. After watching for a little while, Tony gave him the tools and guided him on how to start. He didn’t start any fires, but he didn’t do that good of a job. Where Tony had welded what looked like a neat row of stacked dimes, Peter had burned through the metal and left globs all over.

He was just about to try again when the welder turned off. Peter set the tools down and flipped up his mask to look at Tony, who had taken his off.

Running a hand through his hair, Tony shook his head and then leaned his hip against the workbench. ”Is everything all right? Are you getting enough sleep? Enough to eat, all the good things like that?”

Peter took his helmet off and set it on the workbench. He wiped his brow, frowning a little. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”

“It just doesn’t seem like you’re fully switched on today. You don’t seem too excited to be here right now.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “No, no. I’m really happy to be here. I loved learning about welding and stuff, but yeah, you’re right. I guess I’m having an off day. It’s nothing big, though. I guess I didn’t sleep that well.”

Tony nodded a few times, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Yeah, well, how about we call it quits and grab some food. We can try again tomorrow after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

Peter was really feeling the crash by the time they finished dinner, so he retired to his room, skipping their traditional Friday night movie. Tony seemed disappointed, but Peter felt too awful to stay awake any longer. He’d only had two Adderall that day instead of the four he usually took. It seemed the lack of his usual dose was leaving him feeling crappier than usual.

Thankfully, he was able to sleep, and when he woke up the next morning, the first thing he did was take two pills. He didn’t usually do that unless he had to study because it made him jittery, but he was afraid of feeling crappy again. He craved the rush and the way they sharpened his thoughts, adding clarity to his thinking. He wanted to make up for his off day yesterday and show Tony how well he could do.

After showering and getting dressed, he went to the kitchen to find Tony. He was dressed and making breakfast. Peter didn’t feel hungry at all, though, not in the slightest. Whenever he took two pills at once, he almost had an aversion to food.

The smell of the eggs cooking made Peter’s nose wrinkle.

“Morning, Pete,” Tony said, lifting the pan and scrapping some scrambled eggs onto a plate. “Friday said you were up. I made eggs, and not to brag, but I even added cheese without burning them.”

Peter tried to smile even though the last thing he wanted to do was eat. He took a seat at the breakfast bar, and Tony set a plate down in front of him. He tried to hide his grimace, but Tony must have noticed the look when he turned to pass Peter a fork.

“Why do you look like you’d rather gnaw off an arm than eat my masterful creation?” He stepped around the counter and pressed the back of his hand to Peter’s cheek, then his forehead as Peter tried to worm away. “You don’t feel warm.”

Peter’s knee began to bounce as the pills started to really hit his system. He grabbed his fork and stabbed some of the eggs. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Having another off day? Did you sleep okay?”

Peter sucked in a breath, clenching his jaw shut for a second before speaking. His temper was always touchy after he’d taken a double dose. “I’m really fine. I’m not sick or anything. I slept good. Really, everything’s good, Mr. Stark.”

Tony crossed his arms, eyes raking over Peter before he nodded and went to eat his eggs.

After breakfast, Peter followed Tony to the workshop, but today he had planned better. In his pocket were four more pills, enough to keep himself going until bed plus some.

Tony had Peter weld again, and this time he did much better, though his hands were a little shaky. If Tony noticed, he didn’t say anything. When the high started to wear off, Peter excused himself to the bathroom and took two more pills. He normally didn’t take so many in a day, but he really didn’t want to crash around Tony again.

The only problem was that it made Peter jittery and on edge, his temper shorter than usual. The slightest things grated on his nerves, like how Tony kept rocking his coffee cup back and forth on the workbench. It was the only sound Peter seemed to be able to hear, and it was driving him over the edge. The rush he’d gotten from the pills today wasn’t a good one. He shouldn’t have taken so many, and now he was paying the price.

His heart rate was too fast, and Tony wouldn’t stop rocking his cup back and forth, the clock kept ticking on the wall, and before he knew it, the pencil he was holding snapped, making everything in the room come to a halt.

Tony looked over at him, eyes dropping to the broken pencil in his hand. He lifted his gaze to Peter’s eyes, brows raised in question.

“Pete?”

Peter swallowed, setting the broken pencil on the table. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s—”

“Fine,” Tony finished for him. “Yeah, you keep saying that.” The man frowned as he looked at Peter’s hands, which were gripping his thighs so tight the tips of his fingers were white. “Let’s try this again, and this time, why don’t we try the truth.”

Peter bit his lip, rubbing his hands on his jeans, his knees bouncing. He nodded a few times quickly. “Okay.”

Tony studied him for a few seconds, then scratched at his goatee. “You know, if I didn’t know you like I did, I’d say you’d were on something right now.”

Peter tensed. ‘I’m not—I didn’t take anything.”

“Kid, relax. You’re going to vibrate off the stool. I know you wouldn’t.”

Peter immediately felt guilty. He hated lying, and here he was, doing it straight to Tony’s face. He tried to settle himself down, but he was on edge. “It’s nothing, really, Mr. Stark.”

“So you’ve said.” Tony shook his head, looking at the wall behind Peter before fixing his gaze on him. “You didn’t sneak a Red Bull again, did you?”

“Uh, no,” he said too quickly, then corrected with a lie. “I mean, yes. I did. I had two. I know I’m not supposed to, but I didn’t want to be tired.”

The lie tasted like ash on his tongue.

Tony sighed. “Well, let’s finish up what we’re doing, and then we can grab some lunch. Hopefully, that freaky metabolism of yours will burn through it soon.”

After lunch, Peter started to crash hard. His body felt heavy and tired, and everything ached. His thought felt caught in a thick soup. They were supposed to go back to the workshop, and Peter didn’t want to be tired again, so before he left the kitchen, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the pills. His hand hesitated over the pills as he decided how many to take. He was so caught up in his thought that he didn’t hear Tony approach until he cleared his throat, making Peter jump and nearly drop the pills.

Tony’s sharp gaze was cutting through him, his expression unreadable, and Peter knew he was caught, but he still tried to hide his handful of pills behind him.

“Mr. Stark,” he croaked, shaking a little. “I was just coming down to meet you.”

Tony’s mouth twitched downward, and then his eyes fell to Peter’s hand. “Whatcha got there, Pete?”

Peter’s hand tightened around the pills, and he swallowed. “Um, these?” He lifted his hand without opening it. “These are just, um, vitamins. Yeah, they’re, uh, vitamins to help me focus.”

Tony’s shoulders fell, and he seemed to deflate. Closing his eyes for a second, he took a breath and then looked at Peter again. “God, help me. You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not—”

“Ah.” Tony put up his hand. “The adult is talking.”

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled, looking down. His palms were starting to sweat, and he imagined the pills were getting gross clenched in his hand. “I’ll be quiet.”

“What are they, Peter? And don’t lie because you know I will figure it out.”

Peter looked down at his feet and mumbled the answer.

“I didn’t quite catch that. Try again,” Tony said, tone softer than Peter deserved.

“It’s—they’re Adderall.” And Peter chanced a look at Tony, whose expression was tight. Peter couldn’t hold his gaze, so he looked away. The pills in his hand felt heavier than they should. He regretted everything. He wished he could go back in time and punch himself for being so stupid and buying them in the first place.

Tony sighed, then said, “Are they yours? Are they prescribed to you?”

Peter shook his head.

“Yeah, this is—fuck, Peter.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears pricked at his eyes, and he sniffled. “It just happened. They helped with studying, and then—I don’t know. I just—I just lost control. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“You mean you didn’t intend to get caught.”

Peter’s head snapped up, his head shaking. “No, I mean, yeah, getting caught sucks, but I really didn’t mean to get—to get … addicted.” The last word was a whisper, but Tony heard him because his eyes softened, and he rubbed his jaw.

“I wanted you to be better than me.” Tony breathed. “I went down this road, maybe not with Adderall, but with other drugs. Addiction is an asshole that will never leave you alone once you’ve met. This is going to be a part of you for the rest of your life, kid. I just wanted better for you.”

“I really am sorry.”

“I know.” Tony nodded. “We’re gonna start with you handing over whatever you got there and anything else you brought, then you’re going to sit and watch TV while I figure out the next step. I don’t want this to ruin your life, Peter.”

“Do we have to tell May? She’ll kill me.”

Tony gave him a look, eyebrows raised and head tilted to the side. “I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Tony held out a hand, wiggling his fingers, and sighing, Peter unclenched his fist and placed the pills in Tony’s hand. It felt terrible and relieving to hand them over. He wouldn’t be able to relieve the crash or get that rush again, but he also didn’t need to worry anymore. He’d gotten in over his head, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

Tony stuffed the pills into his pocket and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay, kid. It might not feel like it right now, but we’ll figure this out. Let’s get the rest of these pills taken care of. Then we can talk some more.”

Peter nodded and led Tony to his room. He dug the bottle out of his bag and passed them to Tony.

Examining the bottle, Tony said, “This why you wanted to bring the backpack into the bathroom?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Tony hummed. “Do I want to know how you afforded them?”

Tears welled in Peter’s eyes. He knew he had to tell Tony, but he didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face when he said the words. Taking a breath, he said to the floor, “College savings. They didn’t even ask why. They just let me take the money out.”

Tony sighed, putting the bottle in his pocket. “Yeah, I can honestly say I never thought to put restrictions on your account.”

Tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks. He swiped at them with his sleeve. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Then Tony was there, pulling him to his chest, and Peter buried his face against his neck.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You made a mistake. It happens to the best of us. I can solidly say to some more than others. Like how I spent most of the nineties making shitty decisions.”

That just made him cry harder for some reason. Everything felt like too much. Sobs wracked his frame, and everything he had held in, all the lies and half-truths, they poured out as tears. Tony pressed his lips to Peter’s hair and murmured nonsense about how it would be all be okay, but how could it be. He screwed up so badly.

When Peter’s tears tapered off, Tony gave him a squeeze and then pulled back to look at him. “Okay, let’s get you settled.” He swiped a tear from Peter’s cheek with his thumb. “I need to do a little research and make a few calls, but you’re gonna be all right, kiddo. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thank you.”

Peter felt anxious about what the future held. He wasn’t ready to confront May, and he didn’t know if he could survive without feeling that buzz of energy again, but he felt reassured. As long as he had Tony to guide him, all he needed to do was follow. Even if he didn’t know the path, Tony did, so he knew he would make it back from this okay.

#peter parker #tony stark #irondad fanfiction #irondad #hurt/comfort #angst #tw: abuse #tw: addiction #snark writes

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