Work Text:
The day was not supposed to turn out this way.
Sick with worry as you tend to the victims of the PittFest shooting, your girlfriend is across the way with a bruised eye and fractured face. Fingers deep in wounds, focused yet distant. Her blossoming bruise and cries of pain bounce in and out of your consciousness.
You hadn’t been able to check on her– unable to take a moment alone to check over her yourself. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust anyone; you couldn’t help yourself.
Dana leaves before you do, barely meeting your eyes as she walks past. It sends a sinking feeling of dread through you, your throat closing as panic starts to set in. You know she isn’t doing well, you can see it in the vacancy in her eyes and stiffness in your shoulders.
You’re finally able to leave, not bothering to change out of your blood-soaked scrubs as you shoulder your backpack and briskly walk through the ER and to the parking garage.
Your phone is to your ear by the time you’re to your car, calling Dana to tell (not ask) her that you’re coming over. Dread sinks deeper when she doesn’t answer, leaving you to hang up before you leave a message. You curse as you connect your phone to your car, tapping the screen a few times to shut off your music. You were exhausted, and all you wanted was to be with her.
You start your car, trying her number again. Your whole body relaxes as she answers, her voice rumbling through your speakers. “I’m okay, babygirl. You coming over?”
“Yeah.” It comes out a little too loud, almost a cry. You’re still running on adrenaline, zipping through the streets of Pittsburgh as you make your way to the suburbs. “I’ll be there in like 10 minutes.”
“Door’s unlocked.” You hear the deadbolt in the background unlatch, your stomach twisting in a sudden need. Desperation takes over as you hang up, not bothering to waste words. You both know the mood; you know nothing needs to be said.
You park in front of her townhome a little less than 10 minutes later, knowing on any other day you’d be chastised for speeding, but you don’t give a shit as you throw your car in park, grab your backpack, and make your way inside. You lock the deadbolt behind you, dropping your bag like deadweight, struggling to kick off your shoes as you hobble toward the bedroom.
You can hear the ensuite shower, grateful she knew what you needed. You strip off your clothes in silence, the blurry vision of her unmoving behind the frosted glass. The shower door squeaks as it opens, but she still doesn’t move.
Chin to the sky, the water pelting her face, like the pain is reminding her she’s still alive, she’s still here. You snake your arms around her waist, resting your chin against her shoulder. She sags into you, a shaky breath ripped from somewhere deep within her. You choke, arms tightening around her, your fingers tightening against her sides. You let her break in your arms– at least as much as she’ll allow herself. Her sobs are quiet and contained, a wall you’ve spent months slowly chipping away at starting to show its cracks.
You lean to adjust the water temperature, keeping one hand glued to her as you reach for the loofah, only disconnecting your hand from her flesh when you’re forced to. Drizzling soap onto the sponge, you lower yourself to the tiled floor, starting your slow worship on her feet. A soft noise of protest leaves her briefly, giving in as you work the soap into her calves and shins, scrubbing away the sins of the day. Her weathered fingers weave into your hair and onto your shoulder, supporting herself in more than one way as you slowly clean her.
She’s never felt so naked, so seen. Your touch soothes her raw nerves, placating the dark thoughts of the devastation of the day. Chases away the thoughts of Leah, of Jake, of Robby, and quitting and all of the blood, grounding herself in the careful and methodical movement of your cleansing. Up and down her inner thighs, washing away perspiration and 15 hours of hell.
You stand when you move on to her torso, eyes glued to the movement of the sponge. You’re in full caregiving mode, determination coiling in your chest as you watch her shoulders drop and head tip back as you work the lather over her stomach and chest. You hang up the loofah when you get to her hands, opting to lather them with your own, going as far as to clean under her pristine nails.
Eyes finally landing on her face, the stream of water washing the tears that fell from her eyes. You reach up, gently cupping the side of her face. She tries to pull away, to shy away, but an unhappy noise from you draws her eyes back. “Let me.” You murmur, your thumb barely brushing under her cheekbone, afraid she’ll break under your touch.
The bruise is worse than you remember a few hours ago, red and swollen, stretching across the bridge of her nose and under her left eye. Your lips turn down as you examine her face, a brief brush of your fingers making her hiss in pain. “Have you taken anything since you left?” You ask, your voice barely audible above the water.
She starts to nod, but then sighs as she shakes her head. You press your lips together in displeasure, biting the inside of your cheek as you hold back a snippy remark. You slide around her instead, grabbing her shampoo and gently turning her so her hair soaks under the spray. She seems a little more conscious now, a sad smile flitting across her face. “Thank you.” She rumbles, the appreciation so clear in her eyes that you know she’s saying those three words without saying them.
You lean forward and kiss her softly, a mere brush of lips, before you’re turning her around again to lather the shampoo into her hair, taking longer to massage it into her hair as you feel the tension drain further from her body. You don’t bother with conditioner, the feeling deep in your gut that she needs something more grounding as her eyes close.
Sliding around her again, you shut off the water and step out, grabbing the fluffy towel she’d laid out and handing it to her. You wrap yourself in another, securing it around your torso as you gently take her hand and pull her toward the bed. She doesn’t protest as you pull the comforter back, leaving her to uncover herself and crawl under the covers. You busy yourself lighting a few candles for ambiance, grabbing the bottle of ibuprofen from the bathroom cabinet. You wrap yourself in her robe as you get her a glass of water from the kitchen, and words are exchanged with subtle facial expressions as you hand her the glass.
She takes the pills, tossing them back with a wince and a gulp before lying on her side, tugging you down. You toss the robe off the edge of the bed, curling yourself around her back, arm secured around her stomach.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You finally break the silence, your nose buried against the nape of her neck.
She sighs heavily, a relief instead of a wall. “Not yet.” Her arm rests over yours, pressing you harder against her and intertwining your fingers.
You nuzzle the back of her neck, nose damp from her hair as she squeezes you harder, her grip almost bruising.
“I think I’m going to quit.” She shakes as she says it, and you know she’s serious about it.
“Okay.” It’s all you can give her, support and comfort instead of questioning.
Silence follows until her hair is almost dried against the pillow, her grip relaxed now. She’s still awake, her eyes staring blankly ahead. You’d be worried if you didn’t know her so well– you know she’s working through everything and just needs to be held.
She turns in your arms, wincing as her bruised cheek makes contact with the pillow. There’s a look in her eyes, something you’ve seen countless times since you’d started dating 10 months ago. It’s a look of desperation reserved for the need to feel alive, to come alive. Your eyes flicker back and forth between hers, searching for a confirmation before you’re moving, pressing her onto her back with a gentle touch to her shoulder.
“Let me take care of you.” You breathe. This isn’t about sex, not when both of you are so dislocated from reality, stuck in the horror. It’s a primal need to feel and connect– to get lost in something for just long enough. The subtle widening of her pupils and heave of her chest is permission enough for you, your mind calming as your lips meet hers in a soft kiss.
There are moments of tenderness in your usual intimacy, but you’re determined to tear her apart piece by piece as you slide over her, skin meeting skin. She widens her legs to accommodate you, fitting perfectly against her as your lips trail from her mouth to her jaw.
You could spend a lifetime at her pulspoint– the spot below her ear that melts her. Her body arches into yours, her breasts brushing against your collarbone, nipples hard, begging for your attention silently. You kiss to her sternum, delicate touches that say everything.
She shudders as you tongue around her nipple, melting beneath your reverent touch. You suck the peak between your lips, laving with your tongue as pleasure coils in her body, burning the pain away like lava. Your name is a quiet gasp as her fingers thread through your still-damp hair, her movements languid.
You waste no time as you kiss down her stomach, bringing the covers with you, paying special attention to her hipbones and the silvery stretch marks that cover her stomach. You don’t use your teeth anywhere, refusing to add something so harsh to such a near-religious moment. Your altar laid before you to worship with tongue and lips.
Her fingers tighten in your hair at the first swipe of your tongue up her slit, a choked noise catching in her throat. Fingers digging into her thighs to keep her open for you, you repeat the motion until she’s writhing under your ministrations.
“Quit teasing.” She mutters, tugging your hair to direct your mouth over her clit. You grin against her skin, tongue finally flattening over it. You let her grind against you, her movements unhurried even as her breath hitches, cut off moans bubbling up her chest. You read her movements like your favorite book, closing your lips around her clit and sucking at it gently as her movements become more erratic, her focus solely on her impending orgasm.
She gasps your name again, her free arm reaching to grab the headboard to steady herself as her hips stutter into your actions. Her arousal drips down your chin as you lick and suck at her flesh, your eyes flashing up to meet hers as her thighs start to shake around your head.
Her orgasm is silent, a crashing wave that leaves her drowning and flying at the same time. It obliterates her, her body and mind lighting up in pleasure as her back bends, her eyes slamming shut. You work her through it with slow strokes, your hands smoothing up and down her inner thighs as she slowly comes back to earth.
You’re pushing yourself up beside her when her head falls to the side, her ocean eyes meeting yours when you settle. Her fingers find yours, intertwining them as she catches her breath, her eyes clear and relaxed. “Thank you.”
Your heart clenches as her eyes water with appreciative tears, placating your own feelings with a kiss to her shoulder. “Anything for you. Are you okay?” Your voice cracks a little, unable to stop the worry that dances in your expression.
A genuine smile relaxes her face, and you know that, yes, she is okay. Finally.