Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A collection of one-shots where your favorite fictional characters help you navigate mental health struggles.  

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒 include:
✦ Criminal Minds 
✦ Grey's Anatomy 
✦ Station 19
...and more!  

⚠️ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⚠️ 
This book will explore sensitive topics such as self-harm, eating disorders, and other mental health struggles. Individual trigger warnings will be included at the beginning of each chapter; please read with care. 

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓:
✦ For some chapters I'm using my original character or maybe I'm gonna use reader's pov as y/n.
✦ I'm open to writing about almost any character from any fandom I'm familiar with, so feel free to ask!

Chapter Text

Addison didn’t mean to walk in.

She hadn’t knocked—she never needed to. Her and Skye had been best friends for years, and their houses were as familiar as their own. It was routine. She’d swing by after a long shift, drop onto Skye’s couch, and rant about the latest hospital disaster while Skye handed her a beer.

So when she pushed open Skye’s bathroom door that night, she hadn’t expected—

Blood.

It wasn’t a lot. Just enough to stain the edge of the sink, a thin, red line trailing down Skye’s arm.

Skye flinched violently, nearly dropping the razor blade in her hand.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The only sound was the quiet drip of water from the faucet and the sharp inhale of Addison’s breath as the reality of the moment settled in.

Skye recovered first. Her expression flickered, then locked down into something unreadable, like a mask snapping into place. "Jesus, Addison. You ever heard of knocking?"

Addison barely heard her.

Her gaze was locked on Skye’s wrist—on the fresh cut, thin but deliberate, just below a scattering of faded scars.

Her stomach lurched.

She forced herself to swallow the wave of nausea clawing its way up her throat. Forced herself to breathe, to think, to not make this worse.

"Skye," she said, voice low, careful.

She didn't know what to say. Because this —this was not the Skye she knew. Dr. Skylar Alexandria Knight, the trauma surgeon who never hesitated in an OR, who always had some sarcastic comment ready, who handled pressure like it was nothing.

But this wasn’t Dr. Skye from the OR.

This was Skye , alone in the dim light of her bathroom, bleeding in silence.

Addison swallowed hard, forcing herself to move. She crossed the room slowly, not wanting to startle her. "Let me see."

Skye exhaled sharply, turning away and grabbing a washcloth like this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "It’s not what it looks like."

"Really?" Addison’s voice came out sharper than she intended. "Because it looks like you just cut yourself."

Skye rolled her eyes. "It’s fine."

"Fine?" Addison repeated, heat rising under her skin. " Fine ?"

Her pulse was hammering in her ears. She had seen self-harm before—had treated patients, stitched wounds, given referrals. But this wasn’t a patient. This was Skye.

And Skye was pretending like this was normal.

Addison took a slow step forward. "How long?"

Skye didn’t answer.

Addison’s stomach twisted. "Skye—"

"I don’t need a lecture," Skye cut in, her voice hard.

Addison bristled. "Well, you’re getting one anyway. What the hell is this?"

Skye didn’t look at her. "I said it’s fine ."

"It’s not fine!" Addison snapped, something breaking open in her chest. "You’re bleeding , Skye. That’s not—" She stopped, exhaling hard. " You know that’s not fine."

Skye’s jaw tensed. She pressed the washcloth harder against her wrist, like she could make the entire moment disappear.

Addison let out a shaky breath, lowering her voice. "Why?"

Skye still wouldn’t look at her.

"Skye."

Silence.

Then, finally—

"You don’t get it." Skye murmured. Her voice was quiet. Tired. 

"Then make me get it."

Skye’s eyes flickered up, sharp, guarded. And then, just like that, the mask cracked. “You want a psychological breakdown of why I do this? Fine.”

Her voice was brittle, sharp, with something dark and self-destructive. She laughed, but it was humorless, empty.

“Mommy dearest died when I was a baby, and Daddy dearest—” She let out a sharp exhale, her grip on the washcloth tightening. “He decided his only child was a good outlet for his rage. And his desires.”

Addison stayed quiet, her throat tight.

Skye huffed, the corner of her mouth twisting into something almost like a smirk. “Then I got older and realized physical pain is a hell of a lot easier to control than the kind that keeps you up at night.” She held up her wrist like it was evidence. “At least this makes sense. At least this is mine.”

Addison felt like the floor had been ripped out from under her.

She opened her mouth—closed it. Because what the fuck was she supposed to say to that?

Skye scoffed at her silence, shaking her head. “That’s what I thought.”

“Skye—”

“No. You wanted the truth, right?” Skye snapped, her voice rising. “There it is. The great Dr. Knight, prodigy, trauma surgeon, the one who always has her shit together? She spent half her childhood trying to survive a man who—”

She cut herself off, exhaling sharply through her nose, like she had said too much.

Addison was still reeling.

She thought back—Skye’s childhood, the things she never talked about, the way she always brushed off questions about her father. The way she hated being touched when she wasn’t expecting it. The way she never let herself get too close to anyone.

And now—this.

Addison felt like she was staring at a puzzle she should’ve figured out a long time ago.

She had known Skye for years , since she moved to Seattle. Had seen her at her best, at her worst. Had watched her stitch people back together without breaking a sweat. Had never once thought—

She felt sick.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Skye, I—”

“No.” Skye’s voice was quieter now, but just as sharp. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault. Don’t—” She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “Just don’t.”

Addison stared at her.

She wanted to scream, to fix this somehow. To drag Skye out of this bathroom and into the safety of something real, something warm.

Instead, she inhaled. Exhaled.

And then, carefully, she moved.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t push. Just stepped closer, reaching out.

Skye tensed—she always did when people got too close—but Addison didn’t let that stop her.

She took Skye’s injured wrist in her hands, slow, gentle. Unwrapped the bloodstained washcloth. Pressed her fingers lightly over the fresh cut, the older scars.

"How long?"

Skye hesitated, then exhaled. "Years."

Addison closed her eyes.

"Don’t freak out," Skye said, softer this time.

Addison opened her eyes, her chest aching. "Too late."

Skye sighed, like this was exhausting, like Addison was exhausting. "It’s not like I do it all the time."

"That doesn’t make it better."

"It kinda does, actually." Skye let out a humorless laugh. "I’ve had worse nights."

"That’s not funny."

Skye didn’t answer.

"Skye—"

"I know what I’m doing, Addison."

The words set something off in Addison, something sharp and angry and terrified . " Do you ?" she snapped. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re hurting yourself and pretending it doesn’t matter."

Skye went quiet.

Addison ran a hand through her hair, exhaling harshly. " God , Skye." She gestured vaguely at the sink, at the blood, at the evidence of something she had somehow missed for years. " Why didn’t you tell me? "

Skye shrugged. "What would you have done?"

" Something! " Addison’s voice cracked.

Skye finally met her eyes; her gaze steady, resigned. " Exactly. "

Addison’s breath caught.

Because she got it now.

Why Skye never said anything. Why she had been so careful to hide it.

Because the moment Addison knew , she couldn’t not do something.

And Skye had never wanted to be someone else’s problem.

Addison’s chest ached.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Skye. You are my problem."

Skye’s lips pressed together. "I don’t want to be."

"I don’t care what you want." Addison grabbed her wrist—not hard, not forceful, just enough. Just enough to make Skye feel it. "You are. You always will be."

Skye went still.

"You don’t have to do this alone," Addison said. "You know that, right?"

A lump formed in Skye’s throat.

Because no. She didn’t know that.

She had spent so long making sure no one knew—making sure no one could know.

Because the second someone knew, they started looking at you differently. They started expecting things. Started asking questions.

Skye hated questions.

Skye didn’t say anything and turned her head away from Addison who exhaled softly, knowing she can't push Skye in this condition.

“I have stitches in my bag,” Addison murmured. “You don’t need them, but I can clean this properly.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“No,” Addison agreed. “I’m your best friend.”

Addison didn’t push, didn’t press for anything more. She just guided Skye to sit on the closed toilet lid, pulling out supplies from the cabinet under the sink. Silence stretched between them, thick but not entirely unbearable.

Skye stayed silent as Addison worked, dabbing antiseptic along the fresh cut with careful precision. 

She was methodical, efficient—typical Addison. But her hands were shaking. Just barely, but Skye noticed.

She should say something. A joke, maybe. Something to break the suffocating weight in the room.

But she didn’t.

Because she could feel Addison’s pulse through her fingers, the way she was holding onto her wrist—not tight, not demanding, just steady. Like she was grounding herself. Like she was grounding Skye.

The silence stretched.

Addison wrapped the bandage a little too tight, and Skye sucked in a sharp breath.

"Sorry," Addison muttered.

Skye exhaled, glancing at her. "You’re mad at me."

Addison’s jaw clenched. "I’m not mad."

Skye arched an eyebrow.

"Fine." Addison let out a sharp breath. "I am mad. But not at you ."

That caught Skye off guard. "Then who?"

Addison didn’t answer immediately. She finished securing the bandage, then sat back, her hands falling into her lap. She stared at them, like she wasn’t sure what to do with them now.

Then, finally—

"I don’t know," Addison admitted. Her voice was quieter now, like she was unraveling. " Everything . Your father. Myself. Every goddamn time I walked into your apartment and didn’t see this—didn’t see you ."

Skye shifted, uncomfortable. "It’s not your job to—"

"Yes, it is." Addison’s eyes snapped up, sharp, burning. "I’m your best friend, Skye. And I missed this . For years ."

Skye swallowed. Looked away. "I didn’t want you to see."

"Yeah, well," Addison exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "Too late."

Silence again.

Skye could feel it—the weight of everything hanging between them. Addison was really looking at her now. Not the doctor, not the sarcasm, not the mask. Just her .

It made her want to disappear.

Instead, she pushed herself up, brushing past Addison as she reached for the sink. "You don’t have to—"

Addison caught her wrist before she could step away. Not hard. Just enough.

“I did.” Addison didn’t let her finish. “And I will again, every time.”

Skye’s lips pressed together, her jaw tightening. For a second, Addison thought she might snap at her, might throw out some dry, sarcastic remark to push her away. But instead, Skye just nodded. A small, barely-there movement.

It felt like something.

Addison sat back on her heels, exhaling sharply. She ran a hand through her hair, then let her head rest against the side of the bathtub.

“Are you gonna tell me you’ll stop?” she asked, voice quiet.

Skye didn’t answer.

Addison nodded, like she expected that. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“I don’t know if I can,” Skye admitted. Her voice was small.

Addison closed her eyes for a moment before turning her head to look at her. “Then you tell me when it’s bad. When you want to. When you think you might. You tell me, and I’ll—” She hesitated, swallowing. “I’ll be there.”

Skye let out a breath, looking away. “That’s not fair to you.”

“Fuck fair.” Addison reached out, squeezing Skye’s hand briefly before letting go. “You’re stuck with me.”

Something in Skye’s expression wavered.

They sat there for a while.

“I meant it, you know,” Addison said, finally breaking the silence.

Skye frowned slightly. “Meant what?”

“That you’re my problem.” Addison’s voice was soft but steady. “That you always will be.”

Skye scoffed. “You make it sound like some grand declaration.”

Addison let out a breath of laughter, but there was no humor in it. “It is.”

Skye held her gaze for a long moment before looking away. “...Okay.”

Addison wasn’t sure if that meant Skye believed her. But for now, she’d take it.

She hesitated, then asked, “Do you want me to stay?”

Skye’s first instinct was to say no. To crack a joke, to brush Addison off, to pretend this never happened. But the truth was—

She didn’t want to be alone.

She swallowed hard. “Yeah,” she murmured, barely audible.

Addison heard her anyway.

She nodded once, then moved toward the door. “C’mon,” she said, not looking back. “Let’s get out of here.”

Skye hesitated. “Where?”

“The couch.” Addison shot her a look over her shoulder. “Where else?”

Something in Skye’s chest ached.

She stood, following Addison out of the bathroom. Neither of them spoke, but Addison stayed close—close enough that Skye could feel the warmth of her presence, grounding, steady.

Chapter Text

Meredith Grey wasn’t an idiot.

She’d spent years in medicine, years watching people, reading between the lines of what they said and didn’t say. And Skye—Skye wasn’t exactly subtle.

At first, it was just an observation. The way she barely touched her food in the attendings’ lounge. The way she pushed things around on her plate, eating just enough that no one would notice. The way her scrub pants had started fitting looser, how she tugged at the waistband like it bothered her.

Then Meredith noticed the way Skye always seemed to go to the bathroom after she ate. Not every time. But often enough that it set off alarm bells in her head.

So she watched.

Not as Chief of Surgery. Not as Addison’s girlfriend. Not even as Skye’s former attending. Just as a worried friend.

She just watched. Because she was worried.

And tonight, her suspicions were confirmed.

Skye had eaten dinner with the group—just a small meal, barely a full portion—but at least it was something. 

“Ugh, how can Callie's food taste a lot better than this?” Skye put her utensils down after she ate a few bites.

Callie shot Skye a look. “I can tell you that my food is amazing.”

The rest of the table laughed.

“You do, babe. Your instant noodles are the best. I love it.” Arizona said while giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Amelia smirks. “The rest, though? Not so much.” That earned a sharp glare from Callie.

“Eat more, Skye. I haven't seen you eat much.” Addison reminded her.

Skye rolled her eyes. “Yes, mother.”

“Eat Knight, or you won't be a knight in shining armor that saves trauma patients.” Amelia said as she threw a fry at Skye.

Skye laughed, dodging the fry with a smirk. She played along, acting as if everything was normal. As if she wasn’t already planning her next move.

Meredith watched.

She didn’t say anything as Skye picked at the last few fries on her plate but didn’t eat them. 

Skye had eaten. Not much, but enough for Addison not to press further. And then, like clockwork, Skye excused herself.

“I'm going to the bathroom for a minute.” She said while stretching and then stood up from her chair.

Meredith glanced at Addison, who was caught up in a debate with Callie about bone grafts. She hesitated, then set her fork down.

“I’ll be back,” Meredith murmured, standing. She followed Skye.

Skye went straight to the nearest bathroom.

Meredith counted to ten before she followed, pushing open the door quietly.

She wasn’t sure what she expected to find when she pushed open the bathroom door—but the sound hit her first.

A retch. A cough. The unmistakable sound of someone vomiting.

Meredith’s stomach twisted.

She hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, knocking gently on the stall door. “Knight?”

Silence. Then, the lock clicked, and Skye stepped out.

Her eyes were slightly red. The faint scent of mint and antiseptic clung to her.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then Skye let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair. “Grey, I swear to God—”

Meredith didn’t say anything. She just grabbed some paper towels, wet them under the faucet, and handed them over.

Skye hesitated before taking them. She wiped her mouth and her hands, avoiding Meredith’s gaze.

Mer reached into her lab coat and pulled out a bottle of water, twisting off the cap before holding it out.

Skye didn’t take them at first, just stared at her.

Meredith raised an eyebrow. “They’re not poisoned, Knight.”

That at least got a small huff of laughter before Skye took the water bottle and took a small sip.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

Meredith leaned against the sink, arms crossed. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Skye’s voice was rough, forced casual.

Meredith sighed. “You’re really not.”

“Seriously, Grey,” she muttered. “Drop it.”

They stood there in silence as Skye leaned against the sink like the weight of the moment had finally caught up with her.

Meredith let her have that silence—for a minute.

Then she said, carefully, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not really.”

Meredith exhaled. “Skye.”

Skye shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

Skye let out a dry laugh, shaking her head again. “Grey—”

“I’m not asking as Chief. Or as Addison’s girlfriend. Or as your former attending.” Meredith met her eyes. “I’m just asking as someone who’s worried about you.”

Something flickered across Skye’s face. Annoyance, then exhaustion.

Then, quietly—

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Meredith’s chest ached. “Skye—”

“Not even Addie.” Skye’s voice was firmer now, more desperate. “Promise me.”

Meredith hesitated. “I thought she knew?”

That did it.

Skye flinched.

Meredith’s stomach twisted.

Skye turned away, gripping the edge of the sink. “Don’t tell her.”

Mer frowned. “Skye—”

“Promise me.” Skye’s voice was sharp, desperate. “Please, Mer. You can’t tell her.”

“She doesn’t know?”

Skye looked away. “She’s helping me with something else,” she murmured. “She doesn’t know about this.”

Meredith sighed, rubbing her temple. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t be the only one knowing this. But she also knew Skye—knew that pushing too hard, too fast, would only make her retreat.

She reached out, resting a careful hand on Skye’s shoulder.

“You should talk to someone.”

Skye let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Addie already made me talk to a psychologist.”

“For this?”

“For something else.”

Meredith’s jaw tightened.

She had no idea what Skye was dealing with, not entirely. But she knew she was struggling. And she knew this—this wasn’t just about food.

Mer studied her for a long moment. Then, finally, she nodded.

“I won’t tell Addie,” Mer finally said. “But I think you should.”

Skye swallowed. “I can’t.”

Mer studied her for a moment. Then, gently, “Not yet?”

Skye didn’t answer.

Mer gave her shoulder a squeeze before pulling away. “Okay. But you have to promise me something.”

Skye tensed.

Mer crossed her arms. “If it gets worse—if you get worse—you tell someone. Me, Addie, your therapist. Anyone.”

Skye exhaled, gripping the sink like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes flicked to the mirror, meeting her own reflection—red-rimmed eyes, the faintest tremor in her fingers. She barely recognized herself.

She didn’t like that Meredith saw this. That she knew.

Meredith had always been too damn observant. Too sharp, too perceptive. And now she was looking at her like she actually gave a damn, like she saw more than just the mess Skye had become.

It made Skye want to run.

But she didn’t.

She forced herself to meet Meredith’s gaze. “Yeah. Okay,” she muttered. “If it gets worse, I’ll tell someone.”

Mer raised an eyebrow.

Skye sighed. “I promise, Mer.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But she also wasn’t sure if she’d actually keep it.

Meredith didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. “Alright.”

 She glanced at the clock. They had to get back soon, or Addison would start asking questions.

“Come on,” Meredith said, softer now. “Let’s get out of here before people start wondering.”

Skye hesitated, running a hand through her hair again. “I need a minute.”

Meredith nodded. “Take your time.”

She lingered for another second, just to make sure Skye was steady, then stepped out of the bathroom. She let out a quiet breath, rubbing a hand over her face.

This wasn’t over. Not even close.

Skye finally left the bathroom five minutes later. Her expression was perfectly neutral, her posture relaxed—like nothing had happened at all.

It was impressive, really, the way she could slip back into the mask so effortlessly. 

Skye and Meredith walked back to the attendings’ lounge.

When they stepped inside, the conversation was still going. Callie was arguing with Amelia over something, Addison was laughing, and Arizona was curled up next to Callie, eyes amused. It was normal.

Skye sank back into her seat, plastering on an easy smirk.

But Meredith wasn’t fooled.

Neither, apparently, was Addison.

As soon as Skye sat down, Addison gave her a quick once-over. “You good?”

Skye gave a lopsided grin. “Yeah. Just needed to walk off Callie’s cooking.”

Callie gasped in mock offense. “That’s it. You’re banned from my house.”

Arizona patted Callie’s arm. “Babe, she’s right.”

Laughter rippled through the group, and Skye played along perfectly. She smirked, teased Amelia back, and let herself be pulled into the easy conversation.

Skye glanced at Addison, who was watching her, sharp-eyed but relaxed. She didn’t know. Not about this. 

Addie has enough on her plate, not to mention she already helped Skye with her other problem. Skye doesn’t want to burden her more than that. 

Truth be told, Skye’s eating behaviour got worse after Addison found out about her cutting and restricted sharp things from her apartment. But she won’t say that loudly, of course. Even if Addie or her therapist or someone else asks about it.

So she smiled, leaned back, and pretended like everything was fine.

Meredith caught her eye from across the table.

Skye knew this wasn’t over.

But for now, she could pretend.

Chapter Text

Third-Person POV

Hospitals all smelled the same—too clean, too sterile, like they were trying to scrub out the pain along with the blood. JJ had been in plenty of them, but it never got easier.

She shifted in bed, biting back a grimace as pain flared through her shoulder. The bullet had gone straight through—clean exit, minimal damage. That’s what the doctors had said. Lucky, they called it.

She didn’t feel lucky.

The door clicked open. JJ looked up, expecting another nurse, but a woman in deep blue scrubs walked in, her hair pulled back in a way that looked intentional but just slightly undone at the edges, like she had fixed it in a hurry. Her eyes looked sharp, but it didn't quite match her exhausted look.

She glanced at the chart in her hands before looking at JJ. “Agent Jennifer Jareau?”

“JJ,” she corrected out of habit.

The doctor nodded. “Dr. Skylar Knight. Most people call me Dr. Skye.”

Skye. It suited her. Sharp, cool.

“I’ll be checking your wound.” Skye set the chart aside and pulled on a pair of gloves. Her voice was smooth, steady. A little detached, but not unkind.

JJ tried to sit up, but pain shot through her shoulder. She sucked in a sharp breath.

Dr. Knight—or Skye, as her ID badge read—stepped closer without hesitation, reaching for JJ’s arm. Her fingers were cool against JJ’s skin, steady despite how tired she looked.

JJ watched her, taking in the details. The faint shadows under her eyes, the way her brow furrowed slightly as she peeled back the bandage.

“You look tired,” JJ murmured.

Skye didn’t glance up, just kept working. “You got shot. I think you win the bad day contest.”

JJ huffed a small laugh. “Fair point.”

The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of Skye’s movements—gloves against gauze, the rustle of fabric, the snip of medical scissors.

JJ let her gaze linger. The sharp angle of Skye’s jaw, the way she chewed the inside of her cheek in thought, the loose strands of dark hair that had escaped her bun. She was pretty. No, beautiful. Dark lashes, sharp cheekbones, full lips that—

JJ stopped herself there.

She forced herself to focus on something else. “ER doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” Skye corrected.

“So you fix people up.”

“Something like that.”

JJ studied her again, but this time for no reason other than curiosity. JJ winced as Skye adjusted the dressing. 

Skye finished wrapping the fresh bandage and finally met JJ’s gaze. “Everything looks fine,” Skye said. “No signs of infection. Try not to get shot again.”

JJ smirked. “I’ll do my best.”

Skye didn’t laugh, but there was something in her expression—something amused. Then she stripped off her gloves and stepped back.

JJ hesitated. The question left her lips before she thought it through. “Are you always this serious, or is it just the exhaustion?”

For a second, it seemed like she might actually think about the answer. But then she just shrugged. “Depends on the day.”

That was it. That was all she said before grabbing the chart and heading for the door.

JJ watched her go, a strange sort of pull settling in her chest.

She ignored it.

Skye's POV

The last hour had been a blur, and the moment I had scrubbed out, my brain had immediately reminded me that it was time for lunch. But the food didn’t interest me much. I only pushed the sandwich around on the plate, lost in thought.

“Hey, Skye, you coming?” Addison's voice broke through my thoughts. She was already standing by the door, an expectant smile on her face.

"Yeah, just a minute," I muttered, glancing up at the clock again.

I was looking forward to the break. Being surrounded by my colleagues—my friends—was often the best part of her day. Meredith, Arizona, Callie, Amelia, and Teddy often joined me in the break room. 

I wasn’t entirely sure when they'd become my family, but they had, and that meant something to me. Today, though, I found myself distracted. My mind kept drifting back to the FBI agent I'd treated earlier that day.

Meredith grinned at me as I joined them. “Tough day?” she asked, her eyes scanning my appearance with a knowing look.

“Same as always,” I said with a shrug, leaning back in my chair. "Long shifts don’t change."

Arizona snorted. “Yeah, you’ve got that tired ‘I’m totally running on empty’ vibe going on.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t disagree. They were right, after all. I was running on fumes. The last case had taken everything out of me.

"Meredith told me you treated an FBI agent today," Addison said as she sat down across from me, folding her arms. "What was she like?"

I took a deep breath, pushing the thought of JJ away. "She was fine. Just a bullet wound. Nothing too crazy."

"Bullet wound?" Teddy leaned over, her brows raised. "That sounds crazy. Was she cute?"

I rolled my eyes, trying to keep my expression neutral. "You guys always go there."

"Oh, come on," Callie chimed in, leaning back in her chair. "FBI agent? Definitely hot, right?"

The others laughed, and I couldn’t help but feel the heat rise to her cheeks. "I don’t know what you're talking about," I said, trying to deflect. "She was just a patient."

Arizona raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh, sure."

Amelia leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "Come on, Skye. You've been acting a little off since you treated her. Don’t tell me you’ve got a crush on the FBI agent?"

I nearly choked on my sip of water. "What? No. I’m a professional. There’s a line between doctor and patient."

The table erupted into laughter, and I even had to crack a small smile, though I quickly covered it up with a frown. I knew they weren’t going to let it go.

"You’re always so cold, Skye," Callie teased. "People probably think you’re unkind or something, but I know you’re just hiding that soft side."

I shot Callie a playful glare. "I’m not cold."

"Yeah, sure. Just like you're not interested in that FBI agent," Arizona added with a grin.

"I respect the boundaries," Skye insisted, though her voice lacked its usual certainty. "I don't mix work with personal stuff."

Meredith, who had been quiet until now, looked up from her phone and smirked. "You can respect boundaries and still have feelings, Skye."

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “I’m not going to cross that line. I don’t mix work with anything personal.”

Teddy gave me a knowing smile. “Maybe you should call her. Just once. Have a drink. I mean, you never know.”

I shake my head firmly. "Nope. Not gonna happen." I grabbed my water bottle, unscrewing the lid and taking a long sip, feeling their teasing eyes on me.

Third-Person POV

JJ was discharged a day later.

She had been stitched up, briefed on her recovery, and handed a folder of instructions. All routine. 

And yet, as she stood at the nurses’ station, signing the last bit of paperwork, she found herself looking around. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. 

Maybe Dr. Skye walking down the hall, maybe one last interaction, something that would give her an excuse to ask— 

Ask what? For her number? It was just a crush. A fleeting thing. She didn’t even know Skye, not really. And besides, JJ was leaving. They had wrapped the case, and by tomorrow, she’d be back in D.C. 

Whatever this was, whatever it could’ve been—it didn’t matter. So she pushed the thought aside, signed the last paper, and walked out of the hospital without looking back.

JJ returned to her hotel room and she folded her clothes mechanically, not really thinking about the task at hand. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the hospital, to Skye—Dr. Knight.

It was a stupid crush. She knew that.

JJ shook her head, pushing the thought away as she zipped up her bag. She was done.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She walked over, opening it to find the rest of the team, looking a little more frazzled than usual.

"Hey, sorry we're late," Morgan said, stepping inside first, his voice apologetic. "We were still wrapping up the paperwork after catching the UnSub."

"It’s a mess at the precinct," Hotch added, his usual stern expression softening slightly. "You okay?"

JJ smiled faintly, even though her shoulder twinged. "I’m fine. Discharged already. I'm good to go home."

"We should’ve been there to keep you company," Emily said, her voice full of concern. "We're so sorry."

JJ waved her hand dismissively, not wanting them to feel guilty. "It’s okay, really. I got through it. Plus, I’m not alone now." She gestured to the packed bag by the bed. "And I’m ready to head home and enjoy the jet’s beverage."

That earned a chuckle from the team.

"You’ve been counting down the hours for that, haven’t you?" Reid grinned.

JJ shrugged with a playful smile. "A little comfort after a case like this is worth it, right?"

"Absolutely," Rossi said, giving her a knowing nod. "Let’s get you out of here and back on the plane."

The team filed out of the room and she closed the door behind her, taking one last look at the room before she followed them to the car.

Her mind wandered again, just for a second, to Skye. She shook her head.

It didn’t matter.

This was just another case, another trip. And she would be back in D.C. soon enough.

But for some reason, the thought of leaving Seattle behind felt harder than it should have.

A Week Later - Washington D.C.

JJ hadn’t expected to see her again.

Seattle had been a fleeting moment, a crush that should’ve disappeared as soon as she boarded the plane back to D.C. And yet, here she was—standing in the middle of a packed convention hall, scanning the crowd for any sign of the UnSub, only to spot someone entirely unexpected.

Dr. Skye Knight.

She was up on stage, mid-speech, her voice calm and authoritative as she presented on emergency trauma response. She looked different outside of the hospital—polished, confident, wearing a fitted blue blazer over her white blouse. But JJ recognized her instantly. The sharp focus in her eyes, the cool demeanor.

JJ wasn’t the only one who noticed her, either.

Morgan nudged her shoulder. “Hey, isn’t that your doctor from Seattle?”

“Yeah. She must be one of the guest speakers.”

“Small world.” Morgan smirked. “You gonna say hi?”

JJ shot him a look. “We’re in the middle of a case, Morgan.”

Morgan held up his hands in surrender but didn’t hide his grin. JJ ignored him, shifting her focus back to the task at hand. The BAU was here because they had credible intel that the UnSub was planning to detonate a bomb at this convention, targeting prominent medical professionals. They didn’t have a face yet, just a profile and a growing sense of urgency.

And then, things escalated fast.

A commotion broke out near the entrance. Security radios crackled. People turned, confused, just as someone in the crowd pulled a weapon.

JJ reacted on instinct.

She ran toward the stage, pushing past startled attendees. The man was moving too quickly—too determined—headed straight for Skye.

Not on my watch.

JJ tackled the man just as he raised his gun. They hit the ground hard. A shot went off, shattering a nearby display. People screamed. Security swarmed in, subduing the suspect while JJ pressed a knee into his back, securing him until handcuffs clicked into place.

“JJ!” Emily’s voice cut through the chaos as she rushed over, gun still drawn. “You okay?”

JJ exhaled, rolling off the suspect. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Only then did she look up—and meet Skye’s eyes.

She was standing a few feet away, still on the stage, staring at JJ like she wasn’t sure if she was seeing things.

JJ pushed herself up, brushing dust off her jeans. She offered a small, lopsided smile. “Hey, Doc, nice to meet you again. You okay?”

Skye blinked, looking from JJ to the man on the ground, then back again. “I—yeah, I’m fine. Did you just—?”

“Save your life?” Morgan cut in with a grin, walking past them to help escort the suspect out. “Yeah, that’s kind of her thing.”

JJ rolled her eyes. “It’s my job .”

Skye was still looking at her, something unreadable in her expression. Then, finally, she huffed out a breath. “Guess I owe you one.”

JJ shrugged. “I’ll take a ‘thank you.’ ”

Skye hesitated for half a second before extending a hand. “Thanks, Agent Jareau.”

JJ shook it, feeling the warmth of Skye’s palm against hers. It was a brief touch, but it lingered longer than it should have.

Before Skye could pull away, JJ reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Here.”

Skye raised an eyebrow. “What?”

JJ smirked. “You said you owe me one. Give me your number. That way, if I ever need an emergency trauma consult, I know who to call.”

Skye let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. But she took the phone, typing in her number before handing it back. “It better be only for medical emergencies, Agent.”

JJ pocketed the phone, still smirking. “We’ll see."

What started as casual texts turned into something else entirely.

First, it was just the occasional message—Skye checking in about JJ’s shoulder, JJ teasing her about the chaos of medical conventions.

Then it was late-night calls, conversations that stretched for hours.

Then, it was realizing how much she looked forward to hearing from Skye.

JJ wasn’t sure when it shifted—when it became more than just talking. But one night, as she sat curled up on her couch, phone pressed to her ear, listening to Skye ramble about some ridiculous hospital drama—she realized it had already happened.

A Few Months Later

JJ had never been the type to rush into things.

She liked slow, steady, the kind of connection that built itself naturally over time. And with Skye, that’s exactly what had happened.

Even JJ wasn’t sure when it had become like this—comfortable, effortless.

What started as monthly visits had turned into something more fluid—weekends spent at each other’s places, stolen hours whenever their schedules aligned. It wasn’t always planned, but neither of them seemed to mind.

Now, as she lay in bed at Skye’s house, propped up on her elbow, watching the steady rise and fall of Skye’s breathing, she wondered when exactly she had started feeling this much.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the dim light seeping in from the city outside. The sheets were tangled between them, the air warm from shared body heat. JJ hadn’t meant to stay the night, but neither of them had brought it up when she did.

Skye was asleep—JJ thought she was, at least. But then she shifted slightly, her arm slipping from beneath the blanket.

That’s when JJ saw it.

Faint lines. Some old, some new. Scars running along the inside of Skye’s wrist.

JJ’s stomach tightened.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Skye shifted again, her face turning into the pillow, and JJ saw the way her fingers curled instinctively, like she was hiding them even in sleep.

JJ swallowed hard.

She didn’t want to wake her, didn’t want to make her feel exposed or vulnerable. So instead, she reached out—slow, careful—and let her fingers brush lightly over Skye’s knuckles.

Skye stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep.

JJ saw the exact moment she realized what JJ had seen.

Her whole body tensed. She didn’t pull away, not yet, but she didn’t meet JJ’s eyes either.

JJ spoke first. “Skye…” Her voice was quiet, careful. “How long?”

Skye hesitated, then shrugged. “Years.”

JJ let the silence stretch for a beat before asking, “Still?”

Skye hesitated, then nodded. Barely.

It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was honest.

JJ’s heart ached. Not out of pity—Skye would hate that—but because she understood . Because she knew what it was like to carry pain so deep it clawed at you from the inside.

She sat up slightly, shifting closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Skye let out a soft, humorless laugh. “JJ. You’re an FBI agent. You profile people for a living. You already know the answer.”

JJ sighed. “Because you didn’t want me to look at you differently.”

Skye turned her head then, finally meeting her gaze. “Because I didn’t want you to pity me.”

JJ shook her head. “I don’t.”

Skye studied her, like she was waiting for JJ to flinch, to say something that would confirm all the worst thoughts she had about herself.

But JJ didn’t flinch.

Skye exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Let’s just—forget you saw anything.”

JJ swallowed. “I can’t.”

Silence.

Skye’s jaw tensed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. “It’s not—” She stopped, exhaling harshly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me.”

Skye let out a humorless laugh, but there was no amusement in her eyes. “Why? Because I’m supposed to be the level-headed, composed trauma surgeon who has it all together?”

JJ shook her head. “Because I care about you.”

That seemed to land differently. Skye’s expression faltered, something breaking in her gaze.

JJ hesitated before reaching out, gently running her thumb over the faint ridges of old scars. She didn’t press, didn’t force. Just offered warmth. A touch that wasn’t clinical or judgmental—just there .

Skye looked down at their hands, her breath unsteady. “It’s not what you think.”

JJ’s voice was soft. “Then tell me what it is.”

“It helps. Sometimes. When it gets too loud.”

“Do you still…?” JJ hesitated, unsure how to ask.

Skye didn’t make her finish the question. “Not as much anymore. But sometimes.”

“Okay.” JJ nodded, her fingers tightening slightly over Skye’s. “Do you have someone to talk to? A therapist?”

Skye huffed. “You sound like Addison.”

“Well, she’s smart,” JJ said, attempting a small smile.

Skye didn’t smile back. “I’m a doctor. I know what I should be doing. But knowing and actually doing it are two different things.”

JJ nodded. She understood that more than she wanted to admit.

So instead, she reached out again, her fingers lacing with Skye’s.

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

Skye let out a soft, broken laugh. “I’m fine , JJ.”

JJ squeezed her hand. “I don’t believe you.”

Skye’s eyes flickered up to meet hers. For a second, she looked like she wanted to argue—but then something in her face shifted, and instead, she just exhaled, like she was too tired to fight it.

JJ moved closer, pressing a gentle kiss to Skye’s forehead. “I’m here, okay? You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready. But you don’t have to hide from me.”

Skye closed her eyes, leaning into the touch. “…Okay.”

JJ wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. And this time, Skye let her.

It wasn’t a solution.

It wasn’t an instant fix.

But it was a start.

Chapter Text

Addison's Apartment

The knock was soft, hesitant. Meredith wasn’t expecting anyone. She had only stopped by Addison’s apartment to pick up something and she was about to leave.

When she opened the door, she found Skye standing there.

For a split second, Skye just stood there, her chest rising and falling too quickly, her pupils blown wide with panic. Then, the second she registered that it was Meredith and not Addison, she turned on her heel, ready to leave.

“You’re not—” Skye’s voice was barely there, strangled and small.

“Addison isn’t here,” Meredith said quickly, stepping forward just enough to stop Skye from bolting. “She’ll be back soon. You can wait inside.”

“No.” Skye shook her head, retreating another step. “Sorry, it was a mistake. I—I should go.”

Meredith frowned. “Skye.” Her voice was careful but firm. She wasn’t blind—Skye looked unsteady, her body trembling like she was barely keeping herself together. “Come inside.”

Skye wavered. She looked lost, torn between running and staying, between breaking apart and holding herself together.

“Just for a few minutes,” Meredith said gently. “You don’t have to talk. Just wait here until she’s back.”

Finally, Skye stepped inside.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t take off her coat. She just stood in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped so tightly around herself that her fingers were digging into her skin.

Meredith kept her voice soft. “What happened?”

Skye let out a shaky breath, barely even hearing the question. “It wasn’t even bad,” she whispered, like she was trying to convince herself. “It was just a touch. Just a hand on my arm, nothing really—”

Meredith saw the way her body recoiled, like the memory itself was too much.

“Where?” she asked carefully.

“A bar,” Skye muttered, pressing the heels of her hands into her temples. “Just drinking, just—just minding my own business. And then he was there. He grabbed my arm—” Her voice cracked. “And I don’t know. Maybe I was just too tired or something. But suddenly, I was there again.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, her breath growing faster and shallower.

“Skye,” Meredith said gently. “Can I help?”

Skye shook her head rapidly. “I don’t—I don’t know. I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

Meredith could see it happening—the way Skye was folding in on herself, lost in something much deeper than just panic.

Meredith said carefully. “Can you tell me what you need?”

Skye’s hands twitched and she shook her head again.

“Okay,” Meredith said softly. “Okay. Do you want a blanket? Something to hold?”

Skye’s breath was shaky, but she gave a tiny nod.

Meredith moved carefully, grabbing a soft throw blanket from the couch and draping it over Skye’s shoulders, making sure not to touch her skin directly.

Skye gripped the edges like it was a lifeline.

Meredith grabbed her phone and quickly called Addison. The moment Addie picked up, Meredith said. “Skye’s here. She needs you. You need to come home. Now.”

There was no hesitation on Addison’s end. “I’m on my way.”

Meredith hung up and looked at Skye again. She was still breathing too fast, her fingers gripping the blanket so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Meredith hung up and turned back to Skye. “Addison’s coming,” she promised.

Skye let out a weak, broken laugh. “She told me to come to her. When it gets bad.” She swallowed hard. “But she’s not here.”

“But I am,” Meredith said simply. “And she will be here soon.”

Skye’s breathing hitched again, but something in her posture shifted—like she was still breaking, but not alone.

“You’re safe,” Meredith said gently. “You’re here. You’re not there.”

Skye let out a small, broken sound. “I don’t feel safe.”

Meredith nodded. “Okay. What can I do?”

Skye’s fingers twitched. “Just—don’t let me leave.”

Meredith nodded again. “I won’t.”

So she stayed. She didn’t push Skye to talk. Didn’t crowd her. Just stayed.

A few minutes later, the sound of a key turning in the lock broke through the silence.

Skye flinched.

Then Addison was there, stepping inside, immediately scanning the room until her eyes landed on Skye.

“Skye,” Addison breathed, already moving toward her. “What happened?”

Skye squeezed the blanket tighter, her breath uneven. She didn’t answer.

Meredith stood up, stepping aside to give Addison space.

“She came here looking for you,” Meredith said quietly. “She was at a bar. Some guy grabbed her arm, and... it triggered something.”

Addison’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking back to Skye.

“Hey,” Addison said softly, kneeling in front of her. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Skye blinks, and fresh tears spilled over.

Her breath hitched. “I—I tried. I did what you told me. I came here.”

“You did good. I’m here now.”

Skye bit her lip hard, like she was holding something back.

Addison lowered her voice. “Tell me what happened.”

Skye closed her eyes, her body trembling. Then, barely above a whisper—

“The bar. Some guy. He touched me. And suddenly, I was—” Her voice broke. “I was seven again, in my room, with him.”

Addison inhaled sharply, but her expression didn’t change. She didn’t panic. Didn’t waver. Just stayed steady, present.

She reached out slowly and carefully. “Can I touch you?”

Skye hesitated for half a second. Then, finally, she gave a tiny nod.

The second Addison’s hand met hers, Skye collapsed into her arms.

Meredith watched as Addison held her, rubbing slow, grounding circles into her back.

“I’ve got you,” Addison murmured. “You’re safe.”

Skye just cried.

And Meredith quietly stepped back. Addison had it from here.

“I can feel him all over me again.” Skye continued while pinching her arm to stay grounded. “I don't like it, Addie. How can I erase his touch?” She asks in soft and broken whispers.

Addison held her closer, one hand firm on Skye’s back, the other gently prying Skye’s fingers away from where she was pinching her own skin.

“I know,” Addison murmured. “I know, sweetheart.”

“But you don’t have to do that,” Addison murmured, her voice steady, even as her heart clenched at Skye’s words. “You don’t have to hurt yourself to make it stop.”

Skye’s breath hitched again, but she didn’t fight Addison’s touch. Her fingers dug into Addison’s shirt, clinging like she’d disappear if she let go.

Meredith lingered nearby, silent, watchful. She could leave—should leave—but she didn’t. Not yet. Not until she knew Skye was okay.

Addison shifted just enough to cup Skye’s face, careful, grounding. “Look at me.”

Skye did, barely. Her breath hitched.

“He’s not here,” Addison said, her voice gentle but firm. “He’s not touching you. I promise.”

“But it feels like he is,” Skye whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s still on me. I—” She let out a small, choked sob. “I don’t want it. I want it gone.”

Addison exhaled softly. “Okay. Tell me what you need.”

Skye’s fingers twitched. Her voice was barely there. “I don’t know.”

Addison nodded. “Do you want to shower? Change clothes?”

Skye hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.

“Okay.” Addison didn’t let go just yet. “Do you want me to stay with you? Or just be outside the door?”

“Just outside.”

Addison nodded and pressed a kiss to Skye’s temple, brief but grounding. “Alright. Let’s go.” She glanced at Meredith, who gave a small nod of understanding.

“I’ll get you something warm to drink,” Meredith offered. “And I’ll stay here if you need anything.”

Skye hesitated. Then, finally, she nodded and let Addison guide her toward the bathroom.

As they stood, Skye’s legs wobbled, and Addison steadied her with a light touch to her back, guiding her toward the bathroom.

Before disappearing down the hall, Addison glanced at Meredith, her eyes heavy with gratitude and something unspoken.

Meredith just nodded.

And when the door clicked shut behind them, she finally exhaled, sinking onto the couch.

She had been right not to leave.

When Addison closed the bathroom door, she turned to face Skye, reaching out to turn on the shower and adjust the temperature. “Is this okay?”

Skye nodded mutely, her eyes fixed on the tub. Her movements were jerky, almost mechanical, as if she was fighting to keep herself from shaking apart. 

Addison set everything up carefully—soap, shampoo, a clean towel—all within Skye’s reach. She moved slowly, deliberately, making sure her presence was reassuring but not overwhelming.

She turned back to Skye, who was still standing stiffly by the tub, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Addison’s heart ached at the sight, but she kept her voice steady. “You think you can do this on your own?”

Skye swallowed, then gave a small nod. But her hands trembled as she reached for the hem of her shirt.

Addison hesitated for a moment, then said gently, “I’ll be right outside. If you need anything—anything at all—just call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Addison lingered for a second longer, making sure Skye was at least steady enough to stand on her own. Then, with one last reassuring look, she stepped out, leaving the door slightly ajar—not to intrude, just to make sure Skye wasn’t completely alone.

She leaned against the wall outside, listening for any signs of distress, her heart heavy with the weight of what Skye had just gone through.

She hated this. Hated that Skye was feeling this way and that she had to relive something she never should have experienced in the first place.

But she was here. And as long as Skye needed her, she wasn’t going anywhere.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open. Addison turned immediately, eyes scanning Skye as she stepped out, a towel wrapped tightly around her body. Her damp hair clung to her skin, and her bare shoulders trembled slightly.

Addison wasn’t sure if it was from the cool air or something else entirely. Maybe both.

Wordlessly, she grabbed the spare clothes she had set aside—an old, soft sweatshirt and a pair of loose sweatpants, nothing that might feel too tight or too rough against Skye’s skin. “Come on,” she said gently, nodding toward the bedroom.

Skye didn’t say anything; she just followed, her steps slow and uneven.

Once they were inside, Addison handed her the clothes. “They’re comfortable,” she assured her. “No tags, no weird textures.”

Skye took them with a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“I’ll wait outside,” Addison said, stepping toward the door to give her privacy. Before she left, she added softly, “Take your time.”

It didn’t take long before Skye emerged, dressed in the sweatshirt and sweatpants, the sleeves of the oversized top hiding most of her hands. Her hair was still damp, but she looked a little more present—though her fingers still curled into the fabric of her sleeves like she needed something to hold onto.

Addison gave her a small smile. “Better?”

Skye didn’t answer, just gave the smallest shrug.

“Come on,” Addison said, motioning toward the living room. “Mer’s waiting.”

When they returned to the living room, Meredith was already waiting, a steaming mug in her hands. The moment she saw Skye, she stood and held it out. “Hot cocoa,” she said. “Figured you could use something warm.”

Skye blinked at her, as if unsure how to respond. Then, after a beat, she took the mug, her fingers curling around the warmth.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Meredith gave a small nod, sitting back down but keeping her attention on Skye, watching without pressing.

Addison sat beside her, close but not too close. “Drink,” she encouraged softly. “It’ll help.”

Skye lifted the mug to her lips, taking a small sip. Her hands were still trembling slightly. The warmth helped, but it wasn’t enough to push away the lingering feeling crawling under her skin.

It was still there. His touch. She could feel it—ghostly and wrong, imprinted on her like a stain she couldn’t scrub away.

The bar. The man’s hand. The way it latched onto her arm, fingers pressing just a little too hard.

But then, it wasn’t his hand anymore.

It was another hand. Larger, heavier.

Her breathing hitched. She gripped the mug tighter, as if the pressure could ground her, but her mind was already pulling her back.

She was seven again. Small, trapped in her own room. The door was closed, but it wasn’t locked. He never locked it—because locking it meant admitting what was happening.

She curled up under her blanket, pretending to be asleep because sometimes, if she stayed very, very still, he would go away.

But he didn’t.

The scent of whiskey in the air, heavy and suffocating. His hand was on her wrist, then her arm, then—

No, no, no—

“Skye.” Addison’s voice was sharp but gentle, cutting through the rising panic. “Look at me.”

Skye gasped, her chest rising and falling too fast. She barely registered the mug being taken from her hands before Addison was in front of her, crouching slightly, steady and calm.

Then Addison spoke. “Can I hold your hands?”

It was a simple question, but Skye froze. The idea of touch—of any touch—made her stomach twist.

But this was Addison.

Not him.

She wanted to say no. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to feel safe again.

Finally, she nodded. A small, barely-there nod.

Addison moved carefully, taking Skye’s hands in hers, covering them completely, her grip firm but not restrictive. “Breathe with me,” she said softly.

Skye’s breath was still unsteady, but she tried.

In. Out.

Addison’s thumbs traced slow circles over Skye’s knuckles. “You’re not there,” she murmured. “You’re here. You’re in my apartment. With me. With Meredith. No one else.”

Skye’s lip trembled.

Addison squeezed her hands just a little. “He’s not here,” she said gently but firmly. “You’re safe.”

Skye tried to nod, but the memory still clung to her, thick and suffocating. Her nails dug into her palms. She wanted it to stop. She wanted out of her own skin.

Her hands moved before she could stop them, nails digging into the skin of her arm— too much, too much, get it out, get it off—

A pair of hands—gentle but firm—wrapped around hers, stopping her. “No,” Addison said softly. “Not like that.”

“I can still feel him,” she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper.  “I don’t want to feel him.”

Addison’s jaw tensed, but her voice remained gentle. “You’re safe. He’s not here. He can’t touch you. I promise.”

Skye shook her head rapidly, the tears she had been trying to hold back slipping free. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Meredith, still in front of her, held out her hand, palm up, offering, not forcing. “Can I touch you?”

Skye hesitated, her breath still uneven.

Mer didn’t move, just waited, patient and steady.

After a moment, Skye gave a tiny nod.

Meredith placed her hand over Skye’s, warm and firm, not pressing, just there. “Feel this?” she asked softly.

Skye blinked through her tears, nodding faintly.

“This is real,” Meredith said. “Right now, you’re here, not there. This—” she squeezed Skye’s hand just slightly, grounding her, “—is real.”

Skye exhaled shakily.

Addison shifted closer, her voice calm but unwavering. “We’ve got you. You’re not alone in this.”

Skye sucked in a breath, her body still trembling, but the haze of the flashback started to loosen its grip.

She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, shaking her head. “I hate this,” she whispered. 

Addison’s brows furrowed. “Hate what?”

“This,” Skye spat, frustration bleeding into her voice. She tugged one of her hands free, swiping at her tear-streaked face. “I hate that I’m—” Her breath hitched, but she forced the words out. “That I’m so pathetic. That I’m crying over something that wasn’t even that bad.”

She squeezed her hands into fists, curling into herself. “It was just a touch. It wasn’t even like that. And I still—I still freaked out. Like I’m some helpless little kid. Like I’ll never stop being that kid.” Her throat tightened, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I just—I just want to be normal.”

Addison exhaled slowly, shifting slightly so she could look Skye in the eye. “Skye, listen to me.”

Skye looked up, eyes red and exhausted.

“You are not pathetic,” Addison said firmly. “You survived something horrible. And your body remembers, even when your mind knows it’s over.”

Meredith nodded. “Trauma doesn’t care if it was ‘just a touch.’ Your brain isn’t broken for reacting this way. That doesn’t make you weak. That makes you human.”

Skye let out a weak, bitter laugh. “Then why do I feel like this?”

“Because healing isn’t linear,” Addison answered softly. “Because sometimes, even when you think you’re past something, it can still hit you out of nowhere. That doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re still healing.”

Skye sniffled, shaking her head. “But I should be over it. It’s been years.”

Addison softened. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Skye’s breath was uneven again, but this time it wasn’t from panic—it was from the weight of their words settling in her chest.

She swallowed hard. “I wanted to hurt myself,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Back in the bar, when I’m on my way her, in the bathroom. I wanted to—” She stopped, her voice cracking.

“But you didn’t.” Addison said gently. 

“Not yet.”

“You’re here,” Meredith said, her voice steady. “You did the right thing coming here. That was strong.”

Skye let out a weak scoff. “Didn’t feel strong.”

“Doesn’t matter how it felt,” Meredith said simply. “It was.”

For a few moments, silence settled between them. A silence that wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable, just there. Skye took another sip, letting the warmth ground her a little more.

She felt exhausted. Completely drained. The tension in her body, the panic, the memories—it had all taken so much out of her. She blinked slowly, her body slumping just a little against the couch.

Addison noticed the way her grip on the mug was loosening and gently reached over, easing it out of her hands before it could spill. “You’re exhausted,” she murmured.

Skye made a small sound in agreement but didn’t move.

“Lie down,” Addison urged.

Skye didn’t argue. She shifted, curling onto her side, pulling the sleeves of the sweatshirt over her hands. She barely even registered it when Addison draped a blanket over her.

Within minutes, her breathing had evened out.

Addison watched her for a moment, making sure she was really asleep before she finally exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

Meredith leaned back against the couch and sighed. “That was a lot.”

“Yeah.” Addison glanced toward Skye. “It’s not the first time.”

“How often?”

Addison hesitated, then admitted, “More than she lets on.”

Meredith’s expression softened. “She came straight to you.”

“Yeah.” Addison let out a quiet breath. “That’s the only good thing about all of this.”

“She doesn’t talk about it much. I’ve told her she can always come to me, but she tries to deal with it on her own most of the time.”

Meredith nodded, glancing at Skye’s sleeping form. “That’s a hard thing to unlearn.”

“I know.” Addison’s jaw tightened slightly. “And I know I can’t fix it for her. But I wish I could do more.”

Meredith gave her a small, understanding look. “You’re already doing a lot.”

Addison sighed again, glancing at Skye. “I just want her to know she doesn’t have to go through this alone.”

“She knows,” Meredith said. “Even if she doesn’t always say it.”

Addison didn’t respond right away, but after a moment, she nodded.

“And you? Are you okay?” Meredith asked.

Addison blinked, caught off guard. “I—It’s not about me.”

“No, but you care about her.” Meredith gave her a knowing look. “And it’s hard to see someone you care about like that.”

Addison was quiet for a long moment before she finally said, “I just wish she didn’t have to go through this. That she didn’t have to be strong all the time.” She exhaled. “I wish I could do more.”

Meredith nodded. “But you are doing something. She came here. She let you help her.”

Addison looked back at Skye, curled up on the couch, her breathing steady. “Yeah,” she murmured. “She did.”

Chapter Text

Skye was in the middle of reviewing a chart when her pager buzzed.

PEDIATRIC TRAUMA—CONSULT NEEDED

She exhaled sharply, pushing aside her exhaustion, and headed toward the emergency room. Arizona Robbins rarely paged her directly—whatever this was, it had to be big.

By the time she reached the ER, the room was a flurry of movement. A young girl, no older than eight, lay on the gurney. She was pale, barely conscious, her tiny body dwarfed by the medical equipment surrounding her. A deep gash ran along her forehead, bruising already blooming around her ribs and abdomen.

Arizona was already there, her expression grim. “Skye, we need you on this. Her name is Lila. Blunt force trauma to the abdomen, suspected internal bleeding. Head laceration, possible skull fracture. CT scan is pending, but I don’t like the way her vitals are dropping.”

Skye nodded, immediately shifting into trauma mode. “What happened?”

“She fell down the stairs while running,” the father said. His voice was firm, controlled. “We told her not to, but kids never listen, right?”

Skye’s eyes flickered up at the parents standing near the door. The father—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a firm grip on his wife’s arm—spoke for both of them. The mother, smaller, fragile-looking, nodded in agreement but didn’t make eye contact with anyone.

The mother nodded. “It was an accident.”

Lila flinched when her father reached to adjust her blanket.

Skye saw it.

She wasn’t sure if Arizona saw it, but Skye saw it .

She swallowed hard and turned to Lila, crouching slightly so they were at eye level. “Hey, kiddo,” she said, keeping her tone light. “That must’ve been scary. Can you tell me what happened?”

Lila hesitated. She glanced at her father.

His expression didn’t change, but Skye caught the way his fingers curled against his wife’s hip. Just enough pressure to be a warning.

Lila’s lips parted. She was about to speak—then she closed her mouth and shook her head.

“My fault,” she mumbled. “I was clumsy.”

It was too familiar.

She forced herself to breathe and to keep her hands steady as she examined the girl’s injuries.

The femur fracture was bad—angulated, with significant swelling. If they didn’t get her to surgery soon, she’d risk compartment syndrome. But the real danger was her abdomen. The bruising across her right side, the way she winced when Skye palpated her ribs—liver injury, maybe spleen.

Arizona caught her eye. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah,” Skye said. “We need to get her to the OR.”

Arizona nodded. “We’re doing an exploratory laparotomy. I need you on this.”

“I’m in.”

They prepped for surgery, moving fast and efficiently. It was a big case—pediatric trauma was always delicate, and the severity of the injuries meant two lead surgeons were necessary.

But no matter how much Skye tried to focus, she couldn’t shake the feeling in her gut.

The girl wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Every time her father spoke, she tensed.

The mother—her hands trembled when she signed the consent forms. She never looked up. Never spoke unless prompted.

It’s not your problem, Skye. Focus on treating her.

But she knew this pattern.

She knew it too damn well.

✦✦✦✦

The next thing she knew, she wasn’t in the hospital anymore.

She was somewhere else. A child’s room, full of toys and dolls.

Her chest was tight, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The walls felt like they were closing in; the voices around her muffled, distant.

Her knees buckled.

No. No, she couldn’t—

A voice broke through the fog.

“Skye?”

She barely registered the hand on her arm, steady, grounding.

“Skye, hey, look at me.”

She gasped, choking on air, and suddenly— she was back.

Arizona was in front of her, concern etched deep into her face.

Skye was on the floor. She didn’t remember falling. Her scrubs were damp with sweat, her hands trembling violently against her thighs.

Arizona knelt beside her, her voice softer now. “You’re having a panic attack.”

Skye tried to shake her head. She couldn’t. She couldn’t move.

“It’s okay, we’re in the on-call room,” Arizona said gently. “Sweetheart, I need you to breathe with me, alright?”

Skye squeezed her eyes shut.

“In—” Arizona took an exaggerated breath. “—and out.”

Skye’s lungs burned, her body trembling, but she tried. She focused on Arizona’s voice and the weight of her hand on her shoulder.

In. Out.

Arizona’s voice was steady, a tether pulling her back. “That’s it, sweetheart, you’re doing great. Keep going.”

She wasn’t trapped.

She wasn’t there.

After what felt like an eternity, the suffocating pressure in her chest started to ease.

Arizona watched her carefully. “You with me?”

Skye swallowed hard, still shaking. “Yeah,” she rasped.

Arizona didn’t push. She just gave her a moment.

“The girl. Lila.”

Arizona nodded, waiting.

Skye forced herself to say it. “I think she’s being abused.”

Arizona stilled. “You think?”

Skye exhaled shakily. “I—I know there is. The way she flinched. The way her mom wouldn’t make eye contact. The dad—he controls the whole room; he controls them.” Her voice cracked. “It’s a pattern. I’ve seen it before.”

Her hands curled into fists. “We have to protect her.”

Honestly, Skye wasn’t sure who she was trying to save—the little girl on the table or the ghost of the child she used to be.

Arizona reached out, gripping her wrist gently. “We’ll report it, Skye. We’ll do everything we can.”

Skye inhaled sharply. Her lungs still felt too tight, and her pulse was still too fast.

Arizona gave her wrist a squeeze. “But let’s go back to the OR and focus on the surgery first,” Arizona added, quiet but firm. “We’ll call Social Services after.”

Skye inhaled sharply.

“Okay, let’s go.”

But before Skye could go, Arizona gripped her wrist softly. “You sure you okay?”

Skye kept silent for a moment.  “Not really, but I’ll be when I know Lila is safe and healthy.”

“Can we talk about this later?” The blonde asks. “About you, I mean.” She clarified, not wanting Skye to get it wrong.

“Me?”

“The panic attack.”

 “Zona, I’m fine.”

Arizona gave her a look. The kind that made it clear she didn’t buy the lie but wasn’t going to push—yet.

“Okay,” Arizona said, though it was obvious she wasn’t done with this conversation. “You don’t have to explain it right now. But when this is over, when we know Lila is safe, I want you to talk to me about it.”

Skye swallowed hard. “Arizona—”

“I’m not asking for a full therapy session,” Arizona cut in, her voice calm but firm. “Just talk to me.”

Skye wanted to argue, but she didn’t have the energy. She also knows Arizona Robbins wasn’t the type to let things go, especially when it came to someone she cared about.

“…Okay,” Skye finally said.

Arizona gave a small nod. “Good. Now, let’s go save that little girl.”

And Skye followed her back into the OR, pushing aside everything else.

✦✦✦✦

By the time their shift ended, the weight on Skye’s chest had lessened, but it hadn’t disappeared completely.

Lila had made it through surgery. It had been rough—her liver was lacerated, requiring extensive repair, and her femur had needed external fixation. But she was stable, resting in the PICU.

CPS had been called. The mother had agreed to talk. She hadn’t said much, just enough to let them know she was ready to fight. Enough for CPS to intervene.

Enough for Lila to be safe.

That should’ve been enough for Skye to breathe easily.

It wasn’t.

Arizona found her sitting on the bench outside the hospital, still in her scrubs, her hands clasped between her knees.

“You hungry?” Arizona asked, sitting beside her.

Skye huffed out a laugh. “I think I forgot what hunger feels like.”

Arizona didn’t push her to eat. Instead, she leaned back against the bench, looking up at the dark sky. “We did good today.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then: “So, you wanna talk about what happened earlier?”

Skye exhaled slowly. “Not really.”

“Too bad.” Arizona tilted her head, waiting. “Was it the case? Or was it something else?”

Skye rubbed at her temples. “It was the case,” she admitted. “But also… something else.”

Arizona didn’t look surprised. “You recognized something in them, didn’t you? The way Lila acted. The way the father—”

Skye nodded before she could finish. “Yeah.” Her voice was rough. “I recognized all of it.”

Arizona didn’t ask for details. She didn’t push. She just let Skye sit with it.

“I was fine,” Skye murmured after a moment. “I was doing my job. And then I wasn’t. It was like my body just shut down. It was like I was somewhere else. Like I couldn’t get out.”

Arizona studied her carefully. “You had a panic attack.”

“I know.” Skye let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t get them often. But sometimes, cases like this..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

“It triggered you.” Arizona continues for Skye.

Skye let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “No kidding.”

Arizona didn’t smile. She just waited.

Skye hesitated, then sighed. “I knew it the second I saw them. The way she flinched. The way her mom was too careful, too quiet. The way he controlled everything. It was—it was a pattern I know too well.”

Arizona didn’t interrupt. She just listened.

“I couldn’t focus. My brain kept trying to push it away, but then I was just…gone. Like I wasn’t even in the hospital anymore.” Skye’s fingers tightened around the coffee cup. “I felt like I was going to die.”

Arizona nodded slowly. “Panic attacks do that. They trick your brain into thinking you’re in danger. Even when you’re safe.”

Safe.

The word felt foreign.

Skye looked away. “I recognized the signs in that little girl. Because I used to be her.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Arizona didn’t react with shock or pity—just quiet understanding. “Your dad?”

Skye gave a small nod. “It wasn’t… It wasn’t always bad. But when it was, it was bad.” She swallowed hard, staring at the table. “I learned how to read a room before I could even do math. How to know when to stay quiet. How to make myself small. How to just endure , rather than fighting back.”

Arizona didn’t speak; she just let Skye say what she needed to.

“I got out. Eventually.” Skye let out a breath. “But it never really leaves you.”

Arizona nodded, her voice soft. “No, it doesn’t.”

Skye finally looked up at her. “But we got her out too, right?”

Arizona smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze Skye’s hand briefly. “Yeah. We did.”

Skye let out a breath, some of the weight in her chest easing.

The older doctor shifted slightly, turning toward Skye more. “Is this the first time it’s happened?”

Skye was silent for a long moment before nodding. “Not often. Just… certain cases.” She exhaled sharply. “Usually, I can push them down and keep them locked away. But today…”

Arizona was quiet for a moment, then said, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Skye glanced at her.

Arizona met her gaze, serious but kind. “You don’t have to bury it. You don’t have to deal with it alone.”

Skye looked away, her throat tight. “Yeah, Addie, Mer, and my therapist is trying to make me see that.”

Arizona smiled softly at that. “Smart people.”

Skye let out a quiet huff, shaking her head. “Yeah. Annoying, persistent people.”

“That’s usually the best kind.” Arizona nudged her gently. “And, that just means they care.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, the weight of the day settling over them both.

“I just—” Skye started, then stopped, exhaling slowly. “It doesn’t go away, you know? I can have all the therapy in the world, all the support, and then one case like this comes in, and suddenly, I’m right back there.”

Arizona’s expression softened. “That’s how trauma works, Skye. It doesn’t mean you’re not strong. It doesn’t mean you’re not healing.”

Skye nodded, but Arizona is not sure whether the younger woman actually accept that.

“I have another question. Are you listening to them—Mer and Addie—to talk to a therapist?” Arizona asks.

Skye hesitated. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, I go. I sit there. I talk. But sometimes, it feels like I’m just saying things to fill the silence.”

Arizona studied her for a moment. “And do you ever actually let yourself feel it?”

Skye exhaled sharply, her fingers twitching against her scrubs. “Feeling it is the problem, Zona.” Her voice was quieter now, raw. “If I let myself feel all of it, I don’t know if I’d be able to keep going.”

Arizona was silent for a beat. Then, gently, she said, “You’re still going, though. Even when it’s hard.”

Skye let that settle, staring out at the dark sky. She was still going. Some days, she didn’t know how, but she was.

“I hate that cases like this hit me so hard,” she admitted. “I should be able to separate it.”

“You’re human, Skye. And you care.” Arizona’s voice was steady. “That’s not a weakness.”

Skye swallowed, blinking against the burn behind her eyes. “Feels like one.”

“Well, it’s not.” Arizona squeezed her wrist gently. “You fought for Lila today. And she’s safe because of you.”

Skye nodded, her throat tight. “Yeah.”

Arizona studied her for a long moment. “You gonna tell Addie and Mer about today?”

Skye groaned, running a hand over her face. “Do I have to?”

Arizona smirked. “I mean, I could tell them for you.”

Skye shot her a glare. “I’ll do it.”

Arizona grinned. “Good. I like my face intact.”

A small silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Then Arizona added, “You know, you don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

Skye let out a breath. “I know.”

“But if you ever want to talk—really talk—I’m here.”

Skye glanced at her, a small, tired smile pulling at her lips. “Thanks.”

Chapter Text

Skye's Apartment  

Skye sighed as she unlocked the door to her apartment, feeling the exhaustion settle deep in her bones. She knew she should’ve called Addison or Meredith about the panic attack—she had promised Arizona—but she hadn’t said when she would do it.

And right now, she just didn’t have the energy.

She changed into an old t-shirt and sweatpants, barely mustering the energy to pull a blanket over herself. The apartment was quiet, too quiet, and for a second, she thought about putting on music. But even that felt like too much effort.

She closed her eyes, hoping for sleep to take her quickly—

Knock. Knock.

Skye groaned. She considered ignoring it. But the knocking came again, a little more insistent this time.

Dragging herself up, she shuffled to the door and opened it.

JJ stood there, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and raising an eyebrow. “Hi.”

Skye blinked. “JJ?” Skye hesitated, caught off guard. “You’re in Seattle? I thought you were still on a case in… Tacoma?”

JJ smirked. “Wrapped it up early. Thought I’d surprise you.”

Skye swallowed, forcing a smile. “Well, consider me surprised.”

JJ stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “You weren’t answering my texts, so I figured I’d check in.” She glanced at Skye, taking in the way she held herself—tired, drained. But she didn’t push. “Have you eaten?”

Skye hesitated. She hadn’t expected JJ to show up—especially not now, when she felt like complete shit.

But she forced a small smile. “I was about to.”

JJ gave her a look. The profiler look. The one that said she wasn’t buying it.

“Uh-huh,” JJ set the bag on the counter and started unpacking containers. “Well, now you don’t have to. I brought Thai.”

Skye sighed, closing the door behind her. “You really didn’t have to.”

JJ shot her a knowing glance. “I wanted to.”

Skye ran a hand through her hair. Skye didn’t argue. She let JJ set the food on the coffee table and let the warmth of her presence settle into the space.

JJ turned back to Skye, studying her for a second. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired,” Skye said, forcing a small smile. It wasn’t a lie. She was tired.

“Alright,” JJ didn’t press or pry. She just sat next to her, close but not overwhelming, and handed her a takeout container. “Here.” She handed Skye her food.

“Thanks.” Skye took the pad Thai from JJ, trying to hide the fact that she wasn’t really in the mood to eat. She grabbed a forkful, hoping JJ wouldn’t notice.

JJ dug into her own food with a satisfied hum. “God, I forgot how good this place is.”

Skye nodded absently, picking at her food. “Yeah, it’s one of my favorites.” She didn’t really taste the food; she was just going through the motions, trying not to make it obvious. “How was your case over so fast?” Skye asks.

JJ twirled a bite of noodles around her fork before answering. “Honestly? It was a mess at first. It was a kidnapping case, but the parents were actually involved, trying to stage it as some kind of revenge plot.”

“Witnesses kept contradicting each other, and the parents were throwing us in the wrong direction. But we finally got a break when one of the neighbors came forward with security footage.” She shook her head. “Whole thing could’ve taken days, but once we had that, we got her back pretty fast.”

Skye glanced at her. “Jesus. That’s… so messed up.”

JJ nodded, her jaw tight. “Yeah. The worst part is she’s too young to even understand what happened. Just kept asking when she could go home.”

Skye watched JJ for a moment. “You okay?”

JJ exhaled, shaking her head. “I mean, yeah. Just—cases with kids always get to me, you know?”

Skye did know. She nodded but hesitated for a second, then said, “I operated on a kid today.”

JJ’s gaze flicked up, immediately focused. “Yeah?”

“Eight-year-old girl. She had internal bleeding, a femur fracture, head trauma—bad injuries. Me and Arizona had to call CPS on the dad.” Skye kept her voice even, detached, just stating facts.

JJ frowned, setting her container down. “You guys think he did it?”

Skye nodded. “Yeah. It wasn’t just the injuries—it was how the girl acted. How the mom acted.”

JJ’s expression darkened. “God. That’s awful.”

Skye poked at her food, her appetite gone. “She’s stable now. The mom’s cooperating with CPS. Hopefully, she’ll be okay.”

JJ reached over, squeezing Skye’s knee lightly. “You and Dr. Robbins did good, Skye.”

Skye swallowed. “Just doing our job.”

“Yeah, but not everyone would’ve noticed what you did. Or pushed for CPS. You did great. Really.”

Skye looked away, brushing off the warmth in her chest. “Thanks.”

Skye felt a small warmth spread through her at JJ’s words, even if she didn’t feel great about the situation. JJ always knew how to make her feel like she wasn’t alone.

They finished eating in a comfortable quiet, the weight of their days lingering between them.

Afterward, they cleaned up together, tossing takeout containers into the trash and rinsing off utensils. As Skye wiped down the coffee table, JJ glanced at her.

“Can I stay over?”

Skye glanced up, a little surprised. “Yeah, of course. You know you’re always welcome.”

JJ smiled, but Skye hesitated internally.

She wasn’t sure she was the best company right now.

Still, she led JJ to the bedroom, tossing her an extra shirt to change into. 

They settled into bed, the sheets cool and welcoming. JJ curled up beside her, close but not too close, and Skye tried to shut her mind off for a little while. The last thing she wanted was to think about everything that had happened with Lila, or the panic attack earlier that day, or even her own past.

She just wanted some peace, if only for tonight.

“Goodnight, Skye,” JJ murmured, her voice soft and tired.

“Goodnight,” Skye replied, her voice a little hoarse.

JJ fell asleep first, her breathing evening out as she shifted slightly, pressing closer to Skye in her sleep.

Skye stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts still heavy. The day had drained her in more ways than one, but somehow, with JJ beside her, it didn’t feel as unbearable.

She turned her head, watching JJ’s peaceful face in the dim light. How did she get so lucky?

JJ was patient, kind, steady. She never pushed, never demanded more than Skye could give. And yet, Skye couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t deserve this—that she didn’t deserve her.

She swallowed past the tightness in her throat and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to JJ’s temple. JJ stirred slightly but didn’t wake, just sighed and burrowed deeper into the covers.

Skye exhaled, letting herself relax for the first time all day. She curled closer, soaking in JJ’s warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Maybe she could actually get some rest tonight.

With that thought, her eyes drifted shut, and sleep finally pulled her under.

✦✦✦✦

JJ woke up to soft, broken sounds. At first, she wasn’t sure what it was—just something off in the quiet of the night. But as she became more awake, she turned toward Skye and realized it was her.

Skye was whimpering, small, pained noises slipping out between hitched breaths. She shifted under the blankets, her body tense, her face twisted in distress.

JJ frowned, reaching out gently. “Skye?” she whispered.

But Skye didn’t wake. The sounds grew more frantic, her hands twitching as if pushing something—or someone—away. Then, all at once, the whimpers turned into a loud, broken cry.

“No—don’t!” Skye gasped, thrashing.

JJ sat up fully, concern spiking. “Skye, wake up.” she said softly, touching her shoulder. 

Skye didn’t stir.

Her body jerked again, more violent this time.

“Skye, it’s okay, you’re dreaming—”

But it wasn’t getting better. The nightmare held her in its grip, dragging her deeper.

Skye’s breathing turned frantic, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Don’t touch me, please,” she sobbed, her voice wrecked, desperate. “I’m sorry, I’ll be a good girl—I won’t tell anyone—please, stop.”

JJ’s stomach dropped. Her heart clenched painfully at the words, at the fear in Skye’s voice.

She couldn’t let her stay in this.

“Skye, it’s me,” JJ said, keeping her voice calm but firm. “You’re safe. It’s JJ. You’re home.”

Skye’s eyes flew open—but they were unfocused, wide with terror.

Skye’s eyes darted wildly, her breathing still too fast. She saw JJ—but something in her mind twisted the image, turning JJ into someone else, someone dangerous. 

The doctor shoved JJ away, scrambling backward until she hit the headboard. Her breaths were ragged, her hands shaking as she pressed herself into the corner, trying to make herself small. “No! Don’t hurt me.”

JJ barely caught herself before she fell off the bed. “Skye—”

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I won’t tell, I promise—I promise—please, stop.”

JJ’s heart shattered.

She had seen trauma before. She had seen victims relive their worst moments, stuck in memories they couldn’t escape. But this—this was Skye.

Skye didn’t respond. She was too lost, still stuck in whatever dark place her mind had taken her.

She took a slow breath and softened her voice. “Skye, I need you to listen to my voice, okay?”

Skye didn’t respond. She was too lost, still stuck in whatever dark place her mind had taken her.

JJ lowered herself slightly, making sure she wasn’t crowding Skye. “You’re not there. You’re here, in your apartment. You’re safe. I promise.”

Skye’s breathing hitched, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

JJ softened her voice even more. “Can you look at me?”

It took a few seconds, but finally, Skye’s frantic gaze met hers.

“That’s it,” JJ encouraged. “Good. Now, I want you to breathe with me, okay? In—” She took a slow, deep breath, exaggerating the motion. “—and out.”

Skye’s chest heaved, her breaths still ragged, but she tried.

“That’s it,” JJ said again, nodding. “You’re doing great. Just keep breathing with me.”

Little by little, the tension in Skye’s body started to ease. Her hands still trembled, her face was still pale, but her eyes were clearing.

JJ stayed right where she was, not moving closer, just letting Skye come down at her own pace.

Skye’s chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, but after a long moment, her shoulders sagged.

She was coming back.

JJ exhaled softly, relief flooding her. But her heart still ached at what she had just witnessed.

When Skye finally met her eyes, there was exhaustion, shame, something close to defeat.

Skye finally spoke, her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “…JJ?”

JJ offered her a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Skye swallowed hard, her body still trembling. She looked down at her hands, as if realizing only now that they were shaking.

JJ wanted nothing more than to pull her into a hug, to hold her close and make all of this go away—but she didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she just said, “You’re safe, Skye. I’ve got you.”

Skye exhaled shakily, still curled into the headboard, her hands clenched into fists. She couldn’t bring herself to look at JJ, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of the nightmare. The shame settled deep in her chest, heavy and suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered, her voice breaking. She swallowed hard, but the tears still welled up, spilling over before she could stop them. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to will them away.

JJ’s voice was gentle. “Hey, don’t apologize.”

Skye let out a small, broken sound, barely holding herself together. “I woke you up—I freaked out—I just—” She shook her head, unable to finish the thought.

JJ shifted slightly, still keeping a careful distance. “Can I come closer?” she asked softly.

Skye hesitated, breathing uneven. Then, slowly, she gave a small nod.

JJ moved forward, slow and deliberate, giving Skye time to stop her if she needed to. “Can I touch you?”

Another pause. Then, after a moment, Skye gave another tiny nod.

JJ reached out, brushing Skye’s knuckles first—just enough contact to ground her—before pulling her into a hug. Skye tensed for half a second before she let herself sink into it, pressing her face against JJ’s shoulder. JJ held her, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles into her back.

“It’s okay,” JJ murmured. “You don’t have to apologize for this. Nightmares happen. It’s not like I’ve never had one.” She gave a small, wry smile. “It’s human, Skye.”

Skye let out a shaky breath. The warmth of JJ’s touch, the solid weight of her arms around her—it made the overwhelming feeling just a little less unbearable.

JJ pulled back slightly, looking into Skye’s tired eyes. “You know you can talk to me, right?” she said gently.

Skye opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to, but at the same time, she didn’t know where to start.

JJ didn’t push. “It’s okay,” she reassured. “You don’t have to talk now. Not even to me. Just… someone. When you’re ready.”

Skye stayed quiet, her fingers curling into JJ’s hoodie. Then, finally, she took a breath and whispered, “It was because of the kid I operated on.”

JJ’s brows knit together, concern deepening. “Skye, you don’t have to talk if you’re not ready.”

“I want to,” Skye said quickly. Her voice was still unsteady, but there was something determined in it now.

JJ gave a small nod. “Okay. I’m listening.”

Skye took a breath, trying to steady herself. “After the consult… I had a panic attack,” she admitted. “Arizona caught me. She—she helped me calm down.”

JJ listened, patient and quiet.

Skye shifted slightly. “After that, I told her about the girl. And her mom.” Her throat tightened. “They’re being abused. And I know that because… I’ve been there.”

JJ’s fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Skye exhaled, her voice barely holding steady. “Not with my mom. She died when I was really young. I don’t even remember her.” She blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “But the dad—the way he treated her—I’ve lived that.”

JJ didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt. She just listened.

“My dad,” Skye said, her voice distant, like she was speaking about someone else. “He used me. As a rage outlet. And… other things.” She trailed off, her whole body tense.

JJ’s chest ached, but she didn’t move, didn’t react beyond squeezing Skye’s hand a little tighter. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

Skye gave a broken little laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

Silence settled between them.

“I don’t know why it hit me so hard today. I mean, I see cases like this all the time. But when I saw Lila, when I saw how scared she was… it just—” Her voice cracked. “It just brought everything back.”

JJ didn’t rush to respond. She just held Skye a little closer, letting her take her time.

“You’re not there anymore,” JJ finally said, her voice steady. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

Skye exhaled shakily, nodding, but the weight of it all still pressed down on her chest. She wasn’t there anymore, but some days, it still felt like she was.

JJ shifted slightly, just enough to press a gentle kiss to Skye’s hair. “You’re safe,” she repeated, softer this time, like she was trying to make Skye believe it. “And Lila’s safe now too. Because of you.”

Skye closed her eyes, letting herself lean into JJ’s warmth. “I just…” She sighed. “I wish I could do more.”

JJ pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing a stray tear off Skye’s cheek with her thumb. “You already did. You saw her. You helped her. That’s more than most people would have done.”

Skye’s throat tightened, her eyes stinging again, but this time, it wasn’t just from sadness—it was from the sheer tenderness in JJ’s voice, in her touch.

“I don’t deserve you,” Skye murmured.

JJ frowned. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Skye gave a weak smile, like she was trying to make a joke out of it, but it fell flat. “I’m fucked up.”

JJ’s expression softened, but there was something firm beneath it—something steady, unwavering. “Skye,” she said quietly, tilting Skye’s chin up so their eyes met. “You’re not fucked up. And if you are, then so am I. So that just makes us a perfect match.”

Skye let out a short, breathless laugh. “That’s different.”

“It’s not.” JJ didn’t let her look away. “You’ve seen me with my nightmares, and you’ve helped me through them. You never made me feel broken or weak. Why do you think I’d see you any differently?”

Skye swallowed hard, her throat burning. “Yeah, but—” She hesitated. “You were protecting your country. You saved people from bad guys. And me? I was weak and useless. I couldn’t even fight my own dad from doing those things to me.”

JJ’s chest tightened, but she didn’t interrupt.

Skye let out a bitter, shaky laugh. “You know what he used to say? That I must’ve enjoyed it. That’s why I didn’t say anything to anyone.” Her fingers twisted in the blankets. “Maybe he was right.”

JJ felt a sharp, cold anger coil in her stomach—not at Skye, never at Skye—but at the man who had hurt her, the man who had twisted her perception of herself so badly that she could even think that.

“He wasn’t right,” JJ said, her voice low but firm. “Not even a little.”

Skye clenched her jaw, her hands tightening into fists. “I should be over it by now. It’s been years.”

“Skye.” JJ reached for her hand again, threading their fingers together. “Healing isn’t about time. It’s not something you just ‘get over.’” She exhaled softly, squeezing Skye’s hand. “I’ve spent years telling myself I should be over the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve lost. That I should be fine by now. But that’s not how it works.”

Skye stayed quiet, her gaze fixed on their hands.

JJ continued, her voice gentler now. “You weren’t weak. You survived. You got out. And now, you’re saving kids like Lila from going through what you did.” She brushed her thumb over Skye’s knuckles. “That doesn’t sound like weakness to me.”

Skye let out a slow, unsteady breath. She didn’t argue. Didn’t push back. But she still looked unconvinced, like she wanted to believe JJ but couldn’t quite let herself.

JJ gave her hand another squeeze. “And for the record? Even if you never saved a single person, even if you never did another ‘good’ thing for the rest of your life, you’d still deserve love, Skye.”

Skye’s breath hitched.

“You deserve to be safe. To be cared for. To be happy.” JJ held her gaze. “Not because of what you do, or who you help, or how strong you are—but just because you’re you.”

For a moment, Skye just stared at her, her eyes wide, raw. Then, without warning, her face crumpled, and she let out a quiet, choked sob.

JJ moved instantly, wrapping her arms around Skye and pulling her close. Skye didn’t resist. She just collapsed into JJ’s embrace, gripping the back of her shirt like a lifeline.

JJ held her, running her fingers through Skye’s hair, murmuring quiet reassurances as Skye sobbed into her shoulder.

And for once, Skye didn’t try to hold it in. She didn’t swallow it down or pretend she was fine. She just let herself break—safe in JJ’s arms.

JJ kept holding Skye, her hand moving in slow, soothing circles against her back. She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to rush her. She just let Skye take what she needed—let her cry, let her breathe, let herself be held.

After a while, the shaking in Skye’s body eased. Her sobs quieted, turning into slow, uneven breaths. JJ felt the way her weight started to settle against her, exhaustion tugging her down.

Skye shifted slightly, her head nestled against JJ’s shoulder. Her breath was warm against JJ’s collarbone, and her fingers had loosened their grip on JJ’s shirt.

JJ kept rubbing her back, slow and steady, until she felt Skye’s breathing even out, just on the edge of sleep.

Then, barely above a whisper, Skye murmured, “Thanks, JJ…”

JJ smiled softly, pressing a light kiss to Skye’s hair. “Always.”

She thought that would be the last thing Skye said before she drifted off completely. But then—

“I love you.”

It was quiet, drowsy, like Skye barely realized she’d said it. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Just something natural, something easy, slipping out in the space between wakefulness and sleep.

JJ’s entire body went still.

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just stared at the ceiling as Skye let out one last sigh and fully relaxed against her.

They’d never said those words before. Not yet.

They weren’t—well, they were something, but they had never defined it. They were close, closer than either of them had ever been with anyone else. They relied on each other. Needed each other. But they never said love.

JJ didn’t know if Skye meant it—if it was just the heat of the moment, the raw emotions from tonight spilling over. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it meant everything.

She had no idea.

But she knew one thing for sure.

Sleep wasn’t coming for her anytime soon.

Chapter Text

Teddy had seen the signs before. The vacant stares, the delayed responses, the way Skye seemed just a little too distant from everything around her.

But today, it was different. 

Today, something was off.

She had passed by Skye in the hallway earlier and called her name, but Skye hadn’t responded—hadn’t even blinked in recognition. Teddy had brushed it off at first, assuming she was just lost in thought. 

As the day went on, she kept noticing it. Skye moved through the hospital like a ghost, her steps mechanical, her expressions flat, as if she wasn’t really here .

✦✦✦✦

The hospital halls blurred as Skye walked through them, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing too loudly, the voices around her distant, as if she were submerged underwater.

Everything felt off.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing in the supply closet.

Or how she had gotten there.

She looked down.

A scalpel rested loosely between her fingers.

The sleeve of her scrub top was pushed up, her arm painted in fresh red lines.

The sight was startling—and yet, familiar.

She exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the metal as she tried to piece together how this happened.

Nothing felt real. Her head buzzed, her body too light and too heavy at the same time. Like she wasn’t fully there.

A knock at the door.

Then, before she could react, it swung open.

“Skye?”

Teddy’s voice. Firm, steady—but laced with concern.

Skye blinked.

Teddy Altman stood in the doorway, her sharp, assessing gaze sweeping over the scene in an instant. Her eyes flickered to the scalpel in Skye’s hand. To the blood.

Skye felt a strange sense of detachment, like she was watching this unfold from somewhere else, somewhere far away.

“Shit.” Teddy stepped forward slowly, carefully, like she was approaching a skittish animal. “Skye. Put that down.”

Skye frowned, tilting her head slightly.

She hadn’t even realized she was still holding it.

“I wasn’t—” Her voice sounded distant, even to herself. “I didn’t—”

She looked at the fresh cuts on her arm again.

She didn’t remember doing it.

Didn’t remember making the decision to do it.

One second, she was nowhere. And the next—

She swallowed hard.

Teddy was closer now, but not too close. She crouched slightly, lowering herself to Skye’s level, hands open, non-threatening.

“Skye,” she said softly. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Skye’s breath hitched.

“I don’t…” Her fingers trembled around the scalpel. “I don’t know.”

Teddy nodded, like she understood.

“Everything just feels weird,” Skye continued, her voice quieter now. “Like I’m not really here. I don’t know how I got here; I don’t know when I started, but—” Her grip on the scalpel faltered. “But it worked .”

Teddy’s expression didn’t change, but something in her gaze softened. “What worked?”

“This.” Skye glanced at her arm, at the red seeping from fresh wounds. “It brought me back.”

Teddy exhaled slowly, carefully. “Okay.”

She didn’t freak out. Didn’t rush in to take the scalpel away. She just watched Skye, giving her time.

Skye let out a humorless laugh, but there was no amusement behind it. “God, Addison's gonna be pissed.”

Teddy frowned. “I don’t think she’ll be pissed, Skye.”

“She will.” Skye dragged a hand down her face. “Not at me , just—at the whole thing. At the fact that I let this happen again.” She let out a hollow breath. “She keeps telling me I don’t have to do this alone. But I wasn’t doing it alone. I thought I was okay.” Her voice broke slightly. “I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

Teddy nodded slowly, processing Skye’s words. “That sounds like dissociation,” she said gently. “It happens when your mind disconnects from everything around you. Sometimes it’s subtle, but other times…” She glanced at Skye’s leg, at the barely bleeding cuts. “Sometimes it’s like this.”

Skye was silent for a moment, then sighed, shaking her head. “I hate this,” she muttered.

Teddy sat down beside her “It must be terrifying.”

Skye swallowed. “Yeah.”

“But this—” Teddy nodded toward Skye’s arm. “This isn’t the only way back.”

Silence.

Then, finally, Skye’s fingers loosened, the scalpel slipping from her grasp.

Teddy caught it before it hit the ground, setting it aside before slowly reaching for Skye’s arm. “Can I?”

Skye hesitated, then nodded.

Teddy pressed a clean gauze to the wounds, applying gentle but firm pressure. “Let’s get you patched up, okay?”

Skye didn’t argue.

Teddy kept her movements steady, careful. She wasn’t just treating the cuts—she was grounding Skye, giving her something tangible to focus on. The soft press of gauze, the rhythmic pattern of her breath, the quiet steadiness of her presence.

Skye stayed still, watching Teddy’s hands as they worked. The pain was there, but distant, like an afterthought. The weight of dissociation hadn’t fully lifted, but the haze was thinning.

Then, finally, Skye exhaled, her shoulders slumping. “I should tell Addie.”

Teddy glanced at her. “You don’t have to tell her right now,” she pointed out. “You don’t have to do anything before you’re ready.”

Skye let out a soft, tired laugh. “She’s my person,” she said simply. “She deserves to know.”

Teddy watched her for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah,” she agreed. “She does.”

“But I don’t want to make it a thing.”

Teddy gave her a look. “It is a thing.”

Skye swallowed, her throat tight. She hated this part. The aftermath. The part where people knew .

Skye let out a hollow laugh. “God, if Addison finds out, she’s gonna make Meredith pull me from surgery for a week.”

“She’ll pull you from surgery because she cares,” Teddy corrected. “Not as punishment.”

Skye sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile.”

“I don’t think you’re fragile,” Teddy said simply. “But I do think you’re struggling.”

Skye didn’t respond to that.

Teddy finished wrapping her arm, securing the bandage with gentle precision before leaning back slightly. “Do you feel like you’re back now?”

Skye hesitated, then nodded. “Mostly.”

Teddy studied her for a second, then reached out—slow, deliberate—and squeezed her hand. It was brief, just a few seconds, but the warmth of it grounded Skye more than she wanted to admit.

“I’ll walk you back to the attendings' lounge,” Teddy said, standing. “You don’t have to talk to anyone yet. But I don’t want you being alone right now.”

Skye hesitated but didn’t argue. The thought of being alone was unsettling. She wasn’t sure if it was because of what just happened or because she wasn’t sure what she’d do if it did happen again.

So, she nodded, pushing herself to her feet. Teddy offers her hand to Skye.

And with that, Skye let out a long breath, gripping Teddy’s offered hand as if grounding herself—finally, fully —back in reality.

Chapter Text

The first thing you notice about Station 19 is that it feels too quiet for a firehouse.

You weren’t expecting a parade, but this? A heavy silence hangs in the air like smoke after a structure fire. The kind that chokes you slowly, without warning.

You adjust your turnout gear and knock lightly on Captain Bishop’s office door.

“Come in,” a firm voice says from the other side.

You open the door to find Maya Bishop behind her desk, posture perfect, eyes unreadable.

“Y/N, right?” she says, standing and offering a handshake.

“Yes, ma’am. Y/N Y/L/N, reporting in.”

“Drop the ‘ma’am.’ It’s Captain. You’ll learn that pretty fast.” She gestures for you to sit, but doesn’t.

You nod, stiffly.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Maya says. “You’re walking into a team that’s... grieving. Vasquez was one of ours. We didn’t always like him, but that doesn’t mean we wanted him gone.”

“I understand.”

“You don’t. Not yet. But you will.”

You’re not sure if that’s a threat or a promise.

Maya stands in front of the assembled crew. Her expression is hard to read—controlled, but there's a tension in her shoulders that hasn't gone away since Rigo's funeral.

“This is Y/N. Fresh out of the academy, assigned to Station 19. She’s with us now.” Maya explains as you stand next to her.

Silence.

You shift your weight, hands behind your back, the academy still clinging to you in the way you stand at attention. You can feel their stares. Some polite. Some not.

Dean mutters softly to Ben. "That’s fast. Isn’t it too fast?"

"Yeah. Way too fast." He nods.

“Bad timing,” Andy interrupts, not looking up.

Vic leans forward where she’s slouched on the bench, elbows on knees, eyes flicking from Andy to you to Maya. She chews the inside of her cheek for a second before speaking, her voice light but laced with edge.

“Okay, ouch, Andy,” she says with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Maybe let the newbie breathe before throwing shade. Not like she packed Vasquez’s bag herself.”

Andy shoots her a look, but Vic keeps going.

“I get it. Timing sucks. It’s weird. It’s not fair. But none of that’s her fault,” Vic gestures toward you. “She didn’t pick the day Rigo died. Or the day she got assigned here. So maybe let’s not make her feel like she did, yeah?”

There's a pause. No one speaks.

You force a smile, grateful for the attempt—awkward as it is.

Then Vic offers a small, almost sheepish smile your way. “Hi. I’m Vic. Sorry we’re all being awkward little weirdos. You’ll get used to it.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I’m Y/L/N, nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. And hey,” she lowers her voice just a bit, mock-conspiratorial, “don’t let the death glares freak you out. We’re all nice people, okay? Just need some time to adjust.”

You manage a small smile. “That’s... reassuring.”

Maya gives a subtle nod of approval but says nothing. The rest of the team exchanges glances—Ben looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t. Travis studies you like he’s trying to figure out your story before you even say a word. Andy walks off toward the lockers, and Dean... Dean doesn’t say anything, but he shifts awkwardly, guilt or annoyance—maybe both—flickering in his eyes.

“Hughes is right,” Maya says. “It’s no one’s fault. The department rotates people fast. We still have a job to do. That doesn’t stop.”

Maya claps her hands once, the sound sharp and final. “Okay. Introductions are over. Hughes, show Y/L/N where her gear goes. Get her situated.”

“Yes, Captain,” Vic says, then flashes you a wink. “Come on, rookie. Let’s go find your cubby and your dignity.”

You follow her through the engine bay, the eyes of the team still lingering on your back like the echo of a fire alarm that won’t shut off.

Vic leads you past the rigs, weaving between the engine and ladder truck with an ease that only comes from years spent navigating tight turns and chaos. You try to match her pace, but your boots feel heavy, your mind still stuck back in that suffocating moment of silence.

She glances over her shoulder at you. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… first-day jitters, I guess.”

Vic hums. “Try first day after someone died jitters. Totally different genre.”

You almost laugh, but the weight of everything keeps it stuck somewhere in your chest. Vic seems to sense it.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, softer this time. “Just… don’t try too hard. That’ll make them hate you more.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”

“Nope,” Vic grins. “Just honest.”

She stops in front of a gear locker—your name already taped on in black marker. A freshly printed label, slightly crooked. Like someone slapped it on last-minute. Which, maybe they did.

“This is you. Bunk room’s through there,” she gestures toward a hallway, “showers on the left, kitchen's where we live when we’re not, you know, saving people. You’ll find it. We run drills in an hour. Captain’s the devil about punctuality, so don’t be late.”

You glance at the empty cubby, the gear neatly stacked like it’s been waiting for someone. It feels too clean. Too untouched.

Vic lingers a second, watching you. “You ever lose anyone before?” she asks, not unkindly.

You pause, then shake your head. “Not like this.”

Vic nods like she expected that answer. “You will. That’s not me being grim, by the way. That’s just the job. One day it hits you like a train. But today—” she hesitates, then shrugs, “—today, it’s not your grief to carry. Just try not to trip on it.”

You let out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

She pats your shoulder. “And hey. If things get weird—and they will—stick with me. I’m good at translating awkward grief vibes into mildly tolerable chaos.”

You smile, genuinely this time. “Noted.”

Vic starts to walk away, then turns back, walking backward now. “Oh, and if Travis offers you one of his welcome smoothies , say no. They taste like sadness and kale.”

You watch her disappear around the corner, and for a moment, the station is quiet again. Not the suffocating kind like before—more like the eye of a storm.

You turn back to your locker and start unpacking your things.

From the other end of the locker, you hear someone clearing their throat.

You glance up to see a tall, bearded white man, his eyes catching on you. 

"You new?" He asks.

You nod. "I’m Y/N Y/L/N. Just got assigned. I—"

He interrupts, his tone clipped. "Right. Rigo’s replacement."

You freeze. 

Jack sees it and sighs, softening. "Sorry. That was... I didn’t mean it like that."

"It’s okay. You probably all feel that way."

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking ten times more tired than he did a second ago. “I’m Jack. Gibson.” He offers a hand, then seems to second-guess himself, pulling it back halfway like he’s not sure you’ll take it.

You do. His grip is firm but quick, like he’s not used to lingering in small talk anymore.

“I know this isn’t exactly the warmest welcome,” he says, glancing toward the direction Vic went, then back at you. “We’re usually not this…” He trails off, searching for the right word.

“Hostile?” you offer with a small, dry smile.

Jack gives a huff of a laugh, surprised. “Yeah. Something like that.” Then quieter, more honest: “You didn’t do anything wrong. Just... wrong place, wrong time. For all of us.”

You nod, unsure what to say that won’t make it worse.

He leans against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “He was a jackass, don’t get me wrong. But he was ours. We all... failed him, somehow. Me more than everyone else.”

That lands with the weight of a dropped hose. Heavy. You blink, unsure whether to say, I’m sorry or thank you for telling me or just okay . Jack doesn’t seem to expect a response, though—his gaze is somewhere over your shoulder, lost in memory.

He continues, jaw tightening. “Anyway. We’re still figuring out how to breathe without him. So if people are weird, it’s not about you.”

You nod again, this time with more purpose. “Got it. Thanks.”

Kitchen - Station 19

Ben is the only one in the kitchen and he motioned for you to join him. You hesitated but sat. 

“You hungry? There’s leftover lasagna.” He offers kindly.

Your stomach turns over in a displeased way. The idea of eating with this heavy silence only makes you want to throw up.

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

Ben gives you a knowing look—part dad, part doctor, part seen-it-all-before . He’s got that calm, steady presence, like someone who’s learned how to stand still in the middle of chaos.

“You sure?” he says, nudging the Tupperware across the counter a little. “We’ve got a drill today. Captain’s gonna run us hard—she’s a machine when it comes to training. You’ll need all the energy you can get.”

You let out a quiet breath, trying to summon even the smallest appetite. “I’m okay. Just… a little too much tension in the air to think about food.”

Ben hums, understanding. “Yeah. That’s about right.” He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You can relax, you know. We don’t bite. Or at least, we’re not supposed to. Bishop’s the only one with a license to scare people around here.”

You smile, weak but genuine. “She’s... intense.”

“That’s the nice word for it,” he chuckles. “But she’s good. Really good. Just doesn’t leave room for excuses, especially not during drills. If you’ve got a weak link, she’ll find it—and fast.”

You nod, absorbing every word like you’re still in the academy. “Thanks for the warning.”

Ben softens a bit, watching you with a more thoughtful gaze. “Don’t let all this mess fool you. We’re a family. A complicated one. Little broken right now, but still holding.”

You glance around the empty kitchen, the echo of boots and radio chatter faint in the distance. “Doesn’t feel much like family yet.”

“It won’t,” he says simply. “Not today. Maybe not this week. But it will. When the tones drop and you’re in that rig with us, it all gets real fast. And that’s where it starts.”

You look down at the countertop. “I didn’t expect to be replacing someone. Especially not someone they were still mourning.”

Ben nods slowly. “No one ever does. But we all pick up where someone left off. That’s the job. It’s hard. And it’s constant.”

You look up. He’s not trying to sugarcoat anything, and somehow that makes it easier to trust him.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says with quiet certainty, standing to rinse out his mug. “Just don’t let them scare you off before you get the chance to prove it.”

You nod, finally reaching for the lasagna. “Maybe just a few bites.”

Ben grins. “Smart. You’ll thank me when you’re dragging a charged line across a training yard in full gear.”

You take your first bite just as the tones crackle through the station’s overhead speakers. Not a real call—just the Captain's voice, sharp and commanding.

“All personnel, gear up. Drill starts in ten.”

Ben pats your shoulder lightly on his way out. “Showtime.”

You grab your gear, lasagna forgotten, and head toward the engine bay—your nerves buzzing, boots heavy, but your spine a little straighter.

The silence is fading.

And now… it’s time to work.

Common Room – Station 19

It’s been a week. Just seven days, but in firehouse time? That’s a lifetime.

A lifetime of early mornings and late nights, of drills that push your body to the edge and inside jokes you don’t quite understand yet. A week of being called rookie by pretty much everyone, and yeah—it’s kind of annoying, but you’d rather be noticed than invisible.

Now, at least, there’s banter. Now, Vic steals your coffee and blames Dean, Travis corrects your form with a smirk instead of an eye-roll, and even Andy will grunt something like ‘not bad’ after drills. Jack started throwing you a granola bar before morning runs. It’s something.

You’ve shown them you’re not just Rigo’s replacement—you’re a firefighter. You’ve proved yourself in small ways. Fast turnout times. Sharp instincts. A steady hand on a backboard. You caught a misrouted hydrant line during a drill, and Maya didn’t say anything—just gave you a nod. The others saw it. Felt it. You're not one of them yet, but you're inching closer.

And then Dr. Lewis shows up.

Maya calls everyone into the common room—her voice sharp, leaving no room for negotiation.

“This is Dr. Diane Lewis,” Maya says once you’re all gathered. She stands at the front of the room, posture squared like always, but there’s something softer in her tone. “She’s a therapist with the department. She’s here to talk. About Vasquez. Or anything else.”

A few heads turn, a couple sighs drift into the air. Jack’s already rubbing the back of his neck. Travis shifts uncomfortably. Vic avoids everyone’s eyes.

“It’s not optional,” Maya adds. “You’ll each have some time with her, between calls and shifts. If you don’t go willingly, I’ll make the schedule for you.”

That gets a few dry chuckles. Vic slouches further into the couch. Travis crosses his arms but doesn’t argue. Dean mutters something under his breath about ‘mandatory therapy, cool cool cool.’ Andy looks like she wants to protest but doesn’t. Ben just nods.

You glance at Diane—warm smile, calm energy, like she could talk a grizzly bear down from a tree. You’ve never met her, but you’ve heard things. People actually like talking to her, which is wild for a department shrink.

Then you glance at your captain, slightly intrigued. It’s… unexpected. Most captains wouldn’t push this kind of thing. It’s not the usual tough-it-out vibe you braced yourself for. Of course, Maya Bishop isn’t exactly usual , but you never expect her to be this unusual. Honestly, she seems like the type to toughen it up.

You respect it, honestly. It’s cool to see someone care like that. It's… new.

Besides, it will be good for them. They need to talk to someone, so you appreciate Bishop’s approach to this, however unusual it is. 

You lean back and quietly sip your water. This isn’t for you. You weren’t here when it happened. You didn’t know Vasquez. You never ran into a burning building with him, never shared chili nights, never fought over truck assignments. What could you possibly add?

Let them talk. They need it. They should talk.

And you?

You’re just here to work.

—

The day moves on like clockwork. Calls come in. Calls go out.

One by one, they go to talk to Diane.

Sometimes it’s in the middle of lunch or right after a call. Sometimes Diane just sits with someone outside, on the bench near the bay. She’s got that “I see right through you” kind of vibe, but she doesn’t push too hard. 

You hear Vic laughing with her once. Dean comes back looking exhausted but lighter. Andy looks like she’s been holding her breath the whole session and hasn’t let it go yet. Travis disappears for about thirty-five minutes, then Ben. 

Jack takes the longest. When he comes back, he doesn’t speak to anyone for a while, just sits at the kitchen table tapping a pencil until Travis makes him stop.

You train. You clean gear. You keep your hands busy, your boots laced tight, your head down but your eyes open. You don’t avoid Diane, exactly—you just don’t approach her. She’s here for them. You’re just here to do your job.

And maybe, just maybe, earn your spot.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

Until late that night.

The station’s quiet, lights dimmed, half the team asleep, the other half pretending to be. You’re curled up on the common room couch with a blanket and a fire manual you’ve already read twice. You’re thinking about turning in when a voice breaks the silence.

“You haven’t seen Diane yet.”

You glance up.

It’s Captain Bishop.

“Uh, sorry, cap—I wasn’t trying to hog the couch.” You were startled by her sudden arrival, sitting up a little.

Maya shakes her head, stepping into the room with her arms crossed over her chest, casual but alert. “You’re fine,” she says. “That’s not what I meant.”

She walks over, standing just a few feet from you, eyes scanning the room like she’s checking for movement—but you know she’s giving you space to speak first.

You shut the manual, a little embarrassed. “Right. Dr. Lewis.”

“Yeah.” Maya's voice isn’t sharp, but it’s steady—firm in that way only someone used to command can manage without raising it. “You’re the only one who hasn’t talked to her.”

You shift, sitting up straighter, the blanket falling into your lap as you fidget with the corner of the fire manual. “I figured… it’s not really for me,” you admit, trying not to sound defensive. “I wasn’t here when it happened. I didn’t know Vasquez. I didn’t lose anything.”

Maya’s jaw flexes slightly. She walks over and leans against the back of a chair across from you, crossing her arms again, gaze level. Stern. Unwavering.

“I told all of you it’s mandatory,” she says. “I didn’t stutter.”

You blink, surprised at the edge in her voice. 

You nod, quickly. “Yes, I know. I just—”

“And I said it’s not just about Vasquez. It can be about anything. ” She tilts her head slightly. “That includes you.”

You look down, throat tight. “I just… I didn’t think I had the right. Everyone else actually knew him, I—”

“Now tell me—are you, or are you not part of this team?” Maya interrupts.

You look up at her, startled. “I’m sorry, Cap—?”

“Are you or are you not part of this team?” she asks again, sharper now, cutting through your hesitation like a blade.

Your heart skips. You hate how long it takes you to answer.

“…Yes, Cap,” you say. But it comes out smaller than you want. Like you’re not even sure yourself.

“Say it like you believe it,” she adds.

You lift your eyes to meet hers, spine straightening. “Yes, Captain.”

“Then act like it.”

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to offer some excuse—but she cuts you off, not unkindly.

“You want to earn your spot? Great. That starts with showing up. And talking to Diane is part of showing up.”

You nod slowly. “Okay. I will.”

“Tonight.”

Your eyes widen a little. “Now?”

Maya straightens up again, nodding once like a final command. “She’s still here for another hour. Go talk.”

You hesitate only a second before muttering, “Yes, Captain.”

You rise from the couch, slow but certain, and head toward the kitchen—where a warm light still glows.

And where Diane is waiting.

Kitchen - Station 19

You pause in the doorway. Diane’s sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in her hands, one leg crossed over the other, reading something on her tablet. She looks peaceful—almost like she belongs here, like the chaos of the firehouse moves around her, not through her.

She glances up when she hears you.

“Hello, Y/L/N.” she says, calm as ever. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You offer a small shake of your head, stepping just past the doorway but not too far in. “Captain told me to come talk to you.”

Diane smiles softly and sets her tablet aside. “She tends to be very persuasive.”

You huff a tiny laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

“Sit. No pressure. We can just talk. Or not talk. I’m good at silence too.” She gestures to the chair across from her. “I was wondering when you’d stop avoiding me.”

You take the seat slowly, unsure where to put your hands, finally settling on folding them on the table. 

“Okay, it’s not like I was actively avoiding you, okay?” You explain.

Then she slightly tilted her head, waiting for you to continue.

“I didn’t think I needed to be here, talking to you,” you admit after a beat. “I wasn’t even around when Vasquez died. I figured this was more for the people who… felt it.”

Diane nods like she’s heard that a thousand times before. “You know grief doesn’t always need to be yours directly to affect you, right?”

You frown slightly, folding your hands on the table. “I didn’t lose him. I just got here.”

“And now you’re trying to build something on ground that hasn’t settled yet,” Diane says, gently. “That’s not easy. You walked into a house mid-funeral. That disorientation? That feeling that you don’t belong? That’s real.”

You glance down, swallowing hard. “I didn’t want to take up space that wasn’t mine.”

“You already do.”

“What?”

“You take up space,” Diane says calmly. “You train with them. You sleep under the same roof. You ride in the same truck. You show up. That makes this your space, too.”

You want to argue. You want to say you’re still just the rookie, still earning your place, still finding where your boots fit in the lineup. But nothing comes out. Not because you disagree—but because, deep down, maybe you do want this to be your space. Maybe you’ve wanted it since the moment you walked in.

“And from what I’ve heard,” Diane continues, “you’re doing a damn good job pulling your weight.”

You don’t know what to say. The praise sinks in slower than the guilt ever did.

She lets the silence sit for a moment before adding, “So let’s talk. Not about Rigo. Not unless you want to.” Her voice is the kind that doesn’t push—but still somehow moves you. “Let’s talk about you. ”

She holds your gaze.

“About what it’s like being here in Station 19. A place that’s still grieving. What that feels like.”

You stare down at the table for a second, your fingertips brushing over the grain in the wood. It’s easier than meeting her eyes. Easier than saying something out loud that might sound stupid or dramatic or wrong.

But Diane just waits. Like she always does. Like silence doesn’t bother her.

Finally, you say, low and unsure, “I don’t know what the feeling’s name is… but it kind of reminds me of my childhood. It’s different, but almost the same.”

Diane leans back just a little. Not away from you—just giving the words space to breathe. “How so?” she asks, still soft, but with genuine interest threading through her voice.

“When I was a kid, maybe nine-ish, my sister passed away,” you start, hesitant but already halfway in. “She was my hero, my whole world. When I found her in that bathtub with all of that blood…”

Your breath hitches, and you lower your voice, almost like the memory might hear you and crack open all over again.

“My whole world was gone just like that.”

You swallow hard, eyes still on the table. You don’t see Diane’s reaction, but you feel her presence—quiet, grounded.

“But my parents?” you continue. “Their whole universe died that day. My sister was their most cherished kid. A straight-A student. A cheerleader. Heading for this really great future. And I get it. I do. She was incredible.”

A faint smile ghosts across your face, not happy, but practiced. A mask you’ve worn before.

“And after that… they started looking at me like I was supposed to be her. Like if I tried hard enough, maybe I could bring her back somehow.” You let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, but it’s hollow. “And I understood. I do understand. That kind of grief—losing your golden child—it’s… unmeasurable.”

You pause, running your thumb along the table’s edge.

“And in some sense, it feels almost the same as what I’m feeling here. I get that Station 19 lost someone— their someone. They’re grieving. And I’m just the person who showed up after the funeral. It’s like—I don’t know. Like I’m a stand-in. A fill-in rookie wearing a uniform that doesn’t quite fit yet.”

You let the truth settle for a second before you add, softer, “So, just like then, I’ll take the punch. I’ll carry the expectations. I’ll try to be whatever they need me to be. I’m used to that.”

There’s a moment of silence. Not the heavy kind—just stillness, like Diane is giving the weight of what you said a place to land.

Then, suddenly self-aware, you let out a short, awkward chuckle.

“Sorry,” you murmur, shaking your head a little. “I must’ve talked too much. I don’t know what came over me.”

But Diane smiles—kind and knowing.

Diane shakes her head slowly, voice still calm but firmer now. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t talk too much. You told your truth. That’s the bravest thing anyone can do.”

You glance up at her, surprised.

“Sounds to me like you’ve spent most of your life trying to measure up to a ghost,” she adds gently. “At home. Now here. Living in someone else’s outline.”

You nod once. You hadn’t thought of it that way, not in so many words. But yeah. That’s exactly what it feels like—like your entire life has been an attempt to color inside the lines someone else left behind.

“I’m not saying what you’re doing isn’t admirable,” Diane continues. “You work hard. You show up. You take the hits and don’t flinch. That takes strength. But the version of you who gets to stay in this team—the one who belongs here—she doesn’t have to be anyone’s replacement.”

You look up slowly, meeting her gaze for the first time in minutes.

“She just has to be you,” Diane finishes.

The silence that settles now is different. Not heavy. Not awkward. It’s… still. 

“And just so we’re clear,” she continues, “you’re not a stand-in.  Not here. And you weren’t one back then either. You’re a person. You’re you . That’s enough.”

Your throat tightens again, but this time, it’s from the swell of something unfamiliar.

Validation.

Warmth.

Maybe even a little hope.

“You’ve got a right to take up space, Y/N,” Diane adds. “Even here. Especially here.”

You blink hard. “I don’t really know how to believe that yet.”

“You don’t have to yet,” Diane replies, her voice almost a whisper. “But I’ll believe it for you. Until you can.”

Diane nods slowly, like she was expecting that. Not disappointed—just… understanding.

“That’s fair,” she says simply. “You don’t have to believe it today.”

You glance at her, eyes still clouded with a mix of exhaustion and disbelief, but she’s steady. Unshaken. A quiet force.

“But here’s the thing,” she goes on. “Just because you don’t believe it yet doesn’t mean it’s not true. Sometimes our hearts take longer than our heads to catch up. And sometimes our heads are so used to lies, they can’t recognize truth even when it’s sitting across the table from them.”

You huff out something like a laugh, but it’s hollow. “Yeah, well... I guess my head’s just really loud.”

She smiles, not in pity but in understanding. “Then we’ll start there. With the noise. And we take it one shift at a time.”

You nod again, slowly this time. Still uncertain, but something in you softens.

“Okay,” you say, voice low.

“Okay,” Diane repeats, as if sealing it into place.

She stands, gathering her notepad and mug. “Same couch, same time next week?”

You blink. “You want me to come back?”

“I want you to want to come back,” she says with a warm shrug. “But yes. I think it’d be good for you. We’ll keep talking. Not about your sister. Not about Rigo. Just… about you.”

And then, without another word, she steps out of the kitchen and leaves you there in the soft glow of overhead lights.

The walk back to your bunk feels longer than it should. Maybe it’s the weight of what you said—words you haven’t said in years, maybe ever. Maybe it’s Diane’s voice still echoing in your head, gentle but unshakable. 

We’ll keep talking. Not about your sister. Not about Rigo. Just… about you.

You push open the door to the bunk room as quietly as possible. A few of your teammates are already asleep, soft breathing and rustling sheets the only sounds in the dim space. You climb up into your bed, moving slowly, like every motion feels too big.

The mattress feels foreign tonight, too soft and too loud all at once. You tug the blanket up to your chin and stare at the ceiling, letting your eyes blur.

You think about your sister. About the blood. About your parents and their silent expectations. About this station, this new family you’ve been dropped into—grieving someone they lost while you try to figure out how to even belong .

You want to cry, but your eyes stay dry. You’re not sure if that’s a win or a loss.

Eventually, your body gives in to the exhaustion, but sleep is fragmented. Flashes of water, red, voices you don’t recognize. You wake up sometime around 3 a.m., heart pounding, sweat sticking your shirt to your back. You sit up slowly, pressing a hand over your chest, grounding yourself in the dark.

Across the room, someone shifts in their bed. A rustle, then a whisper.

“You okay?”

It’s Jack. He doesn’t get up, just stays where he is, his voice low but laced with real concern.

You pause, caught off guard. “Yeah,” you whisper back. “Just a dream.”

He’s quiet for a second, then: “You wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see it. “Not right now.”

“Okay.” A beat. “But if you change your mind… I’m here.”

You blink hard again, swallowing down a lump in your throat.

“Thanks,” you murmur and lie back down.

Jack doesn’t say anything else. But he stays awake for a while longer, just in case.

And for the first time since you got to Station 19, you don’t feel like just a stand-in. You feel… a little seen.

Chapter Text

Diane stepped out of the kitchen, the door clicking gently behind her—only to find Maya leaning casually against the hallway wall, arms crossed, one ankle resting over the other. She looked calm, like she hadn’t moved in a while. And like she wasn’t trying very hard to look like she hadn’t been eavesdropping.

Diane arched a brow, her tone light but pointed. “Captain Bishop, I didn’t think of you as the type to listen in on someone’s session.”

“I wasn’t listening,” Maya says, her voice low. “Not on purpose.”

Diane raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but not judgmental. “Funny how that happens when the door’s thin and the room’s quiet.”

Maya exhales through her nose, a sharp breath that’s almost a laugh. “I just came to check if the rookie actually showed up.”

“She did,” Diane confirms. 

Maya’s jaw ticks again. She looks away, like she’s trying to keep herself in check. “She’s good. She’s better than good. But I didn’t know.”

Diane nods. “Now you do.”

Maya hesitates, then asks, quietly, “Is she okay?”

“No,” Diane answers honestly. “But she will be. If you let her be more than just a replacement.”

“She’s been trying so hard to fit in,” Maya says, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “Pulling her weight. Taking every drill seriously. She doesn’t complain. She doesn’t push back. I thought she was just trying to prove herself…”

“She is, ” Diane replies. “But she’s also surviving in a language she learned way too early.”

Maya looks down at that, jaw tight. She presses her tongue to the inside of her cheek like she wants to say something but thinks better of it.

After a moment, she asks, “Did I make it worse? Pushing her to talk to you?”

Diane shakes her head. “No. You gave her a door. She chose to walk through it. That’s not forcing—that’s leading.”

Maya lets that settle for a second. Then, quieter, “She said yes. When I asked if she’s part of the team. But it was shaky. Like she didn’t really believe it.”

“She doesn’t,” Diane confirms gently. “Not yet.”

Maya finally looks up and meets Diane’s gaze. “So what do I do?”

Diane gives her a small, knowing smile. “You already started. You showed her she’s seen. Now you keep showing her she belongs.”

Maya nods slowly, filing it away like another order she’ll make sure gets followed.

Then Diane reaches for the door. “Good night, Captain.”

“Night, Doc,” Maya says, her voice just a touch softer now. “Thanks.”

Diane smiled. “Anytime, Captain.”

The door closes behind Diane.

Maya stays there a beat longer, alone in the hallway. Thinking.

✦✦✦✦

Next Morning - Station 19’s Locker Room 

The shift had barely started, but you were already sweating. You’d come in early to squeeze in a treadmill run before drills. The locker room was supposed to be empty—so when the door creaked open, you weren’t thinking much of it.

You peeled off your workout shirt, standing in your sports bra, and reached for your clean tee when the footsteps behind you stopped.

Too quiet.

You turned your head.

Maya stood there, still in her civvies, her expression unreadable—but her eyes were fixed on your left arm, where the ridged white scars told a story you’d buried deep.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then you moved. Too fast. Yanking the shirt over your head, heart pounding. Like it could erase what she saw.

“I didn’t mean to—” you started, but Maya held up a hand, gentle and restrained.

“I’m not going to ask about it,” she said. Calm. But not cold. “Not unless you want me to.”

You didn’t answer.

She gave a small nod, like she knew that would be it—for now. 

“We’ve got drills in twenty. Hydrate.”

She left you with that, like it was any other day.

But your hands shook as you tied your boots.

✦✦✦✦

Apparatus Bay

You showed up on time. Precisely 20 minutes after Maya told you.

Boots laced. Hair tied back. Shirt sleeves tugged as far down as they’d go. You kept your head low as you moved toward the line, eyes focused on the gear, not the people.

Jack greeted you with a lazy grin and handed you a helmet. “Ready to get smoked by Bishop again?”

You forced a grin. “Wouldn’t be my first time.”

Jack snorted at your response and gave your shoulder a light bump with his elbow before turning to face Maya, who was already walking up, clipboard in hand.

"Alright," Maya announced, voice sharp and clear, “we’re running ladder drills with full gear. Time yourselves and push for personal bests. No half-assing it.”

The team groaned in unison—standard fare—but fell into line without complaint. You took your place near the back, keeping quiet, pulling your gloves on like armor.

Maya’s eyes swept the row. “Warren, Hughes, you’re up first.”

You leaned against the rig, helmet tucked under your arm, watching as Vic and Ben took off in sync. Jack stood next to you again, stretching his shoulders.

"You good?" he asked, low.

You glanced at him, surprised. “…Yeah.”

He looked like he wanted to press, but thought better of it. “Cool. You just seem… I don’t know. Tense. Which is wild, because we’re obviously about to do a chill, relaxing workout involving a 50-foot ladder.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “Right. Super chill.”

When it was your turn, you moved on instinct. You hit every rung, clipped in fast, moved like your life depended on it—which, you knew, someday, it would. Your lungs burned by the time your boots hit the ground again.

Maya glanced at her stopwatch. “Shaved twelve seconds off from last week.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

She gave a curt nod, then moved down the line.

You didn’t know what felt heavier—the pride or the weight in your chest still left from the locker room.

After the incident at the locker room, it feels like the captain is watching you. Well, not watching, exactly. But noticing . Like she’d filed something away and now carried it, silently.

You hated how exposed you felt.

✦✦✦✦

Later – Kitchen

The team was refueling—lasagna from the night before, reheated and still decent. But you didn’t have much of an appetite. You told yourself it was just the drill. Just a long shift ahead. 

The conversation at the table was light—Dean talking about a TikTok trend he didn’t understand, Travis snarking back like it was his second language. It should’ve made you smile.

Instead, you picked at your plate.

“You alright, rookie?” Vic asked from across the table. 

You nodded and forced a swallow. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She shrugged like she’d expected that answer, but didn’t push.

“You need to eat more than that if you want to survive Maya’s next drill.”

It was Ben. Of course it was, he’s basically the dad of the station. He gave you a gentlelook from where he sat at. No judgment. Just concern.

You nodded and forked another bite. Forced it down. Didn’t taste it.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Maya enter. She paused at the doorway, scanned the room, then moved to grab coffee. Her movements were normal. Easy. But then, just before leaving again, her eyes flicked to you—and held.

Brief. Barely a second.

Then she turned and walked out.

But that second said everything.

✦✦✦✦

Later – Captain’s Office

Maya was reviewing shift reports when someone knocked on the open door.

You.

She didn’t react right away. Just set the pen down, leaning back slightly. “Something wrong?”

You hesitated in the doorway. Then shook your head. “No, I just… wanted to say thank you.”

“For drills?”

You shrugged. “For earlier. In the locker room.”

Maya’s gaze held yours, quiet. “I meant what I said. I’m not going to ask about it.”

“I know. I just… no one’s ever seen it before.”

A long beat passed. Then Maya said, low, almost more to herself than to you, “We don’t get to leave our past behind. But we get to decide how it shows up in our present.”

You nodded, almost absently. 

“I want to earn my place here. Not just pretend I have it.”

Maya met your eyes. “Then keep showing up.”

You nodded once. “Yes, Captain.”

You turned to leave—before Maya called you and you paused in the doorway.

“And Y/L/N?”

You looked at her.

“If there’s ever a time when you do want to talk—” She paused, jaw tight, like vulnerability wasn’t her favorite language. “You can talk to me. Or Diane. Or anyone here.”

That offer sat in your chest like a quiet weight. Heavy, but warm.

You breathed that in, heavy and honest.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I know. Thank you, Cap.” You said, almost too softly.

✦✦✦✦

A Few Days Later – Apartment Fire 

Maya was first on scene, headset clipped on, barking orders through the radio. “We’ve got flames coming out of the third-floor windows, reports of five inside. Team One—Montgomery and Miller—secure the ground floor and assist evac. Team Two—Gibson, Herrera, Y/L/N—you’re heading up. Third floor. I want a sweep and extraction. Ladders on the east side.”

You adjusted your mask with shaking hands, adrenaline already climbing your spine as you followed Gibson and Herrera to the ladder. The fire was alive. Breathing. Screaming.

You followed behind, keeping low as you climbed. Third floor. Backup entry through the balcony.

Inside, visibility was garbage. Smoke thick as night, only the orange glow of the fire lighting your path in flickers.

Gibson kicked in the scorched apartment door. “Search pattern,” he ordered. “Check bedrooms. Stay low. Watch your footing.”

You followed instructions, sweeping left while Herrera moved right.

A child's cry. Then silence.

You found him in the far bedroom, small body curled in a closet, face pressed against a stuffed rabbit. Eight, maybe nine. Barely breathing.

“Gibson!” you shouted. “Kid in here!”

“I got eyes on you,” he responded over the comms. “Bring him out. Herrera’s clearing the rest.”

You didn’t hesitate. You scooped the boy up, turned to head back, when—

CRACK.

The floor under your boot split wide.

You dropped half a foot before a hard jerk pulled you back up.

“Got you!” Gibson shouted. His grip on your harness that saved you—his face, soot-streaked, inches from yours as he grunted and heaved you back onto solid flooring.

“Don’t move,” he said quickly, “your ankle—”

“Not leaving him,” you snapped, voice cracking through the mask. The boy hadn’t stirred.

You limped. The pain was sharp, but you pushed it down, following Gibson and Herrera out. Herrera radioed down. “We’ve got the kid. We’re on our way!”

You descended the ladder, boots thudding against metal. You touched pavement with your ankle screaming, hands trembling around the boy’s small frame.

Then Ben was there, instantly checking for a pulse.

“Kid’s unresponsive—starting CPR!” he called. “Epi. Now.”

You dropped to your knees beside them. Someone tried to pull you back. You didn’t move.

Ben started compressions. Vic tore open the child’s shirt. The mother’s scream ripped through the air from behind the barricade.

“Why isn’t he waking up?” she sobbed.

Vic did compressions. Ben switched. Miller radioed in vitals. Nothing. The scene slowed down around you, noise falling away.

And then—

Ben’s expression fell.

“No pulse,” he said quietly.

The mother’s scream tore through the air.

And your world tilted.

Then Maya’s voice was in your ear again. “Y/L/N, you okay?”

You didn’t answer.

Because that boy wasn’t breathing.

He never started again.

✦✦✦✦

Later, in the back of the rig — en route to Station

Your ankle was wrapped tight, elevated on the bench seat across from you. Maya sat across from you, headset off now, quiet.

You hadn’t said a word since they called it on scene.

“He was gone before you even found him,” Maya finally said. Calm, but not cold. “They checked. He was already hypoxic.”

You stared at the floor of the rig, jaw locked. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes. It does.”

“I should’ve found him faster.”

“You were first in. You didn’t hesitate.”

“I hesitated when the floor broke.”

“You didn’t let go. ” Maya’s voice was firm now, layered with heat and command. “You got him out. You did your job. And you did it well.”

You finally looked up, eyes burning behind your lashes. “He still died.”

Maya didn’t look away. “We don’t always win. We try. And when we don’t, we carry it. But you’re not carrying it alone.”

You didn’t answer.

Despite what Maya said, you still blamed yourself anyway.

✦✦✦✦

Night – Y/N’s Apartment

You sat on your bathroom floor with your back against the tub. Ice on your ankle. Sweat on your neck. A buzzing in your ears you couldn’t turn off.

The drawer was open.

Not the old blades—you had thrown them away. But you kept one of the old pencil sharpeners. The kind with the small, rusted edge buried inside.

It sits in your hand now.

Everything felt numb. Or maybe too sharp.

The boy. His eyes. The sound of the mother’s scream. Your foot slipping, your grip failing, Maya yanking you back just in time—if she hadn’t…

Your breath came short. Shallow.

You don’t deserve to be there. You failed.

Your fingers tightened around the sharpener.

Until—

A knock.

Three quick raps on your door.

You froze.

Then Maya’s voice, muffled through the wood “Rookie. You home?”

You swallowed hard.

Another pause.

“I just wanted to check on you and your ankle.” Her voice softened.

You stared at the door.

At the sharpener in your hand.

At the floor that suddenly felt like it was tilting.

You didn’t speak.

The knock again. Then Maya’s voice.

“I brought ice. Thought you might need some for the swelling.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

The sharpener felt heavier now. A quiet threat pressed against your fingers. Not screaming—but whispering things you didn’t want to hear.

A moment passed.

Then Maya said, gently, “I’m gonna leave it by the door, okay?”

You still didn’t answer.

But you heard the soft clink of the ice pack being set down.

And then—nothing.

Silence.

A long beat.

You pressed the sharpener harder into your palm. Your thumb brushing the metal edge, just enough to feel the risk of it.

Then—

“Actually,” her voice again, quieter, this time closer. “I don’t feel great just leaving. So, I’m just gonna stay here, just take your time.”

She waited.

Then you forced yourself to stand, the sharpener still clenched in your palm as you limped to the door. You reached for the knob, pausing for one breath—two—and opened it.

Maya stood there, in joggers and a hoodie, hair tied back, her expression unreadable at first. But when she saw you—your puffy eyes, your sweat-damp neck, your limp—her whole face shifted. No judgment. Just concern.

“Hey,” she said, gently. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

You stepped back to let her in.

Maya hesitated only a second before stepping inside. “Nice place,” she said casually, but her eyes scanned the room like a captain entering a scene—reading details you hadn’t even meant to show.

You limped to the kitchen counter and set the ice down. Maya didn’t mention your ankle. Or your face. Or the way your free hand was still hidden.

Then, “Do you want to sit?”

You nodded, and the two of you sank onto the couch in silence. She didn’t press. Didn’t ask. Just waited.

“I’m sorry,” you said finally. “I know I’m supposed to be stronger.”

“You are,” Maya said instantly. “Don’t confuse pain with weakness.”

Your lip trembled. “He was just a kid.”

“I know.”

“I can’t stop seeing him.”

“I know.”

You turned away, catching your breath, your arm coming up to swipe at your face—forgetting for one second what was in your hand.

The sharpener clattered to the floor.

Maya stilled.

You froze.

Neither of you moved for a long second. Just the sound of your breath, ragged and embarrassed and full of guilt.

“Is that what you’ve been holding onto?” Her voice didn’t waver. But it softened into something you couldn’t run from.

You nodded, barely.

Maya bent down, picked it up gently, and set it on the taable. She didn’t ask why you still had it. She didn’t scold you. She just looked at you—looked through you.

“I’m not here as your captain right now,” she said. “I’m here because I care.”

Your shoulders crumpled under the weight of that.

“I didn’t… I didn’t hurt myself,” you murmured eventually. “But I thought about it.”

Maya let that sit in the air for a long moment. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I didn’t think I’d still feel like this after all this time. I thought I was better.” You wiped at your face with the back of your wrist. “I haven’t… I haven’t done that in years.”

“I’m glad you didn’t tonight.”

Silence.

You swallowed hard. “I’m trying my best. With the kid.”

“I know.”

“I just keep seeing his face.”

Maya leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a moment before she whispered, “I see them too. Every single one.”

You turned your head. “How do you live with it?”

She exhaled slowly. “Some days… not well. Some days I run until my legs go numb. Some days I go sit with Diane. Some days I yell in my car with the windows up. But I stay. And I keep showing up. Because this job… it takes from us. But it also gives us something. Family. Purpose. And sometimes, people who knock on your door when you’re not okay.”

That last part came softer. Warmer.

Your eyes welled again.

“I want to talk to Diane again,” you said, voice barely audible.

“I already put in a request,” Maya said. “She’ll be in on Thursday.”

You looked at her, surprised.

She shrugged. “Didn’t want to leave it up to chance.”

“You always like this with your team?”

Maya gave the faintest smirk. “No,” she said honestly. “I’m a hardass.”

You let out a quiet laugh. It broke the tension, just a little.

“But,” she added, more seriously now, “I see the people I lead. I choose to. That’s the difference.”

You nodded slowly, eyes lowering again. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” she said without hesitation. “But you’re also brave.”

You looked at her again, skeptical. “I don’t feel brave.”

Maya’s eyes didn’t flinch. “Bravery doesn’t mean you don’t break. It just means you come back from it. You asked for help. That’s the bravest thing I’ve seen all week.”

The silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of something unsaid. Trust, maybe. Or understanding.

Then she asked gently, “Do you want me to stay a while? Or should I give you space?”

You hesitated. Then answered quietly, “Would you stay?”

Maya nodded once. “Yeah. Of course.”

She stood and moved around the apartment like it was second nature—grabbing a blanket, flicking off the harsh overhead light, settling onto the couch beside you. Not touching. Just… there.

You leaned your head back and closed your eyes. Let the quiet hum of the city outside fill the air. For the first time since the fire, your chest didn’t feel quite so tight.

Minutes passed like that. Maybe more.

Then Maya said, just above a whisper, “Thursday’s not far.”

You nodded without opening your eyes. “I know.”

“But if you need someone before then…”

“I know,” you echoed.

And you meant it.

Chapter Text

The BAU bullpen was unusually quiet for a Monday morning.

Y/N sat at her desk, half-listening to Reid go on about fractals or ancient ciphers—she wasn’t sure which anymore. Her fingers moved steadily across her keyboard, typing up a victimology report, though her eyes weren’t fully on the screen.

“You okay?”

She turned just enough to catch JJ peeking over her monitor, coffee in hand.

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, pasting on a smile. “Just mentally reorganizing my five-year plan.”

JJ chuckled. “Want me to call Penelope and have her print it on pink glitter paper for motivation?”

Y/N grinned. “Please. With a sparkly unicorn in the corner.”

They shared a laugh. It felt normal.

“Hotch said we’re wheels up in two hours,” Emily called across the room, setting her cup down on her desk before meeting Y/N’s eyes. “You ready for Maine?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be to spend four days in the snow profiling a serial killer,” Y/N replied dryly, lips curled into a small smile.

Emily smirked, clearly amused. “Your enthusiasm is contagious.”

“I know. It’s a gift,” Y/N replied, sipping from a mismatched ceramic mug. It was chipped on the handle—a detail that, for some reason, comforted her.

Spencer ambled over and perched on the edge of her desk. “Did you know Maine averages over 100 inches of snow each winter?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So, just enough to ensure my emotional numbness matches the weather.”

“That’s… dark,” Reid said slowly, but he smiled anyway.

Y/N could joke. She could laugh and flirt with sarcasm like it was an old friend. It was the distance that kept people at ease. She knew how to blend in—how to smile when people made eye contact and how to nod at the right moments during small talk. She knew how to be normal, even if she never quite felt it.

No one ever questioned when she vanished for hours, when she skipped team dinners, or when her voice grew a little quieter. It was just Y/N being Y/N. The mysterious one. The introvert. The “probably just needs space” one.

It wasn’t that Y/N didn’t feel things. It was quite the opposite.

They didn’t know the way her heart could lurch at nothing—how a toddler’s laughter in the grocery aisle could make her want to cry or how her chest would feel heavy with grief she couldn’t name. They didn’t see the way she smothered it all beneath a mask so seamless even she wasn’t sure where it ended and she began.

She had learned, somewhere between childhood and now, that showing it was dangerous. Too much. Too loud. Too much space is taken up in the world. And so, she folded herself neatly into silence.

And Emily? Emily was the one she avoided most of all.

Not because she disliked her.

Because she liked her too much.

✦✦✦✦

“Y/N,” Emily said, catching her just as she was slipping out of the break room with a cup of black tea.

Y/N stopped, eyebrows lifting. “Hey, what's up?”

“You’ve been out of your office more than usual today.”

Y/N sipped her tea. “The fluorescents in there buzz like bees.”

Emily tilted her head. “You okay?”

There it was. The question.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Emily shrugs. “I don’t know. You just… look like you’re thinking about a hundred things.”

“I always look like that,” Y/N deflects, voice soft. She smiles, gently. “It’s my trademark. Secret thoughts. Mysterious aura.”

Emily gives her a small grin, but it’s hesitant. “Right.”

But something has clicked into place. Emily notices things for a living—and while the rest of the team reads Y/N as introverted, private, maybe a little quirky—Emily is starting to suspect that Y/N is hiding more than just being quiet.

✦✦✦✦

They were called to Portland the next week.

A triple homicide, possibly a budding serial. Domestic settings, posed victims, and barely any forensic evidence.

The plane ride was long.

Y/N sat beside Emily, laptop balanced on her knees. She made herself focus on the geographical profile Hotch wanted, but her eyes wandered.

Emily was reading a medical examiner’s report in her lap, hair tucked behind one ear. She looked like she hadn't slept.

“You ever get tired of flying?” Y/N asked suddenly.

Emily looked up, surprised but amused. “Constantly. You?”

“I think I like it. Feels like the only time I’m not expected to be anywhere else.”

Emily’s gaze softened. “Like liminal space.”

Y/N blinked. “Yeah. Exactly.”

She returned to her laptop, but a warmth lingered in her chest.

✦✦✦✦

The case was messy.

The unsub was escalating, leaving taunting messages. The victims were mostly young women, all introverted or isolated. The pattern disturbed Y/N deeply. It reminded her of herself in too many small, sharp ways.

She barely slept. Her notes were meticulous, but her mind felt foggy and slow. Her emotions were pulling tight under her skin, loud and quiet all at once.

On the precinct, she’s present, nodding, taking notes. But she’s not really there. When Derek cracks a joke, she smiles politely. When JJ asks if she slept okay at the hotel, she says, “Yeah, totally,” and goes back to looking out the window.

Emily notices how she bites her thumbnail when no one is looking. How she winces at the sound of a child crying on the street, then blinks it away.

One morning, after barely two hours of sleep, Y/N skipped breakfast, choosing instead to sit alone at the precinct’s back staircase. It was cold, and her fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled through cat rescue videos on her phone.

“You do that a lot,” came a voice.

Y/N looked up. Emily stood there with two coffees.

“Disappear,” Emily added.

Y/N pretends not to understand. She just frowned and tilted her head. “What do you mean by disappearing?”

Emily softens. “I mean, you go somewhere… inside. You’re here, but you’re not. But you make sure people don’t notice.”

Y/N gave a small laugh, barely more than a puff of breath. “That sounds poetic.”

Emily sat down beside her without waiting for permission, offering her one of the coffees. “Not sure it’s poetry if it worries me.”

Y/N hesitated, then took the cup. It was warm against her fingers. She stared at the lid for a second too long. “I’m just… introverted.”

“I know,” Emily replied. “That’s what everyone thinks.”

Y/N’s mouth opened and closed. The truth was tangled in her throat. Too big to say, too desperate to be known. She didn't even know what she would say if she let it out. Sometimes she felt like a contradiction: too much emotion swelling under her skin, and yet nothing that she could name or explain.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Emily added gently. “Being quiet. Needing space. I just don’t think it’s all of you.”

Y/N blinked at her, expression unreadable. “You profiling me now?”

“Occupational hazard.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the hum of a vending machine somewhere behind the walls, the distant clatter of precinct life.

“I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes I just… can’t stay. It’s like something inside me wants to pull away from everything before I mess it up.”

Emily nodded slowly. “Self-sabotage.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Emily said. “Believe me, I know.”

There was something about the way she said it that made Y/N finally glance over. Emily’s eyes were tired but kind.

“Why do you care so much?” Y/N asked, a little too quickly, a little too sharp.

Emily’s voice didn’t waver. “Because I see you. You think you hide it well, and most of the time you do. But I see the little fractures. And I know what it’s like to live in a house full of mirrors and never look into one.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words refused to come.

✦✦✦✦

That night, Emily knocked on Y/N’s hotel room door.

Y/N opened it in a hoodie and leggings, a little startled. “Hey. Everything okay?”

Emily didn’t answer at first. She studied Y/N’s face carefully. “Can I come in?”

Y/N hesitated, then stepped back.

Emily walked in slowly, her posture gentle. She looked around the room. It was meticulously clean. The bed was untouched. The desk was scattered with open files and post-its arranged in neat, chaotic patterns.

“You didn’t sleep,” Emily said.

Y/N didn’t deny it.

Emily sat on the edge of the bed, then looked up at her. “I think you need to talk to someone.”

Y/N folded her arms. “I talk to people all day. That’s literally my job.”

“You know what I mean.”

Y/N didn’t sit. She lingered by the desk, fiddling with the corner of a file folder. Her shoulders were stiff, her voice quiet when she finally spoke.

“I’ve been like this since I was… I don’t know. Teenager, maybe. Maybe even before that.”

Emily stayed quiet, just listening. She made no move to interrupt.

Y/N’s eyes stayed fixed on her hands. “Mood swings that don’t make sense. Like, I’d wake up feeling okay, and by lunch I’d feel like everything was falling apart—even if nothing happened. Like the air changed, and that was enough.”

Her throat felt dry. She swallowed hard.

“I’d get this tightness in my chest. Like I was doing everything wrong, and I didn’t even know what. Hyper-aware of everything—people’s tone, glances, and pauses. I could say something totally normal and then spend the whole night panicking because maybe I said it wrong. Maybe they think I’m annoying. Maybe they hate me and I just don’t know it yet.”

Emily’s expression never shifted from its quiet understanding.

Y/N turned her back to her, pretending to organize the files. “I can feel really close to someone one second—like they’re the safest person in the world—and then a second later, I’m convinced they secretly resent me. That they’re just waiting for a reason to leave.”

Emily still didn’t speak. Y/N wasn’t sure she could’ve continued if she had.

“I don’t lash out,” Y/N said after a pause, almost defensively. “I don’t explode or scream or… break things. I just… disappear. I go quiet. I pull away. Because if they leave on their own, it won’t hurt as much.”

Emily’s voice was nearly a whisper. “It still hurts, though.”

Y/N looked away.

“It’s easier this way,” she mumbled.

“For who?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Emily stood, stepping closer, but kept her distance. “You’ve been dealing with this for years, you said. And you’re still standing. That’s something.”

Y/N nodded, almost proudly. “Exactly. I’m fine.”

Emily tilted her head. “Yeah. Sure.”

That caught Y/N off guard. She blinked at her, eyes narrowing a little in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Emily’s tone was still soft. No malice. No mockery. Just honesty.

“Fine is not eating for entire days because your stomach’s in knots and you don’t even notice. Fine is not sleeping until three a.m. because your thoughts won’t shut off. Fine is wearing long sleeves in the summer like you’re hiding something.”

Y/N looked away fast—too fast. Like a reflex. Her hands gripped the sides of the chair. Her knuckles went pale.

“Is that your definition of fine?” Emily added.

Y/N’s voice was too even. “I’m just cold.”

Emily didn’t budge.

Y/N’s expression shuttered in an instant. Whatever crack had opened before was sealed up tight. Then she folded her arms. “I am. That’s all this is. I just haven’t slept enough. You should go back to your room.”

“Y/N—”

“I’m okay,” she said more firmly and even managed a small smile. “Really. It’s been a long case. I just need sleep.”

Emily nodded slowly, the moment slipping through her fingers like smoke. So she didn’t push harder. Not tonight.

“Okay, I’ll go.” She said gently. ”But I’m down the hall if you need me.”

Y/N just gave a quiet “Thanks” and opened the door for her.

Emily stepped out and paused, turning back for a moment. “But just so you know… I don’t care if you disappear sometimes. I’ll still be here when you come back.” 

And then she left.

Y/N closed the door behind her with a soft click, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

She stood there for a long time, hand on the doorknob, heart lodged somewhere between her ribs and throat.

Then, finally, she let her forehead rest against the wood. Eyes closed. Jaw clenched.

And in the silence, her chest cracked, just a little more.

✦✦✦✦

They caught the unsub two days later.

It had been a close call—a hostage standoff in a suburban basement. Y/N had been the first in after Derek breached the door, gun steady, profile whispering in her head like instinct.

The girl had lived. Barely.

Later that night, Y/N stood under the weak light of the motel bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror, silent tears running down her face.

She didn’t even know why she was crying. She was just empty. And full. At the same time.

She pressed her knuckles to her lips until they turned white and she stopped crying.

“You did good today,” she whispered to her reflection, then added, “You don’t need to feel anything. It’s fine.”

She turned off the light and walked out like nothing had happened.

✦✦✦✦

The jet home was quiet.

Emily sat across from her this time, not beside her. She was working on her report, brows drawn in focus. Y/N’s eyes kept drifting toward her. Not for comfort—she didn’t know what that felt like anymore—but for something quieter. Recognition. Understanding.

The air between them wasn’t heavy. Just full.

When they landed, the team disbanded, tired and half-listening to Hotch’s debrief.

Y/N didn’t go home. She walked for an hour through D.C., aimless. The noise of the city blurred around her. Too much light. Too many people. Everything felt loud again.

Eventually she made it back to her apartment. She sat on the floor, coat still on, staring at a cracked spot in the wall by the baseboard.

And then, because she couldn’t stop it, she cried.

Not loud. Not messy.

Just a few hot tears down her face, leaking like a faucet someone forgot to shut off.

Then silence again.

✦✦✦✦

The next morning, Y/N showed up to Quantico at 7:04 a.m.

She wore a navy turtleneck, black slacks, and a faint smile. Hair pinned up neatly. Eyeliner sharp. There was no trace of the girl who had sat on the floor of her apartment hours earlier, coat on and cracked.

She brought Spencer coffee without being asked. Laughed at something Garcia said about JJ’s shoes, threw in a joke about Reid needing to be protected from the horrors of social media. 

When Rossi complimented her write-up on the Portland case, she shrugged it off with a small, “Thanks, just trying to keep up.” Then she briefed Hotch on her part of the report like her throat hadn’t been raw from crying.

“Morning, sunshine.” Derek said as he passed, nudging her shoulder.

“Morning, handsome.” Y/N returned, light as air.

Back to normal.

That’s what she did best.

Emily didn’t say anything all day.

But she noticed the way Y/N’s hand shook just slightly when she typed. How she didn’t eat the lunch she’d brought—again. How her smile slipped too quickly, like it was only ever loosely fastened to her face.

Y/N caught her staring once, across the bullpen. Their eyes met for a split second.

Emily didn’t look away.

Y/N did.

✦✦✦✦

Two days later, Y/N stayed late to finish an analysis Hotch needed by morning. The office was almost empty. Even Spencer had packed up an hour ago.

She was sitting at her desk, noise-canceling earbuds in, wordless piano music playing low. The quiet made it easier to concentrate. Or maybe to vanish into the work.

She didn’t hear Emily approach until she placed a steaming cup of tea next to her keyboard.

Y/N jumped slightly, tugging out one earbud. “Jesus—how do you move like that?”

Emily smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just trying to finish this before morning. You?”

Emily shrugged. “I don’t like tea. That one’s for you.”

Y/N glanced at it. Chamomile.

She didn’t pick it up. “Thanks.”

Emily sat on the edge of her desk, arms crossed loosely. “You know, you don’t have to perform with me.”

Y/N’s fingers froze on her keyboard. “I’m not performing.”

Emily’s voice was calm. “You’re in costume.”

Y/N looked away.

“I’m just tired,” she said, tone clipped. “That’s all.”

“You’re always tired.”

“Then maybe I’m just not built for this job.”

Emily’s expression didn’t waver. “That’s not true.”

Y/N forced a hollow laugh. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m strong? That I’m doing great?”

“No,” Emily said. “This is the part where I tell you I see you again.”

Y/N was quiet for a long beat.

“Can’t you just let me get through this my way?” she asked, her voice thinner now.

“I could,” Emily said gently. “But then I’d be just another person who pretended not to notice. And you already do that enough to yourself.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “I’m fine, Emily.”

Emily leaned forward slightly. “You said that before. The night in the hotel. You said you’ve been fine for years.”

Y/N stared at the monitor like it could save her.

“You’re not eating,” Emily continued softly. “You’re not sleeping. You disappear every chance you get. And I’ve seen the way you flinch when someone hugs you too long. Like you’re waiting for it to vanish.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Y/N snapped, more defensive than angry.

“I’m not,” Emily replied. “I’m noticing.”

Y/N pressed her lips together tightly, looking down. Her throat felt tight.

“You don’t get to come in here and make it worse,” she said. “Not when I’ve held it together all week.”

“I’m not trying to make it worse,” Emily said, quieter now. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t keep breaking in silence.”

That cracked something.

Y/N inhaled sharply, blinking fast. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

“You don’t get it.” Y/N shakes her head.

Emily leaned in slightly, quiet and firm. “No, you don’t get it. You think keeping people at arm’s length makes the pain less? It doesn’t. It just delays it. Makes it worse.”

“I’m managing.”

“Are you?” Emily asked. “Because this version of you—running on caffeine and adrenaline, disappearing into yourself when you think no one sees—it’s not sustainable.”

Y/N’s eyes were glassy now, but she didn’t blink. “It’s all I’ve got.”

“No, it’s not.”

Y/N shook her head, the words catching. “If I let it out… it’s too much. I’m too much. That’s why I’ve always had to hold it in. People only like the version of me that’s manageable. The one that smiles and delivers reports and doesn’t break.”

Emily’s voice was soft. “I like all the versions of you.”

That stunned her into silence.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” Emily continued. “Or easy. Or happy. You can be angry. You can be quiet. You can be messy. And I’ll still care. You’re not too much.”

Y/N looked away quickly, covering her eyes with one hand. Her voice cracked. “Stop saying things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me want to believe you.”

Emily reached out, gently pulling Y/N’s hand away from her face. “Then believe me.”

The walls Y/N had so carefully built were crumbling fast. Her throat felt too tight to speak, but her eyes were open and raw, full of disbelief and aching hope.

Emily stood. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“My place. Just for the night. We’ll order Thai food, then we’ll watch something mindless, and we won’t talk about work.”

Y/N hesitated.

“I don’t need you to be okay,” Emily said. “I just want you to not be alone.”

A beat passed.

Then Y/N nodded.

Just once.

✦✦✦✦

Emily’s apartment was quiet. Warm.

The kind of quiet that didn’t echo.

Y/N stood awkwardly in the doorway, arms still wrapped around herself like armor she hadn’t decided to put down yet.

Emily stepped past her, tossing her keys onto the entry table with a soft clink. “Shoes off, the couch is yours,” she said. “Food’s already ordered. I remembered you like the one with the crushed peanuts on the side.”

Y/N blinked. “You remember that?”

It was the first thing she’d said since they left the office. Emily didn’t comment on the hoarseness in her voice, the way she hadn’t looked up once.

Emily looked over her shoulder. “I remember a lot more than you think.”

There was no judgment in her tone. Just something gentler. Steadier. Like an anchor.

Y/N unlaced her boots and left them by the door. She padded over to the couch, sinking into the corner like someone who didn’t quite believe the furniture wouldn’t vanish under her.

Emily disappeared into the kitchen. Cabinets opened and closed. The kettle clicked on.

“You want tea or wine?” she called.

Y/N hesitated. “Tea.”

Emily smiled to herself as she reached for the same box of chamomile Y/N love.

By the time she came back with two mugs and the food in takeout containers, Y/N had curled into herself on the couch, legs tucked under, sleeves pulled over her hands.

The TV flickered quietly in the background—something light, nothing criminal, nothing that required focus. Neither one of them was watching it.

Y/N poked at her food, not really eating.

Emily noticed. “You don’t have to finish it.”

Y/N set the chopsticks down. “I don’t think I’m hungry. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry either.”

That shut her up again.

Emily leaned back, folding her legs underneath her. She kept a respectful distance, but not so far that it felt like rejection. Just enough space to breathe.

Y/N poked at a noodle absently. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Emily said. “That’s why I did.”

Another beat of silence. Y/N looked down at her hands. “I used to be good at this.”

Emily glanced over. “At what?”

“This job. The balance. The compartmentalizing. I used to be able to see the worst parts of people and walk away still whole.”

“You’re still good at it,” Emily said gently.

Y/N shook her head. “No. I’m just good at faking it now.”

Emily was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you remember the girl we saved?”

Y/N looked at her warily. “Yeah.”

“She’s alive because of you. Because you went in first. You talked the unsub down. That wasn’t faking it.”

Y/N blinked hard. “But I broke afterward.”

“You broke because you’re human,” Emily said. “Not because you’re weak.”

Y/N looked away, blinking fast again.

“I don’t want to fall apart,” she admitted. “Because I don’t know how to put myself back together.”

Emily reached over, slowly, and let her fingers brush against Y/N’s wrist. A feather-light touch. Not asking for permission, just offering presence.

“I’m not going to pretend I know exactly what you’re feeling,” she said. “But if you fall apart, I’ll sit with you in the mess. And when you’re ready, we’ll figure out how to get back up together.”

Y/N’s chin trembled. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t pull away either. Her hand turned, just slightly, so their palms touched.

They stayed like that for a long while.

Eventually, Y/N rested her head against Emily’s shoulder—not collapsing, not breaking, just… leaning. It was the smallest gesture, but it felt like a tidal shift inside her.

Emily didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just sat there, steady and quiet, letting Y/N have the space to not be okay.

Later that night, Y/N fell asleep on the couch beside her.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t dream of people leaving or of her being all alone. She dreamed of the sound of Emily’s voice, soft and certain, telling her she wasn’t too much.

And somewhere deep inside her, something uncurled—small and aching and new.

Hope.

Chapter Text

The hospital lights were always too bright.

Y/N stared up at them, their sterile glow burning through her pounding head. Her ribs ached with every breath, each inhale a knife, each exhale a whimper. She blinked, slowly registering the worried eyes above her.

"Y/N?" A voice—soft, cautious, familiar.

She turned her head and saw Amelia Shepherd.

"Hey," Amelia said gently. "You're in the hospital. You collapsed during rounds. You’ve been out for a while."

Y/N blinked again. “I'm fine,” she mumbled automatically. The lie came too easily.

Amelia's eyes didn’t leave hers. "You have three fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and signs of old injuries that never healed properly."

Her voice wasn’t accusing, but it wasn’t soft either. “That’s not from fainting.”

Y/N looked away. Her mouth was dry. “I fell.”

“You fell again ?” Amelia asked. “Because last week it was your wrist. Week before, your cheekbone. And now…”

Amelia hesitated, voice barely a whisper. “There are bruises on your thighs. And… scars. On your arms.”

Y/N stayed quiet.

"Who's hurting you?" The neurosurgeon asks.

Y/N’s pulse quickened. She’ll kill me . The thought snapped into her brain like a mousetrap.

“No one. I—I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It’s nothing.”

“I’m not stupid, Y/N. I know it wasn't just an accident and you're clearly not fine.”

"I—" she licked her lips—"I don’t want to talk about it."

Amelia stepped back, giving space.

“Okay. You don’t have to. And I can't push you, but I’m not going anywhere.”

✦✦✦✦

Three Days Later

Y/N stayed in her hospital bed, pretending to study surgical journals while her injuries slowly healed. 

Her girlfriend—Lana—visited only once. She brought flowers, fake smiles, and a lingering touch that made Y/N freeze in her sheets.

“Smile,” Lana whispered when Amelia entered the room. “You’re making us look bad.”

Amelia had seen the fear in Y/N’s eyes. How her whole body tensed when Lana brushed her knuckles over her jaw. The way Y/N flinched at a sudden voice in the hallway.

“Oh. You must be Doctor Shepherd,” the girlfriend said, standing with forced politeness. “I'm Lana, Y/N’s girlfriend.”

“I was just checking in. Y/N’s clumsy. Always has been. She falls when she doesn’t eat, and she doesn’t eat when she’s stressed. Right, babe?”

“Y-yeah, I'm clumsy.” she answered with a cracked voice.

Amelia gave her a long, slow look.

“You must be exhausted,” she said smoothly. “Y/N needs rest. Hospital policy is one visitor at a time, and no more than twenty minutes.”

The woman raised a brow but didn’t argue. “Of course.” She leaned down, kissed Y/N’s temple. 

“Behave, okay? No more fainting. You’re too fat to be this fragile.”

Y/N flinched.

Amelia’s expression didn’t change. She waited for the door to shut.

Then she asked, “Can I sit here a little longer?”

Y/N nodded.

✦✦✦✦

One week post-admission, Y/N was cleared for discharge.

She didn’t want to leave.

She didn't say that out loud, but Amelia knew.

She saw it in the way Y/N lingered at the nurse’s station, pretending to organize her papers. In the way she didn’t meet Amelia’s eyes when they passed in the hallway. Her fingers trembled as she signed her discharge form.

“She’s picking me up,” Y/N said quietly.

Amelia didn’t ask who. She knew.

When she came back from surgery an hour later, Y/N was gone.

✦✦✦✦

Three Weeks Later

One afternoon, Y/N found herself on the rooftop, staring out at the city skyline. She was tired. So tired of lying. Of being silent. Of shrinking to fit into someone else’s version of love.

“I think I’m still scared of being alone,” she said softly.

Amelia stepped beside her. “You’re not alone.”

“I feel like if I leave her, I’ll break.”

“No,” Amelia said. “You’ll heal. And you don’t have to do it overnight. You don’t even have to leave yet, if you’re not ready. But I’ll be here when you are.”

Y/N turned to her. “Why are you doing this?”

Amelia shrugged. “Addison did it for me. When I was spiraling, she didn’t walk away. So now it’s my turn.”

A pause.

“And because I care about you. More than I probably should.”

✦✦✦✦

Lana didn’t like the new Y/N.

She didn’t like the way Y/N started saying no —tentative at first, then firmer with time.

She didn’t like the way Y/N stopped asking permission before wearing makeup or how she left the house with her hair down, shoulders exposed, body no longer swallowed by oversized sweaters.

She especially didn’t like the way Y/N carried herself differently now. Taller. Like she was beginning to believe she deserved space.

It made Lana nervous.

Because Y/N had always been hers . Soft-spoken. Eager to please. Beautiful, but unaware. So easy to shape. So easy to control.

Now, she was slipping.

The first fight was over dinner.

Lana had made quinoa salad—again—and pushed Y/N’s hand away when she reached for a second portion.

“Careful, babe,” Lana said with a forced smile. “We’ve been doing so good. Don’t backslide now.”

Y/N blinked. “I’m hungry.”

Lana’s smile tightened. “You’re emotional. You always eat when you’re upset.”

Y/N stared at the bowl.

“I think I’m allowed to eat,” she said quietly. “I’m not fat, Lana.”

And Lana laughed. That bitter, mocking laugh she saved for moments just like this.

“You wouldn’t need to say that if it wasn’t on your mind, would you?”

Y/N stood up without finishing her plate.

That night, she locked the bathroom door before her shower—for the first time in months.

Lana didn’t like that either.

✦✦✦✦

The second fight was over clothes.

Y/N had slipped into black jeans and a tucked-in blouse for her shift. Her silhouette was visible. Barely. Tastefully.

“You’re going to the hospital, not a runway,” Lana said from the doorway, arms crossed.

“Since when do you dress like you want attention?”

Y/N hesitated. “Since I started dressing for myself .”

Lana took two slow steps into the room.

“That’s cute,” she said. “Is that something your new little mentor told you? Doctor Shepherd , right? You think because she says nice things, they’re true?”

Y/N looked up sharply. “Don’t talk about her.”

That earned her a slap.

Fast. Precise. Like a reflex.

Y/N didn’t cry. She didn’t even speak.

She just turned her back to Lana and walked into the bathroom.

The sound of the lock clicking echoed louder than anything else that night.

✦✦✦✦

The third fight was about her phone.

Y/N left it on the counter one morning and forgot to lock it.

When she came back from the shower, Lana was sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her messages.

There were no sexts. No professions of love. Just… texts. Simple ones.

You did amazing today. Don’t forget to eat.
I’m proud of you.
I’ll cover your shift tomorrow—go home and sleep.
I’m here if you need anything.

It was all from Amelia.

“You think she cares about you?” Lana said, phone still in hand. “You’re just another project to her. Another broken girl for her to fix before she gets bored.”

Y/N snatched the phone back. “You don’t get to decide how people see me.”

“Oh, I don’t?” Lana stood. “I’ve been the only one who sees you! Who knows how difficult you are, how sensitive, how much maintenance you require.”

Y/N clenched her jaw.

“You’ve made me feel like I’m a problem for years .”

“Because you are ,” Lana snapped. “You think anyone else would put up with you?”

Something in Y/N’s chest cracked.

It didn’t shatter. Not yet.

But it cracked.

That night, Lana apologized. She brought wine. Drew her close in bed. Whispering sweet words to her.

“I’m just scared to lose you. You’re all I have.”

She kissed Y/N’s bruised cheek and didn’t flinch.

And Y/N—tired, wired, numb—kissed her back because she didn’t know what else to do.

✦✦✦✦

The fourth fight—the last —was when Y/N stayed late at the hospital without checking in.

Her phone had died. She’d fallen asleep in an on-call room.

When she walked into the apartment at 3:00 a.m., Lana was waiting.

“I was worried ,” she hissed. “Do you know what kind of people are out there?”

“I’m one of those people,” Y/N said, dropping her keys. “I was working , Lana.”

“With her , I’m sure.”

“I was doing my job. It’s not about Amelia.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You think she loves you?” Lana stepped closer. “You think she’d want you if she saw the real you?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

“Say something!” Lana screamed.

Y/N looked her dead in the eyes and said, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Lana struck her.

Hard.

Y/N’s head snapped to the side. Pain exploded in her jaw. She stumbled. Hit the wall. Everything blurred.

And Lana froze. Not because she felt guilt—but because she knew what was slipping away.

“No,” she said softly. “No, no, baby, you know I didn’t mean—”

Y/N didn’t stay to hear the rest.

She grabbed her bag. Her phone charger. Her wallet. Nothing else.

She left her keys on the counter.

Later, Amelia found Y/N sitting on the footsteps of her apartment, tears running  down her cheeks. Her face was pale. One eye was swollen.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she said.

Amelia didn’t ask questions.

She just stepped aside.

“Come in.”

When they're inside, Y/N hovered by the window, arms wrapped tight around her chest. She flinched when Amelia offered her tea, then apologized repeatedly.

“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry. I just—she was angry I didn’t answer her texts. I left my phone at the hospital. And then she…”

Her voice cracked.

“She used to be kind,” Y/N whispered.

“At first, I thought I was the problem. That I was too much. Too needy. Too clingy. She said I needed to change—to get thinner, quieter. Better.”

"You're not too much," Amelia said. "And you're not the problem."

“She tells me I’m lucky to have her. That no one else would put up with me.”

“That’s not love,” Amelia said. “That’s abuse.”

The word hung in the air.

Abuse .

It sounded so clinical. So sterile. But it fits.

Y/N looked away. “She told me I was fat. I was 110 pounds and she said I needed to ‘tighten up’. I started skipping meals. She praised me for it. Her praise makes me happy and proud of myself.”

Amelia’s jaw clenched. She wanted to punch someone. Hard.

“She says if I leave her, I’ll regret it. That she’ll tell people things. That she’ll make me look crazy. And she’s smart. She knows how to spin it.”

Amelia moved closer, slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I believe you,” she said softly. 

“I started cutting because at least it gave me control,” Y/N continued quietly. “It was my secret. Mine alone.”

Amelia reached over and gently took her hand. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

That was the night Y/N fell asleep without waking up from a nightmare.

✦✦✦✦

Amelia filed the paperwork for a restraining order after Lana showed up at the hospital again, unannounced.

Y/N had frozen mid-surgery prep when she saw her standing outside the scrub room. Her hands trembled. She dropped the scalpel.

Amelia took one look at Y/N and stepped out to meet Lana, her voice calm but cutting.

“If you come near her again, I will make sure you never see the outside world again. Stay the hell away.”

Later that evening, Y/N cried into Amelia’s shoulder. “You could’ve gotten in trouble.”

“I don’t care,” Amelia whispered. “Some things are worth risking everything for.”

✦✦✦✦

Then, Y/N got her transferred to a safe rotation in another wing.

She made sure security had the photo of the ex and a record of the order.

Y/N still shook when her phone buzzed.

Still panicked in crowded rooms.

Still whispered apologies before asking for anything.

But she smiled more. Laughed, sometimes.

Sometimes they sat in silence on Amelia’s couch and watched old sci-fi movies. Y/N fell asleep more than once with her head on Amelia’s shoulder.

✦✦✦✦

Y/N spiraled once after a call from an unknown number that turned out to be Lana.

She relapsed and cut again.

Amelia found her sitting on the bathroom floor, blood pooling at her wrist.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t judge.

She knelt, wrapped her arms around her, and whispered, “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Amelia cleaned the wound and sat with her until dawn.

Y/N whispered through tears, “You should leave. I’m too much.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Amelia said again. “You’re not too much. You’re brave .”

✦✦✦✦

Months Later

Y/N started therapy.

She gained a few pounds. She smiled more. She let herself eat without guilt.

She stopped hiding her scars. She even wore short sleeves again.

And Amelia?

She was always there.

Not rushing. Not pushing.

Just waiting.

One rainy night, Y/N stood in Amelia’s doorway, soaked and shivering.

“I had a dream,” she said. “She was in it. But when I woke up, I didn’t want to die. I just… wanted to see you.”

Amelia opened the door wider. “Come in.”

Y/N stepped in, heart pounding. “I’m still scared.”

“I know.”

“And I’m still healing.”

“I know.”

A long pause.

“But I want to kiss you.”

“I care about you. So much,” Amelia said. “But I need you to be sure you’re choosing me because you want to. Not because I feel safe. Not because I pulled you out.”

She searched Y/N’s eyes, holding her breath. “Are you sure?”

Y/N nodded, trembling. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Their lips met—soft, slow, gentle. There was no urgency, no hunger. Just warmth. Safety. Love.

When they pulled apart, Y/N rested her forehead against Amelia’s.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel… wanted.”

“You’re more than wanted,” Amelia said. “You’re loved.”

They didn’t call it a relationship. Not yet.

They were still rebuilding. Still learning.

But every day Y/N woke up in Amelia’s arms, she felt more like herself.

Whole. Safe. Seen.

She started smiling during rounds. Laughing with Jo. Scrubbing into surgeries with confidence.

The whispers around the hospital died down eventually. People stopped wondering. Or maybe they just saw how happy she looked and decided that was enough.

✦✦✦✦

One night, as they sat watching the rain hit the windows, Y/N asked, “Do you think I’ll ever stop hearing her voice?”

Amelia took her hand. “No. But one day, it won’t control you. It’ll just be a shadow you’ve outgrown.”

Y/N leaned against her. “Thank you. For everything.”

Amelia smiled, kissing the top of her head.

“I told you,” she said. “When you’re ready, I’ll wait.”

And she had.

And she would.

For as long as it took.

Chapter Text

It didn’t start all at once. That’s the first lie people like to believe. That something snaps and then it’s broken.

But for Y/N, it started with the smallest thing: a skipped lunch during residency. Just one. A hectic shift, a trauma code that lasted longer than it should have. She meant to eat. She really did.

She remembered the protein bar in her coat pocket, the one Jo had stuffed in there weeks ago and teased her about forgetting. She remembered it, and then she didn’t.

She went home and fell into bed.

And that was it.

A missed meal that didn’t kill her. The world didn’t end. She didn’t faint. No one cared. In fact, she felt lighter the next morning—not physically, just… clean. In control. She’d pushed through, proven something to herself, though she couldn’t quite name it.

It became a game after that, but not one with rules. More like… whispers. Little compromises. Skip breakfast, maybe dinner too. No one noticed. Everyone was busy. Everyone was tired. Everyone had their own demons, and Y/N had always been good at blending into the noise.

She was a fourth-year resident at Grey Sloan when things began to unravel. Just slightly.

It happened slowly—like frayed edges on an overwashed sleeve. She stopped sitting in the breakroom. Her scrubs began to hang differently. Her badge lanyard felt longer around her neck. The tie on her surgical cap needed double-knots now. Her body was quieter, and in a strange, sick way, she liked that. She wasn’t hungry; she was empty.

But emptiness was easier than disappointment.

Addison was the first to almost notice.

Not because she was looking. No one ever was. Not really. They’d glance, sure—throw offhanded compliments like “you look great” or “those scrubs fit well”—but never really see . Addison was different, though. Quietly perceptive. She didn’t compliment. She observed .

It started with a conversation during a neonatal case. A long, complicated fetal surgery with hours of tension. Addison had been focused on the baby; Y/N had been focused on keeping her hands from shaking.

“You alright?” Addison asked when they stepped into the scrub room after closing.

Y/N blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You were pale. During the last hour.”

Y/N shrugged, peeling off her gown slowly to hide the way her fingers trembled. “Just tired. Haven’t slept.”

Addison didn’t push. She nodded and accepted it. But her eyes lingered for a fraction longer than they should have.

Y/N hated that.

Because once someone looks , it becomes harder to hide.

She started drinking more coffee after that. Not for the energy, but for the fullness . It quieted the noise in her head, numbed the ache in her stomach. She told herself she was managing. It was fine. It wasn’t hurting anyone.

She didn’t even call it anything.

Not disordered. Not a problem. Just discipline.

The truth? She wasn’t in pain. Not in the way people understood pain.

She was in a state of not feeling —and that, in itself, became addictive.

✦✦✦✦

The scales at the hospital didn’t lie. Neither did the mirrors, but those were easier to ignore.

She hated weighing patients. She hated stepping into those rooms, pretending to care about vitals when she couldn’t face her own. Every time she scribbled down “weight: 119 lbs” for someone else, she felt like a hypocrite.

She was 108.

Then 105.

Then she stopped checking.

✦✦✦✦

Carina DeLuca came to Grey Sloan a few weeks later for a special rotation in OB research. Maya Bishop joined her sometimes, especially for dinner breaks between shifts at Station 19.

The Italian woman was different from Addison. Softer, but sharper too. Like lace with razors woven in. Y/N respected her deeply—and avoided her even more.

Because Carina looked at people the way surgeons looked at MRIs: with focus, with purpose, with clarity.

She was the second person who started noticing .

Not with questions. Not at first. Just a slow turning of the head when Y/N entered a room. A glance too long when she passed the OR.

One night, after a long shift in OB, Carina caught Y/N sitting alone in the hallway outside the resident locker room, hands folded, eyes vacant.

“You should eat,” Carina said gently, like a suggestion, not a command.

Y/N looked up too fast, heart pounding. “I did.”

Carina sat beside her, cross-legged and unapologetic.

“You know what,” she said, “You think you’re hiding it well, but you’re not. You’re slower. You’re paler. Your hands shake during closure. You avoid the breakroom like it’s infected. Addison’s worried. I am too.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re malnourished.”

The word hit like a slap.

Y/N stepped back, defensive. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I do,” Carina said, firm but not cruel. “Because I’ve watched brilliant women fall apart trying to hold everything in. You’re not the first. You won’t be the last. But if you don’t stop—”

“Then what?” Y/N snapped. “You’ll report me?”

“No, tesoro ,” Carina said softly. “Then you’ll die.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t melodramatic. It was a simple truth.

And it broke something.

Y/N didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

Carina didn’t press. She stood, dusted off her coat, and walked away.

That night, Y/N went home and opened the fridge and stood in front of it until her knees gave out.

She sat on the kitchen floor and cried without a sound.

✦✦✦✦

A few months later, Y/N met Vic at a hospital fundraiser—the kind of event Y/N usually dodged. She’d only shown up because Carina guilted her into ‘being social for once.’ 

She had stood stiffly near the bar, nursing club soda, half-listening to Jo rant about the DJ, when Vic had stumbled in from the side entrance, laughing, breathless, already glowing under string lights.

She was a firefighter, someone said. The kind that ran toward danger. Y/N didn’t get it. Why run toward something that hurts?

But Vic looked at her that night and grinned like she’d just found the last piece of a puzzle.

They’d started dating after that.

It wasn’t a surprise. At least not to anyone around them. They fit in a strange way—Y/N, all precision and calm, and Vic, all emotion and energy. 

But Y/N had never been good at dating. She didn’t like being seen . Vic, on the other hand, wanted to see everything. She asked questions. A thousand of them.

“What was your favorite show as a kid?”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“What’s your comfort food?”

Y/N didn’t answer that last one.

She made excuses and brushed it off. Said she didn’t really have one.

Vic didn’t push.

Not then.

✦✦✦✦

Vic was always moving. Always humming. She filled every room she walked into with music and questions and opinions. She made Y/N tea when she had cramps, danced in her socks in the kitchen and wore baggy sweatshirts with the sleeves chewed at the cuffs.

She loved big. Loud. Messy.

Y/N didn’t know what to do with that.

She tried to keep up. Smiled when she was supposed to. Laughed when Vic told a dumb joke. Said “I love you” back before she was ready because Vic had said it first—without hesitation, without fear—and Y/N had panicked.

But loving someone like Vic meant being seen . And Y/N didn’t know how to do that without unraveling.

✦✦✦✦

The first time Vic noticed something was off, it was a small thing.

Y/N hadn’t touched her dinner.

They were on the couch, watching a movie, Vic’s feet in Y/N’s lap, Thai takeout between them. Vic was halfway through her second spring roll when she glanced over and saw Y/N’s food still untouched.

“You okay?” Vic asked, chewing.

Y/N blinked, startled. “Yeah. Just not super hungry.”

Vic shrugged. “Fair. You’ve been working like twenty-hour days, I don’t know how you’re still vertical.”

At that time, Vic believed her. Because why wouldn’t she?

She was a firefighter. She skipped meals all the time during long shifts. Sometimes your stomach just wasn’t in it. Sometimes you were tired, or angry, or wired from a call, and food felt like too much.

Y/N nodded, relieved when the conversation moved on.

But later, when Vic cleared the plates, she noticed Y/N’s was still completely full.

She didn’t say anything.

But it kept happening.

Little things.

Y/N would make coffee but skip breakfast. She’d serve Vic a full dinner and claim she’d “already eaten” at the hospital. Her jeans were looser. She started showering with the door locked. She deflected compliments with sharp little jokes— “Well, I’m finally wasting away—guess it’s working.”

Vic laughed at first. Then stopped.

She didn’t know what was happening, exactly. But the light in Y/N’s eyes was dimmer now. 

Vic didn’t want to be that person —didn’t want to police what her girlfriend ate. But it wasn’t about a few skipped meals anymore.

It was the way Y/N started pulling away from sleepovers. The way she looked dazed when Vic kissed her shoulder, like she’d been miles away. The way her cheeks hollowed. The way her skin bruised too easily.

The way she started keeping her arms covered—even when it was warm out.

✦✦✦✦

One night, after a long shift at Station 19, Vic came home early. She was exhausted, her back ached, and all she wanted was to curl up with Y/N and eat leftover pasta.

But the apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

She found Y/N in the bathroom. The door was unlocked this time, and Vic pushed it open gently—just in case.

Y/N was standing in front of the mirror, shirt lifted, fingers pressing lightly against her ribcage. There was a scale on the floor.

Vic froze.

Y/N turned, startled. “I didn’t hear you.”

Vic smiled tightly. “I got off early.”

“Cool.”

Y/N lowered her shirt. Too fast.

Vic noticed the way her collarbones stuck out like accusations. The way her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“You coming to bed?” Vic asked after a beat.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. Just a second.”

Vic left the room. But something lodged in her chest, heavy and awful.

She didn’t ask. Not that night.

She just swallowed hard and hugged Y/N tighter that night. She kissed her forehead and whispered, “I love you so much, babe,” and pretended not to feel the ridges of bone beneath her fingers.

✦✦✦✦

Vic tried to bring it up once.

They were walking back to Vic’s car after a double date with Maya and Carina. Everyone had joked about the horrible risotto, but Y/N had barely touched her wine, let alone her food. Vic had watched the whole dinner like she was holding her breath.

When they reached the car, Vic leaned against the door and said it gently.

“You okay?”

Y/N smiled too fast. “Yeah. Why?”

“You just haven’t really been eating much lately.”

Y/N blinked. That was it—just blinked. Her expression didn’t shift, but her body did. Just a fraction. Like a wall went up.

“I told you. Work’s been rough. It messes with my appetite sometimes.”

Vic nodded. “Yeah. Totally. I get that.”

But her heart stung.

Because Y/N had shut down. Completely.

✦✦✦✦

A week later, Y/N woke up on Vic’s couch. She was already dressed, her shift about to start. She’d left Y/N tea on the counter, a note beside it:

You’re always tired. I’m worried about you. Please talk to me. I love you. – V

Y/N stared at the note for a long time.

Love felt like a weight. Not warmth. Not comfort. Not today.

When Vic came back that night, she found Y/N passed out on her bathroom floor. Not blood. Not drugs. Not vomit.

Just cold tile. An empty Gatorade bottle. A forgotten protein shake on the counter.

Y/N had fainted. She waved it off when she woke up.

“I stood too fast,” she muttered, brushing Vic off, trying to sit up.

Vic’s hands were shaking. “That’s not normal, babe.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not .”

That was the first time Vic said it . The first time the words broke through the fog.

“You’re not eating.”

Y/N’s face froze. Her expression didn't shift much—barely at all. But something in her eyes retreated, like a door slamming shut.

“Please don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t make it about that.”

Vic dropped to her knees beside her, helpless. “I don’t care what it’s about, I just—I’m scared. I don’t want to make it worse, and I don’t want you to shut down.”

Y/N didn’t say anything.

“Tell me what to do so I can help you.” 

Y/N leaned back against the cabinet, eyes closed. “There’s nothing to do.”

Vic touched her hand. “That’s not true.”

Y/N flinched like the warmth burned.

✦✦✦✦

The weeks after that were quiet. Not in the comforting way. In the suffocating way. Y/N pulled back. Vic felt the shift. Texts turned short. Plans got canceled. Calls went unanswered.

Carina mentioned once—casually, while Vic was dropping something off at the hospital—that Y/N had been “pushing hard lately.” Working late. Saying yes to extra shifts. Looking a little thin .

It wasn’t meant to be a warning. But Vic felt the subtext anyway.

She sat in her car afterward, gripping the steering wheel like it might keep her from unraveling.

✦✦✦✦

One night, Y/N showed up at Vic’s apartment without warning.

She looked… worn. Not broken, just stretched too thin. Like her soul had been pulled at the seams and not stitched back right.

Vic let her in without a word. Wrapped her in a hoodie. Made tea. Didn’t ask questions.

They sat on the couch, silence heavy between them. Y/N was shaking slightly but trying to hide it.

“I don’t know how to stop,” she said finally, her voice barely audible.

Vic turned slowly toward her. “Stop what?”

Y/N stared ahead. “Everything.”

Vic didn’t ask what she meant. She didn’t need to.

“I didn’t plan it,” Y/N said. “It wasn’t like one day I just decided not to eat. It just… happened. And it felt good. It felt like control. Like I was doing something right. And now—now it’s like if I stop, I’ll fall apart.”

Vic swallowed hard. “So don’t do it alone.”

Y/N turned to her, eyes shining. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.” She grabs Y/N’s hand gently. “I want to help you.”

Y/N’s lips trembled. “People keep thinking it’s about food. And when they look at me like I’m sick, or weak, or broken… it just makes me want to disappear more.”

Vic took a breath. “Then I won’t look at you like that. I promise.”

Y/N laughed—broken, dry. “You already do.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth.

“I’m scared,” Vic said honestly. “And I don’t know what I’m doing. But I love you.”

The silence after was long.

Y/N’s eyes filled slowly, quietly. “I don’t know if I can be loved right now.”

Vic didn’t cry, not then. She wanted to. But she stayed still, strong.

“I’ll love you anyway,” she whispered.

✦✦✦✦

There were no breakthroughs the next day. Or the next week.

Y/N still skipped meals. Still stared at plates like they were enemies. Still cried when no one was around.

But she started showing up again.

She let Vic hold her on the worst days. She let Addison recommend a specialist. She didn’t go— yet —but she didn’t say no, either.

She tried soup once and finished half the bowl. She almost apologized for it.

Vic didn’t say, ‘ good job’ or ‘ you’re doing great’.  

She just kissed her temple and said, “How was it?”

Y/N answered, “Weird.”

Vic smiled. “Yeah. Weird is okay.”

✦✦✦✦

Recovery wasn’t a montage. It wasn’t a rising score and a hospital hallway and someone cheering.

It was quiet. Ugly sometimes. Slow and infuriating. But also honest.

Y/N stopped hiding everything. Not all at once. Just small things.

She left half a protein bar on the counter instead of pretending she’d eaten the whole thing.

She let Vic hold her when the shame felt too big.

She told her once, voice shaking, “If I relapse, will you leave?”

Vic didn’t even blink. “Not a chance.”

Y/N leaned her head on Vic’s shoulder. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Vic kissed her temple. “You don’t have to find out.”

✦✦✦✦

People expected eating disorders to be about food. About image. About vanity.

Y/N knew better.

It was about pain. About disappearing. About making herself smaller so no one would expect anything.

But with Vic’s hand in hers—warm, strong, real—she started to believe that maybe she didn’t have to vanish to be loved.

Maybe she could stay.

Maybe she deserved to.

Even if it hurt. Even if it took time.

Chapter Text

Carina had barely sat down in the break room with her much-needed espresso when her phone buzzed across the counter. She barely glanced at the caller ID, expecting it to be a nurse or maybe Bailey. But when she saw Jack's name, her brow furrowed.

"Jack?" she answered immediately.

His voice was tight. Urgent. "Carina, it's Maya. She's here. At the station. She's not okay."

Carina stood up, already on the move. "What do you mean? What happened? Is she hurt?"

"I don't know everything," Jack said, rushing through the words. 

"She just showed up. She's shaking. She said she just needed to sit for a second, but I noticed blood. It's seeping through her sleeve."

Carina's breath hitched. "I'll be there in ten."

✦✦✦✦

The drive to Station 19 felt like it stretched for hours even though it took her barely eight minutes. Her thoughts raced. She tried to reason with herself—Maya could've just scratched herself. A fall. A call gone wrong. 

But Carina knew better. She had seen the signs for weeks now.

The cold silences. The overcompensating cheerfulness. The long sleeves even in bed. The way Maya seemed to flinch at love lately.

When Carina walked into the firehouse, Jack met her immediately. His face was pale, eyebrows knitted together.

"She's in the bunkroom. Alone. I didn’t know if I should call you or a chief. But she asked me not to tell anyone else."

"You did the right thing. Thank you."

Carina took a deep breath before pushing open the bunkroom door.

Maya sat on the lower bunk, head bowed, one sleeve stained a deep crimson. Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers clenched together as if she could hold herself in one piece if she just held tight enough.

" Bambina ," Carina breathed, stepping inside and closing the door gently behind her.

Maya looked up quickly, shame flooding her expression. "I'm fine."

Carina walked slowly toward her. "You’re not."

"It looks worse than it is. I just... I needed a minute. I didn’t want to be at home."

Carina crouched in front of her, gently reaching for the stained sleeve.

"Let me see."

Maya flinched. "I said I’m fine."

"Tell me what’s wrong," Carina whispered, her voice steady despite the aching twist in her chest. 

She touched Maya’s cheek, not as a doctor, not with clinical detachment, but with quiet, steady love. "Not as a doctor. Not as your wife. Just as someone who loves you."

Maya's eyes shimmered. Her lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out at first.

And then she crumbled.

"I don't know how to stop," Maya choked out. 

"I thought I did. I thought I could. But everything feels so loud in my head all the time. Work. Being good enough. Not messing up. Not being broken. And I thought I could control it. I did. For months. But then last week, I slipped. And again this morning. I didn't mean to. I just needed the noise to stop. Just for a second."

Carina swallowed the lump in her throat. She wrapped her arms around Maya, pulling her into her chest, cradling her gently. 

"Okay. You're okay. I'm here."

Maya sobbed into her shoulder. Her body trembled with it, all the tension finally cracking.

"I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want to be this person."

Carina pulled back, cupping Maya’s face. 

"You're not a person I need to fix. You’re the person I love. And loving you means being here—even in the dark parts. Especially there."

Maya's lips quivered. "I thought I was getting better."

"You are," Carina said firmly. "Relapse doesn't erase progress. It just means we keep going. Together."

Maya tenses when Carina touch the hem of her sleeves. “It’s not that bad.” Maya pull away.

Carina shakes her head, holding out her hand. “Please.”

Maya reluctantly nod and let Carina helped her out of the sweatshirt carefully, the fabric sticking a little where blood had dried. Underneath, gauze had been hastily applied. Carina peeled it back with practiced hands. The cuts were shallow, but fresh.

"Okay," she murmured. "I'm going to clean these."

Maya nodded, too exhausted to argue. As Carina worked, silence hung between them—not uncomfortable, but intimate.

When Carina finished bandaging, she gently kissed the side of Maya’s knee.

"Thank you," Maya whispered.

"For what?"

"Not looking at me like I’m broken."

Carina sat beside her on the bunk, threading her fingers through Maya's.

"You're not broken. You're hurting. There's a difference. And I can help you hold the weight until it doesn’t feel so heavy."

They stayed in that room for a while. Carina coaxed Maya into drinking some water. Eventually, they sat with their backs to the wall, fingers still tangled, Maya leaning against her.

"I think I need help," Maya said quietly.

Carina pressed a kiss to her hair. "Then we’ll get you help. A real therapist. A plan. Tools. Support. Whatever you need."

Maya nodded. "You won’t leave?"

"Never."

✦✦✦✦

By the time the sun began to dip, the redness around Maya’s eyes had faded a little. Her expression still carried shadows, but there was a flicker of something else now. Trust. Willingness.

As they walked out of the bunkroom together, Carina kept her hand on the small of Maya's back.

Jack met them in the hallway, concern still etched across his face. "You okay, Maya?"

Maya glanced at Carina, then back at Jack. "Not really. But I will be."

Jack nodded, relief evident. "Okay. Good."

Carina didn’t let go of Maya as they left the station. Not once. Not until they were home, in the quiet of their shared space, where healing could begin again.

And where love wasn’t conditional on being okay all the time.

Chapter Text

Emily’s POV

I once told Hotch that you can tell a lot about a person by how they write their name. Sloppy, controlled, exaggerated, unreadable—it’s a subconscious glimpse into their state of mind. 

But that was before I started teaching. 

Turns out, you can tell even more by how they show up.

My Tuesdays at Georgetown started the same way every week: iced coffee, worn leather satchel, a lecture on criminal profiling and behavioral cues. 

But by mid-September, I noticed her. 

Y/N Y/L/N. 

A name I would come to learn intimately, even if she barely spoke above a whisper.

It wasn’t just the way she sat. Everyone thinks the quiet ones are invisible, but it’s actually the opposite. They hold so much tension, it creates a vacuum. You feel them before you see them. 

Y/N always sat in the front-left corner, closest to the window, yet angled in a way that gave her a peripheral view of the door.

She took notes religiously, but not like the others. No margin doodles. No crossed-out words. Her penmanship looked like machine print, and she underlined exact phrases I said—not just ideas. Precision. Control. Obsession, maybe.

And fear.

The first time I saw her wrist, it was nothing more than a flash when she reached for her bag. A thin red scrape, angled vertically. The kind people think they can pass off as accidental. Paper cuts, cat scratches. But I’d seen too many self-harm scars to dismiss it.

And later? Bruises. Not purple-black like fresh impact, but sickly yellow. Faded. Old. Always hidden under cardigans or long sleeves. Always symmetrical. Defensive bruising.

She was polite to a fault. Apologized for speaking. Flinched when someone laughed too loud. Jumped when I dropped a marker. If a student shifted behind her, she looked back every time—wide-eyed, as if checking for something.

Someone.

My mind built the profile piece by piece.

Victim of long-term abuse. Highly intelligent, high-functioning. Masking symptoms of anxiety and hypervigilance. Exhibiting textbook trauma responses: avoidance, compulsive perfectionism, and dissociation.

But it was more than the profile. It was the look in her eyes that haunted me. The look of someone who had learned to shrink, to disappear in her own skin.

✦✦✦✦

"Miss Y/L/N," I said one day after class, as the room emptied out, "do you have a moment?"

She hesitated, then nodded, clutching her books to her chest. She moved like prey. Not fragile, but expecting danger.

"Yes, Professor?"

I leaned against the edge of the desk, trying to appear casual. 

"I noticed you're doing exceptionally well. Your analysis of the Kline case was... flawless, frankly."

Her lips quivered into a polite smile. "Thank you. I try to be thorough."

"Do you ever sleep?" I asked lightly.

The smile turn tight. "Of course."

There it was. The script. I knew it by heart. So did every survivor I’d ever interviewed.

I nodded slowly. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here. And not just as your professor.”

She didn’t ask what I meant by that.

She knew.

✦✦✦✦

I started inviting her to office hours. Always under the pretense of academic mentorship. I’d never abuse my position. But I needed to understand the pattern before I disrupted it.

One afternoon, she arrived late. Eyes red. Sweater sleeves yanked down over her hands.

"Rough day?" I asked, watching her avoid eye contact.

"Just a headache."

She sat stiffly, arms curled around her stomach. I noticed a slight limp. Nothing overt. Just a shift in weight when she crossed her legs.

"Y/N," I said gently, "can I ask you something off the record?"

She looked up sharply.

"Are you safe at home?"

She blinked. And for one full second, I saw it: terror. Raw, gut-level terror.

"I live with my brother. He's... strict."

"Strict," I echoed. "Has he ever hit you?"

She flinched, then forced a smile. "Of course not."

I wanted to scream.

✦✦✦✦

I went back to Quantico that night and pulled every contact I had. Garcia found the file.

Marcus Y/L/N. Twenty-nine. Guardian since she was fifteen. Prior for aggravated assault. Sealed juvie records. Two jobs, one in security, the other under the table. No CPS flags, but Garcia found online forum posts from a burner account with disturbing entries:

"She cries too easily. Needs discipline. If she talks back again, I swear to God..."

It lined up.

Y/N was methodically broken. A victim trained not to cry, not to scream. The kind of control that left no marks visible to the world. Just ghosts.

✦✦✦✦

Three Weeks Later

Y/N missed class. The first time all semester.

I called her emergency number. He picked up.

"Who is this?"

"Emily Prentiss. I'm one of Y/N's professors. She missed class and I'm concerned."

"She has the flu. She doesn't need babysitting."

"I didn't say she did. Can I speak with her?"

"She's resting. Don’t call again."

Click.

The tone stuck with me. Not angry. Worse. Possessive.

✦✦✦✦

Two Days Later

Y/N finally returned to class.

Black turtleneck. Dark glasses. Lip split, hastily covered with concealer.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t look at anyone. I canceled the lecture halfway through and told her to stay behind.

"Y/N," I said, stepping closer. "Tell me who did this."

Her hands shook. She wrapped them around her own arms.

"I tripped."

"No, you didn't."

"I can't..." Her voice broke. "He said if I told anyone..."

I lowered my voice. "Listen to me.  I think something’s wrong and I think you’re too scared to tell anyone. But I can help you."

Her eyes filled instantly. She bit the inside of her cheek, blinking fast.

“I don’t know how,” she whispered.

“Tell me what happened.”

She broke.

Her knees gave out and she crumpled to the floor. I caught her, arms around her shaking frame as she sobbed into my jacket.

“It started after I moved in with him… he was my brother, so I thought—he was grieving. He drank. He got angry. At first it was just yelling. Then breaking things. Then grabbing me if I talked back. Then hitting.”

I didn’t speak. Just let her keep going.

“He doesn’t do it all the time. Only when I provoke him. He says I make him do it. That I look at him like Mom did. He says I owe him—for taking care of me.”

I fought the instinct to clench my fists.

“He tells me if I ever leave, he’ll kill himself. And that I’d be responsible. I don’t want him to die. I just—” her voice broke. “I just want to be free.”

I nodded. “You deserve to be.”

She looked at me, eyes rimmed red. “Do you believe me?”

“Every word,” I said.

"I can't go back," she whispered. "He watches everything. My phone. My friends. My email. He reads my messages."

"You're not going back," I promised. "Not tonight. Not ever."

✦✦✦✦

I took her to the BAU safehouse.

Hotch covered for me. Garcia wiped her digital footprint for the night. I filed an emergency report, then called a contact at DC Crisis Center. They connected her with trauma resources, housing, and a legal advocate.

She told me some of her stories over lukewarm tea and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Her brother controlled everything. Her grades. Her schedule. Who she saw. When she ate. Where she went. He installed a camera in their hallway. She wasn’t allowed to lock her bedroom door.

He told her she owed him. That she was weak. That no one would ever care about her the way he did.

"And I believed him," she said.

"You're not weak," I told her. "You're surviving. And that’s the bravest thing anyone can do."

✦✦✦✦

Weeks Later

Charges were filed. Protective order granted. Her brother was arrested. He pled not guilty.

She moved into a women's shelter, then campus housing. I checked in weekly.

Her posture changed.

Slowly.

She started smiling. Real smiles. She chopped her hair off. Started volunteering for campus crisis response. Her eyes lost the hunted look.

She started to live.

✦✦✦✦

A Year Later

She came to my office. Stronger. Her hair was down. She wore short sleeves. Scars visible—but not hidden.

“I got accepted into Quantico’s internship,” she said, beaming.

I smiled so wide it hurt.

“You're going to do good things, Y/N.”

“I want to help girls like me,” she said softly. “Because someone helped me first.”

Chapter Text

Y/N had only been with the BAU for a few weeks, but already, she had become a quiet presence in the team. 

She wasn’t one for small talk, preferring to observe, analyze, and contribute when necessary. 

And today, as they landed in Nevada for a new case, Y/N had hoped to keep a low profile, blending in with her colleagues as much as possible.

But that wasn’t going to be easy.

The plane ride had been hell—her head throbbed like a relentless drumbeat, her body heavy with fever. 

The dizziness had started just before they landed, and it only worsened as she stepped off the plane and into the dry Nevada air. 

She forced herself to keep it together. She couldn’t afford to appear weak, not this early in her career.

She stood with the team in the precinct, doing her best to act like everything was fine. Emily, her sharp-eyed colleague, didn’t miss a thing.

“You okay?” Emily asked, leaning in as the others huddled around the case board. 

The brunette’s voice was laced with concern, but Y/N barely registered it, her mind clouded with the noise of her spinning thoughts. The dizziness was making it hard to focus.

"Yeah, fine," Y/N muttered, trying to keep her voice steady.

But Emily was persistent, narrowing her eyes as she studied Y/N. “Your teeth hurt or something?”

Y/N blinked at Emily, confused for a moment. "Huh?"

Emily crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. “You’re quiet.”

Y/N forced a small smile. "I am quiet." she answered, hoping her usual calm demeanor would hide the mess inside her head.

"No," Emily replied quickly, without hesitation. "Not really."

Y/N’s stomach dropped, but she didn’t let her discomfort show. She shifted on her feet, trying to keep the world from tilting around her. Her mind raced, and for a moment, she thought she might actually fall. 

The pounding in her head intensified, but she gripped the edge of the table in front of her to steady herself.

“I’m fine,” Y/N said again, more firmly this time. She wasn’t about to let anyone see her falter. Not yet.

Emily eyed her for a moment longer, then sighed, her expression softening. "You sure?"

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, trying to sound convincing.

Emily didn’t push further, though she clearly wasn’t entirely convinced. 

As the team turned to the board to discuss the case, Y/N couldn’t help but feel her body tremble with each step she took. The flu had gotten the best of her, but she wasn’t about to let it derail her. Not when they were so close to catching the unsub.

She couldn’t show weakness.

Not here. Not now.

But as the team continued to work around her, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Emily wasn’t the only one who noticed something was off.

Hotch was outlining the timeline of the latest victim’s disappearance when Y/N swayed slightly on her feet. She quickly shifted her weight, pretending to adjust her stance, but her vision blurred at the edges.

"You good?" Morgan whispered beside her, low enough that only she could hear.

Y/N nodded without looking at him. “Yeah. Just tired.”

"Long flight, huh?" he offered, giving her an easy out. 

She nodded again, grateful, even though it wasn’t the truth. 

Her muscles ached, her hands trembled ever so slightly as she took notes, and her body felt like it was both burning and freezing all at once.

They split into pairs to head to the latest crime scene. Hotch assigned Y/N to go with Reid. She tried not to let the dread show on her face—Spencer Reid was brilliant, observant, and unfortunately, too perceptive.

The ride to the scene was quiet at first. Y/N stared out the window, trying to steady her breathing, counting in her head to stay grounded.

“Do you want the case notes?” Reid offered, holding out a tablet.

“I’m good, thanks,” she replied, her voice quieter than usual.

Reid didn’t press, but after a few minutes, he spoke again, not looking at her. 

“You know, fever can mess with your perception of sound and light. Even motor function. That’s why people with high fevers often feel like they’re floating or disconnected.”

Y/N turned to look at him, startled. “What?”

“You’re sick,” he said simply, finally glancing at her. 

“I noticed the tremor in your fingers. The way you’re blinking slower than normal. You’re not talking much, which is unusual for you when we’re out in the field. You’re hiding it, but… you’re sick.”

Y/N looked away, her throat tightening. “It’s just a cold.”

Spencer didn’t argue. He just nodded. “Okay. But if you collapse, I’m gonna call Emily to carry you, just so you know.”

She let out a weak laugh, despite herself. “Please don’t.”

Too late. Reid had already texted Emily.

✦✦✦✦

Back at the precinct, they gathered again after the scene. 

Emily looked up from her phone, her expression unreadable. “Hey, Y/N. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Y/N followed her to the hallway outside the conference room, her legs feeling like wet paper.

Emily turned to face her. “Reid told me.”

Y/N groaned softly, leaning against the wall. “Of course he did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Emily asked, not angry—just... concerned. “You have a fever, Y/N. You’re barely standing.”

“I didn’t want to seem like I can’t handle it.”

“You’re human,” Emily said. “That’s not weakness. That’s biology. You don’t have to prove anything. Not to us.”

Y/N stayed quiet, her eyes stinging—not from tears, but from the effort of staying upright.

Emily took a breath, then softened her tone. 

“We need you at your best, not burning out and pretending to be fine. You’re good, Y/N. We already know that. No one’s gonna think less of you for resting when you’re sick.”

“…I didn’t want to let the team down,” Y/N murmured.

“You’re not,” Emily said firmly. “But you will if you pass out mid-interview or at a scene. You’re not invisible. We care.”

Y/N swallowed hard, finally nodding.

Emily gave her a small smile. “Go lie down in the back room. Drink water. I’ll cover for you with Hotch.”

“Thanks.”

✦✦✦✦

Emily had barely returned to the bullpen when JJ caught her eye across the room. One look at her friend’s face, and JJ was moving toward her.

“What’s going on?” JJ asked, voice low but sharp with instinct. “Something happen?”

Emily nodded toward the hallway. “Y/N’s sick. Fever, dizziness—the whole deal. Tried to hide it. She’s crashing.”

JJ’s brows drew together immediately, concern blooming on her face. “Where is she?”

“Back room,” Emily replied. “I told her to lie down.”

JJ didn’t hesitate. She was already turning, walking fast down the hall. She tapped lightly on the door before pushing it open.

The room was dim, a small break area with an old couch shoved into the corner. Y/N was curled up there, hoodie pulled up to her ears, her face flushed and pale at the same time. She looked up groggily as JJ stepped in.

“Hey,” JJ said softly, kneeling down beside her. 

She stepped inside, a bottle of water in one hand and a folded blanket in the other. 

“Emily told me you weren’t feeling great. Thought you could use this.”

Y/N forced a tired smile. “Emily’s a snitch.”

JJ smiled gently. “Yeah, but she’s a concerned one. To be fair, Reid told Emily and then Emily told me.”

Y/N gave a small, humorless laugh. “Great. A whole chain of pity.”

“It’s not pity,” JJ said immediately, voice firm now. “It’s care. There’s a difference.”

Y/N tried to sit up straighter, out of instinct. “I’m fine—”

JJ gave her a look. Gentle, but unmistakably firm. “No you’re not.”

She placed the water down on the table and unfolded the blanket, draping it over Y/N’s legs without asking. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Just today,” Y/N lied.

JJ sat on the edge of the coffee table, hands loosely clasped. “You’re not a great liar yet. That’s okay. You’ll get better.”

Y/N blinked at her. JJ’s smile didn’t fade.

“I mean that in the kindest way,” JJ added. “But I know when someone’s burning up and pretending they’re not.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/N mumbled, curling a little tighter into herself. “I didn’t mean to cause any—”

“Stop,” JJ cut in, kind but firm. “You didn’t cause anything. You’ve been pushing through this whole time. That’s not something you need to apologize for.”

Y/N looked down. “I just didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t handle it. I’ve only been here a few weeks…”

JJ reached up and gently tucked a damp strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear. It was a rare gesture, intimate in its quiet, mothering way.

“Do you know what I saw the first time I watched you work?” JJ said. “You didn’t try to impress anyone. You just worked . You were clear, calm, precise. You didn’t need to prove yourself then, and you don’t now.”

Y/N blinked slowly, like she was trying to stay awake for the words.

JJ sat down on the edge of the couch beside her. 

“We’re a team. If someone’s hurt or sick, we cover for each other. No one’s gonna think less of you. In fact, hiding it makes us worry more.”

“I didn’t want anyone to notice.”

“Well,” JJ said, eyes soft, “you joined the wrong team for that.”

Y/N blinked again, then let out a weak, breathless laugh. “Guess so.”

JJ handed her the water. “I know it’s hard to ask for help. Especially here. Everyone looks like they have it all together. But none of us did at first. And some of us still don’t.”

“You make it look easy.”

JJ shook her head. “You didn’t see me my first year. I was scared of breathing too loud around Hotch. I threw up before my first press conference. Derek found me in the restroom, holding my hair.”

Y/N smiled, despite the fever. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. I’ve messed up. We all have. But this team doesn’t keep score like that. We lift each other when we can.”

There was a long pause.

Then JJ added, quieter, “You don’t have to prove that you belong. You’re already one of us.”

Those words hit Y/N harder than she expected.

She nodded, almost too slowly. “Thanks.”

JJ stood again and pulled the thin blanket off the back of the couch, unfolding it and draping it over Y/N with practiced care.

“I’m staying with you for a bit,” JJ said, grabbing the chair nearby. “Close your eyes. We’ve got you covered for a few hours. If there’s any update, I’ll let you know.”

✦✦✦✦

The team carried on outside, but JJ stayed for over an hour, occasionally checking Y/N’s forehead, coaxing her to drink sips of electrolyte water, and telling her quietly about past cases where someone had to sit one out and the world didn’t end.

“You don’t lose points for being human,” JJ had said at one point. “You earn respect by taking care of yourself, just like you would for any of us.”

Eventually, Y/N drifted into a light fevered sleep. 

JJ stayed, her phone lighting up quietly with texts from Emily and Reid updating her on the case. 

She answered them one-handed, her other resting gently on the back of the couch—just in case Y/N stirred or needed her again.

✦✦✦✦

Later that evening, the rest of the team was poring over case files when Hotch entered the room.

“Y/N?” he asked.

“Resting,” JJ replied before anyone else could. “She’s down with the flu.”

Hotch didn’t look surprised. “Reid said something.”

“She didn’t want to say anything,” JJ added quietly. “Didn’t want to seem weak.”

Hotch’s brow furrowed for a moment, then he gave a quiet nod. “She’ll learn. We don’t leave people behind.”

Emily looked across the room at JJ and nodded in agreement. 

Morgan grinned. “We might just need to drill that into her stubborn little head.” 

“Gently,” JJ added. “She’s tough. But she’s not made of steel.”

✦✦✦✦

In the back room, Y/N slept through the night for the first time in days.

And in the morning, when she woke up feverish but a little less broken, there was a bottle of water on the table. And a sticky note.

Team’s out on scene. Rest more. You’re still part of the team even when you’re horizontal.
– JJ

She smiled faintly, pressed the note to her chest, and closed her eyes again.

Maybe this place… wasn’t so bad after all.