Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 12: Pain Killer

"I know. And I appreciate it."

A brief pause settles between you, filled only by the soft scrape of batter and Mandy's breathing. You hesitate, then decide to tread carefully.

"Hey... I saw the news yesterday," you say, tone casual, deliberate. "You doing alright? Sounded like a pretty brutal night."

The words hang in the air, maybe hypocritical, coming from someone directly involved with the scene, but you wait anyway.

"Yeah..." Mandy exhales slowly. "It was... honestly terrifying. The whole thing." She hesitates. "But Phenomaman was there, so I guess it wasn't all bad."

You hear it then, the strain under her words. The way she rushes past certain details, as if she does not want to look at them too closely.

"Still," you say gently, "that kind of stuff sticks with you."

"...Yeah." Another pause. Longer this time. "Hey, um. I didn't want to freak you out, but there was something weird."

Your grip tightens slightly on the spoon. "Weird how?"

"Well," Mandy says slowly, choosing her words, "one of the captives, she said she broke Pug's arms."

You stop stirring.

"...But?" You prompt carefully.

"But there wasn't a single drop of blood on her," Mandy continues, her voice tightening. "She was dirty- scraped up, scuffed- but not bleeding. Not her, not any of the other captives. Not one stain. And the place..." She exhales slowly. "It was a massacre. Walls, floors- everything coated. I'm not saying she's lying, but..." Mandy hesitates, the silence heavy. "I'm not saying she's lying, but... I don't know if I believe her a hundred per cent."

Your stomach drops.

Shit.

You knew you forgot something.

You force your shoulders to relax, resuming the slow, rhythmic motion of mixing. "Hey," you say, keeping your voice steady, "maybe don't think about it too much right now."

Mandy hums uncertainly.

"You already sound pretty shaken," you add. "Overthinking it is just going to make it worse. You've had a long night...let's not spiral, yeah?"

There is a small sigh on the other end. "You're probably right."

"Always am," you tease lightly, just enough to shift the mood. "Tell you what, let's talk about literally anything else before you give yourself a headache."

She laughs weakly. "Deal."

You chat a little longer, about nothing important, work gossip, a show she is halfway through, and about how your pancakes might end up more blueberry than batter. Eventually, her voice sounds steadier, calmer.

"Thanks," she says quietly. "For listening."

"Anytime," you reply. "Get some rest, okay?"

"You too, [Y/N]."

The call ends with a soft click. The kitchen suddenly feels too quiet.

You pour the batter into the pan, slide it into the oven, then lean back against the counter, rubbing at your temple. Your body finally catches up with you, every bruise, every ache flaring in unison.

When the timer dings, you eat mechanically. A warm pancake, barely tasting it, just enough to settle the hollow ache in your stomach. It helps. A little.

Still not enough.

You grab a black hoodie from the back of a chair and tug it on, the fabric soft and familiar. Sweatpants follow, loose, forgiving. You slip your phone into your pocket, lace up your shoes, and pause by the door.