Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 12: Pain Killer

You shift your weight onto one knee, moving carefully and mindful of your aches and the fragility of this small human before you. Your joints protest, but you ignore them. You need to be small. Less threatening. A gentle presence. Your hands remain visible, open at your sides, as if to show you mean no harm.

With a deep, quiet exhale, you push back your hood, letting it fall to your shoulders. The sunlight brushes your face, and your exhaustion is written in the faint lines beneath your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the heaviness in your posture.

But still, you force a gentle smile, a quiet beacon in the aftermath of her terror.

You carefully hold out your hand toward her. Not commanding. Not demanding. Just an offer, simple and human. You wonder how absurd you looked, how odd it must look to this child, this bruised, tired adult kneeling and extending her hand, but you hope she sees the safety in it.

Her gaze flickers to your hand, then up to your face. In her imagination, she pictures a prince from her bedtime story, arriving just in time, strong and calm, ready to keep her safe.

Slowly, hesitantly, she lifts her tiny hand, placing it into yours. You feel the warmth of her trust, small but real, and your chest tightens in a way that hurts and comforts at the same time.

"Hey," you murmur softly, your voice almost shaking under the weight of her fragility, "you're safe now. I've got you."

You glance down at her tiny wrist, and your chest twists sharply.

Dark red marks circle it, fresh, angry, delicate lines that look far too small to carry such force. Your stomach churns with the unfairness of it.

You grimace before you can stop yourself.

"C'mon, kid," you say softly, your voice uneven, almost breaking, as if testing the words aloud. "Let me take you to the hospital. That wrist looks... fu-sore."

Talking to a four-year-old should be simple, but everything in you feels stiff, awkward, painfully aware of how fragile she looks.

You are acutely conscious of your own bruises, your own rough edges, and how mismatched it all seems against her smallness. You are trying, desperately trying, not to scare her, not to say the wrong thing, not to make her feel more alone than she already does.

She hesitates for a heartbeat, then nods once, her expression serious, like she understands the gravity of your words far better than her years allow.

Without warning, she hurries forward and wraps her tiny hand around yours. Her fingers curl tightly around yours with a grip that feels urgent, determined, like she is holding on for safety, or hope, or both.

You freeze for a second, caught in the warmth of it, the sudden responsibility pressing into your chest. Your heart does a strange flip, warm, uncomfortable in a way that makes you feel strangely protective, but concern quickly takes over.

She shouldn't be this trusting. She shouldn't be alone. She shouldn't have had to face those boys by herself.

As you walk, you notice the way her tiny legs wobble and are uneven. Her steps falter, her breath coming in short, shaky bursts, each one punctuated by a small, uneven sniffle. Every now and then, she glances down at her own feet, as if expecting the ground to betray her or something worse to catch up from behind.

You stop, instinctively.

She halts, too, looking up at you with enormous, round eyes. They are so wide, so raw with expectation and a little confusion, that your chest tightens painfully. You feel like you are holding a glass figurine in your hands, breakable and too small.