ᴍᴜʟᴛɪғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ | ᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴡ ғɪᴄs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇs

Fragile Love (A. Morgan x deaf! Wife! Reader)

Summary: loneliness in mundane life

Warning; high angst, mention of accident and other medical things. Major injuries but not enough to kill you, sad, short one because i spend my time playing rdr2... Arthur blaming himself.

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The call came at 3:17 p.m.

Arthur was sitting at his desk at the station, half-listening to Dutch ramble about precinct politics again. Something about budget cuts and broken equipment. Arthur wasn't paying much attention. His eyes kept drifting to the small Polaroid pinned to the corkboard beside his desk — you, standing outside your café in your flour-dusted apron, smiling like the world was kind and sweet.

He never could've known that picture would haunt him hours later.

His work phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it.

"This is Sergeant Morgan," he answered gruffly.

"Is this Arthur Morgan? Emergency contact for Y/N Morgan?"

Arthur sat up straighter. "Yeah. Why?"

"This is St. Joseph's Hospital. Your wife has been brought in — there's been an accident. A vehicle crashed into her café. She was inside. You need to come now."

The room spun. "What kind of—? Is she—?"

"She's in critical care, sir. That's all we can tell you over the phone."

Arthur didn't hang up. He just dropped the phone and started running.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The drive to the hospital was a blur of sirens — his own, blaring — and hands clenched tight on the wheel. Every red light was ignored. Every worst-case scenario ran through his mind.

You didn't wear hearing aids anymore. Not after what happened. And you can't wear it again. Your hearing.. Completely lost and it's his fault. You always said you liked your world quiet, liked to feel things instead of hearing them. The soft tremble of a laugh. The way Arthur's hands looked when he signed, even clumsily. Silence, to you, was comfort. And somehow, he feels guilty that the reason you're completely deaf is his fault while you forgive him for it.

But now silence felt like a curse.

He rushed into the ER, badge flashing. "Y/N Morgan," he barked. "Where is she?"

The nurse's face fell. "Trauma Room 3. She's unconscious. We had to sedate her after the rescue team pulled her out."

Arthur followed blindly. Through double doors. Down endless white corridors. Past people sobbing, machines humming, and nurses yelling code numbers that meant nothing to him.

Then he saw you.

Lying still on a gurney, bruised, hooked up to machines. Your hands — the same hands that had once danced in the air to tell him I love you — were scraped and limp at your sides.

He dropped to his knees beside your bed. "Oh God," he whispered, voice cracking.

The nurse spoke softly beside him. "She was standing near the front when the car hit. They think she didn't hear it coming. The driver lost control. We're not sure how long she was pinned before firefighters got her out."

Arthur barely heard her.

All he could think was you wasn't there.

Arthur's hands trembled, his chest heaving as he looked at you. His mouth opened. "she can't hear" he muttered quietly but the nurse heard him and looked at him with sympathy and understanding.

The nurse nodded solemnly. "i'm sorry, sir" the nurse replied lowly.

All he could see was the blood on your forehead, the faint tremble of your chest as the ventilator breathed for you.

He signed even though your eyes were closed.

"I'm here now."

"You're not alone."

"Please fight."

Hours passed. Dutch called. Hosea called. He didn't answer. He just sat, holding your fingers, tracing familiar patterns across your knuckles — signing words over and over like prayers.

When the doctor finally spoke to him, the words weren't comforting.

"You're lucky. Her spine's intact. But there's swelling. And head trauma. Her leg's shattered. And she's still not responding."

"Will she wake up?" Arthur asked, dead-voiced.

"We don't know."

That night, he slept in the hospital chair. Or tried to.

He stared at the heart monitor, counting every beat like it was borrowed time.

He hated himself for every time he complained about the café's early hours. Every time he told you to "text" him instead of coming by the station. Every time he forgot just how easily the world could take someone without warning.

Morning came with pale sunlight and too many unanswered questions.

Then, as the sky began to shift from steel gray to orange-pink, your fingers moved.

Not much. Just a twitch. But Arthur was on his feet instantly, eyes wide.

"Y/N?" he said, voice hoarse.

You blinked slowly, disoriented. Your lips parted slightly.

Arthur grabbed the whiteboard from your bedside — the one the nurses used for communication. He quickly scrawled:

"It's me. You're safe. I'm here."

You stared at him for a moment. Then your trembling hand reached up. Shaky fingers slowly began to sign:

"It hurts."

Arthur swallowed a sob, nodding. He kissed your hand and signed back:

"I know, baby. I know. But you're alive. You're still here."

Your eyes welled up.

Then you asked, with one fragile motion:

"Sean.. Dhani..?"

"They're okay, just minor injuries that can heal quickly"

"My café?"

Arthur's face fell. His voice cracked again.

"It's gone."

Tears spilled from your eyes. Arthur leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you carefully, tucking his face into your shoulder. You couldn't hear his voice, but you felt his chest tremble as he whispered over and over:

"I've got you. I've got you. I've got you."

And in the middle of that cold hospital room, surrounded by ruins and regret, he held onto you like you were the only thing in the world that still made sense.

Because you were.