My own way to call you

Notes:

Setting: from episode 5x2 on
Pairing: Joe/Bronte or Goldery as I love calling them <3
Disclaimer: all characters belong just and only to the marvelous Caroline Kepnes, Netflix etc, I just own my sick ideas, lol.
Plus, there are some (small) original speeches from the episode 5x2 and 5x3

 

If you’re not familiar with the fandom and mostly with this season, in the first two episodes and ¾ of the third one Joe refers to himself as ‘you’, meaning that he considers himself the most important person… Then once he falls in love with Bronte, he refers to her as ‘you’, so you’ll see his POV change, because it depends on the episode.
While in Bronte’s POV, she refers to Joe as ‘you’ from the very start.

Written for the ‘Hey, sweetheart’ 2026 challenge, with the bonus prompt:
‘late-night text message’

I: Beguiled

Joe’s POV

You can’t help staring at her, just a tad taller than the pile of books you entrusted her to.

Look how happy she looks as she carefully places them, one by one on the proper shelf.

She caresses their cover and gets sure there’s no wrinkled pages inside.

She’s practically worshipping them.

She seems to love and respect books the same way you do.

If there’s a thing that you can be sure of is that Bronte worked more in those two hours than how R.I.P. Beck did in all the few days you had hired her.

Now why did she stop stacking the books and is looking in your direction?

Did she notice you were staring at her?
 

“Joe! Watch out!” She points at a book that’s about to fall from the fourth shelf.

A tome of about five hundred pages that wouldn’t be pleasant to be hit on the head with, for the records.
But this way you manage not only to dodge it, but also to catch it in your hands, keeping it safe and sound.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” You murmur.

What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Just. Do.?

She doesn’t react, but of course she must have heard you.
Quick. Fight this awkward silence. Add something. Anything.

“Someone who worked here before you didn’t do her or his job well. That book was not supposed to be there.”

“Of course. Such big books like that should be placed only on the lowest shelf, the second one at the utmost. Higher shelves are meant for the smallest and lightest book.” She approves.

Maybe she didn’t hear you or more probably she is pretending she didn’t.
Just keep along with the convenient way.

“See? There’s a reason why I hired you. You have such an overall view.” You pay her a compliment and smile to enhance that.

******************* (In the meantime)

Bronte’s POV

And now you decided to check if there are some tomes at the higher shelves, by mistake.
This is keeping you busy on a ladder, turning your back to me.
This gives me all the time to make my considerations… and also to glance at your butt, just because.
But mainly make my considerations.

What did you call me a few minutes ago?

I know I didn’t fool myself.
I heard what I heard.

And to be just the fourth day since I’ve met you and officially my very first day here at work, it’s a lot.
Not to mention that there was absolutely no reason for you to remain here, once you explained to me how the job is done… and yet you did.
You remained here all afternoon long, stacking part of the books I was supposed to do on my own.
You seem to enjoy my company.
You seem to enjoy…. me.

I thought I was maybe exaggerating a little when I told that to my friends.

But now, the way you called me, intentional or not, it proves my theory.
I just wonder why I was so thrilled when I heard you calling me that.
Of course, it was because I’m even more aware of the big role I’m playing in the mission.
If we had listened to Dom and followed her suggestion, we all still would be stuck in a deadlock -ironic, when you’re going after a potential murderer -; since the catering bullshit would never give us some tangible results.
Look how tangible they are now.

And, Joe, you can be all charming as you please, you can talk to me with that soothing voice of yours, you can display all of those adorable crooked smiles.
I won’t lose sight of my mission.
I won’t ever forget, not even for a second, that you are the enemy.

------------------------------------- 

Joe’s POV

You have one of the worst family dinners ever.
You faced a tough discussion with your wife.
You’re so concerned about what’s happening to Henry, you’re dreading the worst.
Could things go any possible worse than this?

Then your phone chimes the answer.
There’s more than  an alert from the camera in the basement.
Someone sneaked through.
You already know who it might be.
Someone you already told to stay away from.
Someone you trusted enough to introduce her to your son, and you were even happy when it happened.
Someone you trusted.
Period.
Past tense.

And there she is, hugging her legs, sitting scared inside the cage.
But you stare at her much colder than the 65 degrees with 40% of humidity that there’s inside there.

“I told you not to come in here.”

Even your tone is icy.

“Well, yeah, which is exactly how you make someone want to come here.” She strikes back and even if she’s terrified, she’s not showing you.

So bold and stubborn.
Somehow she reminds you of Henry when you clearly warns him he can’t do something and he wants to do that the moment after.
But you’re still too pissed off with her to smile at that.

And when you tell her why you keep a cage in the basement, she has the cockiness to strike back.

“Have you ever heard of a safe deposit box?”

Your reaction is immediate, as you approach the cage.

“Have you ever heard of following basic fucking instructions?” You almost growl at her.

She challenges you as it hasn’t happened in years, even when she really gets to you.

You’re about to open the fucking cage, but then something tells you you shouldn’t. Not yet.
That’s why you made her confess and you find out she’s nothing but a little thief who wanted to steal from you.
After all you did for her.
Not sweetheart at all.
 

And there she is, venting again about her debts and how rich you are.

That’s too much.
You open the door and let her out, not only from the cage, but from Mooney’s once for all.
You fire her.

And just when you think you wasted time for the umpteenth fucking time trying to help fucking people, she turns and says something you didn’t expect.

“I read your writing.”

And you listen to her as she says how much she liked it, but when she dares to say your anti-hero has no wounds, you just explode and rant about all you had to face.

And instead of being scared, she stares at you impressed.

“I’m sorry. But.. huh... it’s nice to meet the real you.”

And this is such a revelation for you. For your life. If now you know how to make things right you just have to thank her.

And you already know the perfect way.
You’ll keep her in the line for a while, let’s say a couple of days or a bit more.
Then you’ll ask her to come into the bookstore, with an excuse.
Her sleeping bag she left here definitely serves your purpose.

And that’s what you do and Bronte comes just as you’re in the middle of your writing, this time putting more of your real pain and struggle in the words you’re typing so frantically.

So inspired.
By her words. By her.

And if she already was beyond happy when you told her she could have her job back, when she follows you upstairs and you show her your apartment, saying she can have it… she’s just speechless, but her blue, sparkling eyes speak for her.

And you feel so proud for helping.
She’s your sweetheart again.

***************** (In the meantime)

Bronte’s POV

I already knew what was down there, long before I learned how to force a lock open.
I already knew how this fucking cage works, being opened only from the outside.
Then why the fuck am i feeling so trapped, lost and terrified since the moment the fucking door slammed close?

This wasn’t supposed to happen.
The plan was for you to find me as I was taking the pictures of the book, in order to piss you off.
Letting you know I have found the cage.
But this damn thing should have remained open, for me to run away the moment you would pop here, maybe with you chasing after me, maybe with you beasting out about it.
But not this…

I even lost count of the hours I’ve spent here, all bewildered and cold.
And finally you arrive.
But, geez, the way you are glaring at me, and your tone.

I almost prefer it if you don’t open the cage, because I’m too scared to face your rage.
But somehow I manage to, as you finally set me free.

Then I say something that touches a live wire of yours and you do beast out, you’re growling out all your pain and misery.

Something I didn’t know about.
Something that touches me more deeply than it should.
Is this the real you, Joe?

Well, I like him; so much I have to tell you, before leaving.
Because you’ve fired me, of course you would have.

I spend the next days apologizing with my friends, because I made a shitty mistake and I fucked up everything, losing any chance to get in contact with you again, when my phones rings.

It’s you.
And you want me to come to you.

I do and when you get out of your office -were you writing?- there’s something different in your dark eyes.
Something sweeter. Along with your words.

“I owe you an apology.”
 

What the hell for? You’re guilty of nothing, I’m the fucking mess here.

“Oh, so do I.” I start with my list of things I have to apologize for - but only the planned ones, not the fact that I’m fooling you again and you have no idea. - and then I let you speak.

And the things you say.
Oh, Joe.

But when you ask me to follow you… what the fuck?

Are you really offering me a place to stay? Yours?
For free.
Or not.
You locked the door and it’s just me and you here.
You could want something in return.
And if I have to be honest at least with myself, I wouldn’t be so unwilling to give you what you ask.

But it’s not what I dreaded. Or… hoped?

You look at me, with so much empathy.

You try to put me at ease.
You really are doing all of this without getting anything in return.
Such a chevalier of yesteryear.

But I have no time for sentimentalism.

I just have to stick to the plan and tell you about the stupid book about the cage.

And just when I’m about to flee, you open to me about your previous wife, about the way she used you.

“Do you have any idea of how it feels to know that the person you trusted the most used your childhood trauma to harm other people?”

I wasn’t expecting this.
Your vulnerability. Your wounded heart.
And now I’m feeling guilty, because I’m supposed to hurt it even more.
And I’m starting to wonder if you really deserve it.
I’m starting to doubt about all this fucking plan.
But I can’t pull out, not now that I’m so damn close.
That’s why I close the door and come back to you.
Apologizing.
Accepting your oh so gentle offer.
And you even ask me if I’d like to read more of your writing.
I’m dying to, Joe.
And not to report it to my friends, but only for myself.
For how good I feel every time you’re around me.

--------------------------------------------------------

Joe’s POV

You’re living these last days in an inverse proportion: the further Kate pushes you, the closer you grow to Bronte.
Do you want the latest example? Just think about the vocal message you sent Kate not so long before.

Do you remember when you used to do that to give her the goodnight or the goodmorning, whether you were in different countries or just in the same room, telling her the sweetest things ever or quoting the most romantic poets or novelists?

Where did those times go?

But mostly… What if those moments could start again… with the girl you’re waiting outside this book's estate sale?
Deny it as much as you want, but you can’t get your mind stuck from that little sexy trick she played to you before, where you were so close to kiss her.
You can’t help wondering if she really purrs and if you would growl for her.
 

There she is, walking as she brings a box probably too heavy for her tiny arms.
Arms you’d like to caress, slowly, from her shoulders to her delicate wrists and then do the loop backwards.
No, no, no, she’s approaching, fucking quit these dangerous fantasies!

“Okay, that’s the last of them.” She says, placing the box in the trunk, without even asking for your help.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Fuck.
You did it again.
And this time there’s no possible way she didn’t hear you.

“Huh. You’re welcome?” She replies, clearly embarrassed.

You, idiot.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

“Do you mean ‘Why did I say that again?” She corrects you. “Yeah. That day… at Mooney’s, when I rescued you for that tome that was falling… I’ve heard you.”

Dammit. Deep inside you knew she had.

“Well, then I'm sorry twice.” You make her chuckle.

“I don't think you should apologize.” She amazes you with her answer.

“Huh?”

“I mean, it’s not that you called me ‘bitch’ or something!” She makes you laugh.

“Wait. Is it your very contorted way to tell me that… you liked it?” You feel the urge to know.

“Well… who knows? I might, Boss.” She’s playing the coquette, before closing the trunk.

“It’s not that I’m used  to calling this everyone, let alone at work. I mean, I’ve never called Ethan that!” You try to get out of this awkward situation with a witty remark.

And it works.

“That would have worried me a lot!” She laughs.

You smirk.

Mission accomplished: the harmony between you and her has been restored.

“You can, uh, like, GPS yourself back to Mooney's, right?” She asks you, sort of nervously.

Wait. What?
You frown at her.

“You want me to leave you here?”

 “Yeah.”

“See? You feel insulted after the sweetheart issue!”

“No, of course I’m not.” She insists.

“Then I’m afraid you’re sending out mixed signals.” You grumble.

“You’re right. I know that this reaction might sound confusing, but it’s absolutely not related to what you said. “ She explains. “I mean, you’re free to call me ‘sweetheart’ whenever you please, but now you should leave me here on my own, because I have that thing. It’s only ten blocks from here.”

Which thing?

*************************** (In the meantime)

Bronte’s POV
 

According to plans, you grew interested in my life after work.
According to plans, you followed me to the dirtbag literary salon.
If I still had some doubt about you feeling something for me, that’sweetheart’ you address me to is the sweetest confirmation ever.
It’s something only ours, something that I didn’t expect.
According to plans, you proved you’re definitely not Clayton’s biggest fans.
According to plans, you have witnessed the charade of my public, literary social destruction.
According to plans, you watched me go away, desperate, but didn’t follow me; because you must have felt fooled, used, filled with doubts about me.

That’s why I was sure I would face you tomorrow, at Mooney’s, maybe in your office; not now in your apartment you gave to me.
Because, of course, when I hear knocking at the door I know it can only be you.
And your voice, calling me out a few seconds later, escapes any doubt.
It’s just that I don’t know if I’m ready to see you now, and mostly make you see my tears, my utter vulnerability.
Because okay, it was an act among Clayton, Dom and me… but the humiliation was real, everyone tonight in that fucking salon saw what they saw, heard what they heard.

However, it’s not that I have much choice to avoid this confrontation, since you’re getting in without even me saying a word.

It’s your house, after all.

First, I owe you all the explanations you need, but when I get to the point where I start calling myself a liar I begin to wonder if I’m only playing a role or there’s more.
Something definitely not according to plans.

That same something that brings me to ask you about you at home and if you’re devoured there.
Oh my God, the way you lean closer and closer to me, as I start mirroring you, until…

“I should go.”

So I walk you to the door, but for some reason, I can’t keep my mouth shut.

“I’m a mess. And I don’t think I can handle an affair, as much as I would enjoy myself.”

How the hell did this come out of my mouth?

Of course you had to go.

I go back in the apartment and lock the door, but the number of times that could allow you to open it with your keys, if you ever came back.

Not that you’re going to come back, but..

I try to go to bed, but the truth is that I can’t sleep.
My mind keeps re-running all the things we said here before.
I guess that a book will help take my mind off.
Maybe not the one you gave to me…

For at least one hour and half I’m engrossed in the reading, until my phone chimes and when I look at the display I just smile.

Because it’s you.

‘Are you still up?’

*************************** (In the meantime)

Joe’s POV

The simple fact that I can see from my display that you’re typing something is already an answer.

I don’t know if I ‘m doing the right thing, I just know that I want to do it.

Tonight has been just too eventful, among the umpteenth harsh confrontation with my wife, my flash of genius about Maddie -thanks again, soon-to-be-dead Reagan! - and mostly the fact that I’ve finally opened my eyes and I see you Bronte, I figured out you’re the one I’ve always looked for… and yet I can’t risk everything to get you.

I just can have you on my pages and… texting to you shouldn’t be that dangerous, right?
And here’s your answer.

‘Yeah… Let’s just say that after what we talked about, sleeping has become very hard. Especially after what I said.’

I type as fast as I can.

‘We’ll face this matter tomorrow.’

‘Huh, okay.’

‘I was just thinking about a particular thing you said before. You’re not sure anymore if you’re a playwright. Of course you are. Please, promise me you won’t give up.’

Now it’s you who type as fast as possible.

‘I promise I won’t. And I appreciate your request a lot.’

‘I’m glad to know that.’

‘Now it’s my turn to make a little request.’

Oh Bronte, ask me the moon and I’ll go catch it for you.

‘Could you call me again in that special way?’

Aww. Are you perhaps made of sugar?

‘Of course, sweetheart.’

‘I feel better now. Thanks. I hope my speech didn’t unsettle you much.’

Why d’you think so? Just because I spent half an hour writing self inserted smut fantasies about us, jerking me off all time long?

Okay, I’d better answer something and it’s better if it’s not this.

‘Like I said, Bronte, we’ll talk about it tomorrow… or should I say in a few hours? Goodnight, sweetheart.’

************************* (In the meantime)

Bronte’s POV

I can’t help staring at the last whatsapp you sent to me.
‘Sweetheart’.
It looks so cute even reading it on a screen.
But these are not the emotions it should arouse in me.
I should feel repulsed.
And yet I can’t.
Not after the way you talked about Beck.
With such sweetness, such fondness, such concern.
A supposed killer wouldn’t talk about his victim that way, wouldn’t wish he could have saved her.
What if my friends’ and my allegations about you were totally wrong?

Every day, every hour, every minute I get to spend with you makes me picture you as, yes a person with his troubled and dark past, but kind and good-hearted, nonetheless.

A person I could easily fall for.
Probably I already have and I can’t even pick the exact moment when this damn thing happened.
I think about your last visit here, your confessions, the way you got closer to me, from standing against the doorframe, to sitting on the cabinet to reaching me on the bed.
And your big dark, piercing eyes staring at me so intently.
I might drown in your eyes.
Geez, this is something that should be written, not that fucking tidal wave of cum bullshit!

And that’s what I’m doing, taking my trusted laptop and turning it on.
Because I’m turned on as well.
Those memories are still so fresh and I need to give vent to, at least on the page.
It’s time for the Huntress to fall head over heels for the still nameless character that maybe is not as evil and wicked as she thought he was at the beginning; he's just chaotic good.

Can’t wait to make you read my pages tomorrow - or, like you said before, in a few hours-, once we clear the air about the affair issue.

TBC