To See the Summer Sky is Poetry

You stood next to him, much closer than appropriate for complete strangers, but that was the point. You cast a wary eye behind you to see if anyone was looking in your direction, and then jumped right in. “Uh, hi, sir. I am so, so sorry to bother you, but I kind of need a gigantic favor.” He turned to you, his brow furrowed, and you plowed ahead, knowing if you paused at all, you’d just end up running away. “See, uh, my ex is here and he is just the biggest fucking asshole, like so awful, and he’s got some model on his arm, and I just– He hasn’t noticed me yet, but he will. He definitely will. And technically, I’m here for work reasons, so I can’t just leave. So, uh, I was wondering if maybe you could pretend to be my boyfriend? For just a minute! Like, five minutes. Maybe longer. An hour tops!” You finally paused for breath to find him staring at you, and the complete ridiculousness of the whole thing finally caught up to you. “Oh my god. Oh no. I’m so sorry! I should–”

“Sure.”

You stopped in your tracks, your turn to stare now. That smile was back on his face. “What?” 

“Sure,” he said again, his smile getting even bigger. “Sounds like fun.”

“I–” You couldn’t stop staring at him, your mouth hanging open. Why on earth would he agree to this? Stop, you told yourself. Pull yourself together. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You closed your mouth so forcefully that you heard your teeth click. “Uh, okay. Great. Thank you! Um, can I buy you a drink or something?” You gestured to the bar. “For your trouble.”

His eyes sparkled as he chuckled lightly and held up his fairly full drink. “It’s an open bar,” he said, clearly very amused, but not at all unkindly. 

“Oh, uh, right,” you said, deciding to plow right through the embarrassment. “Should we go look at the art then?”

He nodded. “I’d love to. But there is one thing I need to know before we really get started.”

“Yes, of course,” you said seriously, ready to answer any question he might have about this very, very stupid idea.

He grinned. “What’s your name?”

“Huh?” you blinked at him. Then you realized. “Oh! Shit, oh!” You quickly gave him your name, and he grasped your hand where it rested at your side, giving it a subtle shake, that to anyone watching would’ve just been an affectionate squeeze. He was really good at this. You'd lucked out. 

“I’m Steve,” he said, quietly. “It’s nice to meet you.” And then he looked you right in the eyes, and you almost gasped. Oh no, he was so beautiful. How had you not realized? This might have been a fatal miscalculation, but it was too late to back out now.

“Nice to meet you, too,” you breathed and then had to literally shake yourself out of it. “Art?” you asked, starting to walk towards a painting, any painting. His hand still grasped yours as you made your way across the room.

When you came to a stop in front of a large canvas awash with color, Steve settled right next to you, his large hand resting on the small of your back. You were sure that to an outside observer, it looked intimate but respectful. But all you could focus on, somewhat hysterically, was how little he would have to move it to touch your ass. His hand was so warm. Shit, you really should have paid more attention and picked someone who wasn’t so fucking attractive. 

“So you said you’re here for work?” his low voice rumbled next to you.

“Uh, yeah,” you started. “I work for Smith and West, the art brokers.”

“Mmm,” he hummed as he gently guided you to the next piece. “So do you buy or sell?”

“Both and neither, I guess. I help people pick out pieces that will go in their homes. Like a personal shopper for art, basically.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“It’s really not, I promise you. Most people just want something that will match their furniture with a name that will impress their friends. They don’t really care about the art.” You stopped and really looked at the piece in front of you, mostly grayscale with pops of blue, swirling through it. It was terribly sad, this jumble of color, but there was something hopeful in it too.

You felt Steve watching you. “But you do,” he murmured. It wasn’t a question.

You turned to him and could only describe his gaze as searching. You shrugged. “Someone has to.”

The way he looked at you then had your mouth going dry. It was like he could actually see you. You weren't sure you'd ever been looked at like that before. It was too vulnerable. You cleared your throat and asked abruptly, “So, what about you?”

He blinked. “What about me?”

“Are you also here for work? Or because you just like art?”

“Somewhere in between,” he said with a soft smile. “There’s a lot of networking expected at events like this. But… I’m much happier to do it here than somewhere else.”

“So I’m not the only one who cares about the art.”

“No,” he said, his voice low. “Not tonight.” 

“What–” you started, then stopped, caught up in how oddly intimate this all felt. With this stranger. “Will you show me something here that you like?” Oh my god. What was your mouth doing??

But he just looked at you sincerely, and then the hand that had not left the small of your back gently guided you to the other side of the gallery and stopped in front of a large canvas that took up most of the wall. Big, loud brush strokes in bright colors worked together and in contrast to give the impression of birds filling the sky, flying up up up. “Oh,” you said so quietly. 

Steve awkwardly cleared his throat next to you. “Well,” he asked, with a shocking note of self-consciousness in his voice, “does my taste pass muster?”

Without realizing it, your hand had reached towards the painting, yearning to touch what you were sure would feel like feathers, even though the painting itself made no attempts towards realism. Your hand stilled in midair for a moment, and then you pulled it back. “It’s beautiful,” you said softly.

“Yeah? You already have a client in mind for it?”

“Oh no,” you said, so very seriously, turning back to face him. “I’d never doom something like this to be so unappreciated by one of my clients.”

His lips parted, the beginning of words starting to form when you caught sight of the biggest mistake you’d ever made, fucking Bryce, walking toward you with a woman who, yes, had to be an actual goddamn model on his arm. You’d somehow forgotten that he was looming. That the whole reason you had met Steve tonight was to protect you from this exact inevitability. You’d let your guard down, and now you felt wholly unprepared. 

He was still on the other side of the room, and you didn’t think you’d been obvious about clocking him, so you still had a moment to do something. In a moment of sheer panic, you stepped completely into Steve’s space, with a murmured “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I just have to– Sorry!” that was only for him to hear and then you lunged forward and kissed him.

To his immense credit, it only took Steve half a beat to get over any surprise and begin to kiss you back. His lips were soft, plush. If you’d given yourself time to expect anything, you would have expected the kiss to be stiff, awkward. But it wasn’t. It was… nice. It was really nice. His hand on your back held you close, but you knew you’d be able to pull away whenever you needed to. He didn’t try to push anything, press his luck in any way. He let you keep control of what was happening. You didn’t think you’d ever had a kiss that made you feel so safe before. Cared for.

You pulled away, trying to cover up any regret you might feel at the loss of it. You placed a hand on his muscled chest. “Sorry,” you whispered again. Your lips tingled.

“Hey,” he said, softly, and if you hadn’t known any better, you would have thought there was some husk in his voice. “Don’t–”

He was interrupted by someone calling your name, and thankfully, he picked up on who it was right away. The hand that had been on your back now snaked around to rest on your hip, pulling you just a bit closer. 

Bryce said your name again as he stopped in front of you. “Been a while.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed through a tight-lipped smile. “I’m surprised to see you here. Not your usual scene.”

“Yeah, well,” he smirked, “Alaina loves art.”

“Yeah,” the woman next to him, Alaina, apparently, said. You were pretty sure you’d seen her in Vogue. “I love art.”

You thought your jaw might crack from how tense it was. “I bet you do,” you said, trying and probably failing to keep your tone pleasant. Steve’s thumb brushed against your hip in a soothing manner, and you tried to surreptitiously take a deep breath. 

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. Working hard as always, aren’t you?” Bryce said, with a suggestive glance toward Steve. You weren’t sure you’d ever hated anyone more in your life. He took a step forward with his hand extended for a shake. “Bryce Langley,” he introduced himself. 

Steve took the proffered hand. “Steve Rogers,” he said, clear as day, and you were pretty fucking sure, despite all your best efforts, that you did a full double-take.

Steve Rogers. Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers. The CEO of SHIELD Corp, the giant multi-conglomerate, was pretending to be your fake boyfriend. You had kissed Steve Rogers!  What was happening?? This had to be a fever dream. 

Luckily, Bryce’s own shock seemed to have masked your own. With a low whistle, he turned back to you. “Holy shit,” he said, “no one can ever say you lack ambition, huh?” And then to Steve, he added, “Word of advice, she’s got a type. Might want to hide the checkbook.”

You tried very hard not to visibly blanche at that or give any indication that part of you had just shriveled up. Of course, Bryce would say that, you tried to tell yourself. Someone who cared so damn much about money that he couldn’t imagine anyone else might feel differently, might value other things. You shouldn’t take anything he said personally. But you did. The part of you that could still feel the humiliation from when he dumped you probably always would.

Steve took a step forward, somehow making himself seem even taller and broader, and in an impossibly low voice said, “Excuse me?”

While you were very grateful that he seemed to be taking his role as your date so seriously, there was a sudden tension in the air that felt unpredictable. It made you nervous. You stilled Steve with a tentative hand on his wrist. 

“Bryce and I met,” you interjected, for the sake of saying anything that might diffuse the situation, “when I was buying art for his grandfather.”

“Mhmm,” Bryce hummed, his eyes raking up and down your body shamelessly. You felt Steve’s grip on you tighten. “And you wasted no time getting your hooks in me, huh?”

You forced a laugh as heat rushed to your face. You would not let Bryce get to you. Not in front of him, at least. “Oh sure,” you said, a labored smile stretching your face so wide that it hurt, “I overpowered you with the one-two punch of not being able to shut up or string together a coherent thought. You always found both so charming.” You laughed again, trying so hard to keep up a ‘just joking around with friends’ tone. But you could feel it slipping. You were hanging on by your fingernails. 

“Mm, yeah.” Bryce matched your jokey smile, but there was a mean glint in his eyes when he continued, “That was never my favorite part. Luckily, your mouth was so good at other things.”

You had hoped, for a moment, after Steve had revealed his identity, that maybe the presence of someone so important and powerful might force Bryce to restrain himself, just a little. But you should have known better. There’d never been a moment since he’d been born that Bryce had ever doubted his own importance, even (especially) compared to others. His life had, unfortunately, taught him that he was invincible. You were reminded, yet again, how awful it was to bear the brunt of his self-belief.

Just as you could feel yourself starting to wilt completely, Steve’s hand on your side was turning you away from the conversation. He cleared his throat, and you could feel how tightly coiled his entire body was. “Well,” he gritted out, “as lovely as this has been, there are some people here we need to talk to, if you’ll excuse us.” Then his hand returned to your back, and he practically pushed you away from Bryce, aiming for a more sparsely populated area of the gallery.

Once he had you somewhere quieter, somewhere out of sight, Steve’s hands were off of you. A stupid part of you immediately missed his touch. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, trying to ignore the way your voice shook. You looked away, embarrassed. You couldn’t tell if you were upset because a stranger had witnessed that awful display, how weak Bryce always made you, or if you were upset that it was Steve. 

But even with your head turned completely away, you could feel the way Steve stared at you. “I should have punched him,” he said, almost growled, and you tried not to revel in having someone’s protective instincts trained on you. But it wasn’t real. None of tonight had been real. You needed to remember that. 

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you said, feeling small. “I can’t afford to cause a scene like that while I’m working.” You looked around at all the rich people milling about, drinking free champagne, eyes glossing over at the art. “I need this job. I need these relationships.”

Steve exhaled, and you finally let yourself look back at him. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.” 

In response, you blurted out, “I can't wrap my head around you being so kind to me.” Oh god. Bryce was right.

Steve’s brows furrowed. “Why? Just because I'm rich, that means I can't be kind?”

“And powerful,” you added. “And yeah, in my experience, that's exactly what it means.”

He didn’t say anything to that, just stared at you with his lips pursed and his eyes filled with not the pity you expected, but sympathy. Empathy. 

Finally, he was the one to look away first, focusing on an empty spot in the corner. “Bryce is a piece of shit,” he rumbled. 

A small laugh escaped you, a little manic, very relieved. “Yeah, he is.” You sighed, some of the tension finally releasing from your body. You shook your head and answered the question Steve hadn’t asked, but you knew he was thinking. “It took me too long to realize that the mean streak that peaked out, just a little at first, but more and more as we continued dating, was so baked into who he was as a person. I don’t know,” you said with a shrug. He’d turned back to you, giving you his full attention. “He was the most care-free person I’d ever met. I was so envious of that, hoped maybe it would rub off on me. And he brought me into a world that I’d only ever caught glimpses of from the outside looking in. It was intoxicating. And I just couldn’t see, couldn’t understand, the cost of it all until it was too late.”

Steve nodded and took a step forward, his hands held in front of him, fingers fidgeting together. “I know those feelings,” he said, his voice low, soft. “I–”

But before he could continue, or you could ask how Steve Rogers, of all people, could have ever felt like an outsider, a sharply dressed, petite woman with fire-engine red hair and stilettos that could kill a man, materialized out of thin air right in front of the two of you. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said to Steve, a small tablet in her hand, “but we promised the mayor’s chief of staff five minutes and he’s about to leave.”

Steve sighed. “Right,” he said to her, a look of resigned duty on his face. He turned back to you, lightly touching your hand. “I’ll be right back,” he said quietly. “I promise.” Then he straightened his jacket and followed the woman back towards the bar.

The moment he was gone, it was like whatever spell you’d been under lifted. What were you doing? You were suddenly extremely aware of who he was and, more importantly, who you were. You’d monopolized the attention of one of the most powerful men in the country—in the world—for the entire evening as part of a hare-brained scheme to– to what? Save a little face in front of your ex-boyfriend? You felt pathetic and embarrassed and so very out of place. He was kind enough not only not to tell you to get lost, but to go along with the whole stupid idea, to pretend, to let you kiss him.

In that moment, you hoped the floor might open up and swallow you whole. Well, you could still do him a favor to repay the one he’d done for you. You could remove yourself from his evening. Let him get back to his important business. It was the right thing to do, for his sake.

So you made one last quick lap of the gallery, marked down the information of a few pieces you thought would work for one of your clients, then collected your coat and went outside to hail a cab.

And maybe, a few months from now, Steve would at least speak a little fondly when he told this strange story at cocktail parties.

Don't hate me! I promise there's more coming!

Tag list is open

Log Date 53496Willow5

Male subject engaging with female in nonthreatening displays. Aggression no longer detected. Final observations to be recorded before release from containment into habitat.

“I’ve kinda gotten used to it.” You shrug and peer around the corner of the cage to the glass of your enclosure. The curtain finally drawn once again. 

Though you can’t read it, a sign stands in front of your window. Most walk over to examine it and stick around for a minute or two before moving on—as you see an alien doing now. You wave and they startle before returning the gesture. 

Kurt clicks his teeth, leaning in the corner of his box, arms folded tight over his chest. “They’re staring at you. All the time.” 

“Only when it’s open hours,” you say, finger raised in matter-of-fact correction. “And I have my privacy. I can show you once you’re let out of there.” 

You bounce over to the window, the pane of his box frosting over again. Kurt grumbles inside. But you’re focused on the creature outside the window. 

You’ve missed watching your visitors. Each interaction expanding a world wider than your habitat. Curiosity piqued by tentacles, claws, fangs, wings, ears, tails. Speculation and imagination carrying you away with them. With the lack of their presence, it’s all the more apparent how trapped you really are. 

Your legs fold beneath you as you perch on the ledge. A few stragglers wander over. You beam and wave. Your fingers find the glass, pressing to it for those who enjoy comparing their appendages to yours. A towering figure hunches to be the first. 

“You could at least stay close enough so I can get a look,” Kurt calls from his box. 

You turn over your shoulder and back to the window, pushing off from your position. A few steps bring you right to the boundary. 

“You sure you wanna see?” you ask. 

“Better than staring at these four walls,” he sighs on an aggrieved breath. 

You nod to yourself and step forward. The pane clears and Kurt’s eyes catch your own. He stares intently, brow furrowed. A guarded kind of focus refusing to waver until he’s ready. Moments pass as he locks you in his stormy gaze—and you find it hard to look away. Then, he turns to the audience. 

Murmurs rush through the assembled crowd. The first time he’s been viewed by the public. Titters of delight and awe fill the air. More and more bodies press around the glass. 

“This is so fucked up,” he mutters to himself, incredulous. 

The noise and clamour only grows closer. Rising to almost drown out the hiss of the door. But you catch it straight away, head whipping toward the sound. 

Virion enters with another by their side. Without acknowledging you, they gesture to your habitat. Chirps and chitters fall past their lips. Each one a snag, dragging at your breath. 

You rock back on your heels. Why are butterflies dancing through your belly? Why do your feet feel as though they are standing on hot coals in their ache to race to them?

Kurt’s head follows your gaze. His shoulders jump as he startles before they square. “Who the fuck are they?” He steps toward you, too close to the wall of the box. He bumps into it with a thunk. 

You can’t force yourself to break your gaze. Too ensnared by your keeper. The soft nudge against your mind a caress. 

Come here, please?

You start moving before thought can form. They turn to their colleague and continue in their foreign language. A more serious tone rounding out their sounds. The other nods but remains unfazed, energy jolly and eyes alight. 

Virion’s hand raises, offered to you. Their lips form around familiar, cooing syllables. 

“Hey,” Kurt says, fist knocking on the wall. Jolting you out of your eager advance. He nods his chin toward the two visitors. “Tell me who they are.”

“They take care of us,” you reply, drifting away as if on ocean waves. “They run this place—they’re friendly.” The side of the box hazes over. Your feet carrying you too far. 

Kurt clicks his teeth but says nothing more. 

“Hi,” you greet, a nervous lilt shaking your tone as your gaze darts between them. Your hands knead together at your stomach. A crack from your knuckles prompting you to continue, “Long time, no see.”

Virion doesn’t immediately respond to you, but turns to the alien beside them. They make a few chittering sounds, gesture at your body, nod their head—an explanation. 

Closer, please, if you would not mind. 

You follow the silent request. Your hand finds theirs, their fingers wrapping over your own. The smooth, gentle grip enough to quiet the nerves and the butterflies and your brain. 

Good. 

Their lips tilt in that almost smiling way. They’re pleased with you. And you’re just trying to figure out how to breathe with their thumb running across your skin again. 

They produce one of your candies as a treat and offer. Your lips open and close around it. All the while, they carry on their conversation. Exchanges about you, gestures toward you or your space. 

Without warning, the other one reaches out a hand to pat your head and, startled, you shrink toward Virion. Their grip pulses, a comfort. Their free hand gesturing and bidding the other to still—and hopefully keep their hands to themself. 

Forgive him. He’s excited to meet you. 

Your limbs lock. Head fuzzing around the edges. Excited to meet you? Why? Is he-Is he taking you? 

Sweat makes your hands clammy. Your lashes flutter. Your breath bursts heavy but quick even as you try to keep calm. Scenarios play through your head, impossible to tame. He’s taking you away. He’s taking you away!?

Virion’s hand releases yours. Instead, both move to cup your cheeks. Thumbs smoothing and soothing. A comment made to the other as their attention focuses on you. 

Breathe. 

Their eyes search yours, concern shining down on you. You do your best. An ache in your chest from the strain on your lungs. 

He will not take you from here. He is an important benefactor and donor. He wished for an up-close visit.

You nod, peeking around your keeper to the other. A catalog in your mind of the differences between them aiding in tempering your panic. Darker hair—the color of stormclouds. Different eyes—sharp and brilliant turquoise. Bulkier build—thickset and more muscled. A more expressive face—he beams and reaches toward you again as he catches your stare. 

Your eyes skip to Virion. Why do they keep their expressions controlled, composed, unreadable? There’s a twitch of their cheek, a slow blink. 

Should you let the other touch you? Does Virion want that? Would that be good? How are you supposed to know? Can’t they just tell you?

With your teeth worrying over your lower lip, you hesitate but withdraw from the safety of your keeper’s grasp and present yourself. 

The other displays no hint of unease. His eager hands target your head and face. Explorations of your features prod at skin, tug at your ears, skim your throat. Cooing sounds and chitters of delight pass his lips. A twinkle in the clear blue green of his eyes. Face scrunched in question. You nod in return and press a perplexed smile, unable understand him—try as you might to recognize familiar phrases. 

At the pinch of confusion in your expression, he pauses. A comment thrown toward Virion as he grabs your face, his eyes fluttering closed and head leaning down. 

It’s just the same as when Virion created your connection. Their mind attaching to yours. You twitch, but can’t escape the grasp on your cheeks. A noise breaks past your lips. Your mind scrambles. 

He seems friendly, you reason. Surely no issue will arise from another voice in your head. Virion did bring him here. Maybe they want this. It may as well happen, right?

The other is inches away from your face, his lips beaming in a smile. His teeth startling white and pointed. You focus on them as he continues his approach, contact imminent. 

A palm with two fingers and a thumb covers your forehead, slipping over your skin from behind and pulling you a step back into a firm build. Mere moments before the other’s forehead would have touched. 

Your lips purse, looking up at the hand covering your head. It’s a familiar comfort despite its perplexing placement. Confusion creases the other’s face as well. Their eyes open, narrow. He moves away, derision cast toward your keeper. 

Your head tilts against Virion’s side. They don’t look at you. Instead, they’re talking in rapid, hurried clips of sound. But their hand, it lingers. A tender, affectionate stroke against you. 

Irritation carves into the other’s face. His eyes narrowing on your keeper. And then on their hold of you. 

You reach up, feeling the back of Virion’s hand. The smoothness of their skin beneath your fingertips. One of their fingers tangles with yours like a promise. Their grip pulses before their arm drops and they step forward, gesturing at the other and blocking you behind. 

The conversation exchanges between them while you stare and listen. Sounds you don’t understand volley from each.

You slink back toward the box where Kurt waits. His shoulder leans against the wall, his eyes snapping to focus on the intense conversation. 

“What’s that all about?” he asks without looking away. 

Your mind remains empty of explanation as Virion guides the other through the door without a glance back.

“I,” you swallow around your confusion, “I don’t know.”

Next Part

"I think it's just the breeze, Lloyd, are you sure you wanna do this?" You reached up to cup his face, "We can go home, I promise, I won't be upset."

The look Lloyd turned on you then was fierce, like he knew you had sensed his fear. "I didn't say that, did I Princess?" He tried to fold his arms across his chest, but the look of him sitting up, with his neck bent at an odd angle from the roof of the tent sent you into hysterics. 

He huffed, a hand coming up to smooth his hair back. "Fine! I hate this! But you said this is your favourite thing, besides Lloyd Jr," He sent you a dazzling smile and a wink at that, "So we're here. 'Enjoying nature' or whatever." 

Smoothing your hand up his chest, you cupped his cheek again. His plump lips were pouting down at you, even from the odd angle. You pulled him down into a kiss, and murmured against his lips. "You wanna know my favourite thing about camping?"

He chased your lips as you pulled away, a frown pulling his features in a way you always hated. You kissed the corners of his mouth a few times to help smooth the lines away. Leaning into him more, you reached behind him for the flap that covered the mesh window at the top of the tent.

You pulled him to lay with you, and he huffed before rearranging you both so you were laying with your back pressed against his chest. "My favourite part about camping, is being able to lay naked under the stars, and no one can see you."

You could feel the grin before Lloyd spoke behind you, "Well there's just one problem, Princess." 

You hummed and put a finger to your chin pretending to think, a mischievous grin lighting up your face as you rolled to lay on your stomach and face Lloyd. "Hmm, I can't think of anything?"

He snorted at your obvious lie, "Well I think we're both wearing far too many clothes, for this to be considered 'naked stargazing.' Probably gonna have to fix that myself." He followed that statement with a long suffering sigh.

His waggled eyebrows were your only clue, before he was jumping you and tearing at your clothes, both of your laughter carrying on the breeze and away into the night.