Vale

You’ve never felt like this before. This unknown vile feeling of not belonging. Of being an outsider, someone not part of the group, everyone else chosen over you, leaving you cold and alone and abandoned. Poppy knows this feeling, but it’s been years at this point. Years since Poppy has felt like this.

It used to catch her every once in a while, and she’d sit with the feeling on her own before she’d carefully share a little of it with Joe. That little bit always very quickly tumbled into all of it, and those long, drawn-out conversations about all of Poppy’s insecurities used to be the main reason why Joe always spent a lot of energy on avoiding you.

Poppy would be so upset, so utterly convinced that Mark belonged to you in a way that he’d never belong to her, and it’d tear her apart. There was history between the two of you that she’d interpret as something impenetrable, something she’d never even be able to fully understand, even though her friendship with Joe was very similar, and she’d feel like an outsider trying to squeeze herself into a picture that had already been framed.

It never really helped that Mark would always be very dismissive of her worries.

And you too.

Never to her face, because her worries remained unknown to you for a long time. Mark would sometimes vaguely mention something, but he’d brush over it quickly, so it never needed a reaction from you. You remember Joe mentioning something about her insecurities to you as well, once, and you told Joe to tell her that she didn’t need to worry. She topped the scales, you were sure of it. You were the one who had to listen to Mark go on and on and on about her, so you knew it wasn’t even close.

If anything, you always thought it was kind of silly.

But now, you don’t think it’s so silly anymore.

Joe had texted you after you’d walked out and gone over to your own place. Took the long way home to your empty cold flat that you were treating more as a storage unit than an actual living space at this point. You used to spend hours with Mark on the sofa in your living room, but you couldn’t actually remember the last time you’d sat on it yourself. Most of your time you spent over at Joe’s, which was why you presumed Joe must’ve only texted you after finding that you hadn’t ran off to where he’d expected to find you.

Hey I just got back where are you

You’re not here

Did you go home

Come over please

You’d stared at Joe’s texts for nearly fifteen minutes before you replied ‘ok’ and mentally prepared yourself for the end of life as you knew it. You screwed up, and now you were going to be dealt with accordingly.

You had made her cry.

You cried too, but only after you’d left. Tears for you to feel and for no one else to see.  

When you got to Joe’s, he opened the door before you’d knocked and before he said anything, you confessed, “I nearly didn’t come.”

Joe just nodded, stepping aside without a word, giving you space to walk in. You crossed the threshold feelingly strangely like a guest in a place that had practically become where you lived now.

Your toothbrush lived here. Most of your clothes did too. Joe would go out of his way to make sure his shower held the shampoo you liked to use, and there’d always be a packet of your favourite biscuits in his cupboard.

Little things to make home.

The kind of things that happen when two people are becoming something without ever sitting down to define exactly what that something was. Mostly because you didn’t want to talk about it. You were processing it all at your own pace in your own time, and Joe let you figure it all out whilst he carefully took notice of how he could make his place feel more comfortable for you.

Tonight, though, none of it felt comfortable.

You didn't take your coat off.

Joe noticed, but didn't mention it, closing the front door as gently as he could. Whilst still holding the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder to see you walk towards his kitchen, coat buttoned up, scarf still wrapped around your neck, bag hanging from a shoulder – ready to leave again at a moment’s notice.

After he followed you and asked if you wanted a cup of tea – a question you didn’t answer, but he popped the kettle on anyway – you awkwardly hovered near the doorway with arms folded tightly enough that your hands disappeared beneath your sleeves, and you waited.

Waited for the scolding. The disappointment. The big sad ‘this isn’t who I thought you were’ speech that would leave both you and him in tears.

It didn’t come.

You watched Joe reach into the cupboard for two mugs, his and yours, the yellow one you’d jokingly claimed after he’d called you sunshine once when you were holding it. You noticed the briefest second before he put both down on the counter, and you wondered if he’d just had the same earthshattering thought.

“I– I probably won’t stay…” you said to fill the silence Joe left for you to fill. All you got in response was a flick up from his eyes as he prepared your mug of tea before he pushed it to the other side of the island.

It sits there now.

In the silence, with Joe on the other side of it, backside leaning against the counter, you stand by the doorway and don’t know what to do.

You want to leave.

You feel the jitters in your legs, the overwhelming want to move your feet, step by step, and move back towards the door. You unfold your arms, just to feel for your keys in your pocket, but then realise they’re in the bag that’s still on your shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

The careful question catches you so completely off guard that, for a second, you only stare at him. What does is matter if you’re okay? You’re clearly not, and you deserve it a little bit, but it’s painful, and it’d be great if Joe just got this over with quick.

He remains where he is on the other side of the island, arms loose at his sides, face completely unreadable. He has left so much space between you that it feels a bit deliberate, and you cannot decide whether it is kindness or whether he simply no longer wants to come any closer.

A shaky breath escapes you, sharper and more irritated than you intend.

“Can you just… get it over with? Say what you need to say and I’ll go.”

Joe frowns, tucking his chin in a little bit. He looks confused. “Get what over with?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between you, avoiding his eyes as you blink hard against the tears gathering behind them. “Say whatever you asked me to come over here for so I can leave.” You impatiently shift your weight from one foot the other, annoyed at yourself for being unable to hide your emotions. You’d rather Joe didn’t see.

“Hey,” Joe takes a few steps closer, but doesn’t step past the island. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Ah, so it’s a whole lecture instead of a quick break up. Sounds like something Joe’d do.

“I don’t want you to–… I asked you to come over because you disappeared.”

“I only went home.” You give a one-sided shrug.

“You...” Joe lets a soft breath escape him in a humourless laugh. “You ran off without saying anything. I thought you’d hidden yourself away in the downstairs toilet for a while, but Mark said–”

“I don’t care what Mark said.” You snap, interrupting Joe. Mark has known you for long enough to also put you in place without handling you like precious cargo. He’ll tell you to your face when you’ve been a big old bitch, basically, and you don’t need Joe to repeat what he’s said. You already feel fragile enough as it is.

You watch Joe bite his lips into his mouth as he gives a tiny nod. He seems a bit out of his depth, and you immediately feel bad.

“Sorry, I– I… I can guess what Mark said, y-you don’t… I don’t know. Just, say what you have to say, please.”

Joe doesn’t think he’s ever been more confused by the impatience you’re showcasing. It seems like you don’t want to be here, but also like you can’t wait for Joe to… what, tell you off? He watches you for a moment, hoping that maybe he’ll magically figure you out before he decides to just ask, “Do you think I’m going to tell you off?”

You stay silent, which Joe takes as a ‘yes’ and he feels his heart shatter.

“Darling,” Joe says through a defeated a sigh, and you don’t like how he smiles. He’s fucking smiling.

“No, it’s okay. I made Poppy cry, it was very clear that I fucked up and that you’re all on her side. It’s fine. I get it.”

The audacity of this man seems unlimited; you watch his smile grow wider and you can’t fucking believe it.

“Just say it already. Tell me I went too far, that I need to apologise and give everyone some space.” You watch Joe’s expression suddenly change. “Tell me that you can’t be stuck between Poppy and I, and that it’s better if we–”

“Do you think I’m going to break up with you?”

It’s good Joe cut you off there, because your throat was about to close up entirely. It’s a shame that Joe heard it coming though, and it’s even worse that he’s making you answer that question out loud.

All you can do is look away. Blink hard. Bite back emotion. You don’t want to speak it into the room, so you don’t.

You hear a silent, “Oh…” from the other side of the kitchen, and you hate how the softness in his voice hurts more than his anger would have. “All right.”

Joe looks at you as though he’s only not realising that the conversation you’ve been having in your head for the last two hours bears little to no resemblance to the one he’d been expecting to have with you tonight.

“But that’s not–” Joe starts but stops when you flinch on instinct at his sudden step forward. He halts immediately and holds a hand out that he slowly lowers, eyes wide, and nonverbally tells you, calm down, it’s okay. Your shoulders sag a little, which prompts Joe to walk around the island slowly enough that you never once feel cornered.

Your brain is going at lightning speed. What’s he going to do? If he’s going to hug you, you’ll burst into tears. If he doesn’t, you might just also.

When he’s stood right in front of you, you hold your breath in anticipation and brace for every viable option you can think of. Then, Joe does something that hadn’t even crossed your mind as a possibility.

He reaches out for the strap of your bag. Your shoulders tense instinctively, and it makes Joe pause once more.

“I’m just taking this.”

You don't answer.

Joe gently slides your bag from your shoulder, careful not to jostle you any more than necessary, before setting it on the kitchen island beside your untouched mug of sunshine tea.

He turns back and lets his fingers find the end of your scarf before he starts unwinding it slowly, one loop after another, until the uncomfortable warmth around your neck disappears with it. You silently watch as he absent-mindedly folds it over one arm before his hands move back towards your chest.

The first button of your coat gets undone, followed by the second and the third.

You watch Joe’s hand work and feel how his eyes keep flicking to your face to gage how you’re feeling. It’s making your cheeks fill with heat.

You’re embarrassed.

Clearly, you were wrong. Are wrong. Feel wrong. But Joe’s being very nice about it as he eases the coat from your shoulders, surrendering to the idea of staying.

Joe disappears into the hallway with all of your things, and you listen to the scrape of the coat hanger, the soft thud of your bag to the floor, and then his footsteps that lead him back to the kitchen.  

“Sorry, I–”

“Shoes.”

Before you can even comprehend what he’s just said, Joe crouches in front of you and starts undoing laces. With one hand around your ankle, he takes off a shoe, and then goes for the other, and leaves again to go line them up neatly beside his own without saying another word.

When he returns to the kitchen, sliding his phone back into his pocket after texting Poppy, he secretly thinks to himself that this is a better picture. You, without all of your outside clothes on.  he picks up the mug you'd ignored this whole time.

“Can I tell you a story?” He empties it into the sink, rinses the mug, and start to make another one. “It’s about someone I’ve known for a very long time. Someone I almost know better than she knows herself.”

For a millisecond you’re scared he’s going to say it’s about you, but then you realise he’s talking about Poppy.

“Every now and then, she’d call me, and I would be able to tell by her tone of voice what kind of mood she was in…”

This time, instead of placing the mug of tea where he’d placed it before, Joe steps closer and hands it to you. “Careful, don’t burn yourself.” He warns, before casually leaning back on one of the bar stools. He slouches a bit, looks around, and then says, “So, this friend of mine, she’d call me and– her name is Poppy by the way…”

Despite everything, you huff out the smallest laugh, and Joe has to try his hardest to bite his own smile back.

“She’d ring me, and,” he gestures vaguely around the room. “She’d come in here… well, actually,” he turns his head towards the living room, lets his eyes flick back to you and then nods towards it. “Come here.”

You follow him without really deciding to, mug of tea warm in your hands, trailing after him down the hallway into the living room.

You hover in the doorway a second as you watch Joe sit down on his sofa.

Watch Joe move a cushion that somehow always ends up in the middle of the sofa.

Watch Joe make room beside him.

Then you look beside you, see where you coat hangs on the rack.

Where your scarf drapes down the side.

Where your shoes sit neatly beside his own.

Even your bag has got its own place. A place it goes.

It feels… normal. Like it all belongs there.

Joe sees you study his entryway that’s out of his view, but he can sort of gather what you’re thinking. The arm he’d rested along the back of the sofa without thinking quietly moves to his lap just before you turn back to look into the room. He thinks it’s important that he takes up a bit less space, so a bit more is left for you.

It works. He’s right. You cross the room and sit down next to him, and Joe waits until you’ve settled before continuing.

“Poppy used to sit right where you are now, and she’d tell me all about how she was terrified of this amazing woman Mark had loved for years."

You see where this is going, and you understand the sentiment, but Joe’s wrong.

“It's not the same.”

“It is,” Joe smiles with all the sympathy in the world, needs you to know that he’d never choose Poppy over you, or you over Poppy. He’d never make the choice. You’re both important, and he you’ve no idea how many times I’ve been here before.”

You frown and shake your head. “No.” he doesn’t get it. “It’s not the same.” You wrap both hands around the mug in your hands because you suddenly need somewhere for them to be. You need distraction from the stinging salt water that’s collecting in your eyes once again, and you go for a sip of your tea to help your lips from trembling.

“What do you mean?” Joe asks, voice impossibly soft.

“If Poppy was going to lose Mark, she’d still have you.” You think back to how Poppy excused herself as he fought back tears and then ran upstairs and sobbed because of something you said. Mark was quick to get up and follow his wife, and then, to your horror, Joe did too.

You feel how a tear breaks free and carves a path down your cheek. Before you can even think of wiping it away, Joe’s thumb finds it before he uses his hand to make you look at him.

“I’m not breaking up with you.”

More tears spill immediately.

“I didn’t think–”

“You did.”

“No but I–”

“You absolutely did. You walked in here wearing every possible escape route.”

He’s right. You’re not sure what to say, you feel embarrassed beyond embarrassed for just about every mistake, every wrong thought you’ve had tonight. After a moment of silence, Joe repeats himself.

“I’m not breaking up with you.”

You manage a second of eye-contact before Joe continues, “The world’s not against you.”

You swallow.

“Mark doesn’t hate you.”

A tear slips free as you mumble, “Yea, well, he should.” Which Joe tries to drown out by raising his voice, speaking over you, “Poppy doesn’t hate you.”

“I made her cry, Joe.”

“Yea… you did.”

“So…”

“So, she cried.” Joe says it so casually, shrugs up both his shoulders like it doesn’t matter at all. That’s a lie. It does matter. It mattered enough for Mark to follow her upstairs immediately, and then it mattered enough for Joe to follow them.

It bothers you that what you said wasn’t even that bad.

You reacted to something vicious she had said.

Poppy’d made a tone-deaf comment that she didn’t know applied to you as well, but it hurt you. Mark should know that what she’d said hurt you.

You’d reacted with a snide comment of your own and it had shocked tears into Poppy’s eyes.

You regretted it immediately.

You shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have said that.

But there’s a part of you that hurts because, apparently your feelings didn’t matter. Mark should’ve said something. He should’ve given Poppy a stupid look and he should’ve disagreed with her. You understand that there’s not a universe in which he wouldn’t have followed her. He was up on his feet before she’d even reached the stairs. She’s his wife. He loves her.

But she said something hurtful.

And then they all chose her over you anyway.

You know that rationally only a couple of seconds passed between the three of them bounding up the stairs and you deciding to walk out the door. You know that there was a conversation happening that you weren’t there to hear, and there’s probably dozens of perfectly reasonable explanations for why things unfolded exactly as they did.

But your brain doesn’t give a shit.

Your brain has reduced the entire evening down to one image.

You, downstairs.

Them, upstairs.

Chosen.

Not chosen.

“Do you know why she called me upstairs?”

To have you for herself, you think cruelly. To make sure she had all the support, and you had none.

That’s not it and you know it but, fuck it, that’s exactly what it felt like.

“I can tell you right now that it’s not what you think.”

It’s amazing what panic can do to memory. It trims away context with frightening efficiency until all that’s left is the thing that hurt.

“She asked me if she overstepped and if she overreacted.”

Joe sees how you frown into your tea, the slightest bit of confusion visible in the barely-there crease of your brow. “But that’s–”

“She felt like an idiot and wanted to know if she’d gone too far.”

The room falls quiet.

“I told her I thought she had.”

You lift your head and stare at him for a moment.

“I also told her I thought you had as well.”

There. Fucking see? Isn’t that just what you’d been telling yourself from the very moment Poppy had rushed up the stairs with the weak excuse of ‘needing to go check on something’ as she was already blinking back tears that your words caused her eyes to fill with?

Joe leans in a little bit and lowers his voice, “Mark didn’t, but that only made Poppy cry more, it was… we had a bit of a situation up there, and– hey,”

You unsuccessfully try to stifle a sob.

“Hey, hey, no.” Joe scoots closer. “No, hey, come on. Don’t cry.” He sighs a quiet breath of relief when he pulls you closer and you let your head fall to his shoulder. “You both just had a really rubbish evening, that’s all.”

You laugh weakly through your tears. “That’s one way of putting it.”

He lets the silence settle for a little while, lets his fingers trace paths up and down your arm, before he softly says, “Do you know what upset her most?”

Immediately your mind starts searching.

The comment.

Your reaction.

The crying.

Mark.

Everything.

Joe sees it happen up close and moves his whole palm to dry your cheeks. “Stop. I can actually hear you thinking.”

A watery laugh escapes before you can stop it.

“It wasn’t what you said.”

“What I said shocked her into walking out and–… I shouldn’t have said that, I d-didn’t even really mean it, I just…” you shrug. “I don’t know. I feel really bad.”

Joe squeezes both his eyes shut for a second, still can’t believe how much his best friend and his girlfriend are alike. He swears you’re the same person sometimes, and all of this is so reminiscent of so many conversations he’s had with Poppy over the years.

“The thing she couldn’t stop talking about…” Joe pauses for effect, waits until you look him in the eye before he finishes, “… was that you’d left.”

You stop breathing.

“She kept asking where you’d gone, asked Mark if you’d come back, she… she thought you’d gone home because of her and was terrified you’d decided you didn’t want to be her friend anymore.”

Yea. You feel awful. Because momentarily you hadn’t, but only because you thought that she didn’t want to be your friend anymore. And if she didn’t want to be your friend anymore, that automatically meant that neither would Mark. And neither would Joe.

“You see?” Joe’s voice is impossibly gentle. “Same dance. You’re thinking everyone’s stopped loving you, and upstairs, Poppy was doing the exact same thing.”

Something within you sparks the need to leave again. To push yourself out of Joe’s hold, to get up from this sofa, and to make your way to Joe’s front door. Get out. Go over to Mark and Poppy’s. Tell Poppy you’re an idiot, but only if she’ll tell you she’s an idiot as well.

You don’t get up though. It’s too nice where you are. Instead, you curl your toes and squeeze them together as tightly as you can as silence settles in the room.

“Can I tell you though…” Joe begins, waits for you to turn your head to look at him. “How,” he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, “ridiculously proud I am of you?”

The words catch somewhere behind your ribs.

Proud.

Proud of fucking what?

You’d made his best friend cry. You’d walked out and then spent the better part of two hours convincing yourself that everybody you loved had quietly decided they’d had enough of you, only to arrive here already halfway through saying goodbye to a life that nobody else had realised was ending.

There is nothing to be proud of.

And yet...

The warmth of those words still feels nice.

It blooms quietly somewhere beneath your embarrassment, spreading through your chest before you can stop it, leaving you with that horribly unfamiliar feeling of wanting to smile and hide away at exactly the same time. You feel strangely young. Girlish, almost. Like someone has just handed you a gold star you don’t think you’ve earned, and you don’t quite know where to look because part of you wants to insist they’ve made a mistake while another, much quieter part wants to keep it forever.

Still, you scoff, roll your eyes in the hope that it disguises the smile threatening at the corners of your mouth, and mutter a soft, “Of what? I’ve done literally everything wrong.”

Joe huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Okay, well, do you want me to list everything, because I wi–”

“No.”

You grin at each other, you a bit more bashful than Joe, and the sight of it is so welcome after having seen you go through every other emotion, that he pulls you closer. Sticks his nose into your cheek and just holds it there to breathe you in. Then he says, “For staying, mostly.”

“I nearly didn’t.”

“Yea, you looked at the door seven times whilst I made you tea.”

You look down at the mug you’re still holding, tea now gone cold.

“I really wanted to leave.”

“I know.”

“I still kind of do.” You confess, feeling somewhat guilty, but it’s the truth. Joe’s not breaking up with you, the world isn’t imploding the way you thought it was going to, however you still haven’t fixed anything with Poppy, and that still sits heavy in your gut. The fight-or-flight reaction is still present inside of your body.

But Joe just smiles, says, “I know. Why do you think I’m holding you so tightly?” he squeezes extra tight for emphasis, wringing the giggles right out of you. “I think that was probably one of the hardest things you’ve done in a while.”

It’s silly, but he’s right.

Joe’s thumb brushes absent-mindedly across your sleeve and the room falls quiet again. The silence that settles this time is different. Softer. It asks nothing of either of you, and when you sniffle from crying, it just reminds Joe of how happy he is that he got you to stop. After a while, Joe glances at the clock and smiles to himself.

“What?”

“It’s almost nine.”

“I should call Poppy, shouldn’t I?” You start to pull away, already thinking of where you’ve left your phone, but Joe’s arms tighten just enough to keep you where you are.

“We’ve got about five minutes.”

“What?”

“Poppy said she was going to call you,” he settles you a little closer against his shoulder. “So I’m keeping you whilst I still can.”

Part of you wants to fight him off and just call her yourself, but more of you wants to relish this moment for a second longer. The conversation with Poppy needs to happen, preferably sooner rather than later. There are apologies waiting on the other end of the phone, but, Joe’s right. They can wait five more minutes.

For now, neither of you is in any hurry to go anywhere.

You don’t have to leave.

You’d arrived packed to leave but let Joe quietly unpack all of it. The bag came off, the scarf came off, then the coat, and the shoes, and eventually, he managed to find the panic and took that off as well.

Still, the urge of leave hasn’t gone. It’s there, much smaller now, but you can feel exactly where it sits.

The urge to leave stays.

You do too.

---

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You were in your apartment when Joe called you, saying he’d cooked too much pasta and needed someone to share it with.

He showed up an hour after your call, holding a bag with a Tupperware full of pasta, and your favorite wine.

You’d always loved how effortlessly romantic Joe could be, crossing the whole city just to be with you for a couple of hours, with the silly excuse that he’d cooked too much of your favorite pasta, the one he made on your first date, the one that—to this day—you say he poisoned with something to make you fall in love with him.

And the one that, ever since the first time you told him how much you liked it, he’d made whenever he could.

After dinner, you ended up on the couch, on top of each other, simply enjoying the moment, enjoying each other.

Joe was lying there with his arm bent under his head, and you, as usual, had settled right on top of him, with one arm under his back and the other wrapped around his neck.

Music was playing softly on the TV when Joe finally broke the silence. “I think I should stop eating pasta… I’m really full.”

“Do you want me to get off?” You were about to sit up so you wouldn’t be right on top of him.

“No, no, I like it this way,” he pulled you closer, wrapping both arms around your waist. “Don’t go.”

“Mmmm…” You sat up, placing your arms across his chest. “And what if you throw up on me?”

“Well, then…” he shrugged with a chuckle, “you get a shower.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Mmmhm… but you love me anyway,” he said, sliding his hands down toward your butt as he lifted his head to kiss you.

With his hands, he helped you straddle him; you brought one of your hands up to Joe’s face, stroking the little stubble that had grown there, and slipped your other hand under his shirt, caressing his stomach, which was now a little bloated from the excessive amount of pasta he’d eaten.

Meanwhile, Joe had left one hand resting on your butt while the other was slipped under your shirt, caressing your back.

Kissing Joe was undoubtedly one of your favorite things to do; it was—in a way—a form of communication you’d developed together.

Joe kissed you gently and slowly; at one point, he pressed his tongue against your lips, asking permission to explore, and you had no intention of refusing.

It was a lazy kiss, your tongues entwined as they explored each other, your hands wandering whatever skin they could reach, without seeking anything more.

You’d created a bubble where only the two of you existed, until the sound of the TV seeped into your thoughts.

Cowboys and Angels.

You started humming it, without breaking the kiss, until laughing, he pulled away from your lips.

“What?” You sat up, confused.

“I can’t kiss you while you’re singing,” he said, sitting up without letting go of you. “It threw me off.”

“I didn’t—“ You covered your mouth with a little giggle. “I didn’t realize.”

“You’re crazy,” he said with a sigh, raising his hand to brush the hair from your face.

The song continued to fill the apartment, and Joe was simply admiring you, running his fingers all over your face, memorizing every part of it, until he began to hum it softly.

It’s the ones who resist that we most want to kiss

Wouldn’t you say?

“Every time I hear that song, I think of you,” you murmured, snapping Joe out of his reverie.

Joe smiled, confused. “Why?”

Why should I imagine that I’d be a find for you

Why should I imagine

You lifted your hand to his forehead, gently tracing the small scar on his forehead with the tip of your index finger.

“But that scar on your face,” you whispered, lowering your gaze to meet his eyes, your finger still tracing his scar. “That beautiful face of yours.”

“Every time I hear this song, I can’t help thinking of that scar on your face.” You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, a smile spreading across your face as you softly sang the next line. “That beautiful face of yours.”

He was speechless.

His eyes scanned your face, trying to find the right words to express what he was feeling.

“Nev—” he cleared his throat, lowering his head. “No one has ever said anything like that to me,” and when he looked up again, you met his slightly reddened eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“No, no,” he raised his hands and placed them on top of yours. “Just…” His eyes drifted down to your lips for a second before returning to yours. “I love you,” he said, and kissed you again.

The song had changed, and the kiss had started to taste salty because of the quiet tears slipping down his face, but you didn’t stop kissing him.

Later, you were lying in your bedroom with Joe after he decided to spend the night at your apartment, your legs intertwined, you resting on his chest, and him caressing your arm.

“Now every time I hear that song, I’ll think of you,” he whispered, almost as if to himself.

“Good.” You snuggled even closer to him, smiling against his chest. “It’s our song then.”

Joe just smiled and kept stroking your arm, his gaze fixed on some spot on the ceiling.

The next time he saw his scar, he wouldn’t think of the silly kid who’d thrown a rock at him when he was thirteen.

He wouldn’t remember how much he’d hated it growing up.

He’d remember the feeling of your fingertips tracing over it.

He’d remember the way your eyes had looked at it—with nothing but adoration.

The conference room sat nearly forty floors above Manhattan, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city blissfully unaware that somewhere beyond its skyline, another extinction-level threat was steadily making its way toward Earth. 

Government officials crowded one side of the polished table, military personnel the other, while holographic projections cycled through satellite imagery, casualty estimates, and reports so heavily redacted that more black ink covered the pages than actual text.

"We're out of options."

The words came from a gray-haired general standing near the head of the table, his fingers pressing so firmly against the folder before him that the edges had begun to curl beneath his grip.

He looked exhausted, though whether from the lack of sleep or the realization of what he was about to authorize, it was difficult to tell.

Reed Richards stood opposite him, one hand resting against the tabletop as another projection rotated lazily above the center of the room, displaying a fracture in space that seemed to grow wider with every passing hour.

"If the projections are correct," Reed explained evenly, "the incursion reaches Earth's atmosphere in approximately seventy-two hours. Even assuming optimal conditions, the Fantastic Four cannot contain it indefinitely."

"So you need reinforcements."

"We need someone capable of closing dimensional fractures from the inside."

Another official cleared his throat. "...There's only one."

Nobody seemed particularly eager to say your name.

A younger agent finally slid a weathered manila folder across the table toward Reed, the classified stamp nearly worn away after years of being handled by too many nervous hands.

"Eclipse."

Even saying your codename seemed to lower the temperature in the room.

"Conditional Release Asset Zero-One."

"...She already refused four deployments."

"Five," another corrected quietly.

"And she's ignored every attempt at communication."

"We've tried encrypted satellites."

"No response."

"Secure phones."

"No response."

"Letters."

"No response."

Reed looked up from the file. "You've sent letters?"

The agent nodded. "She mailed one back."

"...What did it say?"

He cleared his throat. "'Respectfully, no.'"

For reasons no one could adequately explain, Ben Grimm let out a snort from the opposite side of the room before coughing into his fist when several heads turned in his direction.

"What?" he muttered. "It's kinda funny."

"It is not funny," the general replied.

"It was a little funny."

Sue elbowed Ben beneath the table as Reed continued reading. The pages painted a horrifying picture.

Cities leveled. Entire military divisions erased. Threat assessments labeled OMEGA. Power output listed as unknown. Psychological evaluations. Containment procedures. Emergency protocols.

And yet, buried between pages of classified incident reports and casualty estimates, a single line appeared over and over again.

Complied voluntarily. Surrendered willingly. Civilian casualties minimized by subject.

Reed frowned. "These reports contradict each other."

"They're supposed to."

He looked up, and the general met his gaze without flinching. "The public record calls her a weapon."

"The classified record?"

"...Calls her the reason several countries still exist."

Johnny leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "So we're really doing this?" he asked. "We're bringing in the woman everyone keeps locked in a magical witness protection program?"

"No," the general answered flatly. "We're asking."

"And if she says no?"

Every eye in the room shifted toward the woman who had remained silent since entering. Wanda Maximoff.

She stood near the windows with her arms folded, watching the conversation unfold with the patience of someone who had already seen how this meeting would end.

"If she says no," Wanda replied calmly, "then you can threaten to send her back."

A few confused glances spread around the room as Johnny frowned. "...Back where?"

"The Raft."

His eyebrows shot upward. "Wait."

He looked around the room. "She's not just... living somewhere?"

"No."

"She's on conditional release."

"Yes."

"And you people let her... what? Go buy groceries?"

"Yes."

Johnny stared. "...Who's idea was that?"

"The alternative was keeping someone capable of tearing open reality imprisoned indefinitely," Wanda answered. "Believe it or not, treating her like a human being has produced better results." 

Then Wanda stepped away from the windows.

"So," she said, extending one hand toward the empty stretch of polished marble floor at the center of the room, crimson magic already curling between her fingertips, "shall we ask?"

No one objected.

Within moments, the overhead lights dimmed as scarlet energy spread across the marble in intricate, glowing patterns, ancient runes carving themselves into existence one by one while the air inside the conference room grew heavy enough that even breathing required effort. 

Every screen flickered, every electronic device lost signal, and somewhere deep within the building, the emergency generators kicked on despite the power never actually failing.

Johnny shifted uneasily in his chair. "...Please tell me this is normal."

Without looking away from the forming circle, Wanda answered simply, "No."

And then she began the incantation. Scarlet energy spilled from Wanda's palms, weaving across the marble floor until the intricate pattern of runes stretched nearly twenty feet in diameter. 

The monitors lining the walls flickered violently before going black altogether, phones lost service one by one, and somewhere beyond the conference room doors, alarms began sounding throughout the building as electronics inexplicably shut themselves down floor by floor.

Johnny shifted in his seat. "...Is that supposed to happen?"

"Pretty much,” Wanda answered evenly, never taking her eyes off the growing circle. The light intensified before everything came to an abrupt halt. 

A dark circle began to ripple, like the night sky had been poured onto the floor. Tiny pinpricks of light shimmered beneath its surface, galaxies drifting lazily through an endless sea of black until the void slowly rose from the ground, twisting into the unmistakable outline of a person.

Combat boots emerged from the darkness first, their heavy soles striking the marble with a muted thud before the rest of your figure slowly materialized from the living void. 

Long legs disappeared beneath a floor-length cloak of deep indigo, the fabric pooling around your boots before drifting lazily despite the complete absence of wind.

A broad hood concealed most of your face, casting your features in shadow while the cloak itself fastened neatly at your collarbones with a polished silver clasp engraved with an unfamiliar crest.

As the last traces of void energy unraveled from your form, glimpses of the suit beneath the cloak became visible: a fitted black bodysuit designed more for movement than spectacle, interrupted only by angular panels of muted violet armor protecting your shoulders, forearms, hips, and knees.

For a long moment, your hood remained in place, obscuring everything except the curve of your jaw, until you released a quiet sigh and lifted one gloved hand to push it back.

Dark purple hair spilled freely over your shoulders, and the room was finally met with a face that looked far softer than anyone had expected. 

"...This better be important." You sighed, scanning the sea of surprised faces in the conference room. 

Across the room, Johnny blinked. Well, that wasn't...

That wasn't what he'd expected. He'd expected horns, or glowing red eyes, maybe some claws. Something. Anything that matched the classified reports he'd skimmed on the way over. Instead…

You looked normal. Beautiful, admittedly. Annoyingly so. His eyes lingered for perhaps a second longer than they should have before he caught himself, clearing his throat and forcing his attention elsewhere.

Seriously? A demon? That's what everyone's terrified of? He'd met scarier accountants.

You, meanwhile, hadn't acknowledged anyone else in the room. Your attention remained entirely fixed on Wanda.

"I was making tea."

"I know."

"I had just sat down."

"I know."

"It had steeped for exactly three minutes."

"...I know."

"You owe me another cup."

The corner of Wanda's mouth twitched. "I'll buy you a whole box."

"I like the expensive kind."

"I'm aware."

Only then did your eyes wander around the conference room, taking in the rows of military officers, government officials, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Sue Storm...and finally Johnny.

You regarded him for exactly half a second before moving on without so much as a flicker of recognition.

Johnny frowned. Rude.

Reed stepped forward first, extending a hand. "My name is Reed Richards."

"I know."

"...Right."

"You stretch."

"...I do."

"You overthink."

Ben coughed to hide a laugh, and Reed lowered his hand. "Fair enough."

Your attention shifted toward Sue. "Susan Storm."

She offered a small smile. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"You too."

"Ben Grimm." You nodded once. "I've heard good things."

Ben's rocky brow lifted. "...Really?"

"You volunteer at children's hospitals."

"...Yeah."

"They like you."

His expression softened almost immediately. "Well… Thank you."

Finally, your gaze landed on Johnny again. "...Fire."

He blinked. "...Excuse me?"

"You catch on fire."

"...Yeah."

You nodded once, as though confirming something to yourself. "Hm."

That was it, and nothing more. Johnny wasn't entirely sure why the single syllable irritated him as much as it did.

"So..." he said, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you always introduce people by their powers?"

"No."

"Then why me?"

"You seemed self-explanatory."

Ben barked out a laugh as Johnny shot him a look. "Oh, c'mon."

Before he could answer, the general standing at the head of the table cleared his throat. "If introductions are finished..."

"We have a mission requiring your assistance."

"I assumed."

"The Fantastic Four cannot complete it alone."

"I'm flattered."

"We're asking that you join them."

Your expression remained perfectly neutral. "No."

The answer came so quickly it almost overlapped his question. The general blinked. "...No?"

"I've retired."

"You are not retired."

"I retired myself."

"That isn't how this works."

"It worked wonderfully until about five minutes ago."

A few officials exchanged uncomfortable glances as the general inhaled slowly. "You understand the terms of your conditional release."

"I do."

"And that refusal to cooperate during a Level Omega event constitutes a violation."

"I know."

Then he opened the folder resting before him. "The Raft has already approved your return."

Your eyes dropped to the document in his hands.

"...You're serious."

"We are."

"I've complied with every restriction for six years."

"Yes."

"I've remained exactly where you told me."

"Yes."

"I've hurt no one."

"We know."

"And your reward is threatening to lock me up the moment you need something."

You let out a slow breath, rubbing absentmindedly at the silver ring wrapped around your finger before looking toward Wanda.

She didn't speak, but instead simply gave the smallest nod.

Not because she agreed with the government's methods. But because she already knew there was no changing their minds.

You looked back toward the general. "...How long?"

"Until the threat is neutralized."

"And then?"

"You return home."

You studied him for another long moment before your shoulders sagged ever so slightly in weary acceptance. "...I hate when you people remember I exist."

"There'll be conditions," you continued.

"I work with them." You motioned toward the Fantastic Four. "Not for you."

No objections.

"I answer to Reed tactically."

Reed nodded once.

"I don't wear tracking tech."

The general frowned.

"Non-negotiable."

"I don't kill unless there is absolutely no alternative."

Another nod.

"And the second this is over..." Your eyes swept across the room. "...I disappear."

The Baxter Building came into view just as the sun dipped below the Manhattan skyline, its glass exterior catching the last streaks of orange and gold before surrendering to the growing blue of evening.

You stood beside the quinjet's open ramp with one hand tucked beneath your cloak, your eyes following the building upward until they disappeared into the clouds.

"...It's taller than I imagined."

Ben chuckled beside you as the team made their way down the ramp. "Reed compensates."

"I heard that," Reed called from several paces ahead without turning around.

"I wanted ya to."

A ghost of a smile tugged at your mouth, small enough that only Ben happened to catch it.

"Huh."

You looked over. "What?"

"Nothin'." He kept walking. "Just thought maybe your face got stuck for a second there."

The smile disappeared. "It did."

"That's more like it."

Johnny watched the exchange from farther up the walkway, eyebrows lifting despite himself.

She smiled. Barely, but it happened. Weird.

For someone whose government file read like the opening chapter of the apocalypse, she seemed normal. Or at least close enough. Not that he'd admit it, anyway. 

The lobby was unlike anything you'd expected, sunlight giving way to warm lighting that reflected against polished stone floors and impossibly high ceilings.

Massive windows overlooked Manhattan from nearly every angle, while sleek laboratories stretched beyond glass partitions and robotics wandered the halls carrying trays of equipment with surprising efficiency.

One particularly small robot rolled directly toward Ben.

"Hey, buddy."

The robot extended what appeared to be a tiny mechanical arm, and Ben bumped it with his fist.

"...Cute."

Everyone looked at you, so you shrugged. "What?"

"You just called H.E.R.B.I.E. cute," Johnny said.

"I did."

"...Most people call him unsettling."

"I like unsettling."

"...Right."

Reed set the mission folder onto the nearest workstation before turning toward the group. "We'll begin briefing first thing tomorrow morning. Everyone should use tonight to settle in and familiarize themselves with the building."

His gaze shifted toward Johnny. "Johnny."

Johnny looked up from where he'd been leaning against the counter. "Yeah?"

"Would you mind showing her around?"

Johnny looked at you, and you looked back. Then, almost simultaneously:

"No."

"No."

Reed blinked. "I wasn't asking both of you."

"I know," you replied.

Johnny pointed toward himself. "Why am I tour guide?"

"Because you're the most familiar with the residential floors."

Ben snorted loudly enough to earn a glare from Sue. "He means because you'd talk to a brick wall if it smiled at you."

"I do not—"

"You named the toaster."

"It deserved a name."

"It was a toaster."

"It made excellent toast."

Reed pinched the bridge of his nose. "Johnny."

He sighed dramatically. "...Fine."

Reed smiled. "Thank you."

"You know I hate being volun-told to do something."

"I know."

A few minutes later, the two of you stepped into the elevator alone, the doors sliding shut with a quiet chime.

Johnny leaned casually against the mirrored wall, shoving both hands into the pockets of his jacket before stealing a glance toward you.

You stood perfectly still near the opposite corner, your cloak hanging neatly around your shoulders, eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers as though they were infinitely more interesting than conversation.

He gave it approximately seven seconds. "So..."

Nothing.

"You always this chatty?"

"...Compared to who?"

"...People."

"I've met people."

"And?"

"They're exhausting."

Johnny laughed once. "...Okay."

The elevator climbed another five floors. "So," he tried again, "Eclipse isn't your real name."

"No."

"You gonna tell me the real one?"

"No."

"...Can I guess?"

"You can."

"Will you tell me if I'm right?"

"No."

He grinned despite himself. "You know, this whole mysterious thing probably works on most people."

"It isn't a thing."

"No?"

"I simply don't know you."

"...Fair."

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open onto a hallway lined with expansive windows overlooking the city.

Johnny stepped out first. "Alright, bedrooms are down this hall, kitchen's around the corner, gym's two floors below, labs are—"

"You've done this before."

"...What?"

"The tour."

"...Yeah?"

"You memorized it."

"I live here."

"You practiced."

"I absolutely did not practice."

You looked at him. "...You rehearsed in the mirror."

"I—"

He stopped walking. "I have literally never—"

"You gesture with your right hand every time you mention a room."

"...That's called pointing."

"You smiled before saying 'kitchen.'"

"...People like kitchens."

"You enjoy giving tours."

"I do not enjoy giving tours."

"You've slowed your pace three separate times so I could keep up despite the fact I've matched your speed since we left the elevator."

Johnny stared. "...Are you profiling me?"

"I'm observing you."

"...That's somehow worse."

"It usually is."

He let out an incredulous laugh. "Alright."

He pointed a finger toward you. "My turn."

"I'm listening."

"You're judging me."

"I am."

"You think I'm annoying."

"I do."

"You've decided that in under ten minutes."

"I decided approximately forty-three seconds after meeting you."

"...Forty-three?"

"You interrupted Wanda."

"I was asking a question."

"You interrupted."

Johnny folded his arms. "You know..."

A grin slowly spread across his face. "I don't think you're nearly as intimidating as everyone's made you out to be."

Then, you smiled the kind of smile someone wore immediately before saying something devastating. "I don't think you're nearly as charming."

Johnny's grin faltered. "...Excuse me?"

"You've attempted to flirt with me three times since we left the conference room."

"I wasn't flirting."

"You complimented my eyes."

"I said they were interesting."

"You asked if all demons looked this pretty."

"...That was hypothetical."

"You winked."

"...That could've been an eye twitch."

"It wasn't. But don’t worry, I've definitely had worse."

Johnny couldn't help laughing. "...You know what?"

"What?"

"I'm gonna make you like me."

You resumed walking without looking back. "I admire your optimism."

"...That's not a no."

"It wasn't intended to be encouragement, either."

Johnny watched you continue down the hallway, cloak trailing quietly behind you, and shook his head with an amused scoff before following after.

He had no idea why proving you wrong suddenly sounded like such a good challenge.

And you had no idea that the cocky man walking a few paces behind you would, in a matter of weeks, become the one person capable of getting under your skin in ways no one else ever had.

Three days. Three days inside the Baxter Building had been enough for everyone to establish a routine.

Reed practically lived in the laboratory. Sue alternated between mission planning and reminding Reed to eat. Ben could almost always be found in the kitchen. Johnny?

Johnny had made it his personal mission to discover exactly how many sarcastic remarks one person could make before another finally snapped. Current record?

Seventy-two. You hadn't so much as raised your voice.

The training room occupied nearly the entire sublevel of the building, reinforced walls stretching nearly three stories high and lined with holographic projectors capable of simulating almost any battlefield imaginable.

Weapons racks covered one wall while combat drones stood dormant along another, each waiting for Reed to activate them when necessary.

You were already inside when Johnny arrived.

A long practice staff rested comfortably between your hands as you guided it through slow, deliberate movements, the wood spinning over your shoulders, around your back, and between your fingers with the kind of effortless precision that only came from years of repetition.

Johnny stopped in the doorway. "...Show off."

Without looking up, you answered. "I heard that."

"I know."

The staff continued its lazy rotation. "You wanted me to."

"...Maybe."

Only then did you glance in his direction. "What do you need?"

"Ouch."

"What?"

"You make it sound like seeing me is a chore."

"It usually is."

Johnny pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. "You know, that one actually hurt."

"I'm devastated."

"You don't sound devastated."

"I was lying."

He laughed through his nose. "I figured."

He wandered farther into the room, grabbing a pair of sparring gloves from a nearby bench before tossing them carelessly back down. "So."

You continued practicing. "So."

"I've been thinking."

"My condolences."

Johnny paused. "...Do you rehearse these?"

"No."

"They're coming out a little too fast."

"I've had three days."

"To do what?"

"Study you."

He blinked. "...Study me?"

"You aren't particularly complicated."

"Oh?"

You finally stopped moving.

The staff settled horizontally across the back of your shoulders as both hands rested casually over either end. "No."

"I'm listening."

"You crave attention."

"I do not."

"You've interrupted Reed seventeen times this week."

"They were important interruptions."

"You flirt with anything that has a pulse."

"...That's slander."

"You've flexed in reflective surfaces on four separate occasions."

"I was stretching."

"You named the espresso machine."

"...Espressa."

You stared. "...You named it Espressa."

"It was funny."

"It wasn't."

Ben wandered into the room just in time to hear the end of the conversation. "It kinda was."

Johnny pointed triumphantly. "See?"

"I didn't say it was good."

Johnny groaned. "Oh, c'mon."

Ben settled himself onto one of the nearby benches with a cup of coffee, clearly sensing entertainment.

You looked back toward Johnny. "My observations remain unchanged."

He folded his arms. "You done?"

"For now."

"Good." A grin spread slowly across his face. "'Cause I got one."

"I'm thrilled."

"You think you're better than everybody."

"You walk around here as if you've already figured everyone out."

"You barely talk."

"Mhm."

"You act like nothing impresses you."

"Mhm."

"And you've got this whole..." He gestured vaguely toward you. "...mysterious thing going on."

"...Go on."

"I think it's an act."

"An act."

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I think everyone keeps telling me how scary you are."

Another shrug. "So far? You've just been kinda mean."

Ben muttered quietly into his coffee. "...He's gonna regret that."

You rested the practice staff against the weapons rack before slowly rolling your sleeves back over your forearms. "I've been called worse."

"I'm sure." Johnny took another step forward. "So let's see it."

You tilted your head. "...See what?"

"What everyone's so afraid of."

"Spar me."

Ben looked up immediately. "...Johnny."

"What?"

"I wouldn't."

Johnny waved him off. "It's training."

"Johnny."

"What?"

"I said I wouldn't."

"I'm not asking her to vaporize me."

"No." Ben took another sip. "I'm worried she'll make you cry."

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Oh, please."

He looked back toward you. "Unless..."

He smirked. "...you're worried."

You stared at him for several long seconds. Then, "...One condition."

His grin widened. "There we go."

"No powers."

"...Seriously?"

"You wanted to see what I could do."

You unclipped the twin daggers from your belt, setting them neatly onto the bench before unfastening your sword and placing it beside them. "No magic."

The gloves followed. "No weapons."

Finally, you stepped into the center of the mat. "Just us."

Johnny cracked his neck. "Works for me."

Across the room, Sue and Reed entered just as Ben called, "...You're both gonna wanna see this."

Johnny dropped into a fighting stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. You simply stood there, hands resting loosely behind your back.

"...You're not even gonna put your fists up?"

"I haven't decided if you've earned them."

"Oh, that's cocky."

"It is."

"You know what?"

He rushed first, fast, with a clean right hook aimed toward your jaw. But you weren't there.

He barely had time to register the movement before your hand caught his wrist, redirected the momentum effortlessly past your shoulder, and sent him stumbling three steps beyond you.

"...Again."

Johnny turned. "...Lucky."

He came faster this time. Combination strikes. Left. Right. Body. Kick. Every single one met empty air.

Not because you were particularly quick. But because you moved exactly enough. An inch. Half a step. A slight turn of your shoulder. The smallest tilt of your head.

He wasn't fighting someone faster than him. He was fighting someone who somehow already knew where he intended to strike.

His frustration began building almost immediately. "You gonna hit me?" he snapped.

"You haven't given me an opening."

"I've given you plenty."

"No."

Another swing, which you counter with another effortless sidestep. "You've given me opportunities."

He spun. "What's the difference?"

"You survive one."

His teeth clenched. "Oh, now you're just pissing me off."

"I noticed."

He lunged again. This time, however, you moved. One hand caught his wrist while the other hooked beneath his elbow. A single pivot of your hips and suddenly the floor disappeared beneath him.

Johnny hit the mat hard enough to force the air from his lungs. Before he could even sit up, a knee rested against his chest, and one hand pinned his wrist.

The other hovered two inches from his throat, perfectly still. You hadn't even broken a sweat.

Johnny blinked up at the ceiling. "...How."

"I've been doing this longer than you've been alive."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"I know."

"...How old are you?"

You smiled. "Rude."

Then you stood, offering him a hand. He looked at it, then back at you. "...No."

"As you wish." You withdrew it immediately.

Johnny climbed to his feet on his own, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt as his jaw tightened.

Across the room, Ben whistled low beneath his breath. "Damn."

Sue looked genuinely impressed. "I don't think I've ever seen him taken down that quickly."

Reed, meanwhile, was already scribbling notes into a tablet. "Fascinating."

Johnny glared. "...Whose side are you on?"

"No one's." Reed didn't even look up. "I'm simply documenting that she anticipated every strike approximately four-tenths of a second before you initiated movement."

Johnny groaned. "Reed."

"What?"

"Stop making it sound worse."

"I'm making it sound measurable."

You retrieved your weapons one by one, fastening each back into place with practiced efficiency before pulling your sleeves back into their usual position.

Just before leaving the room, you glanced back over one shoulder. "For what it's worth..."

Johnny folded his arms. "What?"

"You almost landed one."

His expression brightened...

"Maybe another six months."

...and immediately fell again.

Steel beams twisted like paper overhead, showering the cracked concrete below with showers of rust and splintered glass as something enormous dragged itself through the skeletal remains of the station. 

The dimensional fracture hanging above the tracks pulsed with violent streaks of violet lightning, each pulse widening the tear another few feet until fragments of another world bled into New York's skyline, jagged cliffs and crimson clouds flickering in and out of existence where they had no business being.

Civilians screamed somewhere beyond the collapsed entrance while police sirens echoed in the distance.

"Reed!" Sue's voice crackled through the comms as another support column buckled. "The west side's giving out!"

"I know," Reed answered, stretching across nearly thirty feet to keep another section of the roof from collapsing onto a cluster of trapped civilians. "Ben, reinforce the eastern wall. Sue, evacuation corridor. Johnny—"

"I see 'em."

Johnny was already gone. A streak of orange fire shot past the fractured ceiling before anyone could stop him, weaving between falling debris toward a family trapped beneath a collapsed platform.

Your head snapped upward. "Johnny."

No response. "Johnny."

Still nothing, so you closed your eyes for a second. The void answered your call.  The creature wasn't attacking the civilians; it was waiting.

"Johnny!" Your voice rang through every communicator at once.

"Don't go underneath—"

The floor exploded.

A deafening crack tore through the station as massive black tendrils erupted from beneath the tracks, wrapping themselves around the steel support beams before violently wrenching them downward. 

The entire western platform lurched, concrete splitting apart beneath Johnny's feet as thousands of tons of metal began collapsing inward.

"Shit—"

Everything happened at once. Johnny tried to pull upward, but it was too late.

A support beam slammed across his back, sending him crashing through two stories of concrete before disappearing beneath an avalanche of twisted steel.

"JOHNNY!" Sue's scream echoed through the station.

Your body moved before your mind did. The creature lunged, but you ignored it.

Void energy erupted from beneath your boots, black ribbons spiraling violently around your body as you shot forward, one hand extending toward the collapsing terminal while the other disappeared into the growing darkness surrounding your arm.

Every falling piece of debris froze. Thousands of tons of concrete hung suspended in midair. Steel screamed, windows shattered across neighboring buildings, and the sky darkened.

Reed looked up from the civilians just in time to watch the entire station stop collapsing. "...No..."

Your feet never touched the ground. You hovered beneath the fractured ceiling, one arm trembling violently as impossible amounts of weight settled against your shoulders.

Blood trickled from your nose, then your ears. The darkness surrounding you deepened until tiny stars shimmered within it, the void stretching across the station ceiling like ink spilled into water.

"Ben!" Reed shouted. "Get Johnny!"

Ben didn't hesitate. He barreled beneath the frozen rubble while you continued holding the entire structure in place, every muscle in your body beginning to shake as the dimensional energy fought against your own.

"Hurry," you breathed.

Ben disappeared beneath the debris.

"I GOT 'IM!"

Ben emerged carrying Johnny over one shoulder, the younger man coughing violently through clouds of dust as the four of you cleared the station.

The second Ben crossed the evacuation perimeter, your hand dropped. The building collapsed, the sound shaking the city as dust swallowed the skyline. When the smoke finally settled, nothing remained.

The emergency crews worked around them almost immediately, paramedics weaving through civilians while SHIELD agents established a perimeter around the dimensional fracture now slowly sealing itself overhead.

You stood several yards away from the rest of the team, one gloved hand pressed discreetly beneath your nose as you wiped away another streak of blood before anyone could notice.

Of course, however, Johnny did. "You knew."

You looked over. "I did."

"You knew it was a trap."

"I told you not to go."

"I was trying to save those people!"

"They were bait."

"They were civilians!"

"They were already evacuated!"

His voice rose. "Then maybe tell somebody that!"

"I tried."

"You yelled my name!"

"I expected you to listen!"

"I don't take orders from you!"

"No." You laughed once, though you weren't amused. "I've noticed."

"You think you're always right," Johnny continued, still riding the high of adrenaline and humiliation. "You walk around acting like everybody else is an idiot."

"I think before I act."

"I think too."

"Barely."

His jaw tightened. "You don't trust anybody."

"I trusted you to follow the plan."

"I made a judgment call."

"You made a reckless one."

"I SAVED PEOPLE!"

"YOU ALMOST GOT YOURSELF KILLED!"

Your breathing had become heavier now. "You are not invincible, Johnny."

"I never said I was."

"You behave like you are."

"I was trying to do the right thing!"

"And I was trying to make sure you survived long enough to do it."

He scoffed. "Oh, here we go."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're always talking down to everybody."

"I am explaining consequences."

"You're acting like you're better than us."

"No."

"You are."

"No."

"You think because you've got all these scary powers—"

"My powers have nothing to do with this."

"They have everything to do with this!"

He threw both hands into the air. "Everybody walks around here like you're some tragic saint. You barely speak. You judge everybody."

You simply looked at him. "I observe."

"You hide behind that cloak, and those one-word answers like you're above the rest of us."

Ben stepped forward. "Johnny."

"Not now."

Sue frowned. "Johnny."

"I'm talking."

"No," Reed said quietly. "You're escalating."

Johnny looked around. Everyone, every single one of them, was watching him. Watching you. Watching the argument.

His embarrassment curdled into frustration. Frustration became anger. And anger made him careless.

"You know what?"

You remained silent.

"Maybe there's a reason everybody keeps leaving you."

He took another step. "Maybe all those files weren't wrong."

Ben's expression shifted immediately. "...Kid."

Johnny didn't hear him. "Maybe you're not misunderstood. Maybe you're just impossible."

Your face hadn't changed, and that somehow made him crave a reaction even more.

"So tell me." His voice dropped. "When your own people sent you away..."

Another step. "...did it ever occur to you that maybe they had a good reason?"

When you finally spoke, your voice barely carried above a whisper.

"I saved your life."

Johnny's chest tightened. "I know—"

"I held a building over my head..."

Your gaze never left his. "...and the first thing you chose to do afterward was become another person who decided they knew my story. I expected better."

"...I..." One step.

You closed the distance between you. Johnny thought, hoped, you were going to walk past him. Instead…your fist connected cleanly with his jaw.

The impact wasn't enhanced by magic; it didn't need to be. His head snapped to the side as he stumbled backward, catching himself just before he hit the pavement.

You flexed your aching hand once before pulling your hood back over your head.

"I've fought monsters..." The shadows gathered around your boots. "...They've rarely disappointed me as much as people."

Void energy climbed your body in slow ribbons, swallowing your silhouette piece by piece until only your eyes remained visible beneath the hood.

"I hope saying that made you feel good."

A violent gust swept through the ruined street. Then, you were gone.

Johnny stood frozen, one hand against his jaw, his pulse still racing. Not from the punch, but from the realization that, somewhere between the collapsing building and this argument, he'd crossed a line he couldn't uncross.

Ben was the first to speak. He looked at Johnny for a long moment before shaking his head.

"...Kid." There wasn't anger in his voice, only disappointment. "You really fucked that one up."

By the time Johnny could muster up enough courage to come talk to you, it had been well beyond midnight. 

Sleep had proven impossible, his mind replaying the argument over and over until every word he'd thrown at you echoed back louder than the last, each one somehow sounding crueler in hindsight than it had in the moment.

Ben hadn't spoken to him since returning to the Baxter Building; Sue had offered him one look that managed to convey an entire lecture without saying a single word, and Reed had quietly informed him that you still hadn't returned before disappearing back into his lab, leaving Johnny alone with the growing pit in his stomach that had only deepened with every passing hour.

He hadn't meant it; that much was true. But intent didn't erase impact. And judging by the look on your face before you'd disappeared… he wasn't sure an apology would either.

Finding you hadn't been particularly difficult.

The Empire State Building was the tallest structure within several miles, and somehow it felt painfully obvious that if you were going to disappear anywhere, it would be somewhere the rest of the world couldn't follow.

Johnny landed softly atop the observation tower, the warm glow of Manhattan stretching endlessly beneath him as millions of city lights flickered against the darkness like stars reflected on water.

You sat at the very edge of the building, legs crossed, hands resting lightly atop your knees.

Your cloak pooled around you in dark folds that fluttered lazily in the wind, the hood long since pushed back as loose strands of hair drifted across your face. 

You didn't turn around. "I figured it'd take you longer."

Johnny rubbed the back of his neck. "...You knew I was here?"

"You've been hovering behind that antenna for almost two minutes."

He looked back over his shoulder. "...Seriously?"

"You've got a very recognizable heat signature."

"...Right."

Johnny took a few hesitant steps forward, stopping several feet away.

"You can come closer."

His eyebrows lifted. "I wasn't sure if you'd throw me off the building."

"You'd survive."

"...True."

He lowered himself onto the concrete beside you, though he made certain to leave enough space between you that neither of your shoulders came close to touching.

Johnny rested his forearms against his knees. "I've never actually been up here."

"It's nice."

"...Yeah."

"I’ve been coming here a lot."

"I kinda figured."

Johnny stared out across Manhattan before quietly asking, "Do you ever get lonely?"

"Constantly."

"I thought..." He searched for the right words. "...I don't know."

"You thought I preferred being alone."

"...Yeah."

"I prefer solitude." You looked out toward the city. "That doesn't mean I enjoy loneliness."

He hadn't expected that answer; hell, he hadn't expected you to answer at all.

"I'm sorry."

Your gaze remained fixed on the skyline.

"For today."

Still nothing.

"For... all of it." Johnny swallowed. "I shouldn't have said any of that."

"You shouldn't have."

"I don't even know why I did."

"You were angry."

"I was embarrassed."

You nodded once. "I noticed."

"I wanted to win."

Finally, you looked at him. "And?"

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "...Doesn't feel much like winning."

Johnny stared down at his hands. "I read your file."

"I figured."

"I thought I understood you."

"No."

"I didn't."

"No."

"I was wrong."

Your expression softened. "But you believed it."

He frowned. "What?"

"You believed everything you read. It wasn't your fault."

"It kinda was."

"No." You shook your head. "They wrote those reports to make people afraid of me."

"They worked."

"They usually do."

Johnny turned to look at you. "I don't think you're scary."

A quiet huff of laughter escaped you. "...That's unfortunate."

"No, I mean—"

"I know." Your face warmed a tad. "I know what you meant."

He found himself smiling back before he even realized he was doing it. "There it is."

Your brows knit together. "What?"

"You smiled."

"It was an accident."

"I don't think it was."

"It won't happen again."

"I dunno..." He leaned ever so slightly closer. "I kinda like it."

You held his gaze for just a second longer than either of you probably should have.

Your eyes drifted down to his lips for the briefest heartbeat before you caught yourself, the realization hitting like cold water. You stood abruptly. 

Johnny blinked, almost disappointed by how quickly the warmth between you disappeared.

"I should go."

He rose with you. "You don't have to."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I do."

He sighed softly. "I know saying sorry doesn't fix it."

"It doesn't."

"But..." He hesitated. "I want to."

You looked back at him. "...Want to what?"

"Make it up to you."

"I don't know how yet." A small, self-conscious shrug. "But I will."

"...We'll see."

Three evenings later, a steady tapping echoed against your bedroom window. Not loud enough to startle you, just persistent enough to pull your attention away from the novel balanced comfortably in your lap.

You frowned, confused. Your room occupied one of the upper residential floors of the Baxter Building. There wasn't exactly a hallway outside your window.

The tapping came again. You set the book aside before walking toward the glass, pulling the curtain back just enough to peer outside.

Johnny floated a few feet beyond the window, one hand tucked behind his back while the other tapped the glass once more, a sheepish grin already spreading across his face the second he realized you'd spotted him.

You stared. "...No."

He couldn't hear you through the glass, but he read your lips anyway. His grin widened.

You sighed toward the ceiling before unlatching the window, a rush of warm summer air immediately spilling into the room. "...What."

"Hi."

"...What."

"I come in peace."

"I doubt that."

Johnny laughed quietly before finally taking in the sight of you properly.

Gone was the indigo cloak.

The armor.

The belts.

The weapons.

Instead, you stood barefoot against the hardwood floor wearing an oversized charcoal sweatshirt whose sleeves nearly swallowed your hands, paired with black lounge shorts that disappeared beneath the hem. 

Your hair hung loose around your shoulders, slightly messy from where you'd clearly tied it back earlier before giving up, and a pair of reading glasses rested low on your nose, making you look significantly less like the government's most feared superweapon and considerably more like someone he'd accidentally interrupted halfway through a quiet evening.

"...You wear glasses."

You looked down at the book still resting open on your bed. "...Sometimes."

"I didn't know that."

"You've known me for two weeks."

"...Still." He smiled. "I like 'em."

You blinked once. "...Thank you."

Johnny mentally celebrated the fact that you'd accepted a compliment without immediately insulting him…progress.

"What are you doing here?"

"I have something to show you."

"No."

"You don't even know what it is."

"I don't need to."

"It involves food."

"...Continue."

He laughed. "I tried to make dinner."

"You cooked."

"I attempted to cook."

"A distinction."

"It went...decent."

"...Johnny."

"What?"

"You set cereal on fire yesterday."

"That happened one time."

"It happened yesterday."

"I've grown."

"In twenty-four hours."

"I've matured."

You folded your arms. "I remain unconvinced."

"Well..." He slowly extended one hand toward you through the open window. "Guess you'll have to come see for yourself."

Your eyes drifted from his face to the offered hand. "...You're asking me."

"I am."

"You could've just told me to follow you."

"I could've."

"But?"

"I figured I'd ask instead."

Eventually, you reluctantly slipped your hand into his, fingers closing gently around yours.

"You trust me?" you asked quietly.

He met your eyes. "Enough to catch you."

You glanced down toward the city several hundred feet below. "...That's not exactly what I meant."

"I know."

Your feet touched solid ground a moment later. You looked around, expecting... honestly, you weren't entirely sure.

A thick navy blanket had been spread across the concrete, anchored carefully beneath a pair of small lanterns that cast a warm golden glow over everything surrounding them. 

There was a wicker basket sitting off to one side alongside two neatly folded blankets in case the wind picked up, a thermos, two mismatched mugs, and what appeared to be an alarming amount of takeout containers.

You slowly turned toward Johnny. "...You made this?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well..."

"I definitely didn't make the food."

"I did almost burn the kitchen down trying."

"...Johnny."

"So I pivoted."

"You ordered takeout."

"I ordered from four different places."

You looked back toward the spread. "...Four?"

"I wasn't sure what you liked."

Your gaze drifted across the containers. Italian. Thai. Chinese. A little bakery box. Even fresh fruit.

"I figured statistically speaking..." he continued, "...one of them had to be your favorite."

You couldn't stop the tiny smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth. "That is... strangely logical."

"I've been listening to Reed more."

"It shows."

He grinned. "I also asked HERBIE to help."

Your eyebrows lifted. "...HERBIE planned the picnic?"

"He made a spreadsheet."

"...Of course he did."

"It was color-coded."

You wandered toward the blanket, your fingers brushing absentmindedly over one of the lanterns before crouching beside the basket.

There was more thought put into this than you'd expected. Napkins. Real silverware. Dessert. A deck of cards. Even...your fingers paused over a familiar hardcover tucked neatly beneath one corner of the basket.

You picked it up. "...This is my book."

Johnny looked almost guilty. "I borrowed it."

"You stole it."

"I borrowed it... aggressively."

You flipped it over in your hands. "There are page markers."

"I, uh..." His ears turned noticeably pink. "I asked Reed what kind of books you checked out from the Baxter library."

"You researched my reading habits?"

"I was trying to figure out what you'd actually enjoy."

You stared at him. "...Nobody's ever done that before."

Johnny's smile faded into something softer. "They should've."

Your eyes met his then, the annoyingly beautiful shade of blue staring back at you. The breeze carried a loose strand of hair across your face before Johnny instinctively reached forward.

His hand hesitated halfway there, so he looked at you with a silent look of permission. You gave the smallest nod.

Only then did he gently tuck the strand behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your temple so lightly they were gone almost before you could register the warmth.

Johnny's gaze dipped, just for a heartbeat, to your lips before returning to your eyes. "I meant what I said."

You blinked, confused. 

"...About making it up to you."

"...I know."

His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. "I also know this doesn't erase what happened."

"It doesn't."

"But..." He smiled, a little sheepishly. "...Can I at least buy myself another chance?"

You looked at him for a long moment, then slowly lowered yourself onto the blanket.

"...The food's getting cold."

Johnny's face lit up. "So that's a yes?"

You reached into one of the takeout bags before glancing up at him. "...Don't make me change my mind."

He practically dropped onto the blanket across from you. "Nope." 

You couldn't help it.

As you watched him immediately begin rambling about how HERBIE had insisted on proper picnic etiquette and how Reed had somehow turned food recommendations into a lecture on nutritional balance, another small smile found its way onto your face.

By the time the last takeout container sat empty between the two of you, the city had settled into that strange hour where New York never truly slept, but somehow still managed to grow quieter. Your conversation hadn’t faltered in the slightest, though. 

It had wandered from one meaningless topic to another with surprising ease, bouncing between Reed's inability to leave a conversation without somehow turning it into a lecture, Ben's secret obsession with old sitcom reruns that he'd vehemently deny if anyone asked, and HERBIE's insistence on announcing the weather every morning despite every room in the Baxter Building already having windows.

"...He gave me a five-minute forecast while I was brushing my teeth yesterday," Johnny said around a laugh.

You tilted your head. "...Did it rain?"

"No."

"So he was wrong."

"He was technically predicting humidity."

"...Of course he was."

Johnny snorted. "You fit in way better than you think."

You looked down at the mug warming your hands. "I don't think I do."

"You do."

"I tolerate everyone."

"They tolerate you back."

"I don't think that's the compliment you think it is."

"It absolutely is."

A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself, which Johnny caught immediately.

"You've smiled, what..." He pretended to count on his fingers. "...Five times tonight?"

"I have not."

"Six."

"I think you're hallucinating."

"I'm witnessing a miracle."

"I should've pushed you off the building."

"I would've looked majestic."

"You would've screamed."

"I would've screamed majestically."

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Johnny froze. "...Whoa."

You cleared your throat almost immediately. "What?"

"That."

"What?"

"I've never heard you laugh."

"It was an isolated incident."

"It was adorable."

"It was temporary."

"It was cute."

"It was involuntary."

"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to hear it again."

The words left his mouth before he had time to think about them. Johnny blinked.

"...That came out way more romantic than I intended."

You looked over at him. "...Did it?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean..."

Another pause. "...Maybe a little."

You studied him for a second before looking back out over the skyline. "...I didn't mind."

Johnny smiled to himself. 

"So..."

You hummed.

"What'd you actually do before all..." He gestured vaguely toward you and your imaginary aura. "...this?"

"I liked libraries."

He looked over. "...Yeah?"

"They were quiet." You smiled faintly to yourself. "No one asked questions."

"What'd you read?"

"Everything."

"Favorite?"

"I don't have one."

"C'mon."

"I don't."

"You have to."

"I genuinely don't."

"You can't tell me you've never reread a book."

"...Pride and Prejudice."

Johnny's eyebrows shot up. "...Seriously?"

You nodded. "Seven times."

"I... did not expect that."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know." He laughed. "Ancient spell books."

"I've read those too."

"...Right."

As the conversation progressed, and without really thinking, his hand shifted across the blanket. You noticed it immediately, your eyes lingering there, then lifting to his.

He didn't say anything. Didn't encourage you, didn't ask. He simply left the choice entirely yours.

You exhaled a low sigh as your hand drifted across the blanket, fingertips brushing his. Johnny didn't move, didn't want to startle you or have you rethink your decision. Another second passed before your fingers finally slipped between his.

Johnny’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles, and you didn’t pull away.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice lower than usual, “I had a whole speech planned for this part.”

You glanced at him. “Of course you did.”

“It was good too. Very charming. Slightly self-deprecating. Perfect amount of sincerity.”

“And yet.”

“And yet I’m sitting here holding your hand like a teenager who just realized he’s allowed to.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Reed would be taking notes.”

“Reed would be measuring the chemical composition of the moment.”

“Exactly.”

Your thumb moved this time, tracing the line of his. Johnny’s breath hitched, barely, but you felt it. The way his fingers tightened for half a second before consciously loosening again, giving you the choice to stay or retreat.

You stayed. So, he reached for the edge of the blanket, tugging it more securely around your legs.

“Cold?” he asked.

“No.”

“You’re always cold.”

“I’m fine.”

He studied your face for a second longer than necessary. The soft blue of his eyes looked darker up here, reflected city light catching in them. “You can tell me if you’re not.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead you let your gaze drop to your joined hands, then back up. The distance between you on the blanket had somehow shrunk without either of you consciously moving.

“I know,” you said at last.

Johnny’s mouth curved, small and real. “Good.”

You could have left it there. Could have let the night stay soft and careful and unfinished. But the air between you had changed the moment your fingers interlaced, and neither of you seemed willing to pretend otherwise.

His free hand rose again. This time there was no hesitation when he reached for the strand of hair the wind kept stealing. He tucked it behind your ear the way he had earlier, only slower. His fingertips lingered at your temple, then traced down the side of your jaw with a carefulness that felt almost reverent.

“Can I—” he started.

You answered by leaning in.

The first kiss was quiet. Johnny’s mouth was warm and surprisingly soft, and for a second he seemed almost startled that you had closed the distance yourself. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck, and he kissed you back like he’d been waiting for permission longer than he’d admitted.

It stayed slow for a while, the kind of kissing that explored rather than claimed. You felt the heat of him rising under your palm when you finally set your free hand against his chest, felt the way his heart kicked harder the longer you stayed close. When you parted just enough to breathe, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“Okay,” he murmured. “That was… yeah.”

You made a low sound that might have been agreement. Your fingers were still in his hair now (when had they moved?) and the slight tug you gave earned a soft, startled exhale from him.

Johnny’s eyes opened; the usual cocky spark was there, but quieter.

“You keep doing that,” he said, “and I’m going to start getting ideas.”

You tilted your head. “Then get them.”

He leaned in again, but this time you met him halfway and took control of the kiss. Your hand slid from his chest to the side of his throat, thumb resting just under his jaw, and Johnny made a quiet sound against your mouth that went straight through you.

When you finally drew back, his breathing had changed. “Blanket’s not exactly private,” he said.

You glanced toward the edge of the observation deck, then back at him. “No one else is up here.”

“Still.”

You rose onto your knees without breaking eye contact, then shifted until you were straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips. Johnny’s hands settled automatically at your waist. He looked up at you like he was still half-convinced this was about to be taken away.

“Then stop talking about it,” you said quietly.

His answering grin was crooked and a little breathless. “Yes, ma’am.”

You kissed him again before he could say anything else. Your fingers threaded into his hair and tugged, guiding the angle of his head, and Johnny followed without resistance. His hands slid higher under the hem of your shirt, palms spreading heat across your lower back. When your teeth caught his lower lip, he made a low, needy sound that you felt more than heard.

You took your time undressing him. Jacket first, then the soft henley underneath, revealing the warm, golden plane of his chest and the faint residual glow that always seemed to live under his skin when his emotions ran high. 

Johnny watched you the entire time, blue eyes half-lidded, lips parted. When your hands finally settled on his belt, he lifted his hips to help, never once trying to rush or take over.

“You’re killing me,” he breathed when you paused to look at him.

“You’ll live.”

“Debatable.”

You finished with his jeans, then sat back just long enough to pull your own shirt over your head. Johnny’s gaze tracked every movement, open and hungry, but his hands stayed where they were, resting on your thighs, waiting. 

Only when you reached for his wrists and guided them higher did he touch you properly, palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra.

You let him explore for a moment. Let him learn the shape of you with careful, reverent hands. Then you reached back, unhooked the clasp yourself, and watched his expression change as the fabric fell away.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You leaned down and kissed the sound from his mouth.

The rest of your clothes followed in the same measured pace. Johnny’s hands never left you for long, but he didn’t try to set the rhythm. He let you decide when to straddle him fully again, skin to skin, the heat of him pressed against you. 

Let you decide when to roll your hips and draw that first broken groan from his throat. Let you decide when to reach between your bodies and guide him inside.

The stretch was slow. Johnny’s head tipped back against the blanket, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave faint marks that would fade by morning. 

You took him inch by inch until you were seated fully, breathing through the fullness, watching the way his throat worked as he fought to stay still.

“You good?” you asked quietly. 

He nodded once, sharp. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You gave him exactly that, then you began to move.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling your hips in a steady rhythm that made Johnny’s fingers dig into your skin. Every time you rose and sank back down, he made a sound, half curse, half prayer, and you cataloged each one. 

When you leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, the new angle dragged a sharper noise from him. His eyes fluttered open, dazed and dark.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

You kept the pace deliberate even as heat built low in your stomach. Johnny’s hands slid up your back, then down again, restless, like he didn’t know where to put them. 

You caught one of his wrists and pinned it lightly above his head against the blanket. His other hand stayed on your hip, guiding but never forcing. 

“You’re—” he started, then broke off with a low moan when you rolled your hips just so. “God, you’re so—”

“Quiet,” you murmured, and kissed him to make the point.

He went beautifully quiet after that. Only the soft, punched-out sounds he couldn’t quite swallow remained, each one feeding the slow burn under your skin. You kept him there, held on the edge, for longer than either of you expected. 

When his free hand finally slipped between your bodies and found the place that made your breath hitch, you let him. Allowed the extra friction, used it.

The orgasm rolled through you in a long, controlled wave. You stayed upright through it, hips still moving, riding it out while Johnny watched with something close to awe. Only when the last of it had passed did you lean down, lips against his ear.

“Your turn.”

You shifted the angle, took him deeper, and set a firmer rhythm. Johnny’s control frayed fast. His free hand gripped your waist hard; the one you still held above his head flexed uselessly against your fingers. 

When he came, it was with a broken, almost desperate sound, hips stuttering up into yours as heat flooded between you. You stayed with him through it, slow and steady, until the tension finally left his body in a long exhale.

Johnny’s chest rose and fell beneath your palms. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, the usual easy confidence stripped down to something softer. 

When you finally released his wrist, he didn’t immediately pull it back. He left it where it was for a few more breaths, as if the simple fact of being held still mattered.

Eventually you eased off him and reached for the edge of the blanket, tugging it up and around both of you. Johnny made a quiet, contented noise and shifted so you could settle against his side, head on his shoulder. 

One of his arms came around you automatically, the other resting over your waist. The residual warmth of him soaked into your skin..

Johnny pressed a slow kiss to the top of your head. “So,” he said after a long moment. “That happened.”

You hummed.

“Any chance we can do it again sometime? Preferably somewhere with actual walls and fewer potential witnesses.”

“Possibly.”

“I’ll take it.”

His fingers traced idle patterns along your bare shoulder. The touch was unhurried, almost absentminded. After a while he spoke again.

“You know I’m still going to try to make you laugh, right? Even after… this.”

You tilted your head just enough to look at him and notice the soft blue of his eyes were calm now.

“I know.”

“Good.” He smiled. “Because that sound is still my new favorite thing.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you let your eyes close and shifted closer, one leg sliding over his as Johnny’s arm tightened around you in answer.

that is all. hope you enjoyed! <33

the taglist system has been fucking me royally so i'm sorry if you are on this list and didn't get tagged IDK HOW TO FIX IT UGH >:(

taglist:

Yet you can’t do any of those things, because you’re stood on the top of a mountain, looking down a dangerously steep slope, and it’s snowing. Fat flakes obscure your vision, making you blink and squint fiercely, frowning as you try to follow your friends right to the edge.

You see how Mark checks his phone, holding up your whole group, and you half wish that he would just keep moving so you don’t get more than a second to think about what you’re doing. The other half of you wishes that he’d stall for another hour. Or two.

With hunched shoulders, chin tucked into your coat, and eyes barely open, you wait. Joe uses the moment to slide himself in between your skis from the front, smiling as he taps the goggles on your helmet and says, “Put these on. It’s easier to see with them, even if the sun’s not out. Especially as the snow will feel like it’s going sideways when we go down.”

You doubt you will go down that fast.

God, this is supposed to be a fun trip, but so far, the fun you had envisioned the four of you to be having feels miles away. Nonexistent, almost. You kind of wish you had never left the country.

You’re inside of a fucking cloud, and you can’t feel your fingers. Not properly anyway. You’re holding two ski sticks and your hands are inside of two thick stiff skiing gloves, but Joe just said to put your goggles on, so you give it a good shot and try your best to move your goggles over your eyes. It’s tricky though, because you can’t get a good grip since you’re entirely unable to see or feel what you’re even grabbing at.

“Here,” you hear Joe laugh and feel how two bare hands, no gloves, move your goggles from your helmet to your face.

“There you go.” He says, smiling, giving them a little tap with his finger before he pushes both his hands into his gloves again.

You’re not sure if this is helping your vision at all, but at least it’s all a little less bright now.

“Is this what skiing is?” you ask warily. “Because I’m not sure if I’m made for this…” you’ve had skiing lessons, but it’s different when you’re up on an actual mountain without a person in a bright red coat to help you down safely, especially in bad weather like this.

You had never considered snow to be bad weather before, but this is… everything about this feels scary, and insane, and illegal. Like this should not be allowed. Why do people willingly take these idiotic risks in the name of fun and games?

“See you at the bottom!” Poppy shouts, and before you even register what she’s said, you see a bright pink snowsuit shoot down, followed by Mark who is just as fast.

It’s nice that they’re having fun.

Mark and Poppy are constantly laughing, cutting each other off, and clanging their ski sticks together. They’re bumping into each other for a cuddle as they wait for you and Joe, and never seem in too sour a mood for a mid-slope snow ball fight...

It’s a different experience from the one that you’re having, and you silently wonder if you should suggest for you to maybe take the chair lift back down again. For you to maybe go back to the cable cars that took up the mountain this morning. Meet everyone later, preferably somewhere warm. Out of this fucking snow.

“Of course you’re made for it.” Joe says, far too generous with his compliments. “You’re good at this. I’ve seen you ski, you know how to do this. You’re an expert.”

“Liar.”

“Come on,” Joe laughs. “I’ll carve out a path that you can follow.”

Which is a really sweet suggestion, but he’s got two much more flexible boots strapped to a snowboard, and snowboards tend to leave icy patches behind. You’ve not even quite mastered going down a perfectly prepped snowy slope, let alone a big plane of ice.

Your friends should count themselves lucky that you’re not panicking at the look of how steep every slope actually is. Even the blue runs.

Joe jumps a few times to move his snowboard from between your skis, hops and slides a bit as he waves his arms about to balance himself.

“Ready?” He bends to check his straps.

You’re not ready, but you’re glad that at least your legs aren’t strapped to a singular board. The restriction of movement is quite enough the way it is. You don’t need your feet bound together like that.

Positive thoughts.

Joe starts his ascend and, like he said he would, he leaves you an easy path to follow.

It’s only about three minutes later that you think maybe it would’ve been better if your legs wouldn’t have been able to move independently from one another.

You’re unsure how you’ve ended up where you are, but you do understand that you weren’t meant to speed up the way you had. Weren’t meant to have steered yourself in the direction you had. Weren’t meant to lean on one leg and raise the other off the ground for balance.

From down where Poppy, Mark and Joe are waiting, all they were able to make out was how you suddenly went too fast before you disappeared in a big cloud of snow by your own making.

Everything’s white.

And you’re in pain.

There’s shouting coming from somewhere on your left. Far away. Down, you think. It feels like that should be down, but you’re actually not sure.

There’s a blinding pain in your leg.

Sharp.

Something’s pulling. Like it’s twisted a way it shouldn’t. A way it can’t.

You’ve landed on your back, skis still attached to your boots somehow, and snow is falling directly into your face.

Fuck.

Your knee hurts.

You’re bowing your back to alleviate pain but, it’s not enough, and your breathing quickly becomes short and shallow to help you manage the pain you suddenly have to deal with.

Shit, shit, shit.

Somehow one glove’s come off entirely, and your wrist hurts from where the strap of one of your sticks yanked at your hand.

Fuck.

You vaguely hear your name, followed by a distant, “You okay?” as the snow you’ve kicked up settles around you along with all the flakes falling from the sky.

You don’t get the chance to answer. To shout back that, no, you’re not okay. Something’s wrong with your knee.

Next thing you know, a small avalanche covers your arm from a skier who stops to check on you, and they speak to you in what you think is German before they ask, “Are you okay?” in English with a heavy accent. They hold your glove out to you as they tower over you, something they likely must have picked up as they approached you.

Embarrassment overtakes you entirely as you don’t want attention from strangers, you’re just a clumsy cow, so you attempt to sit up.

“Yea, I think s–”

Oh no, fuck, fuck, shit.

It’s futile.

You’re bum rests on the back-ends of your skis, your knees up in the air, so sitting up is a job for your abs and your abs alone. You’re simply not strong enough.

Where the fuck are your arms?

Why aren’t they working to prop you up?

Your knee hurts.

Why are your boots still attached to your skis?

You need to get out of these skis.

You need to move.

“Don’t move!” Joe suddenly sounds a lot closer, and the swishing of waterproof fabric, of feet digging into the snow as he does his best to rush his way up the slope, sounds like music to your ears.

“Stay still! You’ve got to– stay still, you’ve–”

“My knee! It’s my knee, I need to–”

“Stay still!” Joe sounds more panicked than you do, and that alone is enough for you to listen and follow his orders.

You can’t see how your knee looks twice it’s width.

How your lower leg looks like it’s no longer connected to the rest of you.

It’s a harrowing sight that Joe doesn’t want you to see, so he repeats, “Stay still, stay still, stay still,” through quick breaths, and disappears from your vision just as quick as he had popped into it, falling down to his knees into the snow by your feet. You feel some pulling, followed by a build of pressure as two hands take a firm grasp of your calf.

Through your padded trousers, it feels like Joe’s not wearing any gloves.

There’s some talking between Joe and the stranger but you barely follow any of it.

All there is, is white wet snow, thick flakes that somehow look grey when you stare up at the sky like this.

All of a sudden, there’s your glove. Someone is holding it out to you, and you’re surprised to find yourself reaching for it. Your arms are fine. That’s good.

There is snow, and there is pain.

There is prickling behind your eyes from tears.

A throat that feels sore from the cold air you’re inhaling in quick pants.

The ski stick of the stranger gets used to unclip your boot from the ski, and the relief is instant.

There’s more distant shouting, and Joe barks back a loud, “No!” over his shoulder that makes you flinch.

Joe catches it, immediately apologises, because he doesn’t want you to move, and says, “Please don’t move. You can’t move, okay?”

“Is it bad?”

“I–... I don’t know.” Joe answers honestly.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“I don – what?!” You feel Joe get up a little, coming into your vision just slightly as he looks down the slope. Someone shouts something you can’t really quite decipher, and then Joe answers, “It’s on the map! Check the map!”

The stranger tells Joe he’ll go down to help, and for a moment, it’s just you and Joe and snow and pain.

You can still barely see anything, the snow falling down is a wash of specks that seems to be picking up more and more and, then, suddenly, Mark is there.

“Mark,” you raise a hand in hopes of your best friend grabbing it, so happy to see him there.

“Hey– oh my God, that’s disloca–”

“Did you call?” Joe cuts him off, voice stern enough to shut him up instantly.

“Poppy’s ringing them. I couldn’t get any signal. Hey,” Mark drops down to his knees in the snow next to you, just like Joe did before, but he doesn’t leave your vision. “Do you even know what happened?” You see how he immediately uses his mouth to remove a glove before he moves his own ski goggles from his face, revealing a pair of worry-filled eyes.

You wish he’d put them back on.

You’re glad your eyes are covered, still, because it means that the tears you’re silently blinking from your eyes go unnoticed.

“How did you even do that? Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

Too many questions at once.

You can’t answer any of them.

“Mark,” Joe catches his attention, tells him to use your skis to make a stand-up cross in the snow a few steps up the slope to prevent any other accidents with oncoming skiers. “I don’t know how quick they can be here.”

“Who?” you ask, voice suddenly so very small. Your throat feels tight. Maybe the tears don’t go quite as unnoticed as you thought.

You shift slightly, and, fuck. Your knee really fucking hurts.

Did Mark say dislocated?

“Careful,” Joe says when he hears you hiss, and you hate how you can’t see him. “Don’t want you to move. Is your jacket riding up your back? Do you feel any snow getting in?”

“N-no, I’m– I–” you can’t get through your words and take a shuddering breath instead. If anyone knows what you sound like when you’re about to burst into sobs, it’s Mark.

“I’m here, I’m here. Shh, hey. It’s fine, I’m here.” Mark’s back at your side, and it’s becoming more and more difficult to keep your sobs inside.

You don’t want Mark.

“Joe?” you ask with a shaky voice as one arm reached for him, and it’s a good thing that you miss how Mark’s face drops a little. How his head turns to Joe who’s still holding your leg. For a short moment, the two men look at each other, both unsure of how to react to that.

“They’re on their way!” Poppy suddenly shouts, and all three of you turn your heads to see a pink vision of a person enter on your right, making your group complete.

“Took me a second to figure out where we were, but they’re coming.” She turns to you. “Babe. That looked sick.”

“Pop,” Mark warns.

“What? It did.”

This was meant to be fun.

Your arm is still reaching for Joe, and with Poppy there now, Mark decides that he can take over his job of holding your leg in place.

“Here,” you hear Mark say by your feet, “Get your gloves back on, mate.” And with some new touches to your painful leg, you understand Mark and Joe have switched places. Joe moves Poppy out of the way and kneels down next to you, hovering over you, close to your face, finally in your line of vision.

“Do you want the good or the bad news?” Joe smiles down at you, sounding impossibly sweet. You understand it’s to keep you from panicking.

His nose is red from the cold, and somehow focussing on that works like a lifeline.

“Neither.” You’re not sure how wobbly your lips are – if they are even able to wobble at all in these low temperatures.

“Okay. Can you answer some questions instead?”

Joe asks where you can feel pain. If your head is okay. If your back feels fine. If you know why you suddenly started speeding up so fast. If you still think Poppy’s pink outfit is fucking ugly, which gets a loud laugh from Mark, and an offended “Hey!” from Poppy.

Joe also asks if you’re crying when he notices how you’re doing your very best to control your breathing. Says, “Oh, poppet!” through a sigh when you try to shake your head no, obviously lying. For comfort, he links his arm through yours, because holding hands is impossible when wearing these gloves, and he leans down to press his cold lips to yours.

They still feel warm.

“You’ll be okay. I promise.” Joe comforts. “They’re going to take you down safely, and we’ll be having some hot chocolate before you know it, all right?”

“J-Joe,” you stammer, but before anyone can say anything else, Poppy suddenly says, “I can hear them!”

The arrival of the mountain rescue team is meant to relax you, you’re sure. Help is here. Things will get better now.

Except, it kind of does the opposite.

It’s scary to let yourself be manhandled by people you don’t know. You listen to two men talk to each other in a language you don’t understand as they prepare to lift you onto a sled attached to a snowmobile. Mark gets moved aside, away from your leg, and you hold onto Joe even tighter as your leg slowly gets straightened.

You get told to relax, and you wish you knew how.

They’re moving what hurts.

Shit.

You’re freezing.

Fucking terrified.

Fuck, fuck, shit, shit shit shit.

Suddenly, an extremely painful snap makes you scream involuntarily, and you feel how Joe squeezes you impossibly tight as you burst into actual sobs now.

“Oh, Jesus,” Poppy comments, turning around to look away as she has a hard time pretending that any of that was easy to witness. Mark’s got an arm around her in an instant, doing his best to comfort her as well as you when he cheerfully shouts, “It popped into place! That’s good, that’s so good. It’s back in place. Trust me, that’s good.”

You don’t care if it’s good.

That fucking hurt, and the pain you’re left with now is somehow worse than before.

All you want to do is cry.

Preferably somewhere warm.

Out of this fucking snow.

Instead you’re left to cry in said fucking snow as two men lift you onto a sled before they strap you in, preparing you for the ascend. It’s only then that you realise that Joe won’t be coming with them.

With you.

“Joe,” you croak, and are immediately scared that you’ll be taken away too fast. “Joe! Joe!”

Poppy turns a curious eye to Mark, and she knows this isn’t the time, but she takes mental note to ask him how he feels about that later. About how you’re calling out for her best friend, rather than yours.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Joe coos, back on his knees again, close by your side. “They’re going to take you down to the cable cars we used this morning, all right? The three of us are going to find our gear and get our asses down as quick as possible to meet you there, okay?”

Their gear. Their snowed over skis and snowboard, he means.

How the fuck are they ever going to find those? Heavy snow has been falling this whole time.

They’re going to leave you on your own.

“Hey, hey. Shh. Don’t worry, we’ll be faster than you–”

“Joe, I–”

“We can take a few reds and blacks, and will be waiting for you there, all right? It’ll be fine. You’re okay. Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine.”

Joe leans down and kisses you again, warming your mouth with his once more as you silently cry.

“Joe, I–...” you falter, scared to say what you’re thinking, but the words are right there, and you’re scared, and in pain, and you’re cold, and you want Joe to come with you.

“I–...” you give it another shot, and see how Joe’s eyes suddenly double in size.

“Don’t you dare!” he begins. “Don’t you dare fucking say it right now! Not here. This can’t be–” he stops to laugh, and you can’t help the wet laugh that escapes you in return. “This cannot be the first time you say it, all right? Please save it for later. For when we’re inside and you’ve had your leg looked at by a doctor.”

“B-but,” you’re choking back tears as the snowmobile starts its engine, the two men now sat atop and ready to transport its precious cargo down a steep mountain. “I do.” you finish, just because you want him to know.

“I do.”

You said it without saying it.

It’s not exactly the same, it doesn’t really count, but Joe will take it.

“I know, me too.” Joe replies fondly as he knits his eyebrows together and leans down for one last kiss. He hates that he has to leave you, even if it’s for a short moment. “Me too.”

He’ll kick himself for weeks, months, for suggesting a skiing trip.

This was supposed to be a fun trip.

It still could be, Joe thinks.

You’ll likely not get back onto another set of skis very soon, but that doesn’t mean the trip’s ruined.

You’d almost said it.

Fucking silly.

He had been waiting around for you to find the perfect moment to say those three words aloud to him, just so he could say them back, and you were going to say them now?

Here?

Not a chance.

Not acceptable.

Maybe later, in the hotel bed, when you’re warm under the covers and safe in his arms. You’re allowed to say it then, and he’ll say the words back before yours have even left your mouth properly.

This was supposed to be a fun trip.

It still is.

Joe’ll make sure of it, he thinks, as he straps his board back onto his boots and doesn’t wait for Poppy and Mark.

“I do.” you’d said.

Asked for him instead of Mark.

“Me too.” he’d answered.

You said it without saying it and now, all Joe wants to do is hold you close and kiss your eyelids. He wants to kiss you on the eyes so fucking bad.

Preferably somewhere warm.

Out of this fucking snow.

---

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