Skibidi

May in Florida felt like you were walking on the surface of the sun. It was hot and sticky, the humidity wreaking havoc on your hair and your attitude. The moment you had stepped out of the hotel that morning, it had puffed up like a scared tabby cat. By the time you reached the store where the Quadrant pop up shop was that weekend, you’d already needed to tame it into submission with a giant claw clip and a prayer. 

“We should probably have a few of the interns hand out the water I had delivered yesterday to the people standing in line.” You say to Max Fewtrell as you walk into the store early that morning. “The last thing we need are social media posts about how fans fainted waiting to meet Lando Norris today.” 

Max nods and gives you a cheeky salute. “On it, Boss Lady.” 

You roll your eyes, heaving a sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you, Fewtrell? Stop calling me ‘Boss Lady’. I’m younger than you are.” 

Max grins wickedly as he walks towards the front of the store where a few interns stand catting. “I’ll stop calling you Boss Lady when you stop bossing me around.” 

“If I don’t boss you around, nothing would ever get done." You fire back. "You were the one who gave me the title of ‘PR Director’ two years ago, weren't you?” 

“And I regret it every day.” Max grumbles, dodging the pen you throw at his head from across the room. 

“We’d be lost without YN and you know it, Max." From behind you, Lando Norris comes sauntering through the back door flanked by his body guard Rich and Keegan Palmer. 

You gesture at Lando while glaring at Max, “See! At least someone around here appreciates my type-A personality.” 

Lando slings an arm around your shoulders and it takes every bit of will power you have not to shudder under his touch. “How’s my favorite girl doing this morning?” He asks, flashing you a flirty smile. 

Aiming an elbow at his ribs, you quickly duck under his arm when he flinches. You swear you hear Lando mutter something about how you're a feral animal.

“I’d be doing a lot better if it wasn’t already 32* outside at 10 in the morning. I swear to God, it feels like the surface of the sun out there.” 

Lando wanders over to a display of new hoodies that were a special pop up feature. “Well, it’s a good thing that this place has air con then, yeah?” 

“Yeah, air con that is going to quit working the moment we get all of those people in here.” You snip, smoothing the front of your shirt as if Lando’s arm hadn’t just sent your pulse into a tailspin. “Now, quit touching the display. I spent three hours last night getting those to look right and your giant paws are going to ruin my aesthetic.” 

Lando huffs a laugh but obeys, pulling his hand away from the display. “Sassy this morning, aren’t we pretty girl?” 

“You’re a HR violation waiting to happen, you know that?” You glare at him over the edge of your iPad. 

“I’m the personality hire, everyone knows that.” Lando says easily, thumbing through a rack of Quadrant branded joggers. 

You heave a sigh, turning to Keegan. “Can you please keep the personality hire away from the limited edition drops until the doors open? He’s like a toddler in a sandbox, destruction follows him around like a moth to a flame.” 

“Hey! I’m the face of this brand!” Lando protests, retreating towards the front window to check out the ever-growing line that snaked down the sidewalk.  

“And I’m the one responsible for making sure your brand doesn’t end up as a Harvard Business School case study.” You call after him, turning your attention back to the iPad in your hands. “Max! Are all of the tablets synced? If the POS system crashes during the first hour, I’m jumping off the nearest bridge.” 

Max shouts something back about dramatics and shark infested waters, but the retort is cut short when Lando unleashes a string of several choice expletives.

Looking up, you see Lando has gone still, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he stares at something outside. His entire body language shifts in a moment, the playful, flirty energy evaporating in a blink. You exchange a worried glance with Keegan and Max before taking a few steps to stand next to Lando. 

“Lan? Hey, Lan? We open in five minutes, is everything okay? If you’re having a crisis about the hoodie colors, I will actually strangle-” 

“YN.” He whispers, his voice tight. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you see how pale your friend has gone in the last thirty seconds. “Look at that black SUV across the street. Behind that blue truck. What do you see?” 

You step closer to the window, squinting against the harsh Florida sun. At first, all you see are fans dressed in various shades of neon green and papaya. And then you spot her and your stomach drops into your shoes. 

Hovering near the corner, wearing oversized sunglasses and looking entirely too pleased with herself, was Lando’s ex-girlfriend. She was talking to a photographer, one you instantly recognize as a freelancer who specialized in ‘candid’ celebrity sightings that got sold off to TMZ and Tattler. She wasn’t just there randomly, she was waiting, setting up a story that she was going to try to sell to the highest bidder. 

“Is that…?” Max started, joining you both at the window. 

"What is she doing here?” Lando breathes, his fingers tightening around the phone in his hand.

You all knew the answer to that, even if no one said it out loud.

Magui was having a particularly hard time accepting their breakup this time around. It drove you nuts, but her and Lando had been on and off over and over for several years now. Theirs had been the epitome of a toxic situationship that had been hard launched almost by accident when Lando won the Championship in December. It hadn’t lasted, just as you had predicted, and by the end of January, they were off again.

This time, Lando insisted it was for good. 

And then Magui had shown up at that football match, somehow wrangling a ticket for the same suite from some unsuspecting brand representative that didn’t know the history she shared with the McLaren driver. She’d also conveniently managed an invite from Max’s girlfriend Pietra to Portugal a few weeks later, showing up in the exclusive resort where Lando owned a house. She’d dropped several not-so-subtle hints on social media that implied she was with Lando since, despite that not even being remotely close to the truth. 

Lando turns to you then, the panic in his eyes evident. The ‘face of the brand’ was gone, his confidence of the last few moments drained from his face. You knew the moment they opened those doors, she’d be on him like a fly to honey and by lunch, the internet would be convinced that they were a couple again. This was the very last thing you needed today during the very public, very popular brand pop up that you’d been hyping up on socials for weeks now. 

Your heart clenched fiercely at the look of panic that fluttered across your friend’s face. You knew that their relationship had been dysfunctional, bordering on toxic by the end. You knew that neither party was innocent in the breakup, that Lando shared a lot of the blame for that relationship not working out. You also knew Lando was a certified people pleaser and if Magui wiggled her way into the shop that morning, Lando wouldn’t do anything to embarrass her. He’d let the narrative take off and it would get embarrassing for everyone involved. Again. 

And she knew it.

“She’s going to make a scene.” Lando says, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. “She’s going to come in here and I can’t — I can’t do this. Not today, YN.” 

You turn to Max, brow creased. “How did she even know Lando was going to be here? He was supposed to be a surprise for the first few guests that come in. We didn’t post about it anywhere and for good reason!” 

Max pales and you have to quell the urge to strangle him. 

“Did you tell Pietra?" You hiss, watching as Magui crosses the street. 

Max doesn’t answer, just runs a hand through his hair.

“Oh my God, Max! Come ON!” You sigh, watching with renewed horror as the photographer follows her across the street, camera poised and ready to go. 

Max winces, rubbing at the back of his neck. “P and her are…they’re friends, okay? She probably just mentioned the weeks plans off-handedly. I didn’t think she’d actually show up here! Shes supposed to be filming in Spain or something! That's what P told me last night!” 

“You didn’t think?” You take a step forward, your PR training kicking into high gear. “Max, I have two hundred people in line outside and a brand to protect. Get out there and intercept her. Now.” 

“What am I supposed to do?” Max asks, voice thin. 

“Distract her! Be the charming best friend. Tell her Lando is too busy with fans and that he can’t talk right now. Tell her he’ll call her lat — “ 

“I am not calling her later.” Lando interjects and you resist the urge to hit him. 

“I know that!” You cry, throwing your hands up in the air, “I just need her to leave and right now, I’m willing to tell a few lies to get my way, okay?” Lando just nods as you turn back to Max. “Go out there and fix this! Now!” 

Max scrambles towards the door and out into the Miami heat. Through the glass, you all watch Max intercept her with a wide, forced grin as he tries to get Magui to stop her approach into the store. As Max handles the blonde, you turn to Keegan. “Let’s let a few people in early, can you handle that? Just like, 10 people or so?” Keegan nods and you watch as he goes towards the door. 

Finally, you turn to Lando. He’s still staring blankly out the window, watching as Max negotiates with Magui on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry, YN.” He murmurs, crimson painting its way across his cheeks. “I don’t know why she can’t just accept that we didn’t work and move on.” 

Your shoulders drop at the tone of his voice. He sounds so defeated, your chest aches. 

“It’s okay, Lan. We’ll fix this.” You say, running a hand down his arm in an attempt to comfort him. “Come on, Keegan is letting those first few fans in. Let’s go up to the checkout stand. Maybe if we keep you away from the door, she'll get the hint." .

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s do that.” Lando allows you to guide him towards the front of the door. You toss a look at Rich, tipping your head towards the door, hoping that if you post the body guard at the front of the store will deter her even further. Rich nods, understanding the meaning behind your look before he goes to join Keegan at the door. 

“It’s okay. We’ll handle this. You focus on the fans, that's all I need from you. Ash is here to get some content for your socials and I’ll get some content for Quadrant too, okay? Let’s focus on that.” You soothe in Lando’s ear as your hand rests steadily on Lando’s elbow, providing him with something to ground himself to. 

Right before stepping up to the waiting fans, Lando turns to look at you, relief plastered plainly across his face. “Thanks, YN. Really. What would I do without you?” 

You wave off the praise, “Knowing you? Probably cause in international incident involving sushi and a nest full of hornets.” 

f1_gossip_official posted!

341,309 likes f1_gossip_official: lando surprised shoppers early this morning when he showed up for the opening of quadrant's miami pop up ahead of the f1 race this weekend! he was all smiles until a certain portugese blonde was spotted hanging around outside. rumor has it that they broke up earlier in the year, but neither lando or magui have commented on it. they've showed up in the same place and magui has hinted quite a LOT over the last few months that they are together. people at the pop up say that she DIDN'T go into the store though...so what do we think??? together or broken up??? user283 this is the most exhausting game of 'are they or aren't they' i've ever played user333 I WAS THERE. she didn't go in but max fewtrell came running out and was talking to her. she had a photographer following her??? and she left shortly after. it was all really weird. >>>user009 omg i was there too! lando looked really upset when i got into the store and YN looked HEATED. >>>user433 i don't doubt it. YN is super protective over lando and the brand, she was probably beside herself. user45 if they're not together anymore, why on earth would M be there this weekend?! how strange user944 they're just super private, you guys. lando is head over heels for magui and they just want their space. not a huge deal, they were at that football match together a few weeks ago, right? and she was at his place in costa terra? >>>user313 yeah, okay magui. user048 i wonder if she's going to be at the race sunday >>>user111 i have a friend who works on the comms team for mclaren. she's causing ALL SORTS of problems and supposedly hasn't been issued a guest pass like YN and Max and the quadrant crew has! >>>user048 omg JUICY

Lando’s hotel suite was a chaotic mess of random fan gifts, crumpled receipts, and discarded team gear. Outside, the Miami skyline sparkled bright and neon, but inside the only sound was the low hum of a tv show neither of you were watching and the scrape of a fork against a plate of lukewarm pasta. You were sitting cross-legged on the velvet sofa, your laptop perched on your knees as you scrolled through that day’s headlines on social media. 

“The fans loved the Quadrant pop-up content.” You say, not looking up from the screen in front of you, though you could feel Lando watching you from the armchair across the coffee table. “But the pap shots of Max and her are already all over Twitter. The gossip pages are having a field day.” 

Lando groans, head tipping back against the chair. He’d showered already but you could still see the exhaustion creeping across his features as he picked at the plate of pasta Jon had told him to order. “I saw. I had to turn my phone off. Every time I see her name, I feel like I can’t breathe. It feels like she’s trying to force me into coming back to her.” 

“She’s certainly good at presenting a convincing narrative to get her way.” You mutter, finally closing your laptop.

You’d meant it as a joke, but seeing Lando this stressed felt heavy. “She knows that if she stays in the frame long enough, people are going to start believing what they’re seeing on socials and that you’ll have no choice but to play along. We need to beat her at her own game.” 

Lando looks at you, his eyes tired. “How? I’ve tried being nice. I’ve tried being cold. I’ve tried ignoring her and then being direct. Nothing works. She refuses to believe it’s over between us.” 

You stretch your legs out in front of you, pointing your toes as you enjoy the burn in your muscles. You’d booked a hot yoga class for tomorrow morning to sweat out all of the stress today had laid at your feet. 

“I don’t know.” You sigh, rubbing at your temples. “At this point, unless you suddenly announce you’re becoming a monk or getting married, I don’t think she’s going to stop until she gets what she wants.” You bark a laugh, cold and bitter as you shake your head. “Maybe we hire someone. How do you feel about fake dating some unknown Swedish model for a month? It works in the movies all the time, doesn’t it?” 

Lando doesn’t laugh. He just stares at you, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Not a model.” He says softly and you look up, caught off guard by his tone. 

“Okay, an actress? Someone American maybe?” You joke, knowing that it would never actually work. “We could even put out a casting call! ‘Wanted: One fake girlfriend to deter a persistent ex. Must look good in papaya and be able to tolerate Formula One fans and online gossip.” 

“It should be you.” 

The air in the room stills, suddenly feeling thin. Your brain malfunctions, words becoming too difficult to produce, your heart skipping a beat before slamming against your ribs.

“Very funny.” You say, voice a little too high. "Did the Miami heat damage your two remaining brain cells? Lando, be so for real right now. The press would lose their collective minds faster than you can say Schumacher.” 

“I’m not joking, YN.” Lando leans forward, his elbows on his knees, pinning you with a look that was entirely too serious. “Think about it. We already spend an absurd amount of time together. You started handling my personal PR when you took the director title at Quadrant. You’re always around, albeit in the background. It wouldn’t be totally out of the realm of possibility for us to actually fall for each other.” 

You blink at him, not entirely processing what he was saying. Gripping at the edge of the sofa, your knuckles turn white. “Lando that’s…that’s actually insane. If people find out it’s fake, my entire reputation could be ruined. And if we do, it could get so messy —” 

“It won’t get messy.” He interrupts, standing from his chair before coming to sit next to you on the couch.

You stiffen when you catch a hint of his cologne.

He reaches over, his hand hovering just inches from yours. “We’re friends, we have been for years. There have been rumors about us hooking up for as long as you’ve worked for Quadrant anyway.” 

“There are rumors about you hooking up with anyone that has two X chromosomes and an Instagram account, Lando.” You roll your eyes. 

Lando chuckles softly, shaking his head, “But the rumors about us have been going on for years now. Think about it, we confirm those rumors and she’ll finally get the hint that I’ve moved on. She already knows how close we are, it wouldn’t be too hard for everyone to believe we're actually dating.” 

You look at his hand that covers yours, then up at him.

“Strictly for PR?” You manage to whisper, your shield finally starting to crumble. 

Lando’s gaze drops to your lips for a split second before meeting your eyes again. “Whatever you need it to be.” He says. “Just say you’ll help me. I can’t do a repeat of what happened this morning.” 

The silence that stretches after Lando’s plea for help feels so heavy, you could feel it settle in your chest.

You know you should say no. You should tell him that he needs to sleep this off and you’d both figure out a different strategy in the morning. You should tell him this was the stupidest idea he’d ever come up with and you'd be dumber than a box of rocks if you agreed. 

Instead, you reach for your notebook. 

“If we’re going to do this — and I am still ninety five percent sure this is actually the dumbest thing I've ever agreed to— we’re going to do it with structure.” You say, your voice regaining that professional edge you wore like a suit of armor. “We need ground rules. Hard boundaries. We aren’t just going to wing this and see what happens, that will guarantee failure, and I don’t do failure.” 

Lando leans back, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Structure. Right, of course. Where would we be without your structure, YN? Go on then, pretty girl. What’s rule number one?” 

Your pen scratches at the paper in your lap. “Rule number one: the romantic relationship happens in public only." Lando lifts a brow. “When we’re alone and behind closed doors, I am Quadrant’s PR Director, not your girlfriend.” 

You practically choke on the word ‘girlfriend’. 

“Fine.” Lando says, nodding. “What else? I know you’ve got a list for me a mile long.” 

“Rule number two: We don’t tell anyone that this is fake.” 

Lando shifts his weight and frowns, “Not even Max?” 

You huff a laugh, “Especially not Max. He would tell P and P would go running straight to her and it would blow up in our faces in ten seconds. And if the truth gets out, we’re both in for a nightmare of press attention that we’ll have difficulty coming back from.” 

Lando’s gaze drops to his lap as he considers. “Okay. Yeah, I get that. He couldn’t even keep today’s appearance a secret. He’d crack under the pressure.” 

“Exactly.” You nod, scribbling down the second rule in your notebook. 

“I have a few rules then.” 

You raise a brow, “You do?"

Lando nods. “Rule number three: you have to attend more races this season. Not as Quadrant’s PR director but as my girlfriend.” 

“Lando, I have a job!” You cry, shaking your head. “I can’t just spend all my time jet setting around the world following you around like a puppy!” 

“You have a job that I know for a fact allows you to work from anywhere, so that’s not an excuse. You want people to think this is real? Then you have to play the part of supportive girlfriend, babe.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Are we adding my rule to the list?” He challenges. 

“Fine, but you’re footing the bill for all of my extra travel.” You scribble down the third rule reluctantly. “What else? I’m sure you have more ideas on how to torture me with this little charade.” 

Lando smirks, “Rule number four: one public date a week at minimum. PDA and Instagram posts included.” 

“Oh for the love…” You mutter but you’re already jotting down the fourth rule. 

“You know she practically lives inside that phone of hers. If we don’t go out publicly, we won’t be photographed and she won’t see us. If we keep everything off socials, she won’t have any reason to believe I’ve moved on.” 

You hated to admit it, but Lando was right. You knew how chronically online she was and how even a whiff of a new woman in Lando’s life caused a tizzy on Instagram and Twitter. If you wanted to sell this, you were going to have to play along. 

“I have an amendment to that rule I’d like to propose before agreeing.” You say as seriously as you can manage.

“Go on.” He prompts. 

“No over the top PDA. If we’re too in your face with it, people are going to see right through this. We are not two teenagers who can’t keep their hands to themselves.” 

“Speak for yourself.” Lando wiggles his eyebrows, ducking out of the way when you chuck a pillow at his head. “Okay, okay, you win! No over the top PDA.” 

You pause, the tip of your pen stilling on the paper. “I win? You’re not going to argue with me on that one?” 

Lando shakes his head, “Nope. If I overdo it on the PDA, you might fall head over heels in love with me and that would make things very messy.” 

You snort, “You wish.” 

“Maybe."

Your stomach flips but you choose to ignore it and move on.

"Rule number five: no embarrassing pet names are to be used in public.” 

“Now wait a minute, let me stop you right there!” Lando protests, reaching for the pen in your hand. “If I don’t call you by some term of endearment, she’ll never buy it.” 

“And why is that?” You yank the pen back out of Lando’s hand and continue writing out the fifth rule. 

“Because she knows me and how much I love using pet names! Are you at least open to negotiations on this rule?” 

Your eyes flick up to take Lando in. He’s relaxed for the first time all evening, his smile coming easy now, almost as if he’s enjoying himself while torturing you with what you suspect might be flirting. “What did you have in mind?” 

Lando reaches for your notebook and pen again, jotting down a few words. “I propose the following be added to a ‘pet name white list' —” 

“You’re insane, you know that right?” 

“And yet here I am trying to compromise while you’re being the difficult one!” Lando has the audacity to look offended. 

“Go on.” You were going to sprain your eyeballs by the time this was all over with how hard you were rolling them.

“The pet name white list should include the following: baby, babe, pretty girl —” 

“You already call me that.” You interrupt, earning a swat on your hand from the pen in Lando’s hand. 

“I know.” He nods crisply. “And I don’t want to have to stop, so on the list it goes.” 

“Jesus Christ." You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Okay, go on.” 

Lando turns back to the notebook and continues to write. “Love, my love, sweetheart, bunny —” 

“Bunny?” You choke on a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of what is going on right now. 

“Yeah. You’re soft and cute like a baby bunny.” 

“I hate you.” 

"You really don't though." Lando taps the tip of your nose with his index finger, which you immediately try to bite at before he can move his hand to safety.

Unfortunately, you miss. 

“Be careful or I’m adding ‘my little piranha’ to the list.” He warns smugly.

“You wouldn’t dare.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes.

“Watch me.”

All you can do is sigh.

“Is that it?” You ask after a beat, making a move to rescue your notebook from the psycho sitting next to you. 

"I think so, but can we put in a clause that we can amend the list at a later date if something strikes my fancy?” 

You shake your head, looking skyward. “Why did I agree to this? You know what? Fine. Pet name list renegotiation clause approved.” 

Lando scoots a little closer to you on the couch and you fight the urge to move away from him. The way his cologne has your pulse thrumming was making you nervous.

“I think that’s a pretty extensive rule list. Is that it?” 

You shake your head, “No, I have one more rule. The Escape Rule: If either of us catches real feelings for the other at any time, we immediately call this entire thing off. No questions asked, no hurt feelings. We go right back to being just friends and colleagues. We can’t let this ruin us, okay?”  You turn to him then, eyes pleading for agreement on this.

Lando’s expression shifts, the light in his eyes dimming just a fraction. He looks like he’s going to argue, to say something about how that would never happen, that nothing could ruin what you two had but in the end, his shoulders just droop slightly. He didn’t want to seem needy and he certainly didn’t want to admit that the ‘real feelings’ part was the only reason he’d suggested this in the first place. 

“Right. No feelings or we call it off.” He repeats, the words sounding a bit hollow. “Agreed.” 

You snap the notebook shut with a sense of finality. “Right then, it looks like you have a deal, Mister Norris.” 

This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, you’ll probably regurgitate Val Kilmer’s lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.

Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.

“This is the last time, Sam!”

But Sam smiles through the crowd’s boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.

Because everyone loves him, and it’s just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.

Two: find a comfortable surface.

The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.

Three: be extremely tired.

The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoon—a few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioning—can’t risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.

Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.

Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.

Four:

Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.

Technically you didn’t get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.

Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreading—his hobby is grinding people’s gears.

“Comfy?”

Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.

He’s the one who looks comfortable, if anything. You’re tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.

You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.

The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.

“Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.”

Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.

What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.

The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.

That’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nation’s moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.

And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.

He smells good.

That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearm—which, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.

Steve Rogers doesn’t cure insomnia. He worsens it—or so you think.

Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.

By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you don’t get to watch it: you’re knocked out cold.

─ ·✶· ─

When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.

It’s morning, just the top of—yellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.

Your skin feels warm.

It’s really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.

How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The man’s broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. He’s sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waist—not quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.

Oh, shit. You’re touching his chest.

It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thrice—before his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesn’t yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.

“Morning,” you whisper, almost sheepish.

He hums back. “Morning.”

“Uh… What happened?”

It’s quiet for a bit. You’re not sure if his brain has caught up. He’s staring—not the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position you’re in, piecing together the scene.

“You fell asleep last night,” he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep, too.”

The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.

“Can’t believe none of them woke us up,” you murmur. “Sam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.”

He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel bad—his circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.

“Well… at least we’re well-rested.”

You blink, taken aback.

“You slept well?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”

Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you don’t feel shitty where you should. Your limbs aren’t particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.

Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?

“I think so,” you reply. There’s a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.

Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.

“C’mon, I’ll make you coffee.”

The second time happens two weeks later.

The Quinjet’s hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.

It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steve—top operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the team’s equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemy’s firepower.

You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesn’t quite cover it.

After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.

Fatigue creeps in.

Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.

Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalance—you can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesn’t change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.

And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.

Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignment—it was reasonable to assume you wouldn’t be as used to this as they are.

But it’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t said a word.

A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, he’s usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, there’s only you and Nat, so maybe there’s no need for that, but…

…is he alright?

Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.

You can no longer move.

Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.

His seat isn’t exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on you—the most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.

Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. “Nice try,” he said once, as if your uppercut wasn’t the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.

But never like this.

It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isn’t him.

Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.

She’s already smirking.

You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.

Might as well get some shut-eye.

─ ·✶· ─

“Hey.”

You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.

“Easy, there,” she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.

“We arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.”

You rub the sleep away from your eyes. “Thanks.”

You glance at Steve. He’s already in the middle of getting out of his seat.

You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.

At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.

Steve starts it.

“I’ll take the couch.”

You thumb the hem of your tank top. “You know, I was going to say that.”

“That’s kind of you,” he smiles, “but please.”

He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely “no, you”-ing over: it’s rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but there’s only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.

You raise a brow challengingly. “If you take the couch, I’ll take the floor.”

Steve’s expression hardens like he took that personally. “No way am I gonna let you.”

“Then take the bed.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“The couch.”

“But it’ll be uncomfortable.”

“Aha,” your lips curl into a smile, “so you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.”

He looks away. You can tell he’s holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.

Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.

Funny how—even during the back-and-forth—it felt like it was always going to come to this. Like you’d surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.

Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.

Which leads you to this point in time:

Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakes—it’s just the two of you—but still, at this rate, you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow.

The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.

Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats again.

His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didn’t sleep alone—except for the times you fell asleep with him.

You can’t remember.

He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.

You’re counting.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shift from your side to your back.

“You caught me. You?”

He’s seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.

“Same.”

You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe you’ve just memorized it so well. Still, there’s something unreadable about him.

“Does it happen often?” you ask.

He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. “Sometimes. Often enough.”

You let the answer sink in—Steve Rogers, super soldier, can’t sleep—and shoot him a wry smile.

“Maybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?”

He let out a quiet, humorous huff. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and there’s a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjet—weeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.

He’s so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, they’ll probably kiss his.

“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, voice low.

You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.

Why can’t you sleep? It’s been such a big part of your life, you forget why.

“It’s just difficult for me,” you start, “but these days… I’m not sure.”

He lets you find the thread, shifting so he’s facing you. You begin to face him, too—like your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.

You finally tell him.

“I get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”

Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.

Thirty-three minutes since ‘good night’, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.

On the surface, Steve couldn’t be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.

You’re both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesn’t know what peace is because it’s never learned.

They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.

In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.

But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.

Yet it tastes familiar.

Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret you’d miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?

What on earth does he see in you?

You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.

“We’re gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.”

His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you needed—except the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.

Of course you’d fallen for him. There’s no way you wouldn’t.

But you’re a soldier, and so is he, and there’s work to do tomorrow.

To your mild surprise—and his, in the small shine in his eyes—you yawn.

It’s strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.

You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky “that all you got, agent?” on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.

How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?

A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.

“That’s your cue,” he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.

“Yeah. Try to get some sleep,” you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. “Good night, Steve.”

“Good night.” He says your name, and that’s the last thing you hear.

Your lullaby.

You don’t know he falls asleep right after.

─ ·✶· ─

Steve wakes up first—he has a tendency of doing that. It means he’s the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.

Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.

It reminds him of sunflowers.

Unlike that time after movie night, there’s more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.

Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.

You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when you’re awake. Just… something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly parted—it’s not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.

You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wander—and for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.

What if you weren’t in a safehouse? What if this was your bed—yours and his—and sharing it wasn’t birthed out of politeness?

What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?

You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.

Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.

This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone else’s future.

When you open your eyes, you’ll go back to being soldiers. You’ll call him Cap on the field.

Last night’s memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.

The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didn’t.

He allows himself one final thing.

Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.

Then, after the pang’s echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.

The fourth time happens because you ask for it.

He’s been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway through—a sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isn’t a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.

Wide awake on page 257.

Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.

Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.

He opens the door to see you.

The sight tears him two ways.

You’re in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you weren’t hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. There’s a sting on his sternum—from how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.

It’s the look of someone who’s trying their best to sleep, but can’t.

“I didn’t think you’d be up, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, surprised.

He’s aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You haven’t told him what you needed and he’s already holding the door wide open.

“Hey, no, don’t be. What’s wrong?”

You part your lips, deliberating.

“I can’t sleep.”

It’s as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.

He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pockets—if they had their way, you’d be in his arms by now, but that’d be selfish of him.

Because clearly there’s something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.

He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.

You finally find the words.

“The last time I had a good night’s sleep was at that safehouse.”

He remembers. It was the night he wished you weren’t just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest won’t make things complicated.

He swallows. “Me, too.”

In time’s desert, it’s these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.

But they’re still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.

And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends you’re next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.

Every night.

“Can I please sleep with you?”

You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.

“Not like that,” you stammer, distraught, “I mean—”

“No, I know what you mean, it’s okay.”

You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, it’s just that my room is—”

“Four floors down, yeah,” he knows the way there because he’s considered it more than a few times.

Steve’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.

“Don’t worry about it. Come on.”

You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. It’s much too dark—and too late—for a room tour, anyway.

He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, he’d be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.

You don’t climb into the bed until he does.

“So you brought your own blankie?” There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.

You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.

“It’s not a blankie.”

“Then why’d you bring it?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “didn’t want to steal yours from you.”

He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.

“I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. We’ve slept in worse conditions, haven’t we?”

That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.

But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and he’s grateful that you’re here—in more ways than one.

That you’re here is something he’s always thankful for. That you’re here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroom—in your bed—would mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way he’d survive that.

The thought alone already makes him want. He’s not accustomed to it.

Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.

“You okay?” he asks.

You answer with a nod and a quiet “yeah, better now.”

There’s a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.

Like earlier, it’s a request. As if he’d ever refuse you anything.

“Can I hold you?”

He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.

You’re asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like he’s been given it—you want the very thing he’s longed to give you since that night on the couch.

So he doesn’t answer with words.

His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.

There’s a thrum in his spine as you move, too—you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.

How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.

For once, he doesn’t give a damn.

He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open wound—there was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.

Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.

A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesn’t have to choose between love and rest.

You bring him both.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.

You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.

“Thank you.”

I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yet—you’re too tired for it.

So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

Soon enough, your breathing evens. You’re asleep.

He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.

Like tide, you’re further away from him when the sun is up.

For now, he allows himself one small thing.

He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheek—each breaching a boundary.

Each bearing a promise.

There’s no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell you how he feels.

A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.

That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.

He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.

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