occasional writer

“Work wife?” Emily spat the words out like they burnt her tongue and stared at Andy incredulously.

“Yeah,” Andy shrugged in response, an easy smile gracing her face. “You know, like your closest confidant, your safe person in the workplace.”

“Please.” Emily held up her hand, closing her eyes. “Never say that to me again.”

It was one of those rare moments at Runway where everything was quiet, ominously so: like the calm before the storm. They were sitting outside a coffee shop together, Andy waiting to collect Miranda’s midday order, and Emily on her lunch break picking at a Caesar salad. It was total coincidence that they had bumped into each other, an unfortunate one at that. She had really just wanted to be alone.

Instead, Emily had been met by Andy sliding into the seat opposite, startling her attention away from texting you. In fact, she wouldn’t put it past Andy to have installed a tracker on her phone somehow. She shuddered at the thought.

“I’m just saying,” Andy continued, “you’re practically a married couple at work; it’s crazy that you’ve not got any label on your relationship.”

Emily returned to her salad, pushed away the doubt nagging at her mind, prompted by Andy’s prying. “Labels are for children.” She muttered, then lifted a forkful to her mouth. There was a pause, broken only by the sound of her crunching, and then a buzz from the table.

Emily picked up her phone, saw a notification from you and resisted the urge to melt

[12:47 pm] you’re actually eating something proper right?

She typed back a quick response.

caesar salad with a side of Andy harassing me

“That’s her now, isn’t it?” The aforementioned harasser asked, wiggling her eyebrows. “I can tell because you’re grinning like a child.”

“Alright,” She threw up her hands in surrender, bit back a harsh retort upon remembering that you were becoming rather good friends with Andy. “You’ve made your point and made me incredibly uncomfortable in the process. Your job here is done.”

Andy clapped her hands together gleefully, made a sound akin to a squeal, and at long last, she rose from her chair with the passing remark, “You’ll both thank me on your wedding day!”

Emily rolled her eyes, said “unlikely,” and bid her goodbye with an unenthusiastic wave. She took another bite of her salad, settling further into her chair and chewing distractedly.

An underlying sense of anxiety was lining the pit of her stomach. Unfortunately, she couldn’t help but linger on what the brunette had said. Andy had that tendency to worm her way under your skin and pick out exactly what was bothering you- journalistic instinct, one might name it. Emily had wondered for a while now whether this relationship was developing into something serious: an unfamiliar new venture for her. A wave of anxious nausea overtook her desire to eat. Suddenly, the salad leaves were bitter in her mouth, an unwelcome intrusion. She swallowed back a reluctant gulp and dropped her fork, finished with the meal.

Her phone pinged again with your name lighting up the small screen.

[12:51 pm] dinner at mine tonight? there’ll be no Andy’s to harass you there 

Usually, the sight of your name and the feeling that accompanied it would be sufficient to soothe whatever else was bothering her. Now, however, with the worry plaguing her mind, she felt even more sick. What would it be like to be in a serious committed relationship? To sacrifice the path of your life by making room for another person? Did you even want that?

But she was being ridiculous. The stoic, hardworking, in command Emily Charlton, driven to worry by you. She liked to be in constant control of her day, so actually, this was all Andy’s fault. Rather than enjoying her usual respite halfway through the day, she’d been assaulted by a barrage of awfully personal questions from the brunette regarding your relationship. Emily relegated the topic to the very back of her mind, filed alongside basic human necessities such as eating and drinking enough water. As always, her job had to come first.

She decided to end her lunch break, heading back to the office and resuming her list of tasks. The entire rest of her afternoon centred on preparing for a meeting with Miranda, which she soon found herself standing in the middle of.

“I just don’t see how this blurb is necessary.” Nigel gestured across the mock-up spread about Miranda’s desk. There were several photos of a suit, the lapel of the blazer peeled back to reveal a hint of burgundy red print in the lining. “It states the obvious next to a piece that’s meant to be a mystery… The text shouldn’t give so much away. It should evoke a feeling, not slap us round the face with the grand reveal.”

Miranda hummed thoughtfully, tapping a manicured nail against her desk. Having worked there for long enough, Emily recognised this body language meant Miranda probably agreed. She jotted down Nigel’s notes.

“You’re right,” Miranda murmured. “We need a rewrite, done quickly.”

She scribbled ‘rewrite’ next to the sentence.

“Emily...” Miranda called.

Her head whipped up, breath catching in her throat. Despite knowing Miranda perhaps better than she knew even herself, she was still terrified of doing wrong in front of the woman. She didn’t crave her validation as much as she used to, and that was partly thanks to you, but she also took great pride in her ability to anticipate Miranda’s every word… Which is why what she said next caught Emily completely off guard.

“Who’s that content writer you’re always following around like a lost puppy…? She’s good. Get her to do it.”

“I… Wh- Who do you mean?” She stuttered out- a total lie. Miranda meant you. But she couldn’t admit that, absolutely wouldn’t.

Miranda quirked an eyebrow. Nigel stared at her, somewhere between sympathy and humour. She felt her cheeks heat up, prayed her foundation would cover any redness to them.

“You’re not fooling anyone here,” Miranda spoke slowly. “I don’t care what my employees get up to in their spare time, as long as any relationships formed along the way don’t hinder their ability to work together.” She explained, in words as close to supportive as one could expect from the woman. “That won’t be a problem for you, will it?” Miranda asked mockingly, sarcastically, entirely aware that nobody who fought through this job would ever let anything get in the way.

“No.” She nodded, frantically attempting to regain control in the situation. “I’ll get her to do it right away.”

The rest of the meeting passed in an uneventful blur. Afterwards, the walk to your desk was torturous and yet over way too quickly. Emily hadn’t thought of what to say, nor an answer to your earlier question, nor recovered from the anxiety churning in her gut. And then, there you were, glancing up from your keyboard, registering who it was, and beaming at her.

“Hey!” You greeted, all else occupying your attention pushed aside by Emily’s presence. “How’s your day going?”

Emily let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. There you were, so pleased to see her, a relaxed grin adorning your face. Your perfume, the soft curl of a loose strand of hair, your warm gaze roaming over her body. Without saying a word, Emily felt reassured by you, made aware that all her prior concern had been futile. She leant against your desk as she had done so many times recently. “Strangely quiet… Although I’m afraid I’m about to ruin your peace.”

You frowned, the smile still gracing your cheeks. “Go on.”

“Miranda wants you to rewrite a description some incompetent moron came up with.” She placed the article down in front of you, her finger fast to find the words and trace over them. “The piece is meant to be a hinted reveal, but it ruins that surprise.”

“Oh yeah.” You shifted forward in your seat, skimming over the paragraph. “I can get that done in twenty minutes max.”

Emily allowed her gaze to shift over to you, the article lying forgotten in front of her. There was a gentle light reflecting in your eyes, a crease between your brows as you examined the photos. She had always reluctantly admired your written work, even back when you supposedly hated one another. And that penchant for finding the right words translated into how you spoke to her too- always knowing the right thing to say to her. Her heart fluttered in her chest, burning deep into your stomach as she watched you bite down on your lip.

Emily decided then that she needed your attention on her. She shuffled forwards, pressed a light kiss to the cheek closest to her and waited for your head to whip around.

The two of you had been keeping this unnamed relationship somewhere between subtle and secret in the office, but rules be damned after this latest revelation. “Miranda knows about us,” Emily whispered, words tickling your skin.  

“Yeah?” You asked, breathless, yet schooling your features into an unaffected mask. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Yes.” The word escaped her lips before she could stop it. “And Andy taught me an abhorrent new phrase today called work wives.”

“Work wives?” You repeated, chuckling.

“I know.” Emily rolled her eyes, smirking. She swallowed, tried to recall why on earth she had felt so anxious earlier and came up with no plausible explanation. Instead, she let the thought currently on her mind be vocalised. “It should at least start with work girlfriends.”

“Work girlfriends?” You hummed and considered it for a moment, your eyes dipping to Emily’s lips briefly. “I think I like that…”

Emily’s whole body shook pleasantly; adrenaline turned to relief turned to something more. She felt herself smiling, smitten and mesmerised by the way you stared back at her. Absolute adoration, a truth behind the joking pretence. Something that had previously caused her so much stress had been resolved so naturally.

Remembering where exactly she was right now, Emily attempted desperately to regain control of her expression, unable to quell the warmth suffusing into every limb.

At her wordlessness, you took on a teasing air, continuing, “Much better than work-friends-with-benefits or whatever it would be...”

She scoffed in amongst a soft laugh, bit her cheeks and turned away from your gleaming eyes to try and calm herself down.

After a beat, she added. “We can celebrate this promotion tonight at yours, then.”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright,” She tapped her finger on the article. “You’d better get to work so we can leave on time.”

Mocking blue eyes lined with dark eyeshadow, the twitch of an eyebrow and the lilt of soft pink lips. You were aware of the challenge Emily Charlton posed, but also of the softer layer of insecurity that marred her expression- a gentle grasp of your shoulder that turned sharp as the elevator doors slid open. She blinked, and then as quickly as the display began, she was pulling away from you.

There was a general cheer from the foyer once you faced the crowd of onlookers, all patiently waiting for the elevator dilemma to be solved. You tried your best to smile reassuringly, though the gesture did not reach your eyes- they were distracted, fixated. Emily stepped past you. She was hurriedly gliding through the foyer, resuming her list of tasks for the day. Her body language had schooled into one of indifference, of mild irritation at the inconvenience, as though nothing had occurred in that confined metal box.

Remembering where you were, you frantically jumped out of the elevator and onto solid ground.

“Hey!” Andy wormed her way beyond the crowd. She gave you a once-over and seemed to reach her own conclusion. “Well done for surviving in there. I half expected you to come out with a black eye.”

You gulped, wishing away the churning in your stomach as you answered, “We all know it would be the other way around- not that you’d see it on Emily under all those layers of eyeshadow.” It was instinctual to fall back into habit, the cruel ease of gossip.

Andy smiled, not yet having adapted to the Runway jargon of shallow comments. “Coffee?” She asked.

“Please.” You nodded,

When you didn’t budge, her face took on a sympathetic tone. “We can take the stairs?” She suggested.

You realised suddenly that grabbing coffee would mean going up several floors to the cafeteria. “Oh, no, it’s fine. We’ll take the elevator.” You corrected, quickly leaping back before it began its ascent.

Andy followed, albeit a lot more composed, and eyed you up suspiciously.

Her scrutiny brought a bright red flush to your cheeks, one that didn’t subside until you were sitting down with a steaming cup of coffee in front of you. Andy was still waiting for her own order, having asked for something with more cream and sugar than most girls in this office would ever dream of tasting.

Your mind jumped suddenly back to Emily, wondering whether she was more of a coffee or tea person. The image of her drinking popped into your mind, lipstick staining the rim of the cup, providing an unwelcome oasis in your cloud of panic. You almost let yourself fall into this imagination, your face heating up in response. Instead, you groaned, let your head crash forward into your hands.

You didn’t glance up until the scraping of the chair opposite announced Andy’s return.

“Whoa. You look terrible.” Andy slid into the chair, observing your slumped posture.

“Thanks.” You murmured, hid behind your hands again and prayed you wouldn’t bump into Emily for the rest of the day, lest she see you in such a state.

“What’s up?” She questioned casually.

You wondered briefly whether you ought to divulge all to Andy, then thought of how Emily would have you crucified for confessing to her of all people. But, then again, it was her fault for sending your mind into such a downward spiral. As soon as those elevator doors had opened and Emily had stormed off, all pretence of confidence had apparently left your body. Rather, a sense of embarrassment and general confusion now permeated your mind. Until this morning, you had loathed her.

“Just…” You waved a hand, struggled with how to respond, and promptly gave up. “Fetch Nigel, please. Tell him it’s urgent.”

Andy’s eyes comically widened as she considered the desperation lacing your words. She nodded once, “Alright,” and, despite not being your assistant, stood up with an admirable sense of purpose.

Luckily, the cafeteria was empty enough for you to zone out while you waited, and to spot Nigel and Andy marching across from the moment they stepped through the doors. The former appeared pretty unimpressed to have been interrupted, while the latter jogged alongside to keep up and attempt some small talk.

“What is it?” Nigel asked as soon as you were in earshot. “I was rather busy, so this better be worth putting my life in the hands of those malfunctioning metal death traps to come down here.” He pulled out the seat Andy had previously been sitting in, while the brunette awkwardly grabbed one from another table and dragged it over.

You decided in that moment to trust Andy, seeing how much she was willing to help you already. So, the moment both were sitting, watching you expectantly, you didn’t stop the words from slipping out. “Emily likes me.”

Andy’s mouth opened, then closed again. Nigel’s brow furrowed. Neither said anything.

“She said in the elevator that she had tried to ask me out months ago.” You elaborated. “And I misunderstood her, and… I guess… accidentally rejected her?” You shrugged, wringing your hands under the table, refusing to disclose any more.

Nigel barked out a laugh, so sudden that it made you jump. It echoed around the cafeteria, falling on your disbelieving ears.

“That’s…” Andy frowned. “Great…?” She spoke slowly, questioningly.

You shrugged again, more desperate. “I don’t know? I asked her out on a date, so… maybe? I’m not even sure why I did that.”

“Oh, come on now.” Nigel finally piped up. “You can’t tell me all of that tension came from a place of hatred?”

You stayed silent.

He stared at you, aghast and unimpressed. “Seriously?”

Andy’s head was whipping back and forth between the two of you, somehow just as bewildered as you were.

“I can’t vouch for Miss Charlton on the matter,” Nigel continued, “but there’s always been a certain degree of… chemistry between the two of you. I’m only surprised that she was the one to confess... I thought you would implode into a pile of vintage couture before Emily dared to address the way you ogle her every day.” He leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

“I do not ogle!” You exclaimed; neck flushed with embarrassment. You had hoped confiding in Nigel would make you feel better, not worse. “Was I really that obvious?” You asked, quieter.

“A little bit.” Andy grimaced.

“All this time I thought she hated me.” You crossed your arms over your chest, as though to physically protect yourself from the emotional turbulence that may accompany any further revelations. Today was proving to be a long day.

“Hate, no.” Nigel shook his head. “Frustration…” his lips drew into a taut line as he nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Yeah,” Andy smirked. “I’d be frustrated too… You lead her on, Y/N.” She teased.

You huffed out a laugh.

“Now do us all a favour and don’t do that again.” Nigel rose from his seat. “Go sort out that date.” He left without another word, though you supposed that was as close to good luck as you were going to get from the man.

Andy clasped her hands around her coffee cup and thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure she’ll be out running errands for at least a couple of hours. Plenty of time to prepare.”

You chewed on your lower lip, contemplating how to engage Emily in a conversation that would neatly follow on from your last without feeling entirely awkward. You knew she put on a confident persona and silently hoped that she would approach you first.

Andy screwed up her face at your nervous composure. “Wanna brainstorm some ideas?”

“Yes.”

If someone were to create a list of ‘who knows Emily best’, Andy would probably fit somewhere in the middle, having to spend most of her working day in close proximity. However, if the list were titled ‘who could best predict what Emily would like,’ Andy would be dead last. Previously, you might’ve volunteered yourself for bottom place, but prior revelations had proven that a misguided assumption.

Andy hummed. “Dinner is the obvious choice. Somewhere intimate, candlelit, that kind of vibe.”

“Oh, I’ve not even thought about the venue yet.” You interjected. “I mean, how do I ask her?”

“I thought you already had?”

“No. We established we would go on a date. We didn’t decide where or when- that’s what I need to ask her.” You rushed out, taking a deep breath at the end of the sentence to calm your nerves. You’d never been rendered so frantic by anyone before, nor equally so excited at the prospect of spending more time together. There had always been a hypnotic quality to Emily, an air about her that drew your attention every time she flitted about the office. Now, you could dwell on this intrigue and be soothed by the knowledge that it was reciprocated to some degree. If only you could allow yourself to relax.

“Well, have an honest conversation… Make sure to exchange numbers, but don’t be offended if she doesn’t answer. And be brief, I think she’d appreciate that. You know how busy she always is.”

You nodded along as Andy rambled, entranced by her perception of Emily.

Then a simple question pushed its way to the forefront of your mind. “And, do you think…” You trailed off, cleared your throat and ignored the perpetuating embarrassment. “That this is a good idea…?”

Andy fixed you with a funny look. “You mean, do I think you can handle Emily?”

You ran your tongue over your teeth, nodded once.

“God no.” Andy chuckled. “No one can. But you want to try, and clearly she wants to try too.”

You considered her words, blinked hard, and cooled your frayed nerves into a semblance of composure. “Alright.”

“Come on, lovebird.” Andy practically hauled you from your seat, coffee cup gripped so tightly in one hand that you expected it to crumple. You followed her back to the office in a daze, and only upon seeing your desk did you remember the task you had to complete. With a polite smile sent Andy’s way, you excused yourself from the debacle and returned to your work. It provided a sufficient distraction to occupy the majority of your day.

Apart from the flash of auburn hair that you noticed darting about the office out of the corner of your eye.

It wasn’t until precisely 4:48 pm that you leaned back in your chair, staring proudly at the finished article. You were prepared enough to have made additional notes when researching the initial article, so expanding it didn’t require much effort. Now, however, your next task for the day was unavoidable.

With the pretence of a complete article tucked under your arms, you stood up from your desk, took a deep breath, and headed towards Miranda’s office. Step, step, breathe. Step, step, breathe. Anticipation twisted a knot into your stomach, unbound as you turned the corner and realised Emily’s desk was empty. Dismay flooded through you; the underlying build-up having come to an unsatisfactory fruition. Instead, you focused on the stack of Post-it notes lying in the centre of the table and formed an idea.

You located a pen and jotted down your number, went to also write your name, then thought better of it and simply signed off with a kiss. You grimaced, mildly embarrassed by the childish antics this newfound crush had relegated you to.

Considering there were only ten minutes left of the official working day, and no Emily in sight, you resigned yourself to tidying up your workspace and packing your bag. Most days, you happily worked overtime, along with half of your colleagues. Today, however, you left the second the clock hit 5pm. It had been a long day, and you deserved a long soak in the bath, and perhaps a pizza delivery later when you were too tired to cook.

The taxi ride home, trek up many flights of stairs to your apartment and initial collapse on the sofa passed by in a mundane blur. The surreal glow of your phone's screen announcing two new messages did not.

[5:04 pm] Leaving a note on my desk is ridiculous

[5:04 pm] I could’ve walked right past it

Your fingers were shaking as you typed back a response.

[5:41 pm] You left me first in the elevator earlier

You read the message back and cringed, hoping it didn’t sound bitter. You were intending to tease her, not make her think you were some desperate, needy…

[5:41 pm] Some of us had things to get on with today

You hadn’t expected Emily to answer so quickly, caught halfway through saving her as a contact on your phone. If it weren’t for the distant rumble of traffic, you were certain you could’ve heard your heart pounding an unstable rhythm in your ears. You pulled your knees up to your chest, chewed on your nail and pondered what to say next. To your surprise, she beat you to it.

[Emily]: It’s a Friday night and I don’t have any plans, which is unusual and an atrocity

You could practically hear her voice in the sentence and smiled fondly to yourself. Your phone buzzed again, this time from a different number.

[Andy] If you’re not getting ready for your date right now, I’ll be very disappointed…

[You] I didn’t catch her earlier to organise, sorry to disappoint :(

[You] But we’re messaging right now!

[Andy] She actually answers you???

[Andy] If I didn’t call I’d never get a hold of her

[You] Ouch

[You] Take that as an insult

[Andy] You’d better not be answering me to delay answering her

[You] Caught red-handed

You put your phone down for a second and took a deep breath. Andy was right: no more delays. You swapped back to the conversation with Emily, started typing out a response, then paused and deleted the entire thing. Your mind was coming up blank. You needed to say something funny, flirtatious, perhaps. Or maybe you were really overcomplicating things.

Instead, you typed out the name of a Mediterranean restaurant owned by a friend, so you would get a guaranteed table despite it being last-minute on a Friday night. You suggested 7:30 pm, giving you just under two hours to prepare, and watched the glowing screen with bated breath.

Eventually, that blank space was replaced with a message box.

[Emily] See you there

If somebody had told you a mere few days ago that you would be going on a date with Emily Charlton, you would’ve had an aneurysm. Even by the point you had called your friend and finished getting ready for said date, you still could’ve had an aneurysm. The whole ordeal seemed impossible, totally implausible that she even tolerated you, let alone wanted to spend more time in your presence.

And yet, you had worried endlessly over an outfit, pondering what she would like best. Then, stressed and reapplied your makeup twice before considering it satisfactory. Your stomach was grumbling, your feet ached, and your mind lagged behind, weighed down with exhaustion. But as soon as you stepped onto the pavement, you felt the harsh, cold breeze of New York City stinging your cheek, and in that moment, you felt alive.

With every step towards the restaurant, your coat swung behind you and your hair tussled in the breeze. You might not have looked as perfect as when you left your flat, but by the time you arrived at the address, you felt invincible.

A welcoming light radiated from the restaurant, framed by large windows which held a plethora of activity. Each table appeared to be occupied, waiters bustling about the establishment with dishes of food. In the corner, a live singer and pianist filled the room with ambient music. You were rather proud of your choice. It was exactly the kind of place you could picture Emily fitting in, and yet, it was more genuine than most. The food was good, the atmosphere was warm, and if you peered through the lower lighting inside, you noted that your friend had kept your usual table free.

You hadn’t heard the strident clicking of heels against concrete until noticing the sound had paused beside you. Slowly, as calmly as possible, you turned around to face the figure standing next to you.

Emily was barely a meter away from you, clutching her hands in front of her as though she were nervous. She was dressed in a similar trench coat, belted at the waist and somehow ten times more fashionable than what you had been trying to pull off.

“Hey.” You remembered to speak suddenly, finding your mouth dry.

Her hair was freshly straightened, unmoving despite the breeze. She had refreshed her makeup, an extra sheen of lighter blue eyeshadow drawing your attention away from the darker shade of red colouring her lips.

“Hello.” Emily smiled stiffly, then made a gesture you didn’t quite understand.  “Well, come on then, I’m freezing out here.” She stepped closer, and for a brief moment, you thought she might hug you. Instead, her hand found its place on your lower back, an insistent warmth radiating through your layers as she guided you towards the entrance. You followed along, dumbfounded, mind stuck on where her hand was splayed across your back.

You wished then that you had been the one to reach out and touch her, to guide her inside, considering it was your choice of venue. Upon entering, you snapped into life and approached the desk to state your name. The server smiled politely, offered to take your coats, and as abruptly as the contact was initiated, Emily had pulled her hand away.

Once you’d handed over your coats, you did at last summon the courage to turn to her and murmur, “You look lovely, by the way.”

She tutted, “I know,” surveyed the restaurant once and murmured, “as do you,” as though giving you a compliment physically pained her. There was an unusually tense aspect to the way Emily moved towards the table, an awkward smile sent your way as she reluctantly lifted up the menu. You suddenly were less confident in your choice of venue.

“My friend owns the place.” You found the explanation tumbling out of your mouth before anything else. “I didn’t know if I’d manage to get a table anywhere else at this late notice.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Do what I do and say you work for Runway. They usually assume they’re going to get a feature and work something out.”

“Huh, that’s smart.” You slumped back in your seat, wringing your hands in your lap as an output for your general nerves. “Can’t go to the same place twice, though.”

“No. I suppose not.”

Emily was gripping the menu so tightly that you noticed the paper was crumpling beneath her fingertips. There was something off about her, a tenseness you only saw when Miranda was nearby, or demanding something difficult over the phone. You had hoped that outside of work, Emily would release this stick up her arse kind of attitude, but you were being proven determinedly wrong. Maybe this whole date was a mistake in the making.

Settling yourself to a less-than-comfortable evening, you asked Emily whether she wanted to split a bottle of wine, and were met with a curt, “Yes. That’ll do.”

She returned to scrutinising the menu, allowing your gaze to trace over her outfit, from the tight-fitting mesh top to the thin leather belt over a pair of low-rise jeans. It was more casual than her work attire and left your mouth especially dry. As with most of the Runway girls, she took her diet and figure very seriously. You were well aware of the general culture within the office, evidenced every day by the lack of queue in the cafeteria. In fact, you were uncertain you’d ever seen Emily in there.

You frowned at this thought and wondered if this was the explanation for her apparent discomfort.

“You know,” you smiled, ducked to meet her gaze, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you actually eat before.”

Emily’s eyes widened imperceptibly, as if she’d been caught in the act, then smoothed into indifference. “Thank you.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

Emily sighed. “What do you want me to say? That I can’t enjoy going out to eat?” She snapped.

There we go. You had sensed there was something off about her demeanour, and now contemplated how best to proceed.

“Well, I won’t be offended if you want to ditch…” You began, saw her jaw clench, her hands placing the menu down. “But I think it’s worth trying.”

Emily’s hand curled into a fist on the table.

At that inconvenient moment, the server returned, pouring out two glasses of wine into an endless silence. “Ready to order?”

“Just give us a couple minutes, please.” You answered, waited for the server to leave, then turned back to Emily. “Why don’t we get a couple of the sharing plates?” You ventured instead. “And if you don’t want to eat anymore, then it won’t matter because it’s equally mine to waste.”

Emily swallowed. “Alright.”

“And for what it’s worth, it’s always better to eat something. I mean, you’ll look great regardless. That is, I think… You’re gorgeous.” You stuttered out, your cheeks heating up. You hid them behind the wine, tipping a mouthful of the bitter liquid back, fingers lingering around the stem of the glass. You had never broached the sensitive topic of eating before, and felt wholly unprepared to do it with someone who, prior to today, you had believed loathed you.

Some part of what you said must’ve reached her, as Emily chewed on her bottom lip, the corners twitching upwards into a smile. “Thank you.” She said, with more sincerity this time. Her hand unfurled from its place on the table and reached across, fingertips brushing against the skin of your hand.

You took the hint, letting go of the glass to flip your hand onto its side. Her fingertips slid soothingly across your palm, somewhere between ticklish and reassuring, then drew back to gently interlock with your own. It dawned on you then that Emily Charlton was holding your hand. Your gaze was fixated, mesmerised by the surreal sight.

“Your friend owns this place?” Emily asked.

“Yes.”

“You can pick, then.” She smirked, infuriating and yet so endearing.

You groaned, albeit unable to stop the grin from spreading across your face. “Alright, no pressure.” You joked, picked up the menu, and browsed the options.

You ended up choosing a salad and souvlaki, prepared to tackle at least one dish by yourself. Although, as the night continued, more wine was drunk and the uptight aspect to Emily’s posture melted away, so she did indeed eat an acceptable amount. Admittedly, you were relieved, recognising that to at least some degree, Emily was relaxed around you. She had taken your words into consideration and decided she was comfortable enough to indulge.

Conversation flowed easily between the two of you, a perfect balance between work-talk and getting to know each other. At a couple of points, you made her truly laugh: dimples gracing her expression as she tipped her head back. Similarly, you found she had a razor-sharp sense of humour, beyond merely teasing you. She was observant, smart, and not at all as shallow as her behaviour in the office led you to believe.

“I thought you dressed acceptably…” She paused, recounting her first impression of you. “That you were way too laid back for the job, which is a little irritating considering my blood pressure is through the roof whenever I step into that building.”

“Seriously?” You exclaimed. “You have no idea how nervous I was showing up for that job.”

She hummed. “You hide it well.”

You tilted your head, reminiscent of the constant insecurity that plagued your first week at Runway. “You know what really bugs me?”

“What?”

“I cannot remember for the life of me the first conversation we had.”

Emily grinned, a glint to the stark blue of her eyes. “Let me jog your memory.”

She leaned forward, her gaze worked its way down your torso, lingering for a heated second on the skin your exposed clavicle. You shivered beneath the attention.

“You were waiting to see Miranda, your first meeting with her, so you were quite nervous. I remember you kept shifting from one foot to another. Very annoying.” Emily began, and now the situation was flooding back to you.

That tunnel vision focused on Miranda’s desk, how she was pacing about her office, speaking harshly down the phone. You assumed she was in a bad mood, could recall the utter sense of dread for bursting in at the wrong moment. Now, you recognised she always spoke harshly, regardless of mood.

“Anyway,” Emily cleared her throat, and you swore you saw a light blush colouring her cheeks. “Your blouse was twisted, and your bra was poking out… So, I called out and gestured for you to fix it.”

“Wow.” You were touched by the consideration, wondering how on earth you had dismissed it so easily, so early into your relationship. “Very kind of you.”

“Yes, I don’t know what came over me that day.” She shrugged, stared at you humorously. “Do you remember what you said to me?”

“Erm.” All that clouded your memory was the sense of anxiety, the mental preparation to have you work torn to shreds by Miranda. “Thank you, I hope?”

Emily ran her tongue over her teeth, smug in making you wait for her to finish the story. “You did… After saying eyes up here and gesturing at me.”

“Oh god.” You chuckled, ran your hand over your face ashamedly, praying afterwards that your makeup hadn’t smudged.

“I’m glad you’re embarrassed now!” Emily continued. “Really put me at a loss that day.”

“Hey, like you said, I was nervous! I can’t be held accountable for what I said in a moment of panic.” You shook your head in disbelief. “And after that, I still can’t believe you tripped me up.”

“After you rejected me!”

“That wasn’t a rejection!” You echoed. “And we’re here now, anyway, aren’t we?”

“I guess we are.” Emily stared at you, a mix of heat which alluded more, and honesty which promised care.

Your heart was in your throat, while a more genuine sense of contentment brewed inside your stomach, a warmth suffusing throughout every organ, running along to the tips of your fingers. You placed your hand back out on the table, and she met it willingly, silently reciprocating. You realised then just how screwed you were: the extent to which your desire for her had developed over the last few months, now evolving into feelings that you were yet to put a name to. Here was the promise of something new and genuine.

You wanted to bask in this promise forever, fulfilled as another couple of drinks were ordered. But then, before you knew it, the bill was awaiting your reluctant attention in the middle of the table.

Most other people had already left the restaurant, explained when you glanced at the clock and realised it was after 10 pm. You gathered your coats, braced for the cold nighttime air and stepped outside together. The streets were mostly empty as you wandered along, slowly, adjusted to each other’s company and unwilling for the night to end.

Orange streetlight illuminated Emily’s hair, casting an auburn glow on her face, both beautiful and melancholic. The air tasted of rain, and that smell of decay that made autumn so distinct. It was as though you were walking through a memory, savouring every little detail anew. You didn’t want it to end, but sleep was making itself known at the edges of your vision, a blur that prompted you to focus entirely on Emily.

There was a pause in the conversation, an accidental distance between you two that Emily quickly fixed, stepping closer. You halted, back almost touching the brick wall behind. She followed, bit her cheek, and suggested, “We should do that again sometime.”

You were unable to resist the sense of pride that quelled inside your chest: not only did she want to go on another date, but she also enjoyed going out for dinner in spite of her initial discomfort. You made her feel at peace enough to let her guard down. “Yeah?” You questioned.

“Yes.” She echoed, certain. She sniffed, the end of her nose already turning red from the cold. “Against my better judgment, I really do quite like you.”

The smirk stretching across her face hid a sincerity that made your chest ache. You mirrored the expression, whispered a soft confession. “Likewise.”

Emily’s eyes hardened, a determination surfacing in them that you had no opportunity to process. She grabbed your hand, dragged you along a few steps down a quieter alleyway, then lessened her grip. Immediately, her hands came up to cup your face, protecting you from the chill in the air. You could barely breathe, openly observing her, lips softly parted when she finally kissed you. Your mind was racing to catch up; eyes fluttering shut a beat later. She seemed to pour everything left unsaid into the kiss.  

Your arm encircled her waist, tugged her closer as she let out a soft gasp. Her lips tasted of wine, slightly chapped from the winter breeze. You snaked a hand beneath her coat, smoothing your way along her top, the fabric much too thin for the weather. She rewarded you by running her tongue along your bottom lip, your mouth eagerly parting for her. All that tension that had finally broken in the elevator reached its pinnacle here, as the world melted all around you.

All you could feel was Emily. Your tongues met, and you both moaned, her grasp slipping down to the nape of your neck. She ran her fingers through your hair and, finally, you pulled away, lightheaded and dazed. She refused to do the same, trailing her lips from the corner of your mouth, along your cheek, and ducking to your jaw. Each press of her lips left a warmth against your skin, turned to a shiver as she moved away. You were aware as she sucked the skin of your neck gently, your stomach twisting pleasantly- yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care if she left a mark.

Her nose was cold against your skin as she tucked her head into the space between your neck and shoulder.

“Do you want to head back to mine?” Her words washed over you, near-whispered below your ear.

Your mind raced to answer yes, but you held yourself back and considered the question.

“As much as I want to, and believe me, I really do want to say yes…” You put your hands on either shoulder, lightly pushed for her to pull away and look at you. You swallowed, wrestled with the confession on the tip of your tongue. “I want to take things slow… Savour it, cause, I really, really like you.”

Emily clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes in a pretend show of frustration, but smiled. “Fair enough, prude.” She exhaled, shifted her arms downwards again so that you were in a half-embrace. “I should head home soon, though.”

“Okay.” You nodded, accepting that the night did have to end eventually. You kept your arm around her waist as you turned to walk, bodies brushing, slowing your progress. You ambled onto a busier street, reluctantly aiming for the row of taxis as you spoke. Here, however, came the point when you had no choice but to go your separate ways.

You withdrew your arm, smiled despite the sickly anticipation of parting. “I’ll see you on Monday?”

Emily twisted her lips, let your words linger in the air. “I’m sure I can fit you in before then.”

Your smile widened. “I’ll see you soon then.” You leaned forward to press a simple kiss on her cheek, saw how the contact affected her, and at last, bid her goodnight with the knowledge that she definitely felt the same way about you.

Notes: it took me four attempts to spell gorgeous- screw you spellcheck for fighting me on that one. This is definitely the finale for stumbling to conclusions, but maybe I’ll write shorter oneshots for this pairing, who knows.

There was something about the way Emily Charlton rushed through the office every morning that set your teeth on edge. She would flap her hands about and hurriedly command people to their stations in anticipation of Miranda’s arrival, as though this same routine didn’t occur most mornings, as though she had any real authority. You understood it was merely some misguided commitment to her job, but it came across as arrogant and snarky.

Most employees were the same, but underneath that snark was a general willingness to work as a team. Both the creative and administrative sides of the company had the same goal: to deliver the best possible fashion magazine each month.

You didn’t believe Emily truly cared about the magazine… Or maybe she did, in some shallow way- for first access to new trends, and or simply status as being Miranda Priestly’s emo sidekick.

“Smile.” There was a tap on your shoulder, sarcastic encouragement from Nigel as he rounded your desk.

You realised suddenly that your face must’ve been mirroring your thoughts, and nodded back in thanks, fixing a slightly less irritated expression to your face. Nigel was your closest confidant in the office, and as such, had been subject to your frequent rants on materialistic, shallow fashion girls. You didn’t mention names, but you usually tended to let something slip that gave away your dislike towards Emily.

Nigel, however, was discreet in his behaviour towards everyone at Runway, so you could never truly gauge how he felt in turn.

“Much better.” Nigel commended, lingering longer than he normally did in the mornings. “Now, try to remember to keep it with what I’m about to tell you.”

“Oh god.” You slumped back in your chair, pondering what awful news or abhorrent task you were about to be delivered. “What is it?”

“Miranda asked to speak to you about your piece this morning, which of course she doesn’t have time for, so you’ll be meeting with Emily in about,” he swivelled his wrist to glance at the no doubt expensive watch resting there. “Five minutes, give or take.”

You bit your cheeks, tried desperately not to swear. This must’ve been some karma for your pessimistic thoughts that morning. You crossed your arms, met Nigel’s calm stare with an attempt at nonchalance. “And what experience does Emily have to judge my article?”

“She’ll be passing on notes, I’m told.”

“I’m sure she won’t hold back her personal insight either.” You muttered, bitterly.

Nigel tutted. “Play nice.” He scolded, though you noted the amused quirk of his lips. His eyes flickered upwards, and your worst fear was confirmed as he looked back down at you and mouthed “Good luck.”

As Nigel disappeared from view, a harsh voice called from across the office. “Y/L/N. Meeting room in five minutes.”

You shuddered at the tone of Emily’s voice. Every second in her presence was loathsome, a test to your tolerance. Upon first starting your job there, you had tried to be friendly with her. You knew that assistants tended to be the glue that held a whole office together, and the fact that this particular assistant happened to be incredibly attractive might’ve also played a part. For a while, you reckoned she might’ve appreciated your attempt at civility; however, that phase was very short-lived.

Memories of a foot stuck out suddenly as you walked past, sending you tumbling to the ground, papers flying everywhere, and a snigger to your left. You had glanced up from where you were kneeling on the ground to see Emily, openly grinning at you, Serena next to her, a hand clasped over her mouth to hide her laughter. Something in the redhead’s bullyish smile had crushed a distant hope inside of you. It was a clear message: stop trying to be friends with her.

A resurgence of insecurity at the memory caused your knees to buckle as you rose from your chair, folder in arms, a crude attempt to gather together all the research for your article. You were determined to have a comeback planned for every insult she may throw your way. Holding your head high, you marched across the office, took a deep breath, and pushed open the glass door.

Emily was sitting at the head of the table, pen poised in her right hand, a notebook and a copy of your article lying flat in front of her. As the door clicked shut, you saw her eyes flicker across your outfit, then to the clock, likely hoping to be able to berate you for not being exactly on time. When she realised this wasn’t justifiable, she gestured to a seat.

“So, Miranda has asked me to speak with you about your article.” Each word leaving Emily’s mouth was accompanied by a grimace, as if the effort of having this conversation caused her great pain. “Great Style, Great Price: Shopping Strategies- The Psychology of Spending, not a snappy title, is it?” She snarked, tracing the article mock-up.

“Is that note from Miranda, or yourself?” You responded calmly.

Emily fixed you with an unimpressed glare, then seemed to swallow back whatever she wanted to say. “Miranda has asked…” She sighed, aware that the tension was slowly eating away at you, and determined to delay finishing her sentence to make you suffer- or, that was your interpretation of it at least.

“She wants it to be a double spread.” The words rushed out of Emily’s mouth so quickly that you almost missed the meaning. “Can you write more material, or do I need to assign someone to help you?”

Your mouth opened and closed a couple of times as you processed everything. A double spread. That was usually saved for important articles; the new spring collection, or a particular show at Paris Fashion Week. You did the fluff pieces, essentially, mildly interesting reads for someone to skim over.

“Well?” Emily spat, frustrated by your silence.

“Erm. Well, yes. Of course.” You stuttered out, unable to stop the smile stretching across your cheeks. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Brilliant.” She snapped her notebook shut. “That’s all.”

And it should’ve been all. You should’ve gathered up your things, walked back to your desk and gotten on with the work you were extremely happy to have been assigned. But that memory of Emily’s cruel smile flashed through your mind, and you couldn’t help yourself.

“I wonder whether I’d be able to incorporate an interview into the piece.” You goaded. “Get perspectives from the office- people with shopping addictions. Do you care to comment?”

Emily frowned at you in response.

“How often would you say you go on shopping sprees? When it comes to purchasing clothes, do you ever feel like you just can’t help yourself?” The irony of your mocking question wasn’t lost on you, since you couldn’t resist teasing her. You pretended to pick up your pen, hiding your smirk.

“Oh, sod off.” Emily stood up and stormed over to the exit.

You scrambled your things together and followed her. “Is there anything you regret buying?” You stalked after her at a pace through the office. “How many times do you wear an item before you’re done with it?” Emily reached the elevators and furiously jabbed at the down button, attempting to escape your persistence. “How much of your paycheck goes on clothes?” The doors dinged as they opened, and you were vaguely aware that getting into the elevator with her was taking the joke a little too far.

And yet… You stepped over the threshold. She’d probably expected you to take a step back and leave her alone, but you were in the mood for a confrontation. For once, you had the upper hand.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Emily exclaimed as she realised you weren’t giving up yet.

“Getting content for my piece, like you said--”

A deafening screech cut you off, and the elevator jolted hard. Your stomach plummeted, and you were thrown off balance, dropping your belongings and being sent toppling right into Emily. For a second, her arms wrapped around you, steadying you, and then as quickly as the contact was initiated, she pulled back. Just as you had remembered to breathe, the lights in the elevator flickered off, immersing you both in complete darkness.

“Shit.” Emily blurted out. In spite of the circumstances, you could only focus on the fact that you had never heard her swear. “There’s an emergency call button somewhere over here.” In the darkness, a set of hands fumbled around.

Her hand briefly brushed against your bare skin, and you jumped, using the chance to motivate yourself into action. You felt the direction she was aiming for and joined in the blind search, eventually making contact with a cool metal surface. The buttons were beneath your fingertips, and you desperately started pressing them all until…

An emergency light flickered on, casting the elevator in a warm glow. Now, vision restored, you harshly pressed your fingertip against the call button. A shrill ringing sounded, and you breathed a sigh of relief. You glanced across to the other side of the elevator and realised two things simultaneously. First was how close Emily’s face was to yours. And second, the utter panic plastered across it.

A strange desire to comfort her overcame you. “It’s okay. We’re alright. They’ll send someone to fix it soon.”

“And what if we plummet down all seventeen floors before then!” She snapped back.

“No. There’s safety mechanisms in place to stop that from happening.” You answered, more so to convince yourself rather than from actual knowledge.

“God.” Emily clasped her hands together in a silent prayer. “I don’t have time for this today!” She took in a shuddering breath, starting to pace back and forth a couple of steps. “I have to collect the scarves from Burberry, and get the jet sorted for tomorrow morning, and Andrea can’t be on the phones all day, she’s bloody useless-“

She was spiralling, and as much as you disliked her, you were also reluctant to stand by and watch as she had a panic attack. Instead, you grasped her clasped hands, halting her pacing. “Emily.” You forced her to look at you, tried to ignore the tug at your heartstrings as tears welled in her eyes. “It’ll be alright. Andy is new, but she’s not useless.”

Emily’s eyes widened comically. “Oh, yes, she is!”

“No.” You interrupted. “You just set such a high standard for her to match up to.” Earlier that morning, complimenting the woman would’ve been the furthest thing from your mind, but it had been a strange enough day already.

Emily rolled her eyes, which did nothing to distract from the smile creeping onto her face. “I work at the standard that’s required for this job.”

Before you could admonish her, there was a crackling noise to your right as the intercom buzzed into life. You both seemed to abruptly remember where you were and what that sound was, as Emily tugged her hands out of yours.

She bent down to the grate from which the noise seemed to emerge. “Yes, hello!”

“Hello?”

“Hello, can you hear me?” Emily yelled, comically loud.

“Emily, is that you?” As the intercom cleared, you recognised the voice. “It’s me, Andy!”

Emily turned to the side, muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You snorted out a laugh and leaned down. “Hey, I’m in here too!”

“Y/N?” Andy questioned.

“Yep.” You replied. “The lift sort of jolted, and the emergency light’s gone on. What’s going on?”

“All of the lifts have sort of… malfunctioned,” Andy called back, regret evident in her voice. “There’s two other groups of people stuck too. We will get you out of there, though, don’t worry! Maintenance has been called already.”

“You’d bloody better!” Emily exclaimed from a distance, having resumed her pacing.

You hoped Andy hadn’t heard the exasperation in her tone, and instead asked, “Do you have any idea how long it will take?”

“Erm.” Andy’s voice disappeared for a couple of seconds. “At least an hour, maybe…? Sorry, guys.”

You gulped. “That’s alright. Keep us updated, please.”

“Will do… Ok, I’m going to stop pressing the intercom thing now, but I’ll be back when I have news!” She explained.

“Thanks, Andy.”

Although all Emily’s complaints were somewhat justified in terms of her fashion sense, you rather liked Andy. She was thoroughly attempting to adapt to the workplace, eager to befriend those in the office she deemed normal, and overall true to herself. In her first week, you had pointed her in the right direction a few times, and so some mornings on the way to get Miranda’s coffee order, Andy would stop by your desk and ask if you wanted anything. It was nice to have an ally in the office.

You made a mental note to ask her for drinks after work one night.

Emily had her arms crossed, and a frown etched into her face when you turned back around. She shrugged at you. “So, what now?”

You returned the shrug, albeit less aggressively. “I don’t know. Wait to be rescued?”

Emily tutted. “You know, for being such a know-it-all, you’re awfully useless in the one situation you could be of some use.” She snapped.

While you would normally snap something back, you found the energy sorely lacking. Instead, you sighed, kneeled onto the ground to gather your scattered notebook and pen, and then, rather unceremoniously, flopped down onto the floor. You scooted until your back was up against the wall, mentally resigning yourself to the long hour ahead of you.

Above you, a long-suffering sigh sounded. Then, a shuffling of clothes, and the most gradual lowering to the ground you’d possibly ever seen in your life. Emily tucked her skirt beneath her as she sat, visibly cringing at the sight of designer material against the dirty floor. She stretched her legs out in front of her, and you figured out the cause for her slow movement.

“How on earth do you spend all day in those?” You asked, nodding towards the stiletto heel boots.

“With practice…” Emily answered, then added, “and plasters in my bag.”

You smiled at the honest admission. There was a long pause, in which you could see Emily scrutinising something about your appearance.

“What?” You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling the weight of insecurity dousing your entire body.

She pursed her lips and thought for a beat. “You generally dress fine… You actually can assemble an outfit, but you always give up when it comes to the shoes… Why?”

You chuckled softly, unsurprised that she had noticed. “I don’t know.” There was no real reason, yet you felt as though you had to provide her with one. “I guess I don’t spend much of the day looking at people's footwear, and I find that black boots or brown shoes tend to go with most things, so I just don’t bother keeping up with trends.”

Emily considered your answer for a second. “Fair enough.”

You were taken aback by how little this bothered her. Gone was the woman who hyper-fixated on every aspect of a person’s outfit, who berated every show of character. Here in the elevator, under the warm lighting, she looked almost soft.

“You’re not going to tell me how that’s ridiculous? An insult to step foot in this office- quite literally.” You probed.

Emily shook her head, slowly. “Your somewhat decent writing makes up for whatever else is lacking.”

“Wow.” You deadpanned. “Was that a compliment, Charlton?”

“Take it how you wish.” She licked her bottom lip, turned to the side, away from you.

You were torn between wanting to push this teasing further and the realisation that you may never have another opportunity like this. Emily was trapped with you, had nobody to turn to and nothing to hide behind. For once, you might actually get an honest answer out of the woman. You could potentially find out why she suddenly decided to dislike you that fateful day.

You exhaled, summoned some bravery and mirrored her position, stretching your legs out so that your ankle was almost brushing against hers. “Can I ask you something? And I want an honest answer.”

Emily fixed you with an unreadable glare- if you were to examine it, you might even say it was anxiety. “Fine. Go on.”

“Why don’t you like me?” You blurted out. “I get you don’t exactly get on with most people in the office, but you seem to particularly hate me. I mean, you literally tripped me up.” Your final word rang out in the confined space, seeming to echo off the walls and plant itself firmly in the tense atmosphere. There was no going back now. You couldn’t retract your words. Your chest felt hot, and your breathing turned shallower as you waited.

Meanwhile, Emily seemed suddenly much more interested in her nails. “Well, you started it.” She said, immaturity hiding some deeper meaning.

“Excuse me?” You said incredulously. “I don’t remember pushing you to the floor at any point.”

An astute pair of blue eyes met your own frustrated ones. That blue was clouded by a darker sentiment: stormy and unmoored in how they conveyed every emotion. Emily was terrible at maintaining a poker face.

“Really? You’re going to make me say it?” A genuine hurt laced her words, momentarily startling you.

“Say what?”

“God, either you’re oblivious, or you’re playing a mean game here.”

“I’m not…” You started, then decided not to provoke the growing tension anymore, opting to focus on what she’d hinted at. “Oblivious to what?”

Emily gulped, your gaze tracing the movement in her throat. Soft, pale skin that dipped further down to her chest, where the low neckline allowed you to linger for a beat too long.

“Do you remember our conversation earlier that day?”

You wracked your brain, coming up blank for anything that would explain the events that unfolded that day.

She folded her arms, then unfolded them, sighing, clearly waging some internal battle over whether to speak or not.

“Please, just tell me.” You begged, quieter. “I may even be able to apologise for whatever it is I did.”

“You didn’t do anything…” She threw her arms up, exasperated. “Just… I asked what you were doing that evening…”

“Okay… I’m pretty sure I was out with Nigel that evening, right? Hardly a crime deserving corporal punishment.” You scoffed, even more confused by her explanation.

Emily appeared to have reached her boiling point. “I was asking you out, you idiot!”

Oh.

“Oh.” You were at a loss for words, your heart beating an irregular rhythm in your chest. It was suddenly impossible for you to look at her. You averted your gaze, mind running over the conversation with this new information. While Emily had been stiff, and awkward and not very direct that day, you suppose it could have been more than you initially assumed. You had simply said you were busy with Nigel and left it at that.

“Em-“ You began, then stopped yourself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

She made an unimpressed noise and shook her head. The silence stretched on as you desperately thought of something sensible to say. You were replaying every interaction you’d ever had: from when you were moving into an almost-friendship, to that altercation, to your immediate avoidance of her, and finally to the few and far-apart interactions since. They had been heated, usually just below the line of civility and slightly too bitchy for the workplace.

There was a reason you found Emily Charlton so insufferable, and a more shallow reason for why you liked to wind her up. There was the endearing crease between her brows whenever she thought you’d said something stupid, the dark look in her eyes across the office when you received praise for something, the way her chest would rise and fall whenever you tipped over into an argument.

Emily had shown her vulnerability, and you knew you needed to do the same.

You brought your knees underneath you and shuffled closer to the centre of the elevator, forcing Emily to watch your every movement.

Ensuring she could see your sincerity, you finally confessed, “I would have said yes.”

Emilly sniffed. “Would have?” She repeated. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”

You drew your lips back into a taut line, slowly shaking your head. “I don’t think so… Ask me again.”

Emily scoffed. Her eyes were slightly watery. “No chance in hell.”

“Fine then.” You chose in that instant to be brave, to be more direct, so there was no room for more misinterpretation in your relationship. “Would you like to go on a date with me?”

A laugh bubbled out of Emily, sounding like relief. She schooled her face back into one of indifference. “A bit confrontational, isn’t it? Asking me while I literally cannot get away from you?”

“I think you crossed the definition of confrontational when you knocked me over.”

“Please, I just thought you’d stumble. I didn’t think you’d go crashing to the ground, especially considering you don’t even wear heels.”

You imagined it and chuckled. Admittedly, it t would’ve been rather funny to witness, and more important, quite satisfactory to soothe bruised emotions. “Did it make you feel better?” You asked, already certain of the answer.

“Yes, actually, it did.” She smiled, not a sarcastic sneer, nor one born from your humiliation, but a genuine smile. Her nose crinkled slightly, her cheeks slightly pink.

You melted slightly at the sight, warmed by the possibility of starting anew. “Let’s draw a line underneath everything, then, and just start over.”

“Sounds fair to me.”

“So,” you grasped your notebook and pen, pretending to return to your prior interrogation. “What’s it like having a shopping addiction?”

Emily laughed heartily at this, repeating her earlier remark to “sod off,” with much less malice in her tone.

“Can I quote that?” You asked, continuing the bit.

“If you want Miranda to have your head on a spike, then by all means, be my guest.”

Before you could respond, there was a blinding flash of light accompanied by the hum of electricity. Your eyes adjusted to the conclusion that the elevator had regained power, proven correct by the crackling of the intercom.

“Power’s back on.” Andy’s voice called. “You guys should be moving any minute now!”

Both you and Emily stood up, prepared for the inevitable jolt of movement once again.

Despite the general sense of relief, you couldn’t help but be disappointed that your time trapped together had come to an end quickly. “That was a quick hour.” You muttered, estimating it to be less than twenty minutes.

“I told you that girl is useless,” Emily smirked, referring, of course, to Andy.

You simply rolled your eyes fondly in response. The lift shuddered into life, a cacophony of clicks sounding all around you.

“And yes,” Emily added, “I will go out with you.”

A warmth suffused from within your chest to a rolling sensation in your stomach, and finally a tingling in your fingertips. You recognised now that Emily had never irritated you, rather anger and attraction had merged into one feeling in your mind. You craved her attention.

“Good.” You stated as the elevator slowly began its descent. “Or I would’ve had to trip you up.” You shuffled towards the doors, preparing to quite promptly leap out of the elevator at the first chance, still untrusting of the mechanism

“Don’t you dare.” A sudden hand tugged yours, and you were being spun until you were face-to-face with Emily. Her other hand smoothly moved up to grasp your shoulder, dragging you that final step closer. Your eyes met hers, certain and steady as she leaned in. The kiss wasn’t crushing, nor messy, like you had often reluctantly pictured, but it still left you breathless. A deep press of your lips that was over before you could enjoy it.

A second later, the elevator doors pinged open. Yet despite the busy foyer and many pairs of eyes that surely awaited you on the other side, Emily didn’t push you away nor avert her gaze.

Instead, her hand remained holding you in place, her eyes locked on yours, silently challenging you: don’t leave now.

Natasha rarely failed at a mission, and when she did, it was always salvageable in some way or another. The consequences rarely affected her directly, and if they did, she’d still get through.

This time, however, she could feel the said consequences in the chill creeping up her spine, in the damp seeping into her feet and numbing every extremity. She didn’t have long left. Her energy was waning, and it was becoming difficult to move. Soon, frostbite would take its hold, sacrificing a limb at a time until the blood froze in her veins and her heart stopped pumping.

She’d racked her brains for every ounce of training, mentally replaying each lesson and experience, but found her preparation for this situation sorely lacking. Natasha had done everything she could. She’d done well to even last this long.

And as her internal organs started to shut down, her brain falling into a freezing fog and quelling down the sense of panic at the prospect of death, she would refuse to admit this was a failure. Natasha had lived longer than she’d expected. During her time at the Red Room, every day felt like her last. Following graduation, each mission risked a swift and merciless end. Her recent role as an Avenger only heightened this possibility. No. Natasha hadn’t failed…

Her eyes had been screwed shut for longer than she could remember, and the snow pelting her face had long since lost its effect. As she huddled, knees to her chest to preserve any remaining body heat, the crude attempt at a shelter collapsing all around her, she realised she felt suddenly warm. Burning up. This was it, the final stage of freezing to death. Yet, she ignored all her mind told her to do, remaining as still as the icicles forming all around her.

And then.

“Natasha!”

A voice on the breeze. A hallucination, surely. Some kind of religious relief beckoning her to the afterlife, hopefully.

“Nat!”

It was familiar to her, but her muddled mind couldn’t quite place why. All sense told her not to move, though curiosity peeked through her survival instincts. Natasha cracked open an eye, feeling like it was defrosting despite the cold air now brushing its surface.

A figure moving towards her. Black against the white snow. A blur of motion. But most importantly, real.

The figure approached her at an urgent pace, snow sent flying all around them as they trudged through the knee-high white blanket. The figure crouched down in front of her, hands reaching out to touch her shoulders, imploring her to move. The touch filled her with life, not warmth, but a cold shake that reminded her she was still alive.

Both her eyes were open now, blinking away the doziness.

“Nat, please. Say something. Do something. Anything.”

The figure was out of breath, fear filling their eyes as they regarded her. God, she must’ve looked rough. She wished colour would return to her cheeks so that they would not be so concerned. Willing her lips to move sent sparks of pain scattering across the surface of her skin, but something deep inside her chest told her she had to reply. Had to soothe your worry.

“I…” Her lips numb, her voice cracking.

You stared at her pleadingly, caringly. Natasha wished she could remember the details lingering just out of her periphery. Deep down, she knew who you were, why you were here, but her brain wasn’t functioning properly.

“Thank you.” Was all she managed instead, watching tears pool in the corner of your eyes and hoping the liquid wouldn’t freeze there.

“Come on.” You moved abruptly, further than she had dared to venture.

She was jealous of how easily movement came to you. Her limbs were stiff, forcing her to be still and save energy. But she trusted you, noticing the care with which you laced your arm under her own, hauled her up from the cold, soft ground, and into the harsh beating of the wind. In the distance, a helicopter, its propellers spinning in a blur of grey, whipping the snow into a frenzy. Finally, her instincts kicked in as she lunged towards it.

“One step at a time.” You chided beside her, rushing forward for support. Without you, she would have fallen straight to the ground. If she did, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get up again.

Each slow step forward was painfully cold, each muscle aching from the endless shivering. You were practically holding her up.

“God, I don’t know how you survived this long…” You murmured. “But not long now, not much further.”

And you were right. A few more stumbling steps that felt like a lifetime, and she was crashing against the vehicle, fingers tense against the cool metal surface. You lifted her up, guided her from hands and knees to collapse against a seat- warm and soft. There was a slam that made her jump as you tugged the door shut, and then, a gentle whirring sound as the helicopter kicked into life.

“How the fuck is she alive?” Another voice, a man’s from the pilot’s cockpit, barely audible.

Natasha was unwilling to grace him with an answer, even if she was mildly offended at the disbelief in his voice. It hadn’t been that long, had it? There was a brush against her ears as she realised you were tugging a pair of headphones over her ears, protecting her from the deafening roar as you took off. She wanted to thank you again, but the heat circulating inside stung her, silenced her.

“Just get us out of here!” was your eventual response, shrill through the microphone, laced with frustration.

“Alright. It’s about a half an hour journey back to base.”

True to his word, the ground was growing further away out the window, transforming into a white blur below. Her sanctuary for the last day was disappearing from view, and Natasha found herself suddenly unmoored. Flashes of memories filtered back into her consciousness, each one a new form of nightmare. The HYDRA base they had been investigating out in the wilderness turned out to be a trap. Natasha’s partners on the mission hadn’t gotten away in time, and she had no choice but to flee, pursued by HYDRA agents further and further into the vast wintry desert. There hadn’t been time to note the direction or distance of travel.

Lost soon became an understatement... But now, the scream of the helicopter’s engine rang in her ears, a stark reflection of the other agent’s final moments. It had been hellish. Her chest hung low with a sense of failure.

Yet, one memory brought back a sense of safety: you. Natasha remembered being endlessly grateful that you hadn’t been selected for this mission. She had a bad feeling about it from the start, proven correct in her instincts. Now, sitting beside her, your gaze was fixed on the window, but she could see you chewing your lip anxiously.

Natasha was tired, but most importantly, she was safe. As sleep began to take its hold, she felt herself leaning into your side. You jolted at first, then, feeling her relax against you, encircled an arm around her waist and held her there tightly.

~~~

The crackling of the fireplace was mesmerising, a warmth reflected in the amber of Natasha’s drink, equally as warming when she tossed back another mouthful. Stark had insisted that escaping near death was drink worthy, even if her eyes were threatening to close with every blink. Snow continued to fall outside the large windows, visible now even long after the sun had set.

Being on the inside looking out was a lot more pleasant than freezing to death, she mused.

While conducting a search party for Natasha, SHIELD had taken over a local ski resort. It was a big empty place, and yet it wasn’t cavernous or cold. The wooden structure perpetuated a homely feel, and the marble floors adorned with large Persian rugs suggested it was usually a retreat for the wealthy. A selection of worn leather armchairs and tattered sofas- the kind you simply melted into- were all arranged around the grand fireplace. There was a reception desk in her periphery, marking it as the foyer.

She had been directed to her private room earlier, normally a suite for some ungrateful millionaire. The bed there was much fancier than the freezing cold ground, the large quilted duvet more appealing than the blanket of snow she had suffered the last few days. She would’ve been perfectly content to collapse and recuperate in there. Alas, the entire Avengers team had opted to pause whatever they were doing and join SHIELD in searching for her. Natasha reluctantly admitted she was touched by the thought.

The SHIELD brigade had since packed up following her return to civilisation, efficient as always. Thus, the building was as drained of life as Natasha felt, leaving only herself, Tony, Bruce, Clint and Y/N to make use of the fireplace. Conversation had dwindled a few minutes ago, melting into a comforting exhaustion. The sensation of sitting down after a long day, knowing that you wouldn’t have to get up again... Except it hadn’t just been a long day. It had been ten days. Natasha had lost all pretence of time out there in the wilderness.

A thorough examination by the top SHIELD medics showed the toll it had taken on her body, and she set herself the task of not dwelling on it, so that her mind would not follow suit.

That exclamation of, “How the fuck is she alive?” was beginning to make a lot more sense.

Reminded of the journey back, Natasha glanced to her left. You were sharing the same sofa, leaning on the far-left side, closer to the fire. Your gaze was determinedly fixed on the fireplace, an attempt to seem nonchalant, but Natasha could see how this was merely an act. Your brow was furrowed, hands were clasped so tightly around a glass that she could see the strained outline of your knuckles poking through your skin.

Apparently, having noticed her staring, you cleared your throat.

“I think I’m going to head to bed.” You started gathering yourself together, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“Alright...” Bruce was the first to answer.

The rest all watched you stand in a pensive silence. You were often the first to join and the last to leave, basking in the rare time you all got sat together. You were usually chatty, reserved, but funny. Tonight you had been mute.

“Night, guys. Don’t stay up too late.” You appeared to sweep across the room with an easy smile, bidding everyone goodnight, but again you remained unfocused. Your smile was forced.

There was a general murmured response, and then you were gone. Footsteps echoed through the main lobby, and somewhere in the distance, the gentle click of a door shutting. The air besides Natasha was cooler now. She shivered, shuffling closer to the fire, feeling the warmth of where you had been sitting.

“You know…” Clint began, then trailed off, a sheepish expression about him. “Y/N was the last one looking for you.” He confessed suddenly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he continued watching the fire dance and crackle.

Natasha’s lips drew into a taut line as she considered his words, the implication behind them.

Tony nodded, prompting Clint to continue.

“Long after we all thought you were dead. You should’ve been dead.” Clint ranted, assuaging his own guilt more than anything. “I mean, all the experts SHIELD brought in were telling us to presume you were dead. The odds of surviving out there… in those conditions… Well, one in a million…” He fell quiet again.

“Point is,” Tony leaned forward in his seat, catching Natasha’s full attention. “Y/N never stopped looking for you. We were all starting to pack up, and meanwhile, she was bribing a SHIELD pilot to fly her out for one more day. I mean, that’s probably why she’s so exhausted now… When have we known Y/N to be the first one to go to bed?”

Despite everything, Natasha smiled at this.

Being rescued was a hazy memory already, filed away into the part of her brain under lock and key- not to be touched unless absolutely necessary. But in the field of static white, she remembered you. The full black tactical suit a stark contrast against the snow. She ached then with the cold, and now at the concern in your expression. To have caused you such fear, that was Natasha’s greatest failure. Not the mission. Not the near-death experience. But the thought of harming you. The regret that she might’ve died without…

Her brain ground to a halt. She wouldn’t let herself get swept away in such imaginings.

The group had fallen silent again, but now, the pressure of several weighted gazes was resting upon her. She knew what realisation they were trying to push her towards. For all Clint’s hints, for Tony’s teasing and Bruce’s confused stares, none of them were subtle people. Surely, for them to not only notice how Natasha felt about you, but also to push her towards some bigger picture meant you must feel the same?

Natasha found herself sweating. The fire was too hot, the sofa beneath her too soft, and her friend’s persistence too much to handle.

“Well, it’s just as hard being the rescued as it is the rescuer.” She joked. No one reacted.

“I’m going to bed, too.” Natasha stood up, her bones aching from the recent strain. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

If anyone bid her goodnight, she didn’t hear it.

Apart from Tony settling back into the armchair with a sigh, and a murmured, “go get ‘em, tiger.”

At first, Natasha truly did mean to head to her bedroom, but her legs didn’t seem to carry her that way. The gentle sound of a door clicking was a subtle cue, but sufficient to make a gamble as to which room you were staying in. She paced down the corridor, purposefully neglecting to switch on any lights until she saw it: a gentle golden glow emanating from the crack beneath one of the doors. Your bedroom.

She halted in front of it. Gulped and tapped her knuckles against the wood. Two sharp, distinct knocks. Her mind hadn’t quite caught up with her actions yet, but it was too late for change, and too early for regret. All she wanted, all she needed, was you.

A second later, and the door creaked open, your face peeking through the gap. Illuminated by the warm bedside lamp, your face was glowing with a frustration that immediately melted to concern upon realising it was Natasha on the other side.

“Are you okay?” You swung the door open the rest of the way, allowing Natasha to notice that you had changed into pyjamas. Her heart involuntarily skipped a beat, and she found herself unable to answer. Her mouth was dry as she traced over the comfortable, informal clothing. It was a glimpse of you she rarely saw. “Nat?” You called, frown lines deepening.

“Uh, yeah.” Natasha shook her head and clasped her hands together in front of her. You observed every moment closely, as a trained agent should, to look for any sign of weakness. Or in this case, any pain that she might show to justify your concern. “I just didn’t want to be alone.” Natasha’s voice was low, her head bowed slightly.

Nerves weren’t something Natasha gave into often. Even on death’s door, she had felt largely calm. But now, with you standing before her, open and warm, it took everything in her not to shake. The air in the corridor was cold, and snow still fell outside.

“Of course,” you jolted into action, stepping aside, “come in.”

Entering your room was easy, one foot over the threshold at a time. Though it did nothing to lessen her nerves. If anything, they were heightened by your proximity. Liking someone wasn’t a sensation Natasha had ever experienced, let alone given in to. It was all unfamiliar territory. Yet, with you, warm familiarity bloomed throughout her body, soothed the aches in her muscles and the chill from her bones.

“Sit down.” You inclined your head towards your bed.

Natasha’s mouth was dry as she followed the instructions, perched tense on the far end. You sat next to her, slowly, softly. Natasha’s eyes darted up to you, oh so close, and if her gaze lingered on your lips for a beat too long, you didn’t mention it.

“I would ask if you’re alright, but I think I know the answer.” You muttered, unwilling to tear your eyes away from Natasha’s.

She smiled. “I’m better now.”

You mirrored the expression, then lowered your hands to the bed and scooted closer to her. Warmth always radiated from human contact, but yours was special.

You seemed to read her mind, your smile widening. “Warm enough?” You asked.

Natasha nodded. “Definitely…” More silence, and then, a gentle confession wormed its way from Natasha’s heart to the very tip of her tongue. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, but the smile didn’t drop from your lips. “That’s alright. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

You raised a hand, and Natasha noted how you trembled, barely dared to breathe as it drew closer to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned in, seeking more of that addictive heat you always radiated. Cold air was replaced by your lips, warm against her own. You huffed out a breath through your nose, a sigh of warm air fanning across her face. She brought her own hand to grasp your waist, fingers running along a sliver of warm skin there. Her stomach was twisting, burning in just the right way as the kiss deepened.

The first thing to go was your vision. Black spots seeped into your vision like ink on a page, droplets that merged and darkened the world around you.

Next was taste: the tang of your own blood in your mouth growing stronger, then weakening again as it became all you could taste.

Touch disappeared at some point, you weren’t sure exactly when, but suddenly the cold radiating from the wet earth below no longer bothered you, and the pressure from someone’s hand gripping your own was fading rapidly.

The last senses to go were smell and hearing. With each breath growing shallower, you concentrated on the damp air and earthy smell, hoping it would ground you to reality. Meanwhile, the frantic voices calling out for you to stay conscious were drifting further and further away.

Natasha’s was the last voice you sensed before succumbing to sleep, though your mind never fully rested, thinking only of her.

~~~

It all began on an ordinary rainy day in Forks, sophomore year, when a strange girl with long, brown hair approached you in the cafeteria. She was the new girl in town at the time, along with the entire mysterious family. As a result, they were the talk of the school. You didn’t care much for the rumours or gossip that circulated, so you were especially surprised when she locked eyes with you across the room and determinedly marched over with a pained-looking blonde boy in tow.

She introduced herself as Wanda, then her partner, Vision, who said nothing except meekly smiled. Despite the snarky comments whispered in your ear from your unimpressed friends, you found the duo strangely charming. When Wanda stated there was someone else she wanted you to meet, you felt compelled to agree and were quick to abandon your friends.

This was how you met Natasha Romanoff.

The moment your gaze met hers, the world around you changed forever. You weren’t quite sure how or why, but you knew your life was different now: like the last sixteen years, you had unknowingly spent waiting for her.

And yet she despised you, barely giving you a chance before slamming down her suspiciously empty lunch tray, shooting Wanda a pointed glare and storming away. You tried not to take it personally and focused instead on meeting the rest of the family, all newly enrolled in the school.

Steve was a little stiff but polite enough. Vision didn’t speak unless you addressed him directly, which caused him to utter out a response in as few words as possible while his terrified expression worsened. Pietro initially appeared intimidating yet was harmless, the most welcoming after Wanda, who seemed undeterred by Natasha’s reaction and continued insisting that you were all going to be such great friends.

The whole interaction was unforgettable. You were quick to return to your friends and inform them of every peculiar detail about the new students, only feeling a little guilty when Wanda waved at you enthusiastically in the hallway later.

Your second time seeing Natasha was in English class, where you were unfortunate enough to have her put in an assigned seat next to you. She was the new student, and it was your job to catch her up on the book you were studying. Unlike your prior interaction, she was at least civil on this occasion. Although as soon as the bell rang, she leapt up from her seat without so much as a thank you or a goodbye.

You saw her most days in class and sometimes passed her in the corridors. Though she never acknowledged you, either clutching her books tighter to her chest and breezing past without making eye contact, or by engaging in conversation with someone. It was hurtful, but it didn’t stop you from admiring Natasha at every opportunity.

She was undeniably beautiful, and at first that was all you saw: her perfect pale skin, warm green eyes and soft red hair. But the more time you spent staring at her, the more your perception of her shifted to something more. You began to notice the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, the way her eyes shimmered a rich golden colour, how she spoke with such conviction and sincerity. You deemed it a small crush, blushing profusely whenever in her presence, your heart beating a rapid pace at the sight of her. Anytime Wanda was around, she seemed to observe you closely, a knowing smile playing on her lips, which only made it harder to act natural around Natasha.

One random, otherwise unmemorable day, this tension reached a boiling point when she confronted you after class. Rather than immediately vanishing into the throng of students in the hallway, she waited outside the classroom, grabbed onto your arm and dragged you outside through the fire exit doors…

Natasha all but slammed you against the brick wall, as though she were desperate to let go of you. “Can you stop staring at me like that?” She demanded.

You felt your stomach drop, both crushed by her dislike for you, while regrettably still relishing being so close to her. The mix of emotions swirling around inside of you was overwhelming, and you said nothing.

She clenched her jaw at your silence and stepped back. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

Having said her piece, she was about to leave when you finally summoned some resolve.

With nothing to lose, you scoffed and folded your arms defensively. “As if half the school doesn’t look at you like that.” Then averted your gaze, pretending to admire the dreary scenery rather than letting her see the tears that were threatening to fall.

“Yeah. Well, you’re different.”

And with that, she left.

She left you with a newfound curiosity, accompanied by a normal amount of resentment. Natasha viewed you differently from everyone else, the thought sufficient to set your heart racing despite the offence she intended to cause you.

As she requested, you resigned yourself to ignoring her at all given chances. However, it seemed that as you distanced yourself from her, she only became more fixated on you.

In the toilets, while she was fixing her makeup, you saw her watching your reflection in the mirror. In the cafeteria, where Wanda decided to sit with you, and subsequently the rest of the family, she sat at the opposite end of the hall and glared daggers at you. In class, she glanced at you more often, and not just to copy your answers.

But no matter what, you didn’t dare look back at her.

Even when your teacher announced that it was time for some groupwork and she smiled awkwardly, regarding you with a quiet hope. You instead looked past her to your friend sitting at another desk and waved him over. It wasn’t what you truly wanted, but you pretended everything was fine and tried not to notice the rejected expression on her face.

And then Wanda invited you over to her house one weekend. You met Tony and Pepper, who welcomed you into their house and exchanged a meaningful look with each other before greeting you as though you were part of the family. In fact, everyone seemed to know you were visiting except Natasha, which led you to wonder whether they were all conspiring against her.

You could never forget the shock on her face as she laid eyes upon you in her own home, nor the argument you overheard her have with Wanda. Their voices were muffled through the wall, but you picked up on Wanda having “seen it,” that something was “unavoidable.”

“Unchangeable destiny,” were the words she used if you remembered correctly. You couldn’t decipher the meaning behind any of it, nor was it your place to.

In the meantime, Steve was kind enough to give you a tour of the house while they bickered, though, for reasons he didn’t care to elaborate on, all the bedrooms were out of bounds.

The rest of the evening went a lot smoother. You bumped into Natasha as Wanda was seeing you to the door, but she simply regarded you with frustration and said nothing. You went home that night confused, lying in bed unable to sleep and endlessly replaying your strange day.  One thing had become clear to you: that the frustration Natasha felt was with herself rather than directed at you. You weren’t sure how you knew this or how you were able to read her emotions so well despite her being so closed off to you, but the realisation assuaged your complex feelings towards her.

An invitation to the Stark household became an almost bi-weekly event. By your fifth visit, you had managed to befriend every member of the family except Natasha. By the tenth, she tolerated you. Her irritation turned into sarcastic comments, humorous jabs sent your way, though mostly aimed at Wanda. You never quite understood those ones. There was always a lingering tension in the air when you visited, like the whole house was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

The more time you spent there, the more strange details you noticed. That they never ate or had any food in stock, that bedrooms remained out of bounds despite how open they were with everything else, and the odd conversations that ended as you entered the room. It was as though the entire family held a secret they were waiting for you to discover.

And then you did.

Because of Sharon Carter.

From the very beginning, she annoyed you. As the new girl in school, she became the fascination of everyone, and to your dismay, this obsession extended to Steve. Which also meant it encompassed the whole Stark family. It wasn’t Sharon herself who irritated you, but rather that she had known the Starks for barely half the time you had, yet was welcomed into their life quicker than you could ever have dreamed.

As Steve started spending more time with Sharon and bringing her to their house, you saw less of them- and less of Natasha.

In spite of her coldness towards you, it was impossible to deny that you missed her presence in your life. Her snarky remarks made you laugh, and sometimes you would respond, and it might even make her smile, although she’d try to hide it. She no longer loathed sitting next to you in class, and as such didn’t sit as far away as physically possible anymore, which you appreciated. And if you chose to join the Stark family for lunch, she wouldn’t move away.

Now, without her in your life, you realised just how close you had grown. It wasn’t forced but had simply snuck up on you in the form of small, genuine changes.

You were certain she recognised the change too, since you often caught her staring at you with a longing sort of look in her eyes. A mix of grief for the mistakes she had made in the past, and something new. Something you couldn’t read.

And then the Starks stopped showing up to school altogether. For two weeks, the seat next to you in English class stayed empty. Every day, you were subjected to spending lunch with your other friends, listening to their fatuously mean and repetitive conversations. But of course, you overheard that Sharon continued to talk with Steve. Gossip was unavoidable, and while you tried to take it with a pinch of salt, that salt left a bitter sting on your tongue.

It wasn’t fair, and after over a month had passed since your last visit to their house, you reached your breaking point. You drove over, uninvited and unannounced, late one evening.

A thunderstorm had just passed through Forks, leaving behind mud, rain and an odd sort of peace. The woodland was silent, no birds chirping or nocturnal creatures stirring. The only sign of life was the light emanating from the house, which left you feeling tense as you slammed the car door shut. The harsh sound reverberated in the silence, giving you the awful sensation that you were being watched.

You banged against the front door, feeling an anxious sickness rising in your throat. You were beginning to believe this had all been a terrible idea, ready to turn around and head home, when Tony finally opened the door.

“Y/N?” He seemed surprised to see you, or perhaps it was disappointment. “Now’s really not a great time.”

Usually, you would take his deflection and leave, but pent-up frustration and a strange sort of vulnerability overruled all sensibility. “I won’t be long. I just want to talk with Wanda- or Natasha. Whoever’s in.” You shrugged, stepping through the doorway and into the foyer.

Your discomfort eased slightly at the familiar surroundings, then returned in full force as you halted at the sight of an unfamiliar man staring you down. His dark pupils tracked your every move, surrounded by a blood-red sea.

“Oh- Y/N,” Tony called, rubbing his neck sheepishly, a sort of terrified look in his eyes. “This is Thor, a friend of ours.”

The man, Thor, looked you up and down like you were a meal to be devoured. You shivered uncomfortably, sensing for some unbeknownst reason that you were in danger.

“You befriend humans? You invite them into your home.” Thor burst out laughing all of a sudden, looked you up and down again. “Be careful that Loki does not come after this one, too.” And with that, he shoved past you and back outside at an almost inhuman speed.

Your head spun dizzyingly, catching up with what you had witnessed. A man, though you weren’t so sure about that part anymore, who examined you with thirst in his eyes and hunger in his words, who moved at a speed you couldn’t even comprehend. You tried desperately to wrap your mind around a logical explanation, and when that inevitably failed, turned back to Tony with an unspoken question in your eyes.

If it was possible, he somehow looked even more disappointed than when he’d answered the door earlier.

“Shit.” You noticed Pietro had appeared at some point and was leaning against the wall, amused. “Looks like the cat’s out of the bag- or the bat is.”

“Pietro.” Pepper chastised, walking through into the foyer. Her tone didn’t hold the authority it normally did. Instead, she shook.

“What, like all that wasn’t enough for her to put two and two together?”

“Now isn’t the right time…“

“And when would be?” Pietro’s expression soured. “There is no right time cause Natasha’s left it too long to tell her.”

“Tell me what?” You interrupted, unable to bear hearing them talk about you like you weren’t in the room. Your mind was so close to reaching a conclusion so impossible that you needed to hear one of them say it.

And then Tony did. “We’re vampires. All of us. Yes, they’re real, and no, we can’t actually turn into bats. Yes, it is as cool as it sounds.”

“Right…”

“We pose as a family.” Pepper continued. “To fit in. But none of us are actually related…”

“Hence, you’re all coupled up?” You finished.

Pietro clicked his tongue. “Yes, all except me! Because apparently being cursed to eternal bloodlust isn’t attractive enough.”

As much as you usually appreciated Pietro’s ability to make light of a situation, on this occasion, you found your sense of humour lacking. There was a long pause in which you refused to tear your gaze away from where it was fixed.

“It’s fine to have questions,” Pepper said softly. “We promise to answer all of them eventually.”

You found your mind was completely blank. They were vampires. All of them… For some reason, you could only think to ask one thing. “Does Sharon know about all this?” Bitterness laced your words, for you already knew the answer.

“I personally don’t know what Steve sees in her.” Tony started. “Listening to her talk is like watching paint dry, and trust me, with the whole eternal life thing, you get used to time passing slow. And, honestly, she looks like she could be his sister. But yes, she does know…” Tony trailed off, so as not to upset you further. 

“Steve and Sharon are mates. The lucky bastards,” Pietro pushed himself off the wall and walked over to you. “And he’s not afraid to show it.” There was more, something he wasn’t telling you.

The two of them appeared on edge, and you had a feeling it wasn’t just because of you.

Curiosity nagged you to ask what the hell a mate was. But your shock had faded, replaced by a dull sense of sadness. You were emotionally overwhelmed by the whole situation, and more than anything, you wanted space, some fresh air and time to process everything.

“Alright.” You folded then unfolded your arms, trying anything to ease the anxiety pooling at the pit of your stomach. “I think I’m gonna go.” You gestured towards the door and started backing towards it.

“Ok.” Pepper nodded. “But please don’t-“

“Tell anyone.” You finished. “I know, I get the picture.”

“Thank you.” She said solemnly, then opened her mouth to say more before deciding against it and closing it again.

It took all your willpower not to turn on your heel and run out of there, but as soon as you were through the door, you refused to look back, even as Pietro called out to you. “We’ll see you again soon, yeah?”

You swallowed, fist tightening around the car door handle. “Yeah.” You said uncertainly.

The engine revved to life, tyres crunching against the damp ground. You immediately turned on the radio, desperate to drown out any thoughts while you were driving home, lest you get distracted and crash.

Unfortunately, you never did make it home.

~~~

The first sense to return to you was touch. Pain. The warmth of your heart grew more and more palpable. It grew hotter and hotter to an unbearable degree. Agonising waves of fire suffused throughout your entire body like the beats of a drum, rhythmically becoming worse and worse. The pain cascaded over every limb, a waterfall of flames rushing from head to toe. You could hardly breathe.

But you were breathing, and with this progression came the next to return: your sense of smell. Perfume filled your nostrils, a familiar scent that you couldn’t quite place.

With smell came taste, though the excruciating pain you were currently subjected to rather limited your ability to taste. All you could recognise was a scalding sensation on your tongue, in between your teeth, working its way across your entire face.

Then you heard it: you were screaming, crying out for help at the pain that wracked your body. And you weren’t alone, a soothing voice right by your ear, accompanied by a hand rubbing up and down your back. In the distance, more voices, these ones less familiar.

You risked opening your eyes but were met by white, searing hot pain. There was nothing else you could focus on. Nothing to do except curl inwards and pray it would end.

“Talk to her.” You heard the voice say. Wanda. It was Wanda, you realised. You had your back to her, and it was her hand gently guiding you through the pain. 

“I don’t know- I…” Another person was to your right.

Natasha. You would recognise her voice anywhere, almost able to sense her now crouched down on the ground next to you, her knee brushing against your stomach. You didn’t need to see her to feel comfort in her presence.

She sighed, and then you felt a new hand resting on your shoulder. “You’re going to get through this, okay?” She had leaned in closer, her breath sending shivers across the skin of your neck.

Your neck, you ascertained where the agonising heat was emanating from. Could now pinpoint the burn against your skin, only made worse by a line of pain along your abdomen. Your senses were tuning into reality again, coming back to life and awakening your memories leading up to the present moment.

It all played out in your mind: driving away from the Stark house, a strange man jumping in front of your car, knocking you unconscious and carrying you away. You remembered the whispers in your ear that you were to help him set a trap. Instead of hunting Sharon down, he would lure the family to you. It was his belief that they would fall for it, that their escape plan would be ruined, and perhaps he would bargain with your life in exchange for Sharon’s. And he was right. Mostly.

Steve had refused to give up the location of Sharon, and so the man- Loki- had stabbed a line along your stomach.

Without opening your eyes, you lowered your hands and felt along the cut to confirm it was as you remembered. Bad. There was no way you could have survived it…

A hand softly cupped your cheek, blissfully cool in comparison to the unbearable fever of your skin, a thumb soothing away the crease between your brows. “Y/N…” You realised that you had never heard Natasha say your name. It sounded so sweet from her lips, like your name existed to be uttered by her and no one else. Amidst the searing pain, your heart fluttered in your chest, and you knew at that moment that you were going to be okay, that this was temporary.

With great effort, you unclenched your jaw, struggling to make your lips form the word you desired. You needed her to feel what you did. “Nat.” Your voice cracked as you spoke; her name said so quietly that you feared she may not have heard you.

You needed to see her.

In between breathing through the pain, you compelled your eyes to open, feeling your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks. Blinding light streamed into your vision once again, but this time you didn’t cower away from it. A second later, and the prickling sensation lessened, the strain becoming bearable as the darkness around you filtered into view.

You saw trees standing tall above you, their leaves sheltering you from the rising sunlight, which cast fresh streaks of amber across the sky. You looked down at the earthy ground, concentrated on the greenery poking through and found that the pain was alleviated when you diverted your attention. Then at last, your gaze fell upon Natasha. She hadn’t yet noticed your eyes were open, allowing you the chance to admire her as you had done so many times before.

Her usually bright irises were darker and filled with worry, though you still saw flecks of gold in them. You registered that she had blood smeared around her lips, which were downturned as she spoke to Wanda.

She was a Vampire. Your entire body tensed at the realisation, remembering what Tony and Pepper had told you about the family.

A sudden dread filled you, overpowering the agonising pain. You shut your eyes tightly, raising your hand from where it was trapped underneath you and feeling frantically around the base of your throat. Sure enough, your fingers soon felt the engraving marks of teeth in your flesh.

Delicate fingers intertwined with your own, tugging your hand away from the wound. You opened your eyes again to realise the movement had attracted Natasha’s attention. She was relieved, her grasp on you tightening as if to convince herself you were truly there. Natasha brought your hand to her lips, placing a chaste kiss against the back of your searing skin. A promise. She was there. She had protected you and always would.

In that moment, all your doubts and all the hurt became inconsequential. All that mattered was that you were alive and she was with you…. Of course, you had both hurt each other, but that was the very condition of existence. To hurt was to live, and Natasha made you feel alive in a way you never had before.

Because of her, you had been reborn. This was your second chance at life, and your second chance with Natasha.

four- not so kind regards  

“I mean, I’ll barely be able to tell Alexei apart from Walker from up here,” Bruce shouted back to you, the steps up toward the back of the venue seeming never-ending.

“That could be a good thing,” Clint yelled back. “My hearing’s already fucked. I don’t need the final thing I hear to be one of their songs!”

None of you had bothered to check the seat row when Steve had handed you the tickets, so having to trek to the furthest away corner of the venue came as rather a shock to you all. You glanced down at the ticket, slightly damp from your embarrassingly sweaty palms- a reminder that you really needed to get back into regular exercise before the next tour. Row 350, seat 11. A rounded number, so an educated guess meant it was likely the very furthest row.

“That must be it!” You voiced this idea, pointing at the final row. “Any further and we’re sitting in the car park.

In lieu of vocal agreement, there was a collective groan from the group as you continued the hike. The seats were truly awful. Some kind of joke, you assumed, quelling down the inherent disappointment at being far from the stage, far from Natasha.

Upon reaching row 350, Bruce led the group, shuffling down towards seat 15, then Tony, Clint, Wanda, and finally you. The seats were flimsy plastic things. Incredibly uncomfortable to even look at, let alone sit on for hours. But before you could sit and succumb to the impending pain, something caught your attention. The aisle seat next to you was left purposefully empty, and on the dimly lit surface, you noticed a piece of folded paper. Frowning, you picked it up, flipping it over to realise it was in fact an envelope.

The Avengers.

It was written in cursive crimson lettering. Your whole body seemed to judder at the possibility, the faintest hope that perhaps… Just maybe, it was from Natasha.

The others hadn’t noticed yet. You hurriedly sat down, angled away from them, and tore open the seal. The note was brief, easy for your eyes to skim down to the bottom to see…

Kind regards,

Valentina Allegra De Fontaine

A sense of embarrassment flooded throughout your body, drowning your foolish hope. Of course, it wouldn’t have been from Natasha. You had met quite literally once, for less than five minutes. She had no reason to write and leave a letter on your seat. She probably didn’t even know where you’d be sitting. It was a stupid thought, a mortifying prospect to even think that-

“Hey, what’s that?” Wanda leant over the armrest to peer at the paper in your hands.

It occurred to you that you ought to pull it out of her sight, knowing the history between Wanda and Valentina, but it was too late. Apparently, having done the same thing and skimmed down the page, Wanda’s face dropped. She looked up, and you met her gaze, solemnly sharing in your concern.

“I haven’t read it yet… I just saw who it was from.” You explained.

Wanda’s expression didn’t budge, her eyes unfocused now.

You swallowed, leaning into the aisle to get everyone’s attention. “Hey, guys,” you waved the letter out. “We have fan mail.” The group exchanged a shared sense of confusion, leaned progressively further forward and looked to you expectantly. You glanced once at Wanda, waited for her to nod, and proceeded to read the letter aloud.

“Dear Bruce, Clint, Y/N, Tony and Ms Wanda Maximoff,”

You weren’t oblivious to the fact that Valentina had included Wanda’s full name. A written confirmation that she knew exactly who Wanda was, and exactly the part she had played in her life…

“I was honoured to hear that Mr High and Mighty Rogers had purchased tickets for our show tonight. I hope you enjoy the view- I picked the seats specially. I’m certain my team treated you well backstage. It’ll be the last time you meet without a live audience watching your every move.”

That particular line was incredibly ominous.

“We could do without the constant comparisons to your band. It's not a reputation we want for ourselves... Our priorities lie in funding a quality production value over the caricatured versions of yourself which you all seem to rely on.

Prepare for the world to see you as you truly are, Avengers.

Kind regards,

Valentina Allegra De Fontaine… I’m not feeling many kind regards from that letter.” You muttered.

“Jesus, what is her problem?” Clint exclaimed.

“What do we even do here? Do we release a statement or something?” The frown adorning Bruce’s face seemed to darken the entire area. Or no, the lights were dimming. The concert was about to begin.

“We leave it for now,” Wanda announced, her maturity a gift for you all. “And like Bruce said before, we play fair. Whatever Valentina has planned, we go along with it and show we’re better than them.” There was a general consensus amongst you that Wanda’s words were final, and as the one with the greatest emotional investment in the issue of Valentina Allegra De Fontaine, it was her decision to make.

An orange beam of light shot across the entirety of the stadium, leaving behind it a warm glow as your eyes adjusted. The audience’s volume increased tenfold, with cheers and applause as the members took their place one by one. The giant screen above the stage stuttered into action, displaying Alexei first, brandishing two drumsticks above his head. The crowd seemed to adore his brutish nature, the way he unceremoniously slumped onto the stool behind the drum kit.

Next, Ava and Natasha were on at the same time. Ava waved sheepishly at the crowd, skipping towards her keyboard like she might be able to hide behind it. Natasha, well, she owned the stage- there was no other description for it. She sauntered across as though she had all the time in the world, largely ignoring the way the audience yelped and jumped about, except to shoot a smirk directly into the camera. Your cheeks flushed with heat. You were grateful for the dimmed lighting, lest someone notice and tease you endlessly.

Walker was next. You winced as he leapt into the centre, ignoring how the guitar swung, crashing into his side. Yelena followed much more calmly a second later. Like Natasha, she was born to be on stage. The band waited patiently until Yelena had taken her place behind the microphone. The atmosphere was electric, flashes of bright white like lightning echoing throughout the venue. Even you had to admire the spectacle they created with so little effort. Everyone was waiting with bated breath.

Walker opened the performance, picking a simple yet fast-paced rhythm. Alexei and Natasha joined next, the drum beating solidly, with the softer bass below. You noted Stark tapping his feet in time and smiled to yourself. For all his competitiveness, Tony couldn’t deny when he was enjoying a song.

You saw Yelena’s hands grasp the microphone, as a beat later, her voice joined the melody.

---

It was well beyond midnight by the time you arrived back.

Home wasn’t the right word for the place, rather it was temporary housing. The apartment served as a base for you all in between touring the country and the brief respites when you actually went home. It meant you could spend time together, work on new music and practice for upcoming performances. Stark fondly nicknamed it Avengers Tower, though it was far from a tower. The apartment stretched across two levels in a recently converted industrial factory, with a living room merged music studio, a kitchen and dining room downstairs, and all your rooms upstairs. It allowed you both privacy and forced ‘bonding time.’

You couldn’t grab a midnight snack without bumping into Bruce, who you were convinced was practically nocturnal by now, and being dragged into the studio to experiment in one of his late-night bursts of inspiration… Yet as much as you complained, you secretly enjoyed it. And judging by the way everyone aligned their schedules to be there at the same time, you presumed the others did too.

Although on this occasion, your arse was sore from the cheap seat, and a mild headache thudded behind your eyes from the blaring lights and music, so you chose to head straight up to your room. A quick shower and change of clothes later, you were feeling mildly refreshed and surprisingly inspired. Despite the sluggishness behind your slow movements, you grabbed the acoustic guitar stationed in the corner of the room and perched on the bed with a notepad and pen.

Your mind had been relentlessly turning over certain words all evening. Crimson, emerald, silver. Colours that you would never put together yet blended so seamlessly. A gleam, mocking, daring. All encompassed by a warmer brown, by honest words that soothed away your insecurities and fears. You were jotting down lyrics now, humming a tune with simple, strummed chords. It all flowed so easily, from your mind to the pen, from pen to paper and back again as a complete song.

A sudden, harsh knock at the door broke you out of the musical trance.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up from the plush surface and hurriedly shoved the notepad into a drawer. You weren’t quite ready to share your work with anyone.

Clint was waiting on the other side of the door, his knuckles poised mid-air to rap against the wood again. He had a pensive look about him, and a glance along the corridor revealed the rest of the band in a similar state. You realised with a pang of guilt that none of them had changed out of their clothes, and must not have ventured up to their rooms yet. Steve was leaning against the wall with a stern expression, confirming that whatever this impromptu gathering was about must be serious. Steve was always stern, of course, but he didn’t usually linger in the apartment beyond 8pm- something about not getting in the way of inspiration.

“Sorry to disturb,” Clint finally broke the silence. “But we received this.”

He nodded towards Wanda, who stepped forward to hand you two folded letters. That headache boomed louder behind your eyes, reluctant to focus on the lettering adorning it.

“More fan mail?” You asked instead.

“No.” Clint sighed. “It’s an invitation to be on a TV show.”

“Oh.” Your concern dissipated ever so slightly. This wasn’t out of the norm at all. In fact, you were normally all quite pleased to receive an invitation. “Well, that’s good.” You tried, watching for a reaction to try gauge the tense atmosphere. “Why’s it being handed to me like an eviction notice then? Am I not invited or something?” You joked.

Wanda cleared her throat. “It’s a TV show that’s notorious for inviting two bands on and splitting them up, swapping the members, and holding a competition where each has to write and perform a new, unique song that evening.”

Suddenly, you understood the downtrodden reaction.

“Let me guess. We’re invited on with the Thunderbolts?”

Wanda bit her lip, fixed you with a shared sympathy and nodded. “Steve swears he didn’t sign us up, so you can also guess who’s orchestrated this whole thing…”

Valentina.

“If we didn’t sign up, then why don’t we just refuse?”

“Take a proper look at that first letter and find out,” Clint answered cryptically.

You sucked in a deep breath, flipping the paper over in your hands. You first noticed it was flimsy, not the usual official card these sorts of things were printed on. The lettering was slightly blurry, grey, not black, and wonky the whole way up the page.

“Hold on… Is this a photocopy?”

“You bet,” Clint confirmed. “The original letter never reached us.”

“It was intercepted,” Steve added. When everyone turned to look at him, he shrugged. “I don’t know how. I’ll get the security team to look into it in the morning.”

A sickening dread suffused throughout the air. You couldn’t help but feel you were being watched even now, in the comfort of your own… Well, not home. You swapped the letters over to read the second, a much more official, non-wonky letter thanking your band for agreeing to appear, and detailing how the show would work.

“I mean, this is a crime now. We can report Valentina for setting this whole thing up, for impersonating us!”

“We have no proof.” Clint shook his head. “It’ll seem like we’re just randomly accusing the competition. We don’t need that kind of press.”

You bit your inner cheek, crossing your arms and feeling the satisfying crunch of the papers getting crumpled.  “We do in the letter from earlier. She said This’ll be the last time we meet without an audience,’ or something, right?”

“It’s too vague a threat,” Wanda said. “Trust me, I wish she had been specific and written more incriminating stuff, but we’ve already thought it through.”

You glanced to Tony and Bruce, both unusually silent. It was clear they had been running this through in their minds since arriving back. If those two hadn’t come up with a solution, then no one would.

“Alright. Then we have to survive one TV appearance with them, and we don’t make it a big deal. We show the world we’re above petty competitions and tell Valentina to back off.” You concluded.

Tony silently saluted you as he headed off. The rest of the group nodded in agreement and bid each other goodnight as they all started making their way to their individual rooms.

A feeling of frustration laced the way you rested against the door, hearing it click shut, having resisted the urge to slam it. There was nothing you could do. Valentina was as much of a force to be reckoned with in the music industry as she had been to Wanda’s family. This was all part of a grand plan she was acting out. You were merely pawns, each playing your role- no, you weren’t as important as that. You were extras, acting alongside the Thunderbolts to give them good publicity. How you loathed her. She marred the positive image of the Thunderbolts you had built up for yourself today.

Natasha: crimson hair and mocking eyes.

She was smart, cunning. There was no way she didn’t know what Valentina was up to.

You had been fooled. You had played right into her hand.

Your gaze fell to the drawer you had hastily shoved your notepad into earlier, careful not to let anyone else see. Now, you stormed over and wrenched the drawer open. The written song sat there, mockingly. An irritating earworm. A flash of green, mocking eyes, and you tore the sheets from the pad. You crumpled it up, mixed up with the letters you were still clutching onto. Your room was rather barren, lacking a wastepaper bin, and you didn’t dare to venture downstairs to throw it away. At an appropriate time, you’d dispose of the papers somewhere public, an anonymous bin on some nameless street corner.

three- into the thunderbolt’s den

The security guard led you down a maze-like set of corridors that were all too familiar with the build-up before a performance. Endless people bustled past you, a blur of motion in front of the shallow grey walls. Tension lingered at the pit of your stomach, a tightness beneath your ribcage. You had to remind yourself you weren’t the ones on stage tonight, and took in a lungful of the air breezing past.

After what felt like an eternity, the security guard halted in front of a door and knocked. This particular door was identical to every other, except for the cliched star-shaped sign reading ‘dressing room.’

“Enter, please!” A voice boomed from the other side.

The security guard opened the door, standing to the side and allowing you all to enter. It was a cramped corridor for your whole band to be stuck in, and filing in one by one reminded you distinctly of school days spent queueing outside classrooms. You were conscious now of a childlike insecurity that plagued your first steps into the room.

“Ah,” the source of the booming voice leapt up from his seat. “It’s the Revengers!” Alexei Shostakov stumbled over to you, his frame more intimidating in real life than it had been when contained on the television screen. This time, he wasn’t hunched over a drum kit, but towering over Bruce, the unfortunate soul who had been the first to enter the room. “It is so great to meet you.” Alexei grasped and forcefully shook Bruce’s hand. Even from a metre away, you could smell the cold stench of vodka on his breath.

“Yes,” Bruce stammered out, politeness seeming to overpower his fear.  “It’s a long time coming! Uh- er- Mr. Shostakov.”

“Please, Alexei, for you.” The drummer waved his hand dismissively, mere inches from smacking Bruce’s head. “We are equals in this world.”

You glanced around the room, mostly for the sake of getting your bearings, but admittedly looking out for someone in particular. The dressing room stretched back further than you expected, separated by curtains from which more members of the band were emerging. You averted your gaze, feeling suddenly shy. You turned to Tony for support, noticing now a figure behind him.

“Hi.”

Tony jumped out of his skin at the sound of a voice so close to his ear, swivelling on his heels to realise Ava Starr had somehow crept up on him.

“Jesus,” Tony clutched at his heart, catching his breath. “Who let the girl from the ring in here? Seriously,” he looked to you, “did you see her sneak up on me?”

You suppressed a laugh at his theatrics and shook your head. Tony tended to be a character that people either hated or loved, though you didn’t believe he was so black or white. But that came from years of practice. Of knowing when he was joking and when he meant to offend. Ava Starr, on the other hand, was unfamiliar with Stark. You saw her face drop, a self-conscious weight tugging the corners of her lips down. It had taken experience to learn not to always apologise for Tony’s behaviour, that was Steve’s job, but on this occasion, you decided to forfeit this rule.  

You frowned reprehensively as you passed Tony and approached Ava to introduce yourself.

The rest of your band began to engage other Thunderbolt members in conversation, all apparently civilised, judging by the lack of raised voices. You, once again, attempted not to let your attention drift from Ava, despite the curiosity tugging your vision elsewhere. She was rambling on about her love of playing the keyboard, her admiration for your group’s delving into using synthesisers, and you thought numbly that she would be much better off talking to Bruce about that.

A flash of deep crimson, and all pretence came crumbling down.

Tony and Bruce were working together to occupy Alexei’s full, intense attention. Clint was fixing John Walker with a very unimpressed glare as the guitarist rambled. Wanda and Yelena were getting along well enough by your judgment. And towards the edge of the room, spectating silently, was Natasha Romanoff.

Your breath caught in your throat as time seemed to slow. Everything felt surreal. You had barely known of the woman’s existence a week, and yet a small part of your mind had been endlessly dedicated to her since. Subconsciously, not obsessively, but naturally. As though a part of your brain had been carved out all your life, waiting to be filled by her. After watching their taped performance, you had subtly asked Steve for more information on the Thunderbolts, and he had provided you with all the magazine interviews and news articles he could find. Each one lacked any particular input from Natasha. She was part of one of the most popular rock bands of the time and somehow flew under the radar. How you envied her. How you longed to speak with her.

Now here she was. Meters away from you.

Your feet were frozen in place. Time wasn’t frozen anymore. It was passing rapidly. Too quickly for you to keep up with. Ava said something humorous, you laughed, but did you? You were functioning on autopilot, entirely out of control. This was a sensation you embraced when first stepping on stage. Now, however, it was a curse. A cage that stopped you from reaching out, from calling out. Natasha briefly left the main room, and still, you couldn’t move an inch.

When she returned, Natasha scanned the room thoughtfully… And finally, emerald eyes met your own. Gleaming bright, as if covered with silver. There was a warmer, brown ring around the centre too- an honest glimpse into the obscurities within her very soul. Her gaze implored you to reach out, kind and slightly mocking. Like she already knew the effect she had on you.

And finally, you felt brave enough to oblige.

“Anyway, it was lovely to meet you,” you smiled politely at Ava during one of the lulls in conversation. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you perform tonight, and I’m sure we’ll speak soon, yeah?”

Ava swallowed, smiled painfully and nodded.

Tuning out the disappointment radiating from her, you stepped past, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “And speak to Bruce about the synthesisers. He knows a lot more than I do.” You added guiltily.

At last, you were free.

Natasha hadn’t yet glanced away. She observed as you sauntered over- expectant, calm, as though she had foreseen everything that would happen.

“Hi,” you clenched your teeth together, willed yourself to come up with something better than hi. You were no better than Ava. Tony would be pissing himself laughing at you right now.

“Hey,” Natasha echoed. “Y/N, right?”

Your heart fluttered. She recognised you, had possibly even researched you. “That’s me.” You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets awkwardly. “You’ve been doing your research.” You commented before you could stop the words from escaping.

Natasha grinned slowly, languidly. “Maybe I have. It’s important to know who your competition is.”

“Oh, very.” You agreed, matched her grin and prayed she wouldn’t notice your beating heart.

There was a long pause. Comfortable and yet entirely unfamiliar. You refused to fill it. Natasha had shown her hand, offered up a vulnerability; she had been thinking about you.

“That being said, you don’t match up to descriptions.”

You frowned. “I don’t?” Out of everything you had expected her to say, prepared mentally to respond to, this left you spiralling towards confusion.

“No.” Natasha squinted. “You’re shorter in real life.”

You scoffed, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Low blow, Romanov.” You murmured, hiding humour behind false offence.

She chuckled. “Low blow?”

“Yeah.”

“Cause I have to shrink to your level.”

You mock gasped, averting your eyes across the room as if looking for an exit.

Natasha’s grin widened, lopsided, chasing your gaze- not that it had ever truly strayed.

“I suppose being on stage all the time would be misleading… Adds, like, an extra metre.” You conceded, magnetised back to the redhead.

Natasha smirked.

Smirked. Was she flirting with you?!

“Well, you’ll have to invite me along sometime to see.”

You bit your lip, tilted your head in consideration. “I’ll see what I can do.” You were proud of how confident the statement sounded, for every muscle in your body seemed to quake. You could hardly believe you were still standing. God, you hadn’t felt the full force of a crush in a long time. That sense of childlike insecurity flooded back over your senses. You were overpowered by the desire to rethink Natasha’s every action and retract your words. “I’d like that.” You added. “For you to see us in concert, I mean. Check out the competition, like you said.” You were stuttering now. You bit your lip again to stop the verbal onslaught- too hard this time. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth.

Smooth.

“Natasha.” A heavily accented voice called.

You traced her gaze over your shoulder. It was Yelena. She shot a courteous smile your way.

“It’s time.”

Natasha nodded. “I’ll be right with you.”

Emerald eyes were back on yours. She opened her mouth to explain, then closed it again. You were perhaps one of the few people that she wouldn’t have to explain this to.

“Show-time?” You prompted.

She nodded again.

“I’ll be watching closely.” You said. “Keeping up with the competition. You know how it is.”

“I do.”

“Break a leg.”

Natasha glanced over her shoulder as she followed the others out. She winked. “You wish, Y/L/N.”

two- synth pop is for pussies

John Walker was a wanker.

You could admire his guitar playing, his boundless energy on stage and overall commitment to the typical rockstar aesthetic. But that didn’t negate the fact that he was an arse.

“The Avengers are just a washed-up rock band who turned to electronic music to distract from their repetitive songs and lack of actual talent. There’s nothing unique about their sound; they’ve gotten by purely through appealing to the deaf and uninspired. We all know that synth pop is for pussies.” Tony was crouched by the TV, focused on Walker’s voice radiating from the tape, dulcet despite his colourful phrasing.

“I think we’ve heard it enough times, Stark,” Bruce muttered after the fifth replay, refusing to raise his curly mop of hair from the keyboard. He plonked aimlessly down on a few keys, having exhausted any creative spirit already.

“Do you think we could use this quote to open a song? Or would we have to pay royalties?” Tony questioned. “Actually, don’t answer that. Walker would probably try to come here and shake the pennies from my pocket.”

You sighed, struggling to find the motivation to contribute to the topic at hand. As much as you tried to ignore criticism, Tony was making it unnecessarily difficult. Your group had been the subject of controversies and hatred before, and nobody took it more personally than Stark himself. His ego was bruised, and on this occasion, it wasn’t by a voiceless individual. This was a member of the Thunderbolts, often compared to being your equals in the industry. This was John Walker, your particular equivalent on stage as the band’s guitarist.

“Instead of finding ways to rile them up, why don’t we work on something new?” Steve suggested. “Perhaps we put the synths aside for a while- no offence, Banner, and go back to our roots.”

Since the mild disaster of your latest interview, Steve had been trying to raise morale. In the face of Tony’s moodiness, it was a futile attempt. Even you had to admit that a general resignation resided permanently in your chest each time you looked at the guitar.

You watched Steve pull a face at Wanda, who was spread across the couch, observing the scene with disinterest. If Steve was the official manager, and Tony your unofficial spokesperson, then Wanda fell quite comfortably into the role of mothering the group.

Wanda sighed and sat up straighter. “Steve is right. There’s no point moping at one low blow from a band we didn’t even know existed until now.”

“Well, we should have.” Clint piped up. If the group was divided between those who cared about Walker’s comment and those who didn’t, then Clint was more towards Tony’s side.

“Exactly, how could we have missed this? With a gaudy name like Thunderbolts.” Tony exclaimed bitterly.

“We can’t exactly talk.” You muttered. “We’re The Avengers…”

“Named by Nick Fury. A legend up until his retirement.” Clint answered.

Your band had assembled in the final year of high school, when your music teacher paired you all up for a group project. It was a shock to everyone when such an odd mix of people- all from different cliques and years across the school- had continued on after graduation. In lieu of your first live performance at some dive bar on the edge of town, the aforementioned teacher, Nick Fury, had bestowed upon you the name Avengers. As the one who accidentally brought you together, it seemed fitting to accept the name, albeit a tad overdramatic.  

Steve folded his arms across his chest, aware that his attempts to breathe some positivity into the light had failed. “Maybe before cursing them for a downfall that hasn’t even happened yet, we should actually listen to some of their stuff?”

In spite of everything, you nodded along rather eagerly. You were morbidly curious about the group, having dedicated a lot of time to thinking about the Thunderbolts, but neglected to actually watch any of their performances yourself.

“I took the liberty of taping one of their live TV performances.” Steve produced a VHS tape from a satchel, waving it about at each member in turn, like some kind of highly sensitive information.

“Fine.” Tony conceded, surrendering his place crouched by the television and gesturing at Wanda to budge up on the sofa.

She obliged, scooting up to one arm of the worn leather surface. That sofa was probably older than any of you and let out a groan each time somebody sat on it. But it was comfy as hell. For this reason, you briskly walked over and took a seat before anyone else could, wedged between Wanda on your right and Clint on your left. Tony and Bruce remained standing behind, while Steve, ever the responsible one, knelt down to sort out the TV.

It was a small thing, constantly malfunctioning. In fact, you glanced around at the studio and noticed most things in there were in dire need of an upgrade- except the musical equipment, of course. Steve was always sensible in his spending. If it were up to you guys, there would probably be an awful lot more unnecessary decoration. You’d had to beg for the small lava lamp that illuminated a red glow onto the synthesiser.

The TV shuddered into action, blaring out a cacophony of noise before the picture jolted into frame. It took a second before the grain faded enough for you to see a band centre stage, obscured by people pushing themselves as close to the front as they could. The camera angle kept switching, zooming in and out as the show’s presenters introduced the song which they were about to play. The presence they commanded from the start was undeniable. All die-hard fans, blaring music and bright orange lighting with flashes of a scorching white that burnt your retinas through the barrier of the screen. To be there in person had to be life changing.

“That,” Steve tapped the screen, “is John Walker, the lead guitarist and most vocal of the group.”

“Ah, the incendiary one.” Bruce mused over your shoulder.

“The very same.”

You all simultaneously leaned closer to the screen, noting he was where the constant barrage of sound was coming from. Walker lowly strummed a rhythm to keep the fans occupied as the band warmed up and settled onto the stage. His blonde mop of hair and unkempt stubble did nothing to hide his smarmy smile.

The camera panned over, as Steve’s hand lingered near the screen, evidently having memorised the tape in advance. It stopped on the keyboardist, a grungy-looking brunette with piercing green eyes that darted about anxiously.

“Ava Starr,” Steve added nothing else. There was nothing else to say.

“Has she just come from a funeral, or does she always look like that?” Tony jeered.

Again, the camera shifted to a rather large figure looming behind the drum kit. “Alexei Shostakov. Russian, a fair bit older than the rest of them.”

“I wouldn’t want to face him in a fight,” Clint murmured.

“Well, there’s something we can play on.” Tony piped up. “He’s a Russian. We don’t trust them.”

You shuffled uncomfortably at the notion of perpetuating stereotypes. “We can do better than that, surely?”

“We can,” Steve affirmed, shooting an unimpressed glare Tony’s way. “Besides, half the band is Russian. I think people must dig the whole anti-establishment vibe.”

“Let’s just keep politics out of this, alright?” Wanda suggested.

You nodded along tersely.

The camera had shifted once more. For a beat, you could only see a bass guitar, shining what looked to be a dark red, though it was hard to tell with the brightly coloured lights reflecting from it. A hand was poised to play, completely unmoving. The camera panned up to a tightly fitting white top, which would usually seem out of place centre stage of a rock band, but was somehow form-fitting and flattering enough to blend in.

You caught a glimpse of dark red hair cascading down her shoulders, and then, finally, her face.

“Natasha Romanov,” Steve answered your unspoken question. “Hard to get a read on her…”

True to his word, her expression was entirely blank. No fear, no excitement or admiration, nothing.

The camera moved on all too quickly, jolting left towards the central microphone. A woman with short, platinum blonde hair was grasping the microphone.

“Yelena Belova. Natasha’s younger sister, and the lead singer. Adopted, I think.”

As Steve finished his final introduction, the band started playing. You all fell into a contemplative silence.

For the sake of professionalism, you tried to keep fixated on Walker’s playing. It wasn’t exactly difficult with the way he bounded across the stage, brandishing his guitar before him like a shield. The instrument was all Walker personified, a giant American flag sticker plastered across it. His playing was without fault, though the constant pacing about, the sweat soaking his t-shirt, and the growling expression he maintained summoned the image of a caged animal. Yet, in spite of the smarminess and almost cringy performance, you were mildly humoured. Walker was such a character, put on such an act that he was enjoyable to watch.    

Although… It was impossible to ignore how your eyes frequently drifted behind him, to another figure at the back of the stage.

You were well aware that playing the bass guitar often meant less participation than the other members. But without the background bass rhythm, a song sounded empty.

Natasha Romanov embodied this principle. She largely remained still throughout the performance, not attracting much attention besides occasionally ambling to stand by Yelena. Only then would she smile, and only at Yelena. Natasha seemed to ignore the audience entirely, instead prioritising the way her fingers would glide across the frets. Her playing was flawless. The notes were all you could truly pick out in the song. You were mesmerised.

As the song came to an end, Steve switched off the TV. And oh, how you wished he had left it on longer so you could see more of her, see whether the due applause might finally drag a smile from her.

“Thoughts, anyone?” He addressed you all, unnerved by the way no one immediately piped up.

Wanda was vehemently avoiding making eye contact with anyone. Bruce had apparently wandered over to his synthesisers at some point. Clint shrugged in response. Even Tony seemed to have physically deflated. None of you could deny that you had fierce competition from the Thunderbolts, retracting any prior indignance at Walker’s cockiness.

You exhaled and spoke. “They’re good. Obviously.”

Clint side-eyed you.

“What?” Your lips drew back in a taut line. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.” You glanced up to Steve for help.

“They are good. But that doesn’t take away from what we have here. Nobody listens exclusively to one band. Our fans will still be our fans even if they listen to other groups too...”

“Rogers,” Stark interjected.

You scrunched up your face, bracing for Tony to push back, to tell Steve he was being naively optimistic. What he asked, instead, caught you all off guard.

“I think you need to get us tickets to their next performance.”

~~~

Steve Rogers, for all his endless optimism and high morals, was a brilliant manager. When a request was sensible, he obliged. In fact, he went above and beyond obligation and not only managed to secure you all tickets to their next concert, but also behind-the-scenes passes. A full twenty minutes of meet-and-greet with the Thunderbolts before the concert began. This meant one of three scenarios had transpired:

Scenario one, Steve contacted their manager directly as a representative of your band, and they responded in kind by offering a meeting. Steve himself denied this, having been instructed by Tony that the Thunderbolts could never know they were attending lest ‘their egos get to their heads.’

Scenario two, Steve secured the tickets and beat out a load of die-hard fans to get the meet-and-greet. Highly unlikely.

Scenario three, Steve secured the tickets under his name, someone recognised it, and this news got back to the Thunderbolts, who decided it was all too hilarious not to oblige. This was Clint’s interpretation of events anyway, and to the rest of the group's bemusement, Wanda shockingly agreed with this conspiracy theory despite usually being the most sensible of you all.

“It makes the most sense to me.” Wanda scuffed her shoe against the pavement, gaze travelling casually towards the back door of the venue.

“Do elaborate.” Tony prompted, eyeing that same door with a certain sense of frustration.

You had been greeted mere minutes ago by a couple of intimidating security dressed head-to-toe in black. They had told you to kindly ‘wait outside for ten minutes,’ to Tony’s utter chagrin. He wasn’t used to being kept waiting, pertaining to the patience level of a toddler. 

“Have any of you heard of Valentina Allegra de Fontaine? She’s a force to be reckoned with.” Wanda explained. “Used to be heavily involved in the political world. Helped cover up scandals, make the public forget disgraced politicians, that sort of thing. She was behind it all.” Her voice took on a more serious tone. “The car crash that Pietro died in… He was hit by a drunk driver, and that drunk driver happened to be the son of a congressman, who, of course, stayed on and served for another term.” Wanda’s final words were filled with spite; her eyes glossed over now.

You had noticed Wanda had been quieter than usual over the last couple of days, but decided not to comment on it. Now, however, a guilt-ridden realisation washed over you.

“I’m sorry, Wanda,” Bruce murmured. “I didn’t know…” He trailed off, for lack of better words.

“Nobody knows.” Wanda blinked away the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “Because Valentina Allegra de Fontaine made that all disappear.” She spat.  

“And let me guess,” Tony’s mild frustration had ramped up into something more: pure spite. “Valentina now represents those Thunderbitchtits.”

You resisted commenting on Stark’s unfiltered lack of eloquence, endlessly thankful that Steve wasn’t accompanying you on this trip. You could imagine the clashes that would occur between the two today.

“Hey, it’s alright, kid.” Clint pulled Wanda into a half-hug, rubbing a hand comfortingly up and down her arm. “Totally unfair, but you don’t have to see her if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat, wrapping your arms around your own form and wishing desperately you knew the right thing to say. “We can form a human fence if she comes anywhere near.”

“Screw fences, I’ll tackle her if I have to.” Tony promised, and you were half certain he meant it.

“Come on, guys.” Bruce ushered you all closer together. “It doesn’t matter what they think they can get away with; we won’t let them get to us. And we’ll play fair. No belittling the competition.” He fixed Tony with a meaningful stare at this last part.

The man in question rolled his eyes at this.

Before anyone else could contribute to the morale-raising, the door to the stage swung open, and one of the same nameless security guards reappeared. Saying nothing, he gestured for you all to enter. There was a pause in which none of you moved, all waiting for something.

It was Wanda who provided your cue to move, an indirect reassurance that she was fine to continue. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

~~~

one- a fucking white noise machine

“There’s something mesmerising about it. Whether you consider yourself someone who enjoys the spotlight or not… Being on stage, it’s an entirely different thing.” Bruce Banner answered, his soft-spoken voice bringing a certain wisdom to his words. “It’s human nature to want to be liked, so existing in front of this room of people who have fought to be there at your show, who scream every lyric back at you, well, there’s nothing quite like it. Performing becomes your reason to live. To breathe.”

“In summary,” Tony Stark chimed in, leaning towards the microphone and pausing for a beat. “We are Gods.”  

His interruption brought Bruce’s thought-provoking answer to an end, but despite Tony’s crassness, you chuckled. Stark seemed to have become your unofficial spokesman. He was the loudest of the group, his vocalness mirroring the harsh beat of the drum kit he played. Tony’s outspoken personality often clashed with your manager and publicist, Steve Rogers, who you could envision cringing behind the set. Where Tony preferred honest, if mildly incendiary comments, Steve promoted a more sanitised version of the truth. You, however, liked to think you teetered between truthful and agreeable in your answers.

The interviewer shared in your smile, hers more professional than genuine. “Of course, and is this what inspired your debut song?” She glanced down at the papers in her lap, checked something and looked back up at the group. “I Wanna Be Adored?”

There was a moment in which you glanced round at one another, seeing who would take this question.

It was Wanda Maximoff who eventually extended her hand, indicating that Bruce pass up the microphone.

“Being known purely as a cover band, it was a difficult transition deciding to produce our own songs. There were many moments when we questioned whether this was the right thing to do or if it would isolate our audience.” Wanda rarely spoke in interviews such as this. As the lead singer in the band, her voice was the most familiar, and thus her answers tended to draw the most scrutiny. “We didn’t care for the fame- we still don’t.” She added quickly, a clear correction to Stark’s earlier arrogance. “I Wanna Be Adored is a culmination of all our anxieties about that period of time.”

The interviewer, whose name you’d already forgotten, nodded, her expression grave yet questioning. “Going back to this tumultuous time,” she continued, “it’s impossible not to address the rumours about one of the band’s founding members- Thor Odinson. What a character!” She exclaimed, though it came across more as an open question.

Wanda exhaled and half smiled as she pondered how to respond. You were grateful the microphone hadn’t been thrust in your direction yet, particularly with the current interrogation lingering awkwardly in the air. Thor had been a great friend- and even better on the bass guitar, but he let the lifestyle get the best of him before realising that fame was not worth sacrificing his relationship for. And so, Thor blessed the group with one last incredible song, then eloped with his longtime girlfriend Jane.

You tuned back in to catch the end of Wanda’s explanation of exactly that.

“Thor, of course, did struggle with addiction, as he details in his parting song, Gold Dust Woman. But ultimately, he left the group of his own accord. The rumours that he’s hidden away in some facility, or rehab centre somewhere, are false. We simply ask that you respect his privacy.”

“If I may speak.” Clint Barton suddenly spoke up. “I will never replace Thor in either his talent on the bass guitar, nor his lyrical genius- but at least my hair doesn’t get caught in the strings.”

Clint’s jest sent a ripple of laughter across the group, referring to Thor’s long blonde hair that had attracted so much attention in the past.

It always took you longer than the rest to become accustomed to the live interrogations that Steve insisted were necessary for good publicity. Feeling at last relaxed enough, you took advantage of the microphone being in your vicinity to join in.

“Oh, come on now, Barton, you’re being modest! Not the hair- that I agree with.” You joked, quirking an eyebrow up at his short brown hair styled into spikes. “Eagle- the first song you wrote and performed with us,” you elaborated, “still might be one of my favourites.”

“Yeah, I wanted to call it Hawk, but they wouldn’t let me.” Clint rolled his eyes. “Apparently, eagles are more popular or something, I don’t know.”

“Hawk?” The interviewer chuckled, frowning. “Why Hawk?”

“Because they’re the best animal.” He stated as though it were obvious. “I got one tattooed as soon as I turned eighteen. Here, I’ll show you.” Clint suddenly stood, and you all watched in dread as he turned his back to the camera, hands at the waist of his jeans, prepared to pull them down.

“Whoa now,” Wanda intervened before he could go any further, futilely waving her hand in front of Clint as if to block the camera’s view. “Some things are best left a mystery.”

Besides you, Tony burst out laughing. “Go on, Barton, show your tramp stamp on live television!”

Steve had most definitely passed out watching this unfold.

“Oh, wrong kind of audience for that, I see!” Clint returned to his seat, noticeably smirking.

You caught on that he was joking, never intending to flash anybody. “Muscle memory to drop your pants when a camera’s pointed at you, is it?” You quipped, enticing another burst of laughter from Tony.

The interviewer chuckled nervously, desperate to steer the conversation back to safer, more PG grounds “Continuing with our timeline of releases, next comes one of your more prominent contributions, Y/N, Back To The Old House. Might I ask what exactly inspired that song?”

Your grip on the microphone tensed as silence descended upon you all. “It’s about change, really. Nostalgia is a bittersweet thing, and I think Back To The Old House captures that feeling.” Hoping your explanation was satisfactory enough, you paused to allow someone else to join in. When the silence prevailed, you gulped. “After Thor left the group, we sort of departed from the Rock sound that our group started with- and I think I speak for us all when I say we miss the freedom that the genre provided us.”

Your statement was met with nods of agreement.

“So, there’s the conflicted desire to revisit our hometown,” you elaborated. “To Tony’s garage, where we used to practice whenever we weren’t studying. Here we learnt to coexist as a group, covering songs we all knew and loved. Then we learnt how to compose, put our own unique notes and words down on paper. It was a great time, but we all craved more than that. It’s great to look back on, but we’ve grown up since. To return wouldn’t bring back those same feelings; instead, it makes us grateful for how we’ve evolved.”

The interviewer beamed at you, and you knew then that your answer had been exemplary. Exactly what she’d been probing for. “You’re right, it’s hard not to get wound up in nostalgia.”

You allowed your shoulders to loosen as she resumed control over the discussion.

“Since then, you’ve transitioned into a calmer, generally more pleasing sound, if I do say so myself.”

At this, Tony scoffed and snatched back one of the microphones. “We might’ve departed from our Rock origins, but this is an experimental phase. We’re testing what works best for us as a group. Bruce likes messing around with his synthesisers, but that doesn’t mean we stick to ‘calmer sounds.’ We’re not a fucking white noise machine.”

You suppressed the urge to applaud at this.

“Ah, ok!” The interviewer was quick to amend. “So, you’re not such a fan of the slower ballads, Tony?”

“They’re not my favourite, no. But our manager Steve likes them, and well, who am I to question the almighty Mr Rogers?” Tony snarked with a shrug.

“Am I correct in saying you’re referring to Steve Rogers, who was brought on board to aid once your popularity took off?”

“The very one.”

Tony and Steve often clashed publicly, but to bring it into the midst of an interview was a bold new step from Stark.

“Steve has helped us in many ways.” Wanda interrupted, wrestling the mic back before Tony could say anything worse. “But at the core of it, we still decide on the band’s sound. And Tony’s benefited from the experimental phase as much as the rest of us.”

“Yes, that brings me to one of your newer songs, Send Me An Angel. Which, if I’m not mistaken, Tony,” the interviewer turned back to Stark, who still appeared to be steaming from the prior tangent. “You take most of the credit for?”

Tony hummed, his expression loosening considerably. The interviewer had clearly done her research, knowing the correct question to ask to calm Stark in this case.

“Yes, that song is written and dedicated to my wonderful girlfriend, Pepper.” He turned directly to the camera. “I love and miss you, baby… And I hope you’re watching right now, or that was terribly embarrassing.”

“How sweet. Now, leading on from this, are there any other budding romances we’ll be seeing in upcoming releases soon?”

At this point, you kept your mouth purposefully shut. It had always been hard to maintain stable relationships alongside living such a life. First, there was the persistent travel that severely limited the time you had to meet anyone properly. Shallow bonds were broken as easily as they formed, and flings seemed the only viable option. Second, there existed an incessant doubt in your mind about whether said person truly cared for you. Or whether they merely hoped to benefit from the supposed fame and fortune. And third and final, the ever-present rumours that plagued your image, stunted your believability and thus tainted any possible romance.   

“And you, Y/N?”

You practically jumped out of the seat upon hearing your name, realising you’d zoned out the entirety of the last conversation and, as such, had no idea what question was being thrown your way.

“Erm.” Panicked, your gaze darted between members, eventually settling on Wanda, who was mouthing words you couldn’t quite make out. You frowned and shook your head.

“Alright,” the interviewer relinquished. “I’ll take your silence as a no; there aren’t any romantic interests on the horizon.”

“Oh, right!” You exclaimed, glad to have been thrown a lifeline at last. “No, definitely not.”

The interviewer stared expectantly at you, and when this didn’t succeed in drawing any more information out of you, turned back to her papers.

“Moving on to the final question we have time for today. What do you say in response to the quote ‘The Avengers are just a washed-up rock band who turned to electronic music to distract from their repetitive songs and lack of actual talent. There’s nothing unique about their sound; they’ve gotten by purely through appealing to the deaf and uninspired. Synth pop is for… redacted.’ Any counters to that?”

There was a general stunned moment in which nobody responded. You had your fair share of critics, but they were usually easy enough to ignore. To have such a hateful opinion quoted directly at you was a bold move, implying that somebody significant must have said it. You pondered this instead of allowing yourself to be hurt by the implications of their words.

It was Tony, of course, who finally spoke.

“I counter with, who the fuck said that?”

~~~

(all chapters are on ao3)

Chapter 1: the story begins, and Emma falls to her doom

Chapter 2: the princess is saved in the suburbs

Chapter 3: Regina casts her suitor out and Killian searches for a maiden

Chapter 4: nobody wants to see their evil employer's face in their drink

Chapter 5: a toast to Emma’s phenomenal acting, and to Regina’s distrust

Chapter 6: Emma sacrifices hope

Chapter 7: coming soon !!

Chapter 8: coming soon-ish!!

When winter enclosed its grip on Crockett Island, there was no escaping the cold.

Despite this, Beverly Keane tried her best to ensure the church remained a place of comfort. She arrived early and set up the three reliable old heaters donated years ago, which by some miracle still functioned relatively well. She lit more candles than usual, hoping the golden light would provide some imaginings of heat. She even greeted everyone at the door with as much warmth as she could muster standing out in the cold for so long.

But it had to be done… Christmas was by far the busiest time for the island’s resurgence of faith. The congregation seemed to double on the first sermon of December and didn’t die down until everyone had made their New Year resolutions, promptly forgetting about attending until the Easter festivities. Beverly knew she ought to support those who sought out religion over the winter months, and yet, she loathed the sudden increase. These were people uncommitted to their faith, simply searching for an excuse to enjoy everything the holiday had to offer, or seeking penance to start the next year anew, guilt-free.

Beverly Keane was certainly not guilt-free herself.

As quickly as the thought came, she dismissed it. One slip-up in an otherwise perfect, dedicated life to Christ meant nothing, right? When it was her turn to stand at the pearly white gates of heaven, would Saint Peter disregard her faith merely for a lapse in judgment? Could one inconsequential mistake erase a life of servitude to Christ? To Crockett, her home, her people? Would they forgive her if they knew?

For the last couple of months, she had expertly managed to restrain her mind from recalling that particular moment, the so-called slip-up which brought her whole life’s purpose into question. She hadn’t given you a moment of thought.

Until Friday.

Until your parents joyously announced that you would be returning early for the holidays. On Saturday, to be exact… Beverly hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of their announcement. Something about you working from home, staying for the whole month… She wouldn’t allow herself to indulge in such imaginings. Instead, she would simply pretend you did not exist. Crockett Island was hers, and hers alone, and she’d be damned if she let someone who was barely here ruin her home.

But inevitably, the time had come when she would no longer be able to ignore you.

Your parents were some of the few who frequented the church every Sunday, and she respected them deeply for it. You rarely attended, but Beverly knew that you often partook in the celebrations around Christmas, and thus, would probably be joining today…This morning…In ten minutes when the doors opened, to be precise.

Beverly Keane had never been afraid to face somebody before, and she wasn’t about to start now.

“Y/N Y/L/N, don’t you ever, dare come near me again. Do you understand me?”

That had been fear. Fear masked as anger. Scaring you away was the only guarantee that it would never happen again.

And disgust. Disgust in herself, in you. It was unnatural, sinful and yet…

Beverly couldn’t find it in herself to summon that same revulsion when she thought of you.

With this unexpected revelation, Beverly stepped towards the church doors, hands clasping around the handle. She felt the cool metal against her palm and took a deep breath, letting it ground her. Once she opened these doors and took her place outside the church, people would begin flooding in, and you would be amongst them. She had to be prepared. She had to be brave. This necessity for such bravery took her by surprise. But she refused to dwell on it. There would be other people to face, to converse with and distract her from your presence, and that would be enough.

With one final exhale, she pushed the doors open, met by the freezing Crockett air.

The Scarboroughs were the first to arrive, greeting Bev and taking their usual seats. They were followed by an almost endless stream of familiar faces each murmuring well wishes and filing inside. At some point, it started to snow lightly, though Beverly hardly noticed because suddenly there you were.

You kept your head down, your parents on either side chatting away happily though you didn’t respond, seemingly hypnotised by the crunch of each footstep against the frosty ground. You were wrapped up, face half nestled into a thick scarf so Beverly couldn’t see your expression and thus had no idea how you really felt. Her stomach twisted at this knowledge, or rather lack thereof. She wanted, no, needed you to feel as uncomfortable as she did. If what had occurred meant nothing to you, then it truly was all in her head- her own problem to deal with.  

“Mr and Mrs Y/L/N.” Beverly forced a cordial smile upon her cold face. “It’s lovely to see you both.” Despite addressing your parents, she didn’t dare look at you. Oh, but she could sense your gaze burning into her. It warmed her cheeks, her chest and her hands. She was melting under your scrutiny.

“And you!” Your mother greeted with a wide grin. Only now did Beverly recognise her smile looked just like yours, slightly lopsided, bringing an unmistakable light to the gloomy winter morning.

“I hope it’s warmer inside than out here.” Your father quipped, rubbing his hands together in a show of discomfort.

“Well, I can’t promise anything.” Beverly swallowed, hard. “It’s a miracle the building holds any heat at all, considering how much work the structure needs. Not to mention the windows, as thin as a sheet of paper-“ Realising she was ranting, Beverly’s mouth snapped shut. It wasn’t good manners to complain unnecessarily.  

Your parents chuckled good-heartedly, and with a nod and general murmur of agreement, started heading towards the entrance. But you didn’t budge.

After a beat, Beverly summoned the resolve to turn her attention to you, still loitering in front of her anxiously. She found herself at a loss for words, no snide remark or scathing comment as she waited and watched, wishing you would just say something.

Hearing the doors click shut behind you both, you finally spoke. “So, how have you been?”

Beverly narrowed her eyes as she examined you, desperately trying to uncover whatever ulterior motive you must have for trying to talk to her. You hadn’t spoken since ‘the mistake’ months ago: hadn’t bothered to apologise or attempted to explain. You had simply packed up and headed back to the mainland at the first opportunity. Not that Beverly took it personally. Not at all, she wasn’t hurt in the slightest. In fact, she was relieved to see you go. But, was she really…?

“Fine.” Came Beverly’s tight-lipped response. And before she could stop herself. “And yourself?”

“Fine.” You echoed, shuffling your feet against the crisp ground. You appeared to be as uncomfortable as she was, and this admittedly brought Beverly a sense of pride. She relished in it, leaving the awkward silence between the two of you, as cold as the wintry air that brought shivers to your skin and an ache against your chest.

Out the corner of her eye, Beverly noticed another group of people approaching. Without another word, she directed a tight-lipped smile at you and left to greet the newcomers. It was the Flynn family, who always occupied a decent amount of time making pleasant small talk. Besides Riley, who had long since fallen from grace, Beverly admired the family and their dedication to tradition. They regularly attended church and were an integral part of Crockett’s community. Preparing to address them, Beverly stepped forward with a welcome ready at the tip of her tongue, yet never got the chance to speak.

“Oh Y/N, you’re back!” Annie Flynn exclaimed, sidestepping Beverly to drag you into a warm hug.

“Mrs Flynn,” your face lit up with all the warmth that had been lacking as you reciprocated the embrace. “It’s so nice to see you all.” You pulled back to glance around at the family, an earnest affection lacing your words.

In spite of everything, Beverly couldn’t quell the spike of jealousy that nagged at her mind. How dare the Flynn family ignore their well-established routine, ignore her in place of you. It was improper and impolite and…

“Yes, I was just catching up with Beverly and then I’ll head inside.”

Having zoned out from your conversation with the Flynns, she was taken aback to hear her name, head quickly snapping towards the sound of your voice. You were already staring right back at her with a nervous sort of smirk.

“Alright, well we’ll see you inside, dear.” Annie patted your arm affectionately, then throwing a vague hello in Bev’s direction, began to lead the family inside.

Once again, the church doors clicked shut, subjecting you both to that unbearable silence. The snow was falling heavier now, and Beverly found herself wishing the white flakes weren’t so weightless, that they could fill the absence of noise. Anything to end this uncertainty. Her mind was racing, trying to determine what you wanted from her. You had already wreaked enough havoc, abandoned her, even. But it hadn’t been you who had left. Reluctantly, she remembered how she walked away first, without looking back, without questioning what any of it could possibly mean. Now, however, she wouldn’t run away.

You pursed your lips, eyes flickering across your surroundings, anywhere except Beverly.

“I wanted to apologise.” You murmured, slow and hoarse.

Bev’s stomach dropped. She wasn’t prepared for an apology, nor did she want to consider the connotations of such regretful words.

“I understand you choose to live your life a certain way,” you continued, “and I didn’t respect that. And I can’t stop thinking about it…” Your attention flickered up to Beverly’s face, eyes wide and fitful. “Can’t stop thinking about how I should apologise.” You amended quickly. “I- well I’m mostly here just to say sorry. If you don’t want me to come inside, I can feign a stomach bug or something and head home.”

There was a sincerity behind your rambling that caused Bev’s heart to stutter, reluctantly endeared by your air of anxiousness. Gone was her desire to see you suffer, to see you share in her discomfort.

“No…” Beverly shook her head adamantly. “You’re here now, you might as well come in. It’ll do you some good.” She snarked, though lacking the usual hostility. “And… I appreciate your apology. Thank you.”

“But do you accept it?” You spoke so quickly she nearly missed it, nearly didn’t grasp the meaning behind your question.

“No…” She said, slowly. As much as she longed to place all the blame on you, it was impossible to deny her culpability any longer. “I initiated it.” She gulped, the confession like acid in her mouth. “It’s equally my own fault.”

“It’s not something to find fault in. It happened, as things do and…” You shrugged for lack of a better word. “Well, we can move on.”

“We can.” Beverly echoed, finding the statement to be hollow.

You didn’t say anything more, simply stared for what felt like an eternity. Yet, there was no frustration or malevolence behind your focus- simply a resigned sort of sadness. “Alright.” You nodded. “I’d better head inside.”

Beverly watched as you took a reluctant step forward, then another until you were directly in front of her. As you went to move again, a moment of sheer panic seemed to overwhelm her, and she found herself reaching out, grasping hold of your hand. Despite the cold, your skin was warm to the touch. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from yours, cautious and curious. You didn’t pull your hand back either. There was a beat, in which neither of you dared to move, and then, with a gentle squeeze, you dropped her hand. You turned back to the church and continued on, glancing softly at her one last time before the doors shut slowly behind you.

Despite the turmoil raging inside her mind, the rest of the morning passed by in a blur of mundanity. She felt your gaze flicker to her a few times throughout the sermon, though she didn’t return the contact. She couldn’t. Indulging the whirlwind of emotions storming through her thoughts would only worsen the consequences. For one, she couldn’t forget the feel of your hand, so soft and warm in hers, nor the gentle pressure you had inflicted, both mentally and physically before your departure.

It made her sick. Although, the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Beverly wondered desperately how she had kissed you the first time. It was something she could no longer deny within herself- not only that it had happened, but that she had caused it. Now, she questioned where that stupid bravery had disappeared to, whether it would return, whether she would be able to overlook the desire again- that longing for contact. It raged throughout her like an uncontrollable shiver. But she wasn’t cold, no, she was burning up.

The increased candlelight in the church flickered about, like flames licking at her skin, and the barely functioning heaters were suddenly pouring out an endless stream of feverish air. Beverly tugged at the collar of her clothes, paranoid that she should soon melt underneath the heaving pile of fabric. Yet her mind wouldn’t cease. She remembered suddenly the feeling of your lips pressed against her own, the way she tried to chase your touch without daring to reach out and hold you. She remembered how in a moment of doubt, she had gone to pull away and felt your arms encircle around her waist. She had gasped then, in a moment of desperation, not discomfort. Not like the discomfort that plagued her now. It was unbearable.

As soon as Father Paul announced the end of the sermon, Beverly shot up from her seat. She could no longer stand to exist within the confines of the church. It was all too much. She knew she had her duties, but for once she decided to neglect them.

Ignoring the general murmur of surprise passing through the congregation, Beverly stormed across the room and out the backdoor, breathing in a gulp of freezing air. In the hour that she had been confined inside, the snow had settled lightly across the ground and continued to fall steadily from the grey sky. On another day, she would’ve stopped to admire the beauty of it. She would’ve thanked God for such a perfect natural phenomenon, but not today. Beverly couldn’t see the perfection in the white dusting of snow. Instead, she saw how the snow failed to reach the grass under the cover of trees and began determinedly marching in that direction.

Under the cover of tall pine trees, the light was greatly diminished. Beverly felt as though she were hidden away, and inhaled deeply the smell of the earth. She continued onwards until she was out of view of the church, and on this rare occasion, she found that fact to be a relief. Out here, nobody would see how she closed her eyes, not for prayer, but for clarity. Nobody would see how her hands lightly shook, how she chewed anxiously at her bottom lip.

Not until…

“Are you okay?” The question was futile, spoken between heaving breaths as Beverly realised you must’ve rushed out after her.

Beverly turned to face you, allowing the fear to wash over her as she realised just how beautiful you looked at that moment.

“No.” She answered honestly. “Not really.”

“I’m sorry.” You wrung your hands together, and she noticed how they shook too. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Beverly repeated solemnly.

In the past, she would’ve told you yes. That yes, please you could go back to the mainland to never return. You could stay away and never dare to look, let alone speak to her again. That, she recognised with a shudder, would be the easy thing to do.

You approached slowly, twigs snapping underfoot as you refused to break eye contact. The forest seemed silent around you both, as though the whole world were holding its breath. You stared at her, as silent as the snow- yet she no longer believed this silence to be a bad thing. Rather, she basked in it, indulged the many possibilities that might play out next. But she knew.

She knew as you stopped, barely a foot away now.

She knew as your gaze flickered down to her lips and stayed there.

She knew when, at last, you asked, “Can I?”

You didn’t need to elaborate. Beverly breathed out a relieved “Yes,” and then you were closing that distance.

Beverly let out a sigh, leaning further in until your body was pressed up against hers. Your lips were warm and soft, and you gently sought out her own in a way that made her chest pleasantly ache. Her hands fell upon your waist, felt the curve of your body and wished suddenly to dip below your t-shirt. Instead, she focused on the feel of your mouth, the caress of your tongue, the way you moaned when she slid her hands up your torso to pull you impossibly closer. It was addictive. She wanted more.

More of this. More of you. Yet all too soon came the burning need for oxygen. She parted, instantly missing the feel of your kiss. Her eyes fluttered open to try and alleviate this longing but she was met by the sight of you practically panting, gaze laden by that same desire. The burn in her chest increased tenfold, suffused throughout her mind and very soul. You were grasping at the fabric of her dress, unwilling to let her slip away this time. Although Beverly Keane no longer felt trapped. Not anymore.