#fantasticfour

The clock read 12:21 a.m. The Baxter Building was quiet now—muted circuits humming like distant crickets, floor lights casting long shadows. You returned to the spare study room, sliding the glass door almost shut behind you.

The soft buzz of vinyl static mixed with the familiar strum of the intro of Beast of Burden drifting from the corner turntable. Johnny stood in front of the chalkboard, chalk pinched delicately between his fingers, his posture all relaxed frustration, one hip cocked, his free hand in his hair. The board was scrawled with half-solved equations, almost unreadable notes on the margins of the board, pieces of a puzzle the two of you couldn’t stop chasing–your shared obsession. 

“Rolling Stones?” you asked, setting your refilled mug on the glass table.

“Mhm,” he murmured, not looking away. “We’ve been at this for six hours. I need some music.”

You stepped beside him. Your shoulders brushed. Neither of you moved.

He was quiet—lip pulled between his teeth, brow furrowed—and when he finally turned, it wasn’t to answer you. It was just to see if you were stuck too. You met his gaze.

“You won’t find the answers written on my face,” you said dryly.

He flirted, “You’re sure? It’s a nice face.”

You scoffed, eyes flicking back to the board. “Alright hotshot, think of the other dimension like a second membrane. Energy isn’t lost—it’s exchanged. Like solar flares. But interdimensional.”

“Brane cosmology,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re straying into string theory now. Careful, you’ll give Reed ideas.”

“You’d love that.”

Again, your shoulders brushed—closer this time. Still, neither of you moved.

Johnny turned toward you, “Remember back in college when we used to talk about starting a rogue lab in Switzerland?”

You smiled. “With solar panels and cows.”

“And that greenhouse you kept trying to design even though you killed every plant you owned.”

“You said you’d handle the compost.”

His laugh was soft, nostalgic. The equations behind him faded into the background.

“That was before you joined Reed’s think tank,” he said, tapping the badge on your lab coat.

“And before you got famous.”

Johnny smirked. “Was I ever not famous?”

You gave him a long, amused look. “Still as insufferable as before.”

He grinned. “Fuck off.”

Then, with sudden mock seriousness, he looked at you, wiggling his shoulders with a grin, dancing slightly as he sang off-key:

“Am I hard enough? Am I rough enough? Am I rich enough—”

“Don’t,” you warned, groaning.

“I’m not too blind to see…” he finished, grinning wide.

“You are the burden, Johnny.”

He laughed. “Classic,” he said, unbothered. “It’s a masterpiece.”

“You’re impossible, I’m gonna tell Reed on you.” You tossed a piece of chalk at his shoulder, and he caught it with exaggerated flair. 

He turned back to the board, started to write—but the chalk slipped. You both lunged for it at once. Your foreheads collided. A soft thunk. You hissed as hot coffee sloshed down the front of your shirt.

“Shit—sorry!” Johnny reached out, panicked. He grabbed your lab coat from the table and patted your chest, trying to dry it.

“Johnny!” you snapped, slapping his hand away, half-shocked. You unbuttoned your shirt halfway as the heat soaked through the fabric. “It’s hot!”

“I’ll get you something,” He hurried from the room.

He came back a minute later, a royal blue sweater in his hands. His. Familiar, soft, worn at the sleeves.

“Seriously?” you asked.

“It’s clean,” he said gently.

You took it and raised an eyebrow. “Turn around.”

He obeyed after a beat. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. And you’re the one who flashed half the dorm, remember?”

“That was years ago,” you muttered. “And I was drunk.”

“You were also covered in vomit. I was doing you a favor.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Just saying—it wasn’t the worst night of my life.”

You rolled your eyes and pulled the sweater on. The scent hit first: warm, slightly smoky—like campfire and ozone. It hung loose around you, the sleeves long past your wrists.

When you turned, he was already watching. So you threw your stained shirt at his chest.

“What the hell, I told you to turn around.”

He caught it, smiling sheepishly. “Like I said. Nothing I haven’t seen.”

You crossed to the chalkboard, trying to regain your composure. He joined you, standing beside you, eyes flicking toward your face.

You pulled your hair back with a pencil, loose hair strands fell that framed your face prettily. When you looked up, he was still staring. Not glancing. Memorizing.

You raised an eyebrow. “I know I’m pretty, flame boy. Try not to fall in love.”

He blinked, then laughed, the sound soft and careful. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Just don’t set the room on fire again like before, alright?”

He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes all the way. “Only if you stop wearing my clothes. I’m trying to stay focused here.”