#fluffyjulyday6

Amelia Shepherd hated book clubs. Actually, correction... Amelia Shepherd hated the idea of book clubs.

"They're homework," she'd declared the moment you'd come home waving a flyer you'd picked up from the hospital café. "Everyone keeps trying to invent ways to make my free time feel like school."

You'd laughed. "It's only once a month."

"Yeah, once a month of assigned reading." She sighed, chopping up the carrot you had placed in front of her with enthusiasm.

"They have fancy coffee."

She raised an eyebrow and picked up the next veg to chop, zucchini, "I can buy drinks that I like without having to discuss pathetic fallacy."

"They have snacks." You tried.

"I can also buy snacks."

You leaned against the kitchen counter, smiling patiently, "They're letting partners join," and that made Amelia pause, just for a moment.

"...Partners?"

"Mhm."

"So you don't actually have to work at the hospital, huh?"

"Nope." You shook your head and couldn’t conceal the grin forming on your face, she narrowed her eyes, "What?" You asked, aiming for the innocent angle.

She put the knife down, shaking her head, "You've already signed us up, haven't you?"

"I might have." You stirred the mixture of food in the pan, not quite yet daring to look Amelia in the eye. She'd be fine with it... you'd hoped, anyway.

"You absolutely have."

Now, you risked a glance, "I thought you'd like it."

Luckily, she was smiling, "I won't."

"You don't even know what the book is."

"I don't need to."

"You are judging an entire experience before trying it."

"I am," she said proudly. "It's something I am very good at."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Amelia found that she hated it right up until she didn't.

The first meeting was awkward for approximately nine minutes.

Amelia spent those nine minutes wearing the expression she reserved for mandatory HR training, sipping terrible coffee and answering questions with as few words as possible. She looked like a grumpy teenager.

Then someone made an awfully incorrect interpretation of the main character's motivations and Amelia lasted a whole seven seconds before jumping in.

"No," she said, sitting forward. The room stopped to look at her, "That's... no. She isn't selfish."

The discussion lasted forty-five minutes and you barely spoke. For the most part, you watched your girlfriend accidentally become the most enthusiastic person in the room.

Walking home afterward, Amelia frowned thoughtfully, "You know, I still think book clubs are pretentious."

"Mhm."

"But Linda's point about the ending was ridiculous." She fumed to herself.

You joined your hand with hers, pulling her closer to you, walking shoulder to shoulder, "So you enjoyed yourself?"

She considered the question for a moment before shrugging, "I enjoyed being right."

"That's not what I asked."

"...Maybe I enjoyed it a little."

You bumped her shoulder, "I knew it."

"Don't get smug."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The real problem arrived with book two because this book was six hundred pages long. Amelia Shepherd barely had enough time to remember to eat lunch, let alone fit 600 pages into her evenings.

With three emergency surgeries, two overnight consults and one resident who nearly fainted during rounds, there was no chance she could squeeze in reading six hundred pages.

By one week in, the bookmark was still sitting stubbornly on page forty-three. She dropped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic groan, "I've failed."

"You've read forty-three pages." You tried, using a light and positive voice.

"Out of six hundred." She groaned, tossing the book onto the coffee table, it landed with a thud.

"To be fair babe, you've had seventy-two working hours in four days."

She rubbed both hands over her face, "The annoying thing is that I actually want to read it."

"I know."

"I just..." She sighed. "Every time I sit down, I fall asleep."

You looked at her for a second, then closed your own book, "Okay."

She frowned, "Okay, what?"

"I'll read to you," You shrugged, leaning across and grabbing her copy of the book.

"...What?" She sat up, frowning.

"Whilst you cook, I'll read."

Amelia blinked, "You mean..."

"Exactly what I said." You let out a soft laugh at her little furrowed brows and small pout.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because... that's ridiculous." She shook her head.

"I disagree."

"You'll get bored."

"I won't."

"You'll do the voices."

"Oh, that? Yes, I absolutely will do that."

She pointed at you, "Fine, read. But I swear, no voices."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The arrangement lasted exactly one evening before becoming tradition. Amelia would come home exhausted, shoulders tight from twelve hours beneath the glaring lights of the hospital.

You'd already have vegetables chopped or pasta boiling or something simmering on the stove. Then, she'd tie on an apron and you'd pick up the book.

"'Chapter Five,'" you announced dramatically.

"Oh no." The last chapter hadn't ended well.

"'The rain fell with remarkable determination-'"

She put down the knife and shook her finger at you, "No, you are using your narrator voice. We said no voices."

"No, you said no voices." You grinned, "And, I don't have a narrator voice."

"You absolutely do."

You ignored her and continued, "'As though the sky itself-'"

She snorted, "You sound like you're narrating a nature documentary."

Without missing a beat, you deepened your voice. "Observe. The overworked neurosurgeon attempts to make risotto while pretending she isn't emotionally invested in the lives of these fictional people."

She rolled her eyes, picking the knife back up and scraping the chopped food into the sizzling pan, "I hate you."

"You love me," You joined her at the stove top, wrapping your arms around her from behind, book still in hand.

"I tolerate you," she mumbled.

You leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, "You literally moved in."

"I made mistakes," She shrugged.

"You were the one who bought our matching mugs."

She sighed, "The biggest mistake." You could hear her smile before you saw it.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The thing was...

She really did like listening. There was something different about listening to a story instead of just chasing the words across a page after sixteen hours awake.

She could stir sauce, chop herbs or lean against you while setting the table. She could also close her eyes for just a second and your voice would just keep carrying the story forward.

On occasion, she'd interrupt, "No, wait."

"What?" You paused, holding your finger against where you had just been interrupted so as to not lose your place.

"Read that sentence again," You flipped back a line and she smiled.

She hummed, "I liked that bit."

Sometimes she'd predict endings, "He's lying."

"We don't know that." You shrugged, trying to remain impartial.

"He is," she'd sing-song and often, to her credit, she was correct.

"...We're literally only on chapter eight, how do you-"

"I know people." She'd reply, very enigmatic.

"You know fictional people?" and she would just shrug, tapping the page for you to continue.

Sometimes she'd even argue with the author, "Oh, that's lazy writing."

"They're just setting something up."

"No, I bet their editor just missed that. It's just that rubbish."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

About halfway through the month, Amelia stopped pretending she wasn't invested.

"Don't start without me." She called down the stairs, having just got home and now running for a quick shower.

"I wouldn't," you called back, grabbing her favourite blanket and lighting the candle by the couch.

"You promise?"

"I promise," You heard her let out a little sigh of content before the shower kicked to life. You just smiled to yourself.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It happened on a Thursday.

She'd been in surgery nearly ten hours, the operation had gone well and the patient would recover but Amelia looked absolutely done in.

She barely spoke through dinner and instead, just leaned against your shoulder while you loaded the dishwasher.

"You okay?" You whispered.

She nodded slowly, "Mhm."

You paused as you put in the last plate and stood up, "You don't have to be."

"I know."

A few minutes later she was curled beside you on the couch, her hair still damp from her shower, one leg tucked beneath yours. You picked up the book, "Ready?"

She nodded sleepily and so you started reading. Her breathing had slowed within minutes.

You paused to look at her and check. She was not quite asleep, not yet. Just resting, so you kept going. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows. Half an hour later, you reached the end of the chapter.

You looked down and this time, Amelia was fully asleep. One hand still loosely curled around your sleeve. A soft snore sneaking its way past her lips. You smiled and carefully marked the next page to read. You turned off the lamp and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She stirred, "Mmm..." she rolled further into you.

"You fell asleep." You whispered into her hair.

"No..." She protested, stretching out her tired limbs and forcing her eyes open.

"You did."

"No, I'm listening to you read."

You chuckled, "You were dreaming."

"I can do two things at once." She mumbled and you laughed quietly.

"Come on," you shifted slightly, letting her sit up before you stood. She didn't move again. Instead, eyes still closed, she mumbled,

"...Just one more time."

Your heart melted, "What?" You crouched over her.

"The last few pages. Just read it one more time for me?"

You shook your head softly, "You won't hear it."

"I will." She pushed to re-open her eyes.

You brushed her hair behind her ear, "You won't."

"...Please."

You looked at her, really looked. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, her hair was escaping in every possible direction. She was still wearing one of your hoodies that she'd stolen months ago.

You knew she wasn't asking because she desperately needed to know what happened, she was asking because your voice had become part of her coming home routine, the way for her to rest into the night, separate herself from work.

"You need sleep more than these pages, Amelia."

She made a tiny, dissatisfied sound, "But..."

"I'll read tomorrow." You whispered.

"...Promise?"

"I promise."

She sighed dramatically, "Fine." and took your hand, accepting your help to guide her upstairs and into your bedroom.

Thirty seconds later she was asleep again.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

By the final week of the month, you had a problem, "You know we have..." you counted on your fingers, "...three evenings left."

Amelia looked at the remaining pages, "Oh."

"There are two hundred pages to go still."

"...Oh," She sighed and, for a moment, she looked genuinely distressed, "We're not going to finish, are we?"

"We'll manage," you tried to persuade yourself, as well as her. 70-odd pages a night, you could just about do that... maybe.

She bit her lip, "I don't want to skim it though."

"We won't."

"I actually want to know what happens."

"I know."

She sighed, "Ugh, I hate that I like this stupid book." She thoroughly mixed the sauce that was cooking, stabbing at some particularly large clumps of tomatoes, "I hate that this stupid book club was your idea."

"I know."

"I especially hate that you were right." She pointed a wooden spoon at you, splattering little red drops of sauce onto the floor, "Don't enjoy that."

"I am enjoying it immensely," You grinned, rushing to clean up after her.

Later that same evening, the idea arrived while Amelia slept. She'd fallen asleep on your shoulder again, book open in your lap.

You looked at the clock, then at her. Then at your phone, and picked it up.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Amelia kissed you goodbye in the kitchen, gathering her things, before pausing at the door, "Oh and I'm sorry."

"For what?" You asked, passing her the packed lunch you'd prepared the day before.

"I'll miss reading tonight."

"You've got another late surgery?" She nodded miserably, "It's okay." You assured her.

"I was actually looking forward to chapter forty-two."

"I know." She took the lunch with a kiss and she left before you could say anything else.

Later, at around 11pm, while she was getting ready to leave the hospital, her phone connected automatically to her headphones and a notification appeared.

Playlist shared by You.

Chapter Forty-Two.

She frowned, pressed play.

Your voice filled her ears as she stood in the hallway of the hospital, bag slung over one shoulder.

"Hi." A pause. "I figured if you couldn't be on the couch, then maybe the couch could come to you." She laughed despite herself. "So... chapter forty-two."

You cleared your throat theatrically, "'The train arrived just before dawn...'"

She listened all the way home. At some point, chapter forty-three started automatically. Then forty-four.

And between chapters you'd left little messages.

"Remember to drink water."

"This guy is still really annoying."

"I had to re-record this sentence six times because I couldn't pronounce this town's name."

"If you're smiling right now, I was right about this being a good idea. Don't try to convince me otherwise."

By the time she pulled into the driveway, she was crying a little, mostly from laughing and a little from missing you despite the fact she was sitting just outside the door.

She found you in the kitchen, dropped her bags and wrapped both arms around your waist, "You made me an audiobook."

You looked over your shoulder innocently, "I may have."

"You recorded..." She held up her phone. "Three chapters."

"I got a little carried away."

"You know," she said quietly into your shoulder, "I've spent a lot of my life believing people eventually get tired."

You rested your cheek against her hair, "I know."

"They stop showing up."

You tightened your arms on top of hers, "I won't."

"I know." She smiled, "You keep finding new ways."

You pulled back just enough to look at her, "And I'll do my best to keep finding them."

She searched your face, as if checking whether you understood the weight of what you'd promised.

Then she nodded, "Good."

You kissed her forehead, "So..."

"So?"

"Chapter forty-five?" You nodded to the couch, where her bowl of food was waiting, still steaming.

Amelia smiled, the tired, genuine smile that belonged only to the version of herself that existed at home. She took your hand and led you toward the couch.

--

Peter finds himself sitting on the roof of his favorite bodega the night after he gets grounded. 

In his defense, he’d thought Aunt May would still be at her work party at 8 P.M. How was he supposed to know she’d walk in on him trying to stitch a cut on his forearm in the hallway bathroom? His stupid spidey-sense is unreliable at the best of days, and he’d been blaring a YouTube video on field medic skills too loud and didn’t hear her come in. 

He curls up into a ball, feeling something prickle at the corners of his eyes. He hates it when May gets mad at him, especially when it’s out of worry. He hates it that he can’t tell her about Spider-Man and show her there was a reason he was getting hurt and it wasn’t out of delinquency. But Mr. Stark had been clearer than crystal-infused nanotech that no one could know about the fifteen-year-old he was secretly sponsoring, and he couldn’t technically disobey him. 

This time, thankfully, he does realize when someone approaches him. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and he shoots to his feet, turning around. 

It’s the blonde woman with the green vest again. 

She’s leaning on one foot, arms folded. There’s a smirk on her face, like she has all the right to be here, on a random roof, at 1 A.M.

“Hey, Peter Parker.” She greets, and there’s a musicality to her voice he hadn’t noticed before. Something wry and friendly. Probably designed to let his guard down. He tries not to. “How are you?”

“Chilling.” He gets out after a long moment. “Um. How are you?”

“Chilling.” She repeats, shrugging. She walks up to him casually, and he tenses, but there doesn’t seem to be any hint of aggression in her body language. “Enjoying the night. It’s, ah, a Friday, no? I went to a bar. They gave me a free drink. Not enough alcohol, sadly.”

She sits down, feet dangling off the roof, and pats the spot next to her. A second of bewilderment later, he joins her.

He alternates between looking at her face and at his hands, twitching awkwardly the entire time. Is he supposed to say something here? She’s giving off some really confusing vibes right now. Not entirely ‘bad guy’ ones, but definitely not not?

She reaches into a flap on her vest, and before he can stop himself, he says, “That thing has so many pockets.”

She glances at him and grins, and suddenly looks so much younger. “Right? It’s so cool. My sister gave me so much shit for it.”

He absently wonders why, when that vest is awesome and he’s just a little jealous, when she pulls something out, and chucks it towards him. 

He catches it, his lightning fast reflexes coming in handy, before he realizes what it is. 

It’s a different Walkman. And his headset.

“It’s brand new.” She offers. “I got it from that big online store. Amazon. Very convenient, I like it.”

“Oh. Shit.” The curse slips out in shock. “Thanks. Wow, thanks.”

She shifts, tucking a foot under her thigh, getting comfortable. “I loaded the songs back in it. You should listen.”

Peter looks up at her, astonished, but obliges, putting on the headset and clicking play. 

The faint guitar strum of an unknown song comes on, followed by raspy vocals. He raises a brow, and she smirks again. “And I added some of my own.”

It’s something laid-back, alt rocky. Something he could jam to on the way to school. He likes it. A lot, actually. 

“British band.” She informs him. “Alt-J. Nice instrumentals.”

“It’s actually really good.” He smiles at her. “Thanks!”

She smiles back, and there’s a familiarity to the curve of her mouth. It vaguely reminds him of adrenaline highs and breathless hero-worship and several bruises that took days to disappear even with his super healing. Huh.

“Yelena.” She volunteers before he can reach a conclusion. “Yelena Belova.”

Peter blinks. She shrugs again. “Feels only fair that if I know your name, you know mine, no?”

The chorus plays in his ears, acoustic and funky. He grins. “Nice to meet you, Yelena Belova.”

“Hmm. You do know that the mask is a little pointless since I already know your name, right?”

“Yeah, but it goes with my shirt.”

--

“Wow.” Peter suddenly hears the bland voice as he’s walking, and he squints upwards, covering his eyes from the sun. Yelena’s standing on a fire escape landing on the building next to him, looking down at him in a really unimpressed way. “So is that what you Americans call ‘flirting’?”

His face goes red and he scowls. “You were there? Seriously?”

“Your school has very big windows.” Yelena answers, a perfectly-manicured eyebrow raised. “Very easy to shoot someone through it.”

“Good to know.” He sighs, and pulls himself up to the fire escape, following her as she climbs to the roof, towards their usual meeting spot. “Is this all you do with your time? Stalk high schoolers?”

She shrugs. “It is no less boring than what I do normally.”

And what exactly is that? Peter doesn’t ask. He did, a few times, but now he knows he won’t get an actual answer. Unless Yelena actually is a part-time exterminator who goes around spraying red dust on spiders. Which is bonkers. 

He throws his backpack to the side and collapses on the rooftop, tired, relishing the coolness of the cement. Yelena sits near his head, legs criss-crossed, and smirks down at him. 

“So,” she stretches out the word, “tell me about this Liz.”

He gapes at her. “No way you know her name too.”

“Once you become as old as I am, lip reading becomes a necessity.” She quips, which is hilarious considering she can’t possibly be older than thirty. “Now tell me. I am bored. Drop the tea.”

“...Do you mean ‘spill the tea’?”

“Yes. That.”

He shakes his head, amusement making the edge of his lips quirk up. That’s the best part of Yelena: she’s always looking for the next best thing to obsess about. Last week, Peter introduced her to an authentic New York hot dog, with all toppings and other paraphernalia, and she nearly lost her mind. 

“Fine, fine. You already know her name. I met her in Chemistry in freshman year, and I’m entering the Academic Decathlon with her this year. She’s so pretty. And she has, like, the nicest smile, and the biggest eyes. Her favorite color is blue, and she loves dogs, and thinks Spider-Man is cool, and—"

“And you are about to declare marriage to her within the next two to three days?”

He swats at her, cheeks burning. “Shut up! You asked, you don’t get to be judgemental.”

“I can judge you however much I want.” Yelena answers. She’s kind of right. “Did you bring anything new for me today?”

“Oh! Yeah, I did. I even got, like, shareable earphones today.” Peter reaches for his backpack and pulls out the Walkman again. He tosses her one side of his bright yellow earphones. “It’s more indie pop this time. Bleachers, Tame Impala, and this new band, Wallows.”

She simply points to the back of the earphone, and deadpans, “Is this a ‘minion’?”

“Yep. Minions are awesome. Remind me to show you a bunch of Gen X memes later.”

“Oh, yes, ‘memes’. The modern hieroglyphic.”

“Exactly.”

She puts it in and lies down next to him, and he hits play. The quirky poly synth of Tame Impala begins, and he shuts his eyes, finally relaxing. 

--

And so it continues. Nearly every Friday, Yelena Belova catches Peter after school to either give or take his Walkman, exchanging new and different songs every time. Peter manages to get her into some trendy pop rock, and believes her when she says she enjoys it. Until one day she shows up with a microSD card full of old-timey blues, arguing about the lack of emotional depth and storytelling capacity in One Direction. He gasps, offended, loud enough to scare the pigeons next to him, and utterly ignores her for two hours. 

Mr. Stark calls him every now and then, asking about updates to his life. If he’s going to join band again, how he did on his Calculus quiz, how his hot aunt is doing. He answers all his questions except the last one. Of course, somehow, Yelena gets wind of that conversation, and starts planning how to ask May out for a date openly, and he nearly throws her off the building. 

One evening, he waits for her on their rooftop, two Dunkin’ donuts in his hands and Walkman in his hoodie pocket. It’s late, but he got straight A's on his finals, and he wants to celebrate. 

A moniker in Russian is called behind him, and he turns, waving the donuts, a teasing admonishment for being late on his lips, before he sees the large duffel bag on her back. Her signature rings are missing, and her hair up in tight braids. 

His grin falls. 

“Oh.” He says. “You’re leaving?”

Instead of the usual smirk, there’s a soft smile on her face, gentle and melancholy. She shrugs, like she always does.

“I had to, at some point.” She says. “My job here is done.”

Something almost angry clogs up in his chest, a childish need to scream ‘no, no, no’ making him clench his fists, squishing his donut.

“Hey, don’t mess up my donut!” Yelena complains, pouting. She takes the other one from him, folding the Dunkin’ paper bag and neatly putting it in her green vest pocket. “It’s my snack for the road.”

Peter takes off his mask, and immediately regrets it when her gaze ticks over his eyes, seeing the tears collected in them. Her eyebrows knit together into a frown.

“Aw, Peter Parker,” is all she says, and those three words hold more meaning than a speech. 

His lip quivers. He wishes he had arguments to make to convince her to stay. Songs he could give her to tell her that hey, there’s someone here that would miss her a lot. Who thought that her music was actually really good, no matter how much shit he gave her. Who would never be able to take onto this road on his way back from school without thinking of white blonde hair and a wry Russian accent. 

But he can’t think of any. He barely has a right to. 

Yelena puts a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “I can’t stay in New York City forever, Peter. I have to go.” She squeezes, a fleeting steel edge in her gaze. “I have more bugs to squash.”

Peter chokes out a laugh, and sniffles. “Damn, I didn’t know you were a world-famous part-time exterminator.”

“Best woman for the job.” She grins, teeth glinting in the moonlight. 

He shifts on his feet, trying not to cry. “Are—are you ever gonna come back?”

“Maybe.” She allows after a second of thought, and Peter knows that’s the kindest ‘no’ he’ll get. “I’ll see if my sister wants to join if I do.”

“Will she respect the vest this time?”

“I fucking hope so.”

They chuckle, the wind carrying the quiet sound. Peter tries to cherish this as much as he can, tightly grabbing onto these last few moments he has with a friend he wasn’t planning on making, but one he’ll feel the absence of, every Friday night.

His ears catch a buzz from Yelena’s other pocket, and she sighs. “Time to leave.”

“Wait—” He blurts out, and, without thinking about it, he brandishes the Walkman to her, minion earphones and all. “Here. You can take this.”

She blinks at it, and, for the first time in all these weeks, it seems like he finally managed to catch her off-guard. “Huh?”

“It’s got new songs loaded on it. And all the ones we ever listened to. I found a way to increase the storage.” He shakes it, practically begging her to take it. “You’ll need it. Y’know. To show your sister. And as motivation to do more dust-spraying on bugs.”

Several complicated emotions pass over Yelena’s face in a millisecond, before it settles on something bittersweet, lips downturned but eyes bright, shining against the streetlights on the ground. 

She takes it from him, carefully, as if it was something precious, and places it in yet another pocket in her vest. 

She whispers a sentence in Russian, tacking his name at the end. Peter smiles, wobbly. “You’re welcome, Yelena Belova.”

She takes a breath, and reaches out to pull him in by the back of his neck, resting her forehead against his. And that seems sweeter than any goodbye hug Peter’s ever gotten. 

“We will meet again, someday.” She tells him firmly.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

He believes her.