#peacemaker dc

『••✎••』

He was not prepared for this. Firefights and covert ops? Sure, yeah, no problemo. Even one of Peacemaker’s unhinged rants about obscure '80s hair metal bands had him thinking he was well-equipped to handle any situation. But this…? This?!

No, this was worse. So much worse. You, the badass new recruit to the 11th Street Kids, had fallen asleep on his shoulder. His shoulder. And now his brain was short-circuiting like a malfunctioning murder drone.

He froze, mid-breath, with his eyes wide as saucers behind his red-visored mask—which he’d momentarily pushed up onto his forehead because, well, you guys were just chilling in the safehouse after a mission. The TV was droning on with some reality show Harcourt had picked, but Adrian couldn’t hear it over the deafening thud-thud-thud of his own heartbeat. Your head was right there, nestled against his shoulder, your soft breaths tickling his neck.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

"Okay, okay, stay calm," he told himself. He was the fucking Vigilante, for God’s sake. He’d stabbed dudes through the eye socket without flinching. He’d jumped off rooftops. He’d eaten an entire ghost pepper once on a dare from Economos and only cried a little. But this? This was uncharted territory.

His hands hovered uselessly in the air, like he was afraid moving them would detonate a bomb. Move, and he might wake you. Don’t move, and there’s a good possibility he might die of a heart attack.

But even then, what if he had woken you up? What if you woke up and realized you were touching him and then punched him in the face? Or worse, what if you didn’t punch him and just… stayed there?

Oh God…. He needs help.

"Dude… psst!" he hissed, his voice a panicked whisper, head whipping toward Peacemaker, who was slouched on the other end of the couch, munching on a bag of chips and looking way too awake. Chris's eyes flicked over, one eyebrow raised.

"What?" Peacemaker mouthed, clearly annoyed at being interrupted during Celebrity Dumpster Diving or whatever this crap was.

Adrian’s eyes widened further, if that was even possible. He jerked his head toward you, still asleep, your hair brushing his cheek and smelling like… shampoo? Gunpowder? Perfection? He didn’t know, but it was short-circuiting him. "She’s on me," he whisper-yelled, voice cracking. "What do I do?!"

Peacemaker snorted, crumbs flying. "Chill, dude. She’s just sleeping. Don’t make it weird."

Adrian was sure that it was some sort of cosmic joke, because it was already the most awkward thing that had ever happened to him. He didn't know why you were so comfortable with him, and that made him feel a little funny. It felt... nice.

"Oh," he squeaked, looking back down at you. You really were asleep, snoring lightly, one hand resting on his chest. You looked peaceful and so, so beautiful. His stomach dropped, a sudden realization dawning on him. "She looks like a little puppy from this angle. Like a puppy that’d rip your throat out but, like, in a heavenly way," he whispered, awestruck. "A heavenly angel puppy."

Peacemaker looked unimpressed. "She is literally the opposite of an angel."

"You know what I mean, P. It’s like that family dog you love but is actually an asshole, you know? Like it will try to bite you if you come near it, but sometimes it lets you pet it and falls asleep on your lap, so you still love it and you still keep coming back and-"

"Jesus Christ, dude," Peacemaker grumbled, shaking his head. "Just... shut the fuck up. I'm trying to watch this. I think that chick with the weave got a boob job."

But Adrian didn’t shut the fuck up. In fact, he started rambling at top volume, his nerves getting the better of him. "Should I wake her up?" he asked, sounding more worried than a kid in a haunted house. "Or let her sleep? Do I need to get her a pillow? A blanket? Oh, maybe she needs water or a snack! Does she eat snacks while she sleeps? Maybe she needs to be in a bed, do you think she would want to go to a bed, or is that too much-"

"Shut up!" Both Peacemaker and Harcourt were glaring at him now, annoyed, but you stirred, your nose scrunching adorably.

"Noisy..." you mumbled, still asleep, your eyes fluttering as you nuzzled closer.

And Adrian nearly had a heart attack. "Fuck. Me. That was the cutest thing I've ever heard in my life," he gasped, feeling the urge to take off his mask to grab his glasses and see better. But his hands were still hovering awkwardly, his brain not having recovered from the initial shock. "Did you guys hear that? Did you fucking hear that?"

"I hear the sound of your stupid ass voice," Peacemaker deadpanned. "Seriously, dude, I will throw this remote at you."

"You know, Adrian, it is late," Harcourt said, pointedly turning up the volume on the TV and rolling her eyes. "We should all probably get some sleep. Maybe you should, uh, lay her down or something. Let her sleep. I think she had a rough day."

Adrian stared at you, eyes wide and mouth open, and then glanced back over at his friends.

"Lay her down," he repeated. Huh. That could work. He could do that. He could definitely do that. He turned back to you, still frozen. "Yeah, I can do that," he breathed, trying to convince himself.

"Fucking finally," Peacemaker settled back down into his seat, grabbing a handful of chips.

Adrian was still staring, his breath shaky. "How should I do that? Like a fireman carry? Or maybe just an over-the-shoulder hold, like in the movies when the dudes are carrying unconscious people and it's kind of sexy, but I'm not really a firefighter, and I don’t want to make her feel like a sack of flour or anything, so-"

It took only five extra minutes before Adrian was walking down the hall with you in his arms, a pillow and blanket tucked under one arm, and his heart hammering away in his chest. It was only because of Harcourt's death stare and the threat of imminent dismemberment by the other 11th Street Kids. Not because he'd been scared or anything, but... it was a lot of pressure.

"I can do this, I can do this, I can do this," he kept muttering under his breath. You were still fast asleep, drooling a little on his suit and clinging to him like a koala bear, and he was about ready to pass out. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and ears, his brain going a thousand miles a minute. He wasn’t used to being so close to someone. Being touched. But somehow, with you, it felt… normal. Good. Natural.

"I can do this, I can totally do this. No problem."

You stirred slightly, mumbling again, and Adrian had to bite his lip so he didn’t scream. He had no idea how you could still be sleeping, but he wasn't complaining.

He kicked the bedroom door a tad harder than he should have, and the reminder of that half-chopped pinkie toe gave him a pang of nostalgia for the simpler times, physical pain being his primary source of distraction.

The pain was gone by the time he reached the bed, however, and he was once again hyperaware of his current situation. With a gentle touch, he lowered you down and slipped the pillow beneath your head. Then he unfolded the blanket and laid it over you. You rolled, hugging the pillow and burying your face into the sheets, and he nearly melted on the spot.

"Total angel puppy," he whispered, a dopey grin on his face.

But as soon as he stepped back, you stirred, making a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "Wait..." you murmured, reaching out unquestioningly. "Stay."

And, well, he couldn’t exactly say no to that.

He walked back around the bed, still in his suit, and sat gingerly on the mattress, not sure if it was okay to be there.

But the second his weight sank into the mattress, your eyes fluttered open, and he held his breath, not knowing what would happen next. Would you scream? Laugh? Throw a punch?

But none of that happened. Instead, your face softened, and you blinked at him, your eyes still glazed over with sleep. Your expression was warm and gentle, and his heart did a weird, stutter-stop-jerk thing.

Your hands motioned him closer, tugging on the edge of his suit, and he leaned forward, confused. He watched, mystified, as you reached up, tugging at the collar of his costume.

"What are you-"

His breath hitched when he realized you were attempting to take his mask off, and for a moment, he watched in amusement because you, for some reason, couldn't seem to get it right.

"How do you get this off?" you mumbled, eyes narrowed, your fingers fumbling with the material. "It's in the way."

In the way of what? Adrian wanted to ask, but he didn't. His throat was too dry, and his tongue was suddenly too big for his mouth. He decided to ignore the weird feeling in his stomach and went along with it. You were still half-asleep, after all, and probably weren’t fully aware of what you were doing.

He reached up, lifting the bottom of his mask and pushing it up onto his forehead, exposing his face and the dark hair underneath.

You smiled, satisfied, and your hand came up, trailing your fingertips across his cheek, then over his stubble, and then into his hair. Your thumb rubbed small circles on his forehead, and it was soothing, relaxing, and Adrian couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ever touched him like that.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible, your eyes slipping closed.

He was going to ask what for, but the words died in his throat when your hand slid behind his neck and tugged him down enough to give a small kiss on his cheek. It was light and soft, and it sent shivers racing through him, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

And before he could truly process what had just happened, it was like you turned into a fish with the way your body flopped back down and rolled over, curling up, and drifting off again.

You left him sitting there, heart pounding, skin tingling, and unable to move. Unable to breathe because holy shit.

Adrian was, unsurprisingly, not doing very much of his actual job. He had been sitting slumped over the counter, chin resting in one hand, scrolling on his phone with the other. His busboy apron was half-assed, one of the strings untied and swinging around his ankles with every move. 

He was in one of his usual moods too; a bit moody, a lot sarcastic, and completely uninterested in doing any *actual* work if he could help it. And God it was starting to worry you. 

And despite the fact that he'd worked this shift a hundred times, and could probably do it in his sleep, he was being uncharacteristically clumsy tonight. "Dammit—!" The plates clattered, but he caught them at the last second, fingers slipping on the greasy edges. 

He let out a sharp breath through his nose and muttered under his breath, "Stupid... fragile... *civilian* dishware."  

He shot a quick glance over at you, flashing that usual goofy half-smile—the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes tonight. “Don’t worry,” he said too quickly, “I’ve got this. I’m *great* at my job. Top performer. Employee of the month… every month… in my head.”  

Then he winced—not from dropping anything this time—but from something deeper. His hand pressed briefly to his side again beneath the apron, hidden like it was nothing.

You knew better.

But Adrian? Adrian pretended everything was fine.

Because if there’s one thing Vigilante hated more than bad guys who survived their own deaths… It was people worrying about him.

“Adrian?” You step behind him, the diner empty aside from the two of you and a few other employees. “Do you want any help?” 

"Help?" He let out a short, awkward laugh, still facing away from you as he fumbled with the coffee pot like it personally offended him. "Help with what? Busboy stuff? Please. I practically invented cleaning tables. Invented mopping. Might've even invented *diners*, if we're being honest."  

He turned slightly, flashing that same lopsided grin—but his posture was stiff, one hand still subtly braced against his side under the apron. His breath hitched just a fraction when he moved too fast.

Then—because Adrian Chase absolutely cannot admit weakness without deflecting—his tone dropped into mock-seriousness:  

"Unless you wanna help me hide a body later… then yeah, maybe we can talk."  

Another beat. He winked. "Just kidding! …Mostly."

You narrow your eyes at him, not wanting to deal with his sarcasm when you're this worried about him. "Cut it out, it's not gonna kill you to admit you're having an off day." You huff, arms crossing defensively under your breasts. 

The irritation from your long shift mixing with the annoyance of the realization he doesn't rely on you the same way you lean on him. "We're coworkers, it's my job to help if you need. And clearly you need some."

Adrian's eyes narrowed in return, a familiar spark of defiance lighting up his gaze. He bristled slightly at your words, defensive in the way he always got when someone—when *you*—pushed too hard.

"I don't need any damn help," he countered, voice a low snarl. "Especially not from you. I can handle myself, alright? I always do. I'm just having a…"

He trailed off, struggling for a moment with the word he wanted to say.  

He finally spat it out like a curse. "Bad day."

"Fine." You bite back, turning on your heels and practically stomping away from him. 

Adrian's stomach twisted with a mixture of irritation and a hint of regret, but his stubborn pride just wouldn't let him apologize. He watched you stomp away, feeling the distance between you grow like a physical ache.

The shift is passing in a strained silence, with Adrian focusing intently on his work—trying a little too hard to look like he was unaffected, like he really didn’t care that you were mad at him.

The more distance you put between the two of you the more your other coworker, Justin, slides in next to you. Making small talk and joking the way you usually do with Adrian.

Adrian noticed it immediately—the way Justin slid in beside you like he wasn’t a walking nuisance in an ill-fitting apron, cracking jokes that you usually saved for him. 

His grip tightened around the rag he was using to wipe down tables. Too tight. The knuckles went white.

He didn’t look over. Not at first.

But when Justin laughed—too loud, too obnoxious—and you actually *smiled*, something short and sharp flickered behind Adrian’s eyes.

"Wow," he muttered under his breath, voice low enough that only the counter could hear, "*Real* original. Guy shows up with zero personality and suddenly he’s the fun one?"  

Then, because self-sabotage was his love language: He dropped a tray of clean silverware, *on purpose*, just to make noise. Just to disrupt it.

And when everyone turned? He blinked innocently behind his glasses and said: "Oops."

But his distraction worked, you come to his side immediately. "Are you okay?" You're already squatting, picking up the discarded utensils. 

He didn’t look at you.

Not right away.

Adrian kept his eyes on the scattered silverware, jaw tight, breathing slow—like he was trying to pretend the little outburst didn’t happen. Like he wasn’t just a second ago stewing in jealousy over *Justin*, of all people.

Then you touch one of the forks near his foot, and he finally snaps. "I said oops," he muttered, voice quieter now. "Not 'please mother me.'"

But then, he exhaled sharply through his nose and added, softer: "...I'm fine. Just clumsy tonight."

He reached down to grab a spoon but winced mid-motion, hand flying back to his side instinctively.

Too late.

You saw it. Again.

And this time... he didn't have a joke ready.

"Adrian, don't pretend like you didn't drop all this shit just to get my attention." You glare up at him, picking up the last of the silverware and gently shoving them into his hands. 

He flinched—just slightly—at your words. Not from anger. From being caught.

For a second, Adrian just stood there, silverware shoved into his chest like a punishment, mouth opening and closing like he was about to lie anyway.

"...Okay," he muttered, voice low and grudging. "Maybe I did. Maybe I’m petty. Maybe I *hate* seeing you laugh at that guy’s knock-knock joke like it’s the funniest thing since world peace."  

He adjusted his glasses with one hand, avoiding your eyes again—because admitting weakness? Fine. Being vulnerable? Nope.

But jealousy? That he’d own.

He finally looked down at you, expression stubborn—but softer around the edges now. "...You were supposed to be my person."

Your eyebrows furrow, confusion written all over your features as you stand, arms crossed. “Adrian, what do you mean?” 

Adrian was caught off balance by the genuine puzzlement in your tone. He was expecting annoyance, not honest incomprehension.

It made his stomach twist—the defensiveness faltering a little as he shifted his weight, the silverware still clutched to his chest like a shield.

"I..." He starts, then stops. *How the hell to explain it without sounding like a possessive weirdo?*

"You and me," he finally said. "We work together. We talk crap about... everything. This place, the customers, the other morons we work with." He gestured vaguely at Justin.

“So you’re salty with me,” You begin, taking a slight step toward him. “Because I was talking to Justin? And he was laughing like a clown at some dumb joke I made?” A smile of genuine disbelief plants itself on your lips. 

"I'm not salty," Adrian hisses, then immediately deflates. "Okay. Fine. I'm salty."  

He shoved the tray onto the counter with a clatter and adjusted his glasses: his tell when he was flustered.

"But not because you talked to him! I don't care about that! I care that you were... smiling at him like—like he’s some charming little hero instead of a guy who wears socks with sandals and calls it 'a fashion statement'!"  

His voice dropped, quieter now, almost vulnerable:  "You never smile at *me* like that."

And there it was.

The real problem.

Not Justin.

Not the jokes.

It was the way your laugh had lit up for someone else tonight—the way Adrian had spent all shift hurting in silence just so you wouldn't worry—and still, still you turned to someone else with warmth… while he bled through his damn bandages alone.  

He looked away fast, pretending to wipe down a clean counter.  

"Anyway," he mumbled. "Forget it."

“Hey, that's not fair.” Your tone is gentle as you grab his arm. Leading him into the back storage room, away from everyone else, quiet and intimate. “Adrian.”

As he stumbles into the storage room, trying—and failing—to keep weight off his side, he didn't meet your eyes at first. When he finally did, he looked like a kicked puppy caught in the rain.

“I was being polite.” You emphasize the word, eyes full of concern as you stare up at him, eyebrows furrowed. He practically flinches at your statement. 

"Polite," he echos sarcastically, voice strained as he leans into the cold metal shelving, wincing. "Yeah. You were being polite. *I know*. You're always polite. To everyone."

You just sigh, not wanting to fight with him, you never do. "Let me see." Stepping closer your hand moves to his upper arm, gently holding onto him.

Adrian hesitates. Every instinct in him was screaming to stay defensive, push you away, avoid showing any sign of weakness. That was how he'd always been, the way he'd survived.

So he let out a breath and nodded stiffly, slowly shifting his position against the shelving. This way he was propped up, still standing, but not putting as much weight on his side.

"It's not that bad," he grumbled.

You lift the hem of his shirt, hands ghosting over the poorly bandaged wound. "Oh, baby..." The nickname rolls off your tongue casually, as you look up at him with worried eyes. 

Adrian flinched—not from the touch, but from the nickname. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?" 

"*Baby?*" he echoed weakly, voice cracking like a teenager. His face flushed hot under his glasses, and for a split second, all the pain seemed to fade beneath sheer panic. "*You can't just— say stuff like that and expect me to function."

He swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but your face.

"...I didn’t say anything," he muttered after a beat, jaw tightening again, "because I knew you’d do this. Worry. Get mad. Look at me like I’m some stray dog you found in a ditch."  

His voice dropped. "...I’m not fragile."

"You're not." You agree, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back while the other gently lifts the bandage. "But you deserve to feel good, be taken care of... Not suffer alone."

Adrian leaned into the touch despite himself, letting his eyes close for a brief moment. He let out a shuddering exhale, tension slowly easing as the gentleness of your touch sunk past all his defenses like a wave.

And for a second, he just... *melted.*

Until his eyes flicked open again and he remembered how to be stubborn.

"I don't need to be coddled like a goddamn child," he grumbled. "...I'm fine. You're overreacting."

"If you don't stop complaining, I'll go be this soft and caring with Justin." It's a tease, but also a threat. You pull out the staff first aid kit, grabbing some gauze to put over his wound. 

Adrian's eyes snapped open wide, the words hitting him with a jolt of alarm that went straight to his core.

"Don't," he said, too quickly. There was a hint of warning there, possessive. "Don't go back out there and be... friendly with that guy."

He grunted a little as you worked on his wound, shifting to give you better access.

"You could do so much better than Justin," he muttered.

"Like you?" You press the bandage to his side, the wound isn't big enough to require stitches so you just cover it again.

Adrian grunted at the pressure, fingers gripping the cool metal shelving. He clenched his jaw and inhaled sharply, cursing under his breath.

Then your question registered, and he let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Yeah, sure," he said, sarcasm thick as he tried to brush it off, "because I'm a *catch*, aren't I? Covered in scars and bruises, bleeding from my side, can barely stand right now... real dream guy material. You can have your pick of the lot. Justin, with his perfect teeth and squeaky clean smile."

"Adrian," You cup his cheek, fingers brushing over his cheekbone. "Don't make me beg."

He froze for a heartbeat, like your touch had short-circuited every defense, every snarky remark, every twisted joke he used to hide behind.

Then, slowly… he leaned into your hand.

His glasses slip slightly down his nose as his head tilts toward your palm like he’d been starving for it without knowing.

And then, quietly and carefully, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you just an inch closer. Not demanding. Not aggressive. Just… holding on.

His voice came out rougher than before, almost fragile. "...I’m tired," he admitted, no sarcasm, no defiance. "I'm *so* tired."

For the first time that night…

He didn’t try to hide it.

"You should stay at my place tonight..." Adrian's breathing hitched as you stroked his head, his eyes sliding shut again.  "Let me take care of you, baby."

His shoulders droop, the weight of everything—his injury, his pride, his stubbornness—just... falling away as your nails raked across his scalp, sending shivers down his spine.  

For a moment, he almost forgot how to talk, like every thought in his brain had been replaced by static.

Then after a beat of trying to collect his scattered focus, he mutters, voice barely above a whisper:  "Can I... have one condition?"

"Of course," Adrian's arms tightened around your waist, a low, relieved sigh escaping his lips as he buried his face against the crook of your neck. 

It was like he was a different person, the sharp edges filed down to something raw and vulnerable under your touch.

His next words were murmured directly into your skin, quiet and almost pleading: "Keep calling me 'baby.' "

Before you can even reply, Justin opens the door, his eyes widening as he scratches the back of his neck. Obviously bothered by the position you're in. “Uh, we’re headin’ out. It’s time to lock up.”

Adrian's reaction was instantaneous: the vulnerability vanished, replaced with a sharp scowl as his arms dropped from your waist, and he whirled to face Justin.

"Great," he snapped, still leaning against the storage shelf but shifting his position to hide his bandaged side. "Took you long enough. I thought we might be stuck here till morning."

Justin shrugged, his gaze lingering on you for a beat too long, making Adrian's jaw clench. "Sorry," Justin said, though he didn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "You two good here?"

“Yeah, all good.” You smile awkwardly, feeling the tension between the men. 

Adrian rolled his eyes at your overly-cheery tone, clearly annoyed by Justin's presence in general and the way he kept looking at you in particular. He leaned back against the shelf, arms crossing, and shot Justin a glare that was half annoyance and half challenge.

"Yeah," he drawled sarcastically, voice dripping with disdain. "We're peachy. Just finished having a heart-to-heart about our feelings, actually. Really a bonding moment."

You link your fingers with his, practically dragging Adrian out of the room, "We should get going then." 

Adrian lets you pull him along, limping slightly but refusing to complain — especially now that he had something to prove.

He shot one last look over his shoulder at Justin, smug and possessive all at once, and gave a slow, deliberate squeeze of your hand as if to say: *Mine.*

"Yep," he said brightly — too brightly. "Gotta go. Big night. Important stuff. None of your business."

And just before the door swung shut behind them?

"...Don't forget to lock the freezer."  

Because even when being dragged out by his maybe-girlfriend after nearly bleeding out in a supply closet…  

Adrian Chase *still* had time for petty power moves.

Luckily you live less than five minutes away from the restaurant, you guide him in the direction of your apartment. "Are you okay to walk a bit?" You don’t wanna push his injuries yet you know that he'll take offense to the question.

Adrian grunted as he took a few slow, measured steps, wincing slightly at the pain in his side. He still looked stubborn and defensive, though he was quieter now –- clearly focusing on keeping up the facade of being fine.  

His hand gripped your arm a little tighter as he limped along, and he nodded stiffly at your question.

"I'm good," he said, too quickly, like he was trying to convince himself as much as convince you. "Just peachy." No way in hell would he admit the walking was making his side throb.

"Almost there, baby." You murmur softly, grinning up at him as he follows along.

Adrian gritted his teeth at the pet name, fighting down a strange mixture of embarrassment, frustration, and —to his mortification — a pang of genuine affection.

He knew he should argue, keep up his usual act of indifference, but he was in pain and exhausted and... well, secretly kind of into the way the word "baby" sounded on your tongue.

His grip on your arm tightened a fraction more, and he let out a gruff, reluctant sigh.

"Hurry up, then. I'm dying here."

Once you make it to the door, you unlock it as you help him in, leading him to your overly pink bedroom. Adrian stumbled in behind you, blinking at the explosion of pink like he’d accidentally walked into a unicorn’s fever dream. His nose wrinkled slightly at the Hello Kitty army staring at him from every shelf.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath. "It's like a pastel warzone in here."

But when you moved to help him sit on the bed, he didn’t argue—just let out a quiet grunt as his leg gave slightly, catching himself on your shoulder.

He sat down heavily on the edge of your bed, wincing as pain flared in his side again.

"...You know," he said after a beat, leaning forward just enough to meet your eyes despite being clearly drained and trying way too hard to sound casual. "If I die surrounded by plush cats and glittery throw pillows... I *will* come back to haunt this apartment."  

Then — because Adrian can't stay soft for more than five seconds without deflecting —  

"...But if I do? Make sure my ghost wears sunglasses. And kills Justin first."

"Just relax," You peel his glasses off his face, then his hat and apron, slowly removing his work uniform. "And as much as you hate on the room, it's the most comfortable bed you'll ever lay in." 

You giggle, amused by his contrast to the room around him. Before long, you're reaching for the zipper of his slacks—not even realizing the implications at first.

Adrian went still as a statue as you began to undress him, all the breath leaving his lungs at once. His hands gripped the edge of the bed, jaw clenching as his eyes flickered between your hands and your face, trying to stay casual even as his heart rate kicked up a notch.

Then you reached for the zipper of his *pants* and he almost choked.  

His hand snapped down, grabbing yours before you could keep going.

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down," he said fast, eyes going wide. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting you comfortable..." Your lips pout slightly, as you pull your hand back slightly. "And ready for bed."

Adrian's brain was suddenly short-circuiting, every other rational thought replaced by a panicked loop of: *Pants. Off. Bed. With you. With you. In your room. In your bed.*   

He stared at you for a beat, then forced the tiniest bit of sarcasm into his voice.

"You gonna... undress me all the way for this little sleepover?" he shot back, trying to cover for how flustered he suddenly was. "Because I have some standards, you know. I don't just let people strip me naked for free."

"Good thing you won't be fully nude." You grin, sliding his shirt over his head, then kneeling to untie his shoes, sliding them off and placing them off to the side. 

Adrian swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress even tighter as the shirt came off and you knelt between his legs. He was trying *real* hard to keep his cool to keep himself from showing just how goddamn overwhelmed he felt by this whole situation.

He was hyper-aware of everything: the sound of his own breath, the feeling of your touch against his skin, the way his pants suddenly felt too-tight.

He cursed silently, gritting his teeth.

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Am I?" You reach for his zipper again, hands hovering over his clothed groin. 

"Y-yeah," he grumbled, trying to sound like he was still in control even though he was pretty sure he'd just forgotten his own name. The moment your hands landed even *near* where the zipper was —

He cursed again under his breath, hands twitching with the effort of not just grabbing you and throwing you into bed.

"You know exactly what you're doing. And it's torture. You're a goddamn sadist."

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying *every* second of it, baby." Your fingers brush over his crotch as you unzip the pants, slowly working to slide them down his hips and legs. 

Adrian had to stifle a *whine* as you touched him, his head tipping back and exposing his throat as every muscle in his body went tense. It felt like he was on fire, his heart pounding like a drum and his breathing getting even faster. 

"Jesus Christ," he rasped. "You're killing me." Then he was only wearing boxers, and the tent in them was already starting to be *super obvious.* Dammit.

“Lay back,” You demand softly, fingers trailing over his thigh softly. 

Adrian obeyed before he even thought about it, his entire body reacting like he was hardwired to act at your command. He let out a slow huff of breath as he leaned back onto the bed, propping himself up with his elbows as he stared up at you, eyes wide and dark.

His heart was slamming in his chest, and his voice sounded downright *raw* when he spoke again.

"You're really not being fair right now."

"I know," You turn your back to him, teasingly pulling your shirt over your head, exposing your lacey bra, then slipping out of your shoes. "It's a whole lot of fun." 

You unbutton your pants, slowly sliding them down your legs, your ass on full display for him. 

Adrian's brain stuttered at the sight of you, his breath catching in his chest as his eyes went wide and he practically *ached* with how much he wanted you. His fingers clenching in the sheets, his voice coming out rough and urgent. 

"Ffff– You're a goddamn tease, you know that, right?"

He swallows hard, every bit of self-control he had left focusing entirely on not just lunging forward and pouncing on you.

His fingers trembling.

"I sleep naked, you know." You grin, listening to his rapid breathing, back still turned to him. 

Adrian *whimpered* this time, the sound slipping out before he could stop it as the image you planted in his head. God, he was weak.

Weak, and desperately trying not to lose control. 

He took a shuddering breath, his voice getting even more strained as the mental image of you - alone, naked, in that damn bed he was lying in -

"Jesus Christ," he murmured, his fists clenching even tighter. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Adrian had to bite his lip to stop another sound from slipping out as the fabric hit the floor, his imagination running wild. He was trying so hard not to just reach out, to grab you and drag you into his lap and -

He could almost taste his own control breaking. His eyes darkened even further, his voice a low growl.

"I have *plenty* of self-control," he insisted, his eyes roaming over every inch of you hungrily. "Trust me."

"Good," Fingers hooking in the waistband of your panties, teasingly revealing more and more skin. "That means this is light work for you then." And with that, you slide them down, slowly stepping out of each leg and giving him the perfect view. 

"You're going to be the death of me," he breathed, his voice low and ragged as he stared at you, completely bare, standing just inches from the bed.

His fingers were white-knuckling the sheets now. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Every inch of him *screamed* to reach out, but he stayed frozen — not because he didn’t want to, but because part of him still couldn't believe this was real.

"You win," he finally admitted, voice hoarse with desire and surrender. "I don't have control. Not around you."

He swallowed hard.

"Just... don't stop."

Finally, you face him, bare body on full display for his hungry gaze. "I win?" You settle back between his thighs, fingernails brushing over his skin. "Oh come on, you barely put up a fight."

"I fought like a *warrior,*" Adrian croaked, voice cracking as your nails dragged up his inner thigh. His back arched slightly off the bed, hips twitching with every feather-light touch.

"You're just... built different. A lethal weapon. A distraction with legs."  

He panted, eyes blown wide and glassy with want — still in his boxers, still painfully half-dressed while you were gloriously nude.

"And for the record," he gritted out between clenched teeth, "this isn't losing... this is surrendering to a superior force."  

Then—weakly:  

  "...Please just touch me already."

You don't make him wait. In one fluid motion, you swing a leg over his hips, settling your weight carefully against him. Your palms slide up his chest—over the ridges of old scars, the bandage hiding his new cut—and come to rest on either side of his face. 

His skin feels feverish beneath your touch, breath ragged against your lips. Adrian lets out a choked groan, hips lifting instinctively to meet yours. 

His hands fly to your waist, not pushing, not pulling, just gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His gaze locks onto yours, dark and desperate.  

“You—” he rasps, voice breaking. “You win. You always win.”  

Then he drags you down, crushing his mouth to yours in a kiss that tastes like surrender and salt and every unsaid thing between you.  

You melt into the kiss, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair as you deepen it—slow, deliberate, savoring the way he trembles beneath you. His groan vibrates against your lips, desperate and raw. 

When you finally pull back, breathless, your thumb brushes the corner of his swollen mouth.  

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper, shifting just enough to feel the hard length of him straining against your thigh through thin cotton. “Exactly.”  

Adrian’s eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, jaw clenched. When they open again, the defiance is gone, replaced by pure, aching need.  

“You,” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips. “Like this. Naked. On me. Just—” He swallows hard. “Now.”  

His hands slide down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him as he grinds up—rough, impatient. The friction draws another ragged gasp from him, eyes squeezing shut.  

“Fuck—please,” he breathes, voice cracking on the edge of desperation. “Don’t make me beg.”  But the way his hips arch, the way his fingers tremble against your skin—he already is.  

You lean down, nipping at his earlobe before whispering, “Then don’t.”  

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tug them down just enough, freeing him. His cock springs hot and heavy against your stomach, and Adrian lets out a shuddering groan, head falling back against the pillows.  

“Finally,” he rasps, hips lifting to help you strip him completely bare. His hands roam your back, down to your ass, guiding you as you rise up, positioning yourself above him.  

His gaze locks onto yours, pupils blown wide. “Do it,” he commands, voice rough but stripped of sarcasm, pure, raw want. “Before I lose my goddamn mind.”  

His fingers dig into your thighs, bracing himself as you sink down—slow, deliberate—taking every inch of him.  

The breath punches out of him in a sharp cry.  “Fuck-”  

You pause, fully seated, letting him feel the tight, wet heat of you—letting him feel the tremors running through your own body. His groan echoes yours, low and guttural.  

“Move,” he pleads, hips bucking upward instinctively. “Please-”  

You do: rolling your hips in a slow, grinding circle that makes him curse, head thrashing against the pillow.  

His hands slide up to grip your waist, fingers digging in as he matches your rhythm—thrusting up in short, sharp jerks. Every movement pulls a gasp from him, sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Look at you,” he rasps, eyes dark with awe and hunger. “Riding me like you own me.” His thumb brushes your clit—rough, unskilled, but desperate—and you cry out, arching against him.  

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Just like that.”  You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest as you quicken your pace, riding him harder, deeper. 

Each thrust punches a groan from his lips, his fingers scrambling for purchase on your skin.  “Close-” he chokes out, hips stuttering beneath you. “So fucking close-”  

You slide off him with slick heat, your hand wrapping around his cock before he can protest—jerking him fast and tight, thumb smearing the wetness leaking from his tip.

Adrian cries out, back arching off the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as he spills hot and thick over your fist and his own stomach in shuddering pulses. His release leaves him gasping, trembling, eyes squeezed shut, utterly wrecked against your pink pillows.

He lies there, trembling and boneless, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes were still closed, hands fisted in the sheets, completely undone.

 Then your voice cuts through the haze. "You’re so pretty, Baby." His eyes snap open.

His face flushed *impossibly* red—half from exhaustion, half from sheer mortification that someone had just not only seen him come apart like that… but *licked their hand after.*

"Jesus—" He coughed violently into his elbow like that somehow fixed anything. "Don't say stuff like that right after- I mean-"

He looked at you with wide eyes. "Did you just—taste it?"  

“Maybe..” You grab tissues to clean off his abs, eyes still full of desire. 

Adrian closed his eyes, his face going impossibly hotter as you started cleaning up his stomach and he couldn't help but squirm a little, completely vulnerable and over-sensitive.

"You're seriously insane," he muttered, voice still ragged. "You know that, right?"

You had bitten your tongue. Maybe he hadn’t intended for it to sound dickish. Maybe he hadn’t been trying to tell you that you were a beggar and couldn’t afford — literally — to be a chooser.

Or maybe he’d known exactly what he was doing.

“The food’s really good here, I’m sure it will be great,” he says with a light tone as he opens the door for you.

Your smile is a little tighter than you would like for it to be when you look back at him. Blake is leaning against the counter, her chin propped up on her hand, and she jumps when she spots you, eyes narrowing. Feeling self-conscious, you smooth out the front of your dress. You’ve dolled yourself up for the date, and you’re pretty overdressed for Fennel Fields.

That happens around here, of course — people dressed to the nines on their way to a wedding, the mayor trying to show he could fraternize with the working class, and even the Justice Gang on one memorable occasion, all in costumes — but it’s still pretty weird. It doesn’t help that you know most people in the room, from restaurant staff to several regulars. You spot Mr. Johnson squinting in your direction and fumbling for his glasses.

Fucking awesome. You’re never going to hear the end of this.

“Come on, this is going to be fun,” Noah says, putting his hand on the small of your back as he walks you towards a table.

You almost recoil at his touch, before choosing to lean into it a little. You’re not used to this stuff anymore, but it’s not exactly unpleasant either. Plus, he is right, even if it’s not the nicest thing to point out. You know what it’s like, being tight on money. You don’t enjoy the choices you have to make either, so you can understand that — it’s not always easy for you, and you don’t even have to pay rent. You don’t want to be too judgmental when you’ve been there yourself.

You can still have a good time, you decide as you slide into one of the booths.

And then, you hear your name being called.

“Hey!” Adrian greets you excitedly, walking towards you and Noah and a bright smile. “I thought you weren’t working tonight?”

You plaster as brave a smile as you can on your face. You’re desperately praying for the ground to open up underneath your feet.

It doesn’t happen.

“I’m not,” you say, gesturing as Noah. “I’m on a date, actually.”

“Hey, how you doing,” Noah says, nodding at him.

Adrian pays him absolutely no mind. Instead, his eyes go wide, still focused on you.

“Here? Really?” He grimaces, and Noah’s face falls, which Adrian fails to notice. Then he just shrugs it off like nothing happened. “Well, have fun then. You look great in that dress, by the way!”

“Is he fucking with me?” Noah asks in disbelief as Adrian walks away.

You cheeks burn, and you press your lips tightly together for a second, trying to compose yourself. There’s a stabbing pain in your chest. He didn’t care. He didn’t care at all that you were there with another guy. You’d known that, intellectually. He had never expressed interest towards you, and while you had taken the hint, you suppose your heart hadn’t gotten the memo.

“No,” you say, keeping your voice steady even if you’d kind of like to cry right now, “no, Adrian doesn’t really get social cues, but he always means well.”

Noah scoffs, still glaring at Adrian’s back.

“Fucking weirdo.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Don’t call him that. He’s a good friend.”

It comes out snappier than you’d intended, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction, and you can’t quite control it. It just seems unfair for him to be judging him so quickly, and also, frankly, it’s pretty fucking rude to say that about one of your coworkers right in front of you. He sends you a nasty side glance.

“What’s that reaction? Is there something going on between you two?”

I wish.

“No, nothing, but we work together most nights of the week,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I know him well, is all.”

Noah keeps scowling for a second longer, before his expression softens, and he reaches out to put his hand on yours. Once more, the touch almost makes you jump. You allow it, but it doesn’t feel as nice as it did earlier.

“In his defense, he has great tastes,” he teases, and you don’t have to force yourself too much to smile. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous in that dress.”

“Thanks,” you say, a little bashful.

“I’ll make it up to you, alright? We’re gonna have a great time.”

From the back of the diner, Adrian stares, a line unmistakably barring his forehead, and his mouth twisted into a half grimace. The way your hands touch is making his skin crawl — and he doesn’t think it’s just because skin on skin contact is pretty gross, though his reaction isn’t that different. He fundamentally, viscerally doesn’t like what he’s seeing. He kind of wants to walk over to swat his hand away, but he reasonably can’t do that, because that would be weird.

In his opinion, he’s gotten pretty decent at not being too weird. Like yeah, he slips every now and then, but all in all, he seems like a well-adjusted member of society. Case in point, he makes you laugh a lot, and humor is really hard,so he must be doing something right. Even if you’re on a date with a guy who’s clearly a douchebag and not at all boyfriend or even friend material.

There is no way you’re happy about being in Fennel Fields. For starters, you and Blake often talk about couples who go on dates here. You think it’s cute for the teenagers, and for the old couples who come once a week and for whom it’s a ritual, but he’s heard the two of you bitch about people who come for what is an obvious first date. You have a counter for how many times they check their phone while they’re here and the two of you like to debrief at the end. You get really animated during those conversations, which must mean you care a lot about that stuff.

Also, you’re smiling wrong. The corner of your lips are too tense, your teeth too close together, and your eyes aren’t creased. Now, Adrian may not be good with feelings, but he’s gotten to study you pretty extensively at this job. He thinks he knows a thing or two about you, and that guy doesn’t know shit. Isn’t ‘knowing when someone smiles wrong’ on the list of the pre-requirements for going on a date? It should be!

Despite this deeply upsetting situation, Adrian manages to last a whole ten minutes before coming back by your table. He catches your eye while making a big show of cleaning a nearby table, and you give him a sweet smile, right from the corner of your lips.

“Everything going okay for you?” he asks, voice bright and extremely professional, in his personal and objective opinion.

You open your mouth, but the guy interrupts you.

“We know how to call our waitress if we need help, busboy,” he snaps at him.

Wow. First off, really misogynistic of him to speak for you. Second, classist much? Those are two good enough reasons to murder the guy. He could easily do it here, with all the knives lying around, but he’s not insane. That would get him thrown in jail right away.

No, he’ll have to stalk him and jump him in a dark alley in the middle of the night, which is the proper way to murder someone.

“We’re doing fine, Adrian,” you reply, glaring at your date. “Thanks for asking.”

“Cool,” Adrian says, smiling too bright. “Let me know if you need anything.”

You nod, and he walks away with a spring in his step — which isn’t that rare an occurrence for him.

“That weirdo is into you for sure,” Noah comments as you watch Adrian’s back.

Don’t threaten me with a good time.

“I assure you, he is not,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “What were you saying about that week-end in Metropolis?”

He strokes your hand with his thumb, and it becomes harder and harder not to remove it. The thing is, at this point, you’re in your head, and you don’t want to make him feel bad, but also, even if he’s being, well, fine with you, he’s been pretty dismissive of both your waitress, Caroline, and of Adrian, and it’s starting to leave a bad taste in your mouth. He is funny, and he wasn’t overtly rude to Care, at least, but the story about the crazy stuff he’s gotten up to while high with his friends in Metropolis just isn’t doing it for you right now.

You… kinda wish he’d been drowning you in fake facts about crows, if you’re being honest.

You last until desert before you have to get away from him. He’s asked you exactly two questions about yourself up until that point — both related to the food you’ve ordered — and you’re not sure you want to hear the end of his current story, which takes place in a strip club.

“I’ll be right back, I just need to go to the bathroom,” you tell him with more relief than you should probably feel.

He nods, and you hurry towards the back of the diner.

There, you take a second to compose yourself. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you try to interrogate the way you’re feeling. You know for a fact you’re not enjoying yourself. But you— ugh. You haven’t been on a date in a hot minute, and you’re not familiar with the Evergreen dating scene. And Noah is, resolutely, definitely, aggressively fine. He’s made a point of making you laugh the entire meal, and you suppose you can appreciate that, even if he likes the sound of his voice a little too much for your taste.

Or does he? Adrian also can’t stop talking. Are you really blaming him for the things he’s doing, or just for not being Adrian? Are you being unfair to him? Are you not trying hard enough? Are you the one being a dick on this date, leading him on while you’re clearly more into someone else?

Fuck. You wish you were good at this shit. But you have an argumentative family, and someone had to give, and be soft, and apologize, otherwise no one would ever talk to each other again. You’re used to taking the blame. Apparently, that means you cannot imagine a situation where you’re not the one at fault.

You leave the bathroom feeling even more queasy than you did walking in. And stumble face first into Adrian’s arms.

He catches you and steadies you easily. His eyes, a little too intense as always, meet yours and the look of surprise is instantly replaced by a smile.

“Oh, you’re here! I was afraid he’d killed you and stuffed you into a suitcase.”

“What?” You can’t help but let out a nervous laugh. “He doesn’t even have a suitcase.”

“I know, right? So he’d have to be really fast and really discreet, and the useless cops around here would never catch him. That would be horrible.”

You laugh again.

“I’m good, Adrian. I don’t think he’s the murderer style.”

“Well, that makes it worse,” he points out, shaking his head. His forehead creases and his eyebrows furrow in genuine concern. “What if you get stuck in a zombie apocalypse and he needs to murder a horde of zombies? I mean, you could take half, obviously, but it would be pretty hard to murder an entire horde all by yourself.”

It’s weirdly flattering that he thinks you could take half of horde all by yourself. Coming from him, it’s a pretty huge complement, and you kind of hate yourself when you feel your cheeks start to burn.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind it they’re zombies,” you reply lightly.

“Even if they’re fresh zombies and they still look like people?”

You’re starting to have fun with the hypothetic now. You’re about to answer him when Noah just appears out of nowhere.

“Seriously, dude?” he snarls at Adrian. “Is it too hard for you to just leave someone the fuck alone on a date?”

You step in immediately.

“He didn’t do anything wrong, I just bumped into him when I was coming out.”

“Right, and you want me to believe that he wasn’t waiting outside for you like a freak?” Noah asks, laughing harshly.

“Of course I wasn’t,” Adrian says, looking disgusted. “That would be so creepy, why would you even think of something like that? Do you do that? That’s disgusting, dude.”

“Were you fucking dropped as a kid?” Noah spits at him before you grab his arm and pull him back. “Consider yourself fucking lucky I don’t beat the shit out of you, dude.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see you try,” Adrian says, and he’s got a cocky smirk on his lips, something you haven’t seen much on him at all and that’s for sure not doing anything to help you move on.

“I wouldn’t,” you sigh, mostly because you’re well aware that Adrian could destroy him in seconds.

“Alright, let’s pay and get out of here,” Noah says, putting his arm around your shoulders.

You tense awkwardly, trying to make your body smaller like it could help you slip out of his grasp without him noticing.

“Um,” you squeak as you approach the cash register.

You’re about fucking done here. You don’t want a second date, you sure as fuck don’t want to go anywhere with him… but you also don’t want to be made to say any of that out loud.

He lets go of you to pay, and you look at Adrian, who’s followed in your footsteps. He looks serious for now, not a hint of amusement on his face, and you find that really unsettling. Even when he murdered a man in front of you, he had gone back to smiling at you right away. There’s a part of you that wonders if he thinks this is more serious than the robbery that happened here a few months ago. It doesn’t make any sense, but it also wouldn’t be that weird coming from him.

“You’ve got to leave us the fuck alone, man,” Noah growls at him.

Adrian doesn’t back off, and in fact, another smug grin forms on his lips. He opens his mouth, but the look on Blake’s face makes you miss his answer. There’s a displeased pout on her face, and when she glances up from the bill and notices you staring, she rolls her eyes in a very, very familiar way that can only mean one thing.

“You didn’t fucking tip?” you ask in disbelief, folding your arms in front of your chest as you take a step away from him.

Noah at least has the decency of looking like a deer caught in headlights.

“Well, yeah, I told you, money’s kinda tight right now…”

“If it’s that tight, maybe don’t go out to fucking eat? How the fuck’s the staff supposed to make rent?”

“Hey,” he says, straightening his back, “watch your tone. It’s not my fault tipping culture’s so shit, maybe take it up with your manager—”

“This is a fucking restaurant chain! If we even pretend to unionize they’ll close this spot before we can blink!”

“Yeah, well, it’s not that big of a deal,” he mumbles, looking more and more embarrassed by the second. “You work here, so, y’know, I figured.”

“I think you should leave,” you say. You jaw is set, and you don’t plan on budging from your spot. You kind of hate that it took someone else getting screwed over for you to get out of your ‘freeze’ state, but you suppose you should be happy that it happened and you didn’t end up stuck with that asshole for any longer.

“C’mon,” he pleads, “let me drop you off and we can talk about this, alright?”

“I think she’s been very clear,” Adrian says, stepping in front of you.

His hand is curled in a fist, and though his voice sounds relaxed, his shoulders are tense. You get the sense that he’s been itching to do that. It sends a pleasant warmth through your body, but you’re quick to reign it in. Adrian hates people who don’t tip, like, an intense amount.

Noah scoffs.

“Dude, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When he throws a punch at Adrian’s face, you don’t even have time to flinch. Next thing you know, Adrian’s caught him by the wrist and is twisting his arm. In one smooth movement, he kicks Noah’s legs from under him, and right as he’s falling, he raises a knee to catch him right in the ribs. You wince when he collapses on the floor, heaving badly.

“You okay?” Adrian asks, leaning over him. “Do you need me to carry you to your car?”

You get the weird impression that he’s not making fun of him. Noah whines something that sounds like ‘fuck this’, ignores Adrian’s hand, and turns around to crawl out. You see him managing to get up and limp his way through the parking lot.

“That was cool, Chase,” Blake comments, giving him an impressed nod.

“You think so? You don’t think I should have threatened him a little more?”

She takes the time to think about it, then shakes her head.

“No, that was the appropriate level of threats and violence. You okay, babe?”

You groan, burying your head in your hands.

“I feel so fucking bad. You want me to cover the tip?”

“No way, hon. I know what you’re getting paid.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“C’mon, it wasn’t your fault. We’ve all been here.”

“Not me,” Adrian chimes in. “You guys have been through that before? What is wrong with men? I’m not assuming it was men in a homophobic way, by the way, I’m just guessing from the things you’re saying.”

That has the merit of bringing a tiny smile on your face.

“Get out of here,” Blake says, gently nudging you towards the door. “Enjoy your day off, at least.”

The smile immediately drops.

“He droveme here. Fuck,” you whine, “I’m gonna have to call my brother, and he’s gonna be such an asshole about it.”

“I could take you,” Adrian says, already reaching behind his back to take off his apron. “I’m sure Mr. McEnroe won’t mind.”

You and Blake exchange a brief glance. He absolutely would, and despite that, she gives a determined nod.

“I’ll cover for you, Chase, but you better get back here right away, alright?”

“No problem!” he says, lighthearted as ever. “But I won’t speed. Or run any red lights. Because that’s extremely dangerous. Did you know most accidents happen within 25 miles of a victim’s home? That’s really sad.”

She stares at him, expressionless, which he doesn’t seem to even notice. Instead, he looks at you, and there’s that smile again.

“Let’s go,” you say, weakly.

You give Blake a little wave before the doors close behind you. She replies in kind, a pained expression on her face.

“Does that mean I’ve won the bet?” Mrs. Harrison asks as the car pulls out of the parking lot, gesturing for Blake to come over. “I’m the one that bet they’d get together this week.”

“I doubt it,” Blake sniffs. “With these two, I won’t believe it until I see it.”

“What if they’ve been secretly dating right under our noses all this time?”

“Why would she have come here on a date today then?”

“Maybe Adrian enjoys getting cuckolded, how would I know?”

Blake grimaces at the mental image, then shakes her head.

“Nah, there’s no way. Adrian couldn’t keep that kind of thing a secret if his life depended on it.”

Mrs. Harrison sighs.

“You have a point. Gosh, I do hope they’ll hurry it up. I’d like to see that happening before I die.”

Blake laughs.

“You’re not that old. Also, it’s bound to happen anytime soon. I swearthey’re this close, but they just can’t get it together, you know?”

“Honey,” Mr. Reyes replies from the next booth, “we all know.”

The car ride home is animated — mostly because Adrian’s talking about crows again. You’re quiet, though, and after a while, he stops talking too. The ride ends in unusual silence. You just rest your head against the window and stare out at the night.

It shouldn’t get to you this much. You know that. It’s just— ugh. You don’t even know what it is. Is it because you were looking forward to it? Is it because you genuinely thought, for a second, that you could be reminded of what it was like to have fun with someone you like without the thorn of knowing it’s unrequited in your sides?

Is it because, after tonight, you can no longer pretend that the feelings you have for Adrian are nothing but a crush?

“Honestly, he wasn’t a good fit for you,” Adrian says as you’re reaching your house. “He was very misogynistic.”

You blink. You got a lot of different red flags tonight, but you don’t know that misogynistic was one of them.

“And he didn’t even think about telling you about how good your dress looks before I did. He should have known better.”

There’s a silence. It takes you a second too long to remember you’re supposed to fill it. You suppose it’s a good thing that Adrian’s not the type to have an issue with that stuff.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Well, duh. Next time you should ask for my opinion. I have great taste in people.”

Thank God the car’s stopped when he says that, because you’re desperate to get away from him at that point. Your eyes are starting to sting and, fuck it, you think you’ve earned a good cry. It’s your day off, and you’ll wallow in self-pity if you want to!

“Thanks, Adrian!” you say, basically jumping out of the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“Bye!” he shouts back.

Huh. You’re in a hurry. Maybe you really need to go the bathroom? It’s a shame, he was just about to say that he clearly had a great taste in people, since he liked you so much.

Oh, well. It was implied.

He’s sure it’s fine, he decides as he drives away.

taglist: @slightlypossessed @heavenlyhorrors @somethingsout @genuinelygemini @willowdoor @sammywritesfics @notahappystan @whatislifebutlemons @clamatosworld

Adrian is the one who had truly been there for him, through thick and thin. He loves him, adores him. Long before he even revealed his identity, when they were just crime-fighting partners. Since then, Adrian has idolized Chris, possibly even much earlier.

And he had brushed him off as if his friendship, his loyalty, were not worth anything.

You were not worth anything.

You sigh as you fill the two coffee cups, counting to ten in your head so you don't just go to that other dimension and kick Chris's ass back here.

As you make your way to Adrian's room, you try to compose yourself. The last thing you want is for him to notice how much this situation is really affecting you.

He seems to be the most affected of all the team, at least by sight.

You can see it in his sunken eyes, in the way his shoulders slump, his gloomy face, his lips twisted into a small pout, sitting on the edge of his bed. 

You hesitate a little before knocking on the door, which is wide open, as best you can, still holding both mugs.

You had been away from Evergreen for a couple of months on a mission you had been assigned: to hunt down a trace of alleged extraterrestrial origin. You don't really like being bossed around, but the payment was good, and you didn't have many other options. Besides, working with Luca, your dog, was way better than working with any other human being.

You were quite famous; you had carved out a good place for yourself among the nation's heroes.

Your skill was special and most definitely useful.

So, you were needed in Metropolis most of the time. You had a duty to the people, to goodness, even if you didn't particularly like it.

Your dog lunged at Adrian when you arrived at the house, after Leota called you in urgency, exclaiming that a code red situation had occurred.

Emilia, John, and Adrian were already reunited when you walked in.

“There must be something you can do,” Leota was saying to you, just after she had read aloud the letter Chris had left.

Everyone was looking at you, attentive and silent. As if somehow you held the answers they were searching for. As if with a snap of your fingers, Chris would appear at their side and everything would be solved.

“I'm sorry, Leo,” you apologized, and sitting next to you, Luca whined, rubbing his snout affectionately against the palm of your hand. “This is beyond what I know. I've never seen shit like this before.”

You were referring to what looked like a metallic purse that was closed on the small table in the center. Luca was now sniffing it curiously.

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking somewhat unconvinced. “But you see shit like this all the time, you specialize in extraterrestrial stuff, tracking down and solving shit, right?”

You nodded your head, sighing as you swipe a hand across your forehead, in defeat, “Yeah, but shit on this world, not on another planet, much less another dimension.”

Emilia looked at you with a countenance of frustration, squinting her eyes slightly. “Can't you just hunt him down and follow his tracks?”

“He's in another dimension, Em,” you replied, in a tone of voice exuding obviousness. “I can't just hop between parallel dimensions, that shit is big. Like, big big. Even for me.” Now everyone looked at you with disappointment, and even though you didn't want to say what was coming, you said it anyway. “Look, I know a guy. He could help us.”

“You're not going to drag one of your cape buddies into this,” Emilia cut you off immediately, already knowing where you were going with this. 

You gaped, partly offended and partly irritated by the passive-aggressive tone of her voice. 

“I could just text him, send him a photo of the alien purse,” you gestured to the bright metallic object on the coffee table. “Maybe he knows what to do. It's worth a shot.”

Leota flicked her gaze from you to Emilia and back again, finally catching on to who you were referring to. “Are you seriously considering texting Superman about this?”

Drag Superman into this? Seriously? Luca glared at you, tilting his head.

“Superman?” Adrian and John asked in unison.

Confronted with so many questions, you became overwhelmed and puffed out a sigh.

“No Superman, no Bird-Girl or fucking Green Lantern, no one else is getting involved in this. Or you're out too,” Emilia snapped back, ending the discussion. “We can't take the risk. It's already too dangerous with those pricks from A.R.G.U.S. sniffing up our asses.”

She was right and you knew it, that's why you shut your mouth and remained silent, giving yourself a moment to consider another option, which with each passing second became increasingly fewer.

“You know Superman?” Adrian asked you bluntly, and when you turned to look at him, his hand was gently caressing Luca's head, very opposite to the way his eyes held an uncharacteristic darkness. “Have you been with him all this time? Is that why you weren't coming back here?”

His brow is furrowed and his face is hard as stone. He's jealous. 

After everything that's going on, he's jealous? 

“What?” you stammered, incredulous that he was actually asking that, and thinking he was joking, but no, he remained serious, waiting for your answer. “No, he's just—”

“While we were here dealing with all this shit, you were fucking around with Superman?” Adrian interrupted you, accusingly. “Is that it?”

Luca stepped away from him and turned to look at you. Uh oh.

The others also fell silent, watching the little argument as if they were your fucking kids, holding their breath. 

“Adrian,” you said slowly, “I'm not... I didn't—” You stopped, because the truth is messy and you don't want to hand it to him on a plate. “I had to complete a couple of missions with him, nothing more. He owes me a favor. That's it.”

Adrian's jaw worked. For a beat the hurt in his eyes flickers with something that could be betrayal, or fear, or both.

“You always say that,” he spat, then softer, “A couple of missions. You're always busy with a couple of missions.”

It's an accusation and a confession all rolled into one. You wanted to say you're sorry for leaving—the missions, the months—but that would be a different kind of truth, and it would taste like guilt, and you are not ready to be eaten by that tonight.

Leota, who has been folding and unfolding herself like a paper crane, snapped her fingers. “We're getting absolutely nowhere. Can we—please—focus? Chris left in a literal dimension-hopping Houdini move and you two are performing old married couple's argument. Not helpful.”

And after that, Adrian just stood up and stormed out of the room.

And now, there you are, standing there, waiting for him. For a sign.

Adrian hears the soft knock of your knuckles on the door and he lifts his head. His eyes meet yours, even though he's not really there with you. He's far away. Lost in his own head, deep in his thoughts, negative thoughts, and negative emotions.

“Hey...” you say in a soft tone, still not stepping inside the room, not seeking to intrude on his space too much, not wanting to trespass on his space too much.

“Hey,” he says back, his voice hoarse y cortante, distante.

You raise both hands, showing him the two steaming cups of coffee. “I brought you coffee. With a little milk and three sugar cubes, just the way you like it.” You offer him a little smile, which looks more like a crooked and sad grimace. “Can I come in?”

Adrian nods his head, sniffing softly.

He can see that you are angry, upset, and sad. Your emotions are visible to him, but to others you carry that expressionless mask on your face. He is not very perceptive, but he has learned to read you over time, since his attention is usually on you. He knows when your face changes from calm to angry to sad. He knows you.

“Close the door,” he asks you in a soft whisper.

And you obey him, gently pushing the door shut behind you with your butt. For a moment, you think he left the door open just so you would see him, so you would come in, but you push the thought away.

“Here,” you say as you place the two cups on the nightstand next to the bed.

“I thought you'd go home,” he blurts out, just as you turn toward him.

Your brow furrows slightly as you take a seat beside him. From up close, you notice how heartbroken Adrian actually is. His eyes are teary, dull, and dark, his hands are in his lap, fingers fiddling with each other, in an effort to distract himself, probably.

“I'm not going anywhere, Adrian,” you answer, reassuring him, because you understand exactly what he's referring to. He doesn't want you to leave, he doesn't want you to abandon him.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers anyway, loudly, pleadingly. His eyes look at you and they beg. “I didn't mean to say all those things to you, I didn't mean to accuse you of anything. I'm s–so sorry—”

And without hesitation, he hugs you. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close to him, and he buries his face in your chest, closing his eyes tightly as he sobs silently.

He is sobbing.

You remain there in a moment of utter stillness, sitting next to him on the bed, stunned.

It's the first time you've seen him cry like that, so heartbreakingly.

Of course, Adrian has cried in your presence before. When he saw Coco for the first time. When the pet tarantula you had given him died—because it fell from a very high place. Or when he saw a bird that had been run over on the side of the road on his way to work and made a video call to you at that moment, you accompanied him throughout the little funeral he held for the bird.

But he's not usually an emotional guy. He's a fucking psychopath, for all you know.

He is different with you, though.

In your closeness, he is different. He gives you warm smiles, he gives you little drawings of birds that he thinks you will like, he personally makes you playlists, and he gets so happy every time you come back to Evergreen.

He gets along very well with Luca, too.

He's weird, has a strange smile, and is emotionally unavailable. His pettings are nice, though. He told you that once, wagging his tail contentedly as Adrian scratched his neck.

Adrian shows his emotional side because he trusts you.

You are special to him.

Your relationship is special. You connected with each other the moment you met a couple of years ago. When Chris introduced you.

Not only you are emotionally compatible, but you are also very good fighting-crime duo. You work perfectly together, even though you are two clear cosmic catastrophes. Somehow, you connect on a spiritual level. Like yin and yang.

It's clear that you like each other, hell, you're in love with each other. But neither of you dares to admit it.

“Adrian...” you whisper sadly, hugging him back. One of your hands rests on the back of his neck, soothingly stroking his hair.

“He didn't even...” His voice is cut off by a sob.

You rest your chin on his hair, hugging him tighter.

He appears... broken. As if he is releasing all the tears he has held back for years.

“I know,” you try to comfort him as best you can, speaking as softly as possible. “Chris always felt out of place, he made a lot of mistakes, a lot of bad things.” You cradle his face in both hands, gently wiping away the tears falling down his flushed cheeks beneath the fogged lenses of his glasses. He looks at you earnestly. “But that's no excuse for being a bad friend and leaving you here. He's not being himself. He believes what he's doing is right.”

Adrian just sits there for a couple of minutes, processing what you 're saying and merely looking at you in silence, with raw attention and love.

“Why wouldn't he tell me?” he asks, more to the universe than to you. “Why would he run away from us like this? Are we so irrelevant? Am I so disposable?”

“There's nothing wrong with you,” you are convinced of that, running your fingers over his cheeks, drying the tears that soak his skin. “He's the one acting like an asshole.” You sigh softly, and he closes his eyes as he feels your warm breath brush against his face. One of your hands then seeks his, and he squeezes it, not quite letting go or even willing to let you pull away. “I should have known. When Chris called me the other night, he sounded... lost and so weird.”

Adrian sniffles, his gaze fixed on your clasped hands. “Did he talk to you?”

“Just a little. He asked me when I would be back in Evergreen.” You snort a humorless laugh. “He knew that if I saw him, I would blow his dumb escape plan. Eagly would have told me everything.”

Adrian doesn't say anything for a while. He just sits there, staring vacantly at the floor, holding your hand as if he were clinging to the last part of himself that hasn't collapsed yet.

His thumb slowly caresses your knuckles, feeling the sensation of your skin against the pad of his fingertip. Before, he had been harshly rubbing his hands together, but now that he had your hand in his, he caressed it tenderly.

“Do y–you like him?” he asks after a silence, as if he needed to gather his courage to dare to do so, to formulate one of the many things that are going through his head, so fast that he doesn't have time to process even half of them.

And being that vulnerable, you can read absolutely every emotion that passes across his face. He's jealous, he's sad, he's insecure.

For a ridiculous second you think about answering with one of your characteristic remarks—something sarcastic and deflecting—but there's no room for that. Not now. Not with him pressed into you like this, palms cold and trembling, eyes searching your face like he can read the answer right through you if you don't bother saying it aloud.

You shift, so you're facing him more directly. “No. I don't like him that way. Not even close.”

He lifts his eyes, uncertain, red-rimmed, searching your face for any crack in your voice, any lie hiding between the syllables. But he finds no sign of untruth in your eyes, in your body, in your voice.

“I care about Chris, sure. He's been through a lot and I wanted him to see that he wasn't alone. But—” you let out a heavy sigh, your thumb brushing circles over the back of his hand, “—He's just my friend.”

You can see how he is hesitating again, doubting, discussing with himself whether to dare to ask you something else.

But if not now, when would it be?

“And Superman?”

The question hangs in the air.

You freeze for a second, because of course the question is sharp and precise, as if it had been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He has been waiting to ask you.

“No,” you speak slowly, with a tiny smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. “Just missions. Work. Nothing else. Superman isn't my type, and besides, it would be ridiculous. He has a girlfriend and he's too prudish for my taste. Plus, I don't really have time for any of that.”

Adrian looks at you as if he wants to believe it and at the same time fears not doing so. There is that mixture of skepticism and hope in his expression that is so characteristic of him; he clings to your every word as if it were a lifeline.

“Then why do you always have someone else?” he mumbles, not accusingly, but brokenly, genuinely interested in knowing. “You seem to have a lot of super cool friends out there. I read about it in the news, everything you were doing there. But, you never have time for us... for me.”

You are motionless, unsure of what to say. There is a truth in his words that hits you with the force of a wave.

You have been busy, yes. You have been distant, yes.

And, while you were dealing with cosmic threats, extraterrestrial issues, and the burden of your own doom, Adrian Chase was right here in Evergreen, dealing with his own heartache and waiting for you. Always waiting for you.

The hand that isn't holding his rises and cradles his cheek, forcing him to look at you. His eyes, red and swollen, meet yours. And in his gaze, you can see a love so deep and so pure that it burns you.

“I'm sorry about that, Adrian,” you apologize honestly, your fingers caressing his cheek soothingly. “I may have been away, but that doesn't mean I didn't miss you or the others. It's my job, after all.”

Adrian blinks rapidly, like he's trying to process your words but they sting too much to land. His throat bobs, his lips part, and for once, he doesn't have a quick comeback.

“It's always your job,” he says finally, voice breaking at the edges. “And I get it, I do. You're amazing at what you do. You save the world while I...” His jaw tenses, “...while I stay here, behind.”

“Adrian—”

“No, let me finish.” His grip on your hand tightens as if to anchor himself. “Chris didn't even say goodbye to me, The others look at me as if I am some kind of freak, and you—” his eyes flick up to yours, raw and glimmering. “—you leave. And I wait. I wait every time. For everyone.”

He is trembling, trembling under the weight of words he's never dared to let out before.

You lean in closer, forehead nearly brushing his. “Adrian... I—” your voice breaks, overcome with emotion, “I came back, didn't I?”

“Until the next mission. Until Superman or one of your superhero friends calls you because they need you or whatever.” His laugh is humorless. “What if I need you too? How am I supposed to compete against that?”

That cuts deep because it's true. You don't even try to deny it this time. Instead, you slide your hand down his jaw, his neck, to his shoulder and pull him gently against you again, forcing him to feel the solidity of you, the warmth, the proof that you are here now.

“I can't promise you I won't leave again, because it is my duty,” you admit, voice low but steady. “But I can promise you one thing.”

Your words have an immediate effect on him, and hope glows within his eyes.

He breathes out softly, “W–what?”

“That no matter where I go... you're the one I come back to.” you speak from the heart. “Not Chris, or Leota, or whoever the fuck. It's you. You don't have to compete with anyone, because you have no competition. I only look at you, Adrian.”

For a second, he doesn't breathe. Like your words have short-circuited every thought he had spinning inside his head.

“You... look at me?” he asks carefully, like he's trying not to break the moment with his own disbelief.

You can't help but smile sadly at him. “Of course I do. You're impossible not to look at. You're loud, you're messy, you make me want to pull my hair out half the time—”

“Okay, rude,” he grumbles, pouting just enough that it almost makes you laugh.

“—and yet,” you continue, leaning just a little bit closer to him, “you're also the bravest, most loyal, most caring person I've ever met. You're the one I came back for. You're the one.”

Adrian swallows hard, his glasses slipping a little as his eyes blur again. He doesn't say anything this time, just lets out a shaky breath and leans into you, forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping yours like it's the only thing anchoring him.

Then he hugs you again, burying his face in your neck and leaning on you with all his weight and baggage and pain and love.

“Can you—” he stutters against the skin of your neck, “can you stay with me tonight? I don't want to be alone.”

“Of course, Ade,” you answer back without thinking too much about it, and the decision comes out smooth and natural, as if it had always been the only possible answer.

His body relaxes as soon as he hears it, as if all the tense strings he was carrying were suddenly released.

You hold him with the same devotion with which you calm a wounded animal; he feels fragile and real against you. You stroke his back slowly, carefully, as his breathing slows and his sobs turn into muffled whispers that gradually fade away.

He's quietly saying things against your skin, and you don't need to hear him to understand, no, because the words are spoken on your flesh.

Adrian speaks your name, mentions bringing Luca into the room, and is also overwhelmingly grateful to have you right there, for him. All for him. Not for the world, not for the people, not for some superheroes he will never meet.

“I'm right here,” you whisper, sealing the promise with a tender kiss on the top of his head. “I won't even complain about the sleepy babbling you do.”

Adrian purrs a low laugh that reaches your ears with relief; you can't imagine never hearing that sound again.

“I've been dreaming about you lately,” he says, and you can feel his lips tremble as he confesses the truth.

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest. You mentally pray that he won't hear it.

“If you moan my name just once, I'll kick you out of bed.”

“What -” 

“There isn’t time. Get there. He’s not letting anyone touch him but we’re hoping he’ll listen to you.” 

“Okay. I’ll be right there.” 

Harcourt hangs up, and your hands shake as you try to grab your keys. Blood rushes in your ears as you start the car and try to recall the way to their crappy retail building. 

You walk in the front door to find complete chaos. Chris is carefully peeling back a bandage on Adebayo’s leg, bracing himself for what he’s going to find under it. 

Economos is rifling through an ancient-looking first aid kit, telling no-one in particular, “there aren’t any fucking butterfly closures in here - who has a first aid kit with no fucking butterfly closures?” 

Harcourt has been pacing, and stops when you enter the room, looking at you hopefully. 

She points to where Adrian and Adebayo are sitting in twin chairs, a few feet from eachother. Adrian is weakly applying pressure to his own abdomen, but his face makes your stomach drop. He’s pallid, almost grey. His eyes droop against his will. When he spots you, you do register the shock on his face, but he’s not as emotive as he usually is. 

Adebayo’s lecture is uninterrupted, “- but you idiots just had to open the goddamn door, after I told you like 5 times that there were gonna be butterflies in there. You look like shit, and you deserve it right now, Adrian.” 

Her eyes flick to you, “Oh, hey Y/N. Came to reason with him? Good luck.” 

Adrian sets his face into a mask of indignance, trying to hide his excitement to see you.

Before you can think, your feet have carried you all the way to his side, and you find yourself kneeling in front of him. Your hands reach for his face, taking it softly between your palms, rubbing gentle circles with your thumbs. 

“Hey,” he breathes, his chest moving in quick, shallow beats. 

“Hey,” you choke back a sob, “I need you to let me look at it, Adrian” nodding towards his abdomen. 

He sighs, and reasons “it’s fine, really. It’s super fine. Everyone is making a big deal of it but Adebayo needs help more than me. I just need a good nap.” There's hardly any resistance in his voice. 

“If you’re super fine, then it won’t hurt for me to look? The others are taking care of Ads.” 

He looks into your eyes for a moment, and slowly un-crosses his arms. 

When you unclip the armour across his chest and lift it off of him, he reaches for your arm, instinctively, and clutches your shoulder with surprising strength. As you peel back the fabric covering his abdomen, he winces, eyes squeezing shut and head rolling back against the wall behind him. 

A pained sound escapes him, and you try to mask your shock when you see how much blood there is. He’s done a decent job stopping the bleeding himself, so you get started on cleaning him up, and note that he’s going to need stitches. 

“Adrian …” you try to find the gentle tone he needs to hear for this next question, “do you know if the bullet went through?” 

The wound is so close to the edge of his side, you’re really hoping it’s a through-and-through with no serious damage. The fact that he’s awake, moving, and managed to almost stop the bleeding himself is a good sign. 

He pauses, considering, and shakes his head, unsure. 

“One sec,” he says, reaching his arm around to touch his back, and sucks in air when he presumably touches the exit wound. “Yeah it went through.” 

“Ok, good, that’s good.” you feel over your head here, as always. Chris is messily stitching Adebayo’s leg, while Harcourt watches over his shoulder, correcting and critiquing. When you look up at them, Harcourt sends you an encouraging nod. No doubts from them, they trust you to just know. To be the Adrian-whisperer. It feels like old times, for a moment. 

You holler for Economos, and he brings all of the supplies you need, laying everything out. He carefully disinfects your tools while Adebayo and Chris bicker about where the blame lies for today’s mistakes. 

You work quickly, needle and thread moving with coordination. Just a few inches over, you see the scar from the last time you’d stitched Adrian, only about 6 months ago. The thought makes you cringe, but you can’t help but feel like you’re a different person than you were then. 

Adrian’s teeth grit, and he holds onto you tightly. You’re sure it’s unconscious for him, but he’s holding your arm like you’re anchoring him. Like you’re the only thing keeping him here, in this room. On the Earth. You feel his breath, quick and laboured, on your neck. 

You glance up at Adrian’s face, and find he’s been staring at you. His face is relaxed, but somehow he still manages to be intense. 

“Y/N …” he whispers, trailing off. 

“Yes, Adrian?” you inject your voice with fake calm, preparing for the worst. 

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. Not about the stitches. It doesn’t even begin to cover everything between you, or the way it ended, ragged and frayed. Does he know that? He has to know that. 

Somehow, at the same time, his apology turns your world around. For months, you haven’t heard from him, haven’t seen him, haven’t even seen any of his kills on the news. Has he been somewhere out there this whole time thinking about how it ended? 

There are so many things you want to say, but none of them feel right. Nothing feels like enough, in this moment that you’ve imagined a thousand times. 

Your hand finds his, holds it tightly, and you’re surprised to find that he squeezes back. It gives you the courage to find your voice, so soft it’s almost a whisper. 

“Me too.” 

Thanks for reading! Part of me wants to make this a series but part of me thinks it belongs as a one-shot. Would love to hear your thoughts!