#peacemaker fandom

that’s the thing about you: you listen. you always have. you absorb things the way other people deflect them. you don’t interrupt. you don’t escalate. you don’t announce yourself. you just stay.

people mistake that for indifference.

adrian doesn’t. at least, he says he doesn’t. but sometimes, late at night, when the others are gone and the city hums low through concrete walls, you can see the doubt itch under his skin.

you feel it now, in the way he lingers instead of leaving, in the way he watches your hands more than your face.

he leans back against the table. “so… you and chris were talking earlier.”

you finally glance up. just once. “we were arguing.”

“uh-huh.” he nods, lips pressed thin. “sounded friendly.”

“it wasn’t.”

“you laughed.”

you frown slightly, searching memory. “he said something stupid.”

“yeah, that tracks.”

you go back to your blades. adrian doesn’t move.

the silence stretches. you know better than to rush it. adrian fills quiet the way water fills cracks—eventually, inevitably.

“you like him?” he asks.

the question is casual. too casual. thrown like it doesn’t matter. it does.

“no,” you say.

he lets out a breath you don’t think he realized he was holding. “cool. coolcoolcool. because, you know, he’s kind of the worst. he’s my best friend, but i know the dude isn’t the greatest person. i mean... his dad is, well, you know. his dad is his dad.”

“i know.”

“also emilia might literally kill him.”

“yes.”

“and she’s your best friend.”

“yes.”

“and they’ve been doing that weird almost-dating-not-dating thing for, like, forever.”

“yes.”

he squints at you. “then why does it feel like you like him?”

you pause. not because you don’t know the answer—but because you do. “i don’t,” you say finally. “i listen.”

adrian blinks. once. twice. “…oh.”

you risk another glance at him. he looks almost startled, like something just clicked out of place.

“that’s it?” he asks. “you just... listen?”

“yes.”

“huh.” he rubs the back of his neck. “okay. well. that explains… some stuff.”

you wait. you always do.

he doesn’t elaborate.

later, when the team breaks for the night, you head for the roof.

you like the city from above. it feels honest up there: ugly, and glowing, and endless. painted faces, fill the places you can’t reach. you lean your elbows against the ledge and let your gaze drift downward, counting lights, counting breaths.

you don’t hear adrian approach. you rarely do. he’s quieter when he wants to be. “can i ask you something?”

you nod. 

“why do you never… react?”

you tilt your head. “react to what?”

“anything.” he gestures vaguely. “me. missions. chris being a dick. people almost dying. like—don’t get me wrong, you’re great in the field. scary, actually. but off-mission you’re just… flat.”

you consider this. “i don’t feel things loudly,” you say. “that doesn’t mean i don’t feel them.”

he watches your face, searching for something. “do you feel me?”

the question lands heavier than he intends. you don’t answer right away.

you think about the way he always sits next to you in the van, even when there are other seats. about how he talks at you because he knows you won’t shut him down. about how he notices when you’re tired before you notice yourself. you think about the way he jokes when he’s scared. the way he gets reckless when he feels invisible. you think about the wars he wages inside himself, shaping something like poetry out of noise and blood and need.

“yes,” you say. it’s quiet. honest. unadorned.

adrian laughs—but it comes out wrong. too sharp. “right, sure.”

you turn to face him fully. “i mean it.”

he shakes his head. “you say that to everyone.”

“i don’t.”

“you listen to everyone.”

“i don’t.”

he scoffs. “you literally listened to chris rant for twenty minutes about tactical formations like he invented them.”

“because emilia needed me to,” you say. “she asked.”

that stops him. “…she did?”

“yes.”

“oh.” his shoulders drop a little. “okay. that makes sense.”

you watch him process. you don’t rush him.

he stares out over the city now, jaw tight. “sometimes it feels like i’m screaming into the void,” he admits. “like—i do all this stuff. i joke, i talk, i bleed. and nobody actually sees me.”

you swallow. “i see you,” 

he laughs again, softer this time. “yeah, but you see everyone.”

“that doesn’t make it less real.”

he looks at you then. really looks. the words echo somewhere between you, unspoken but heavy. “i just want you to notice me,” he says, voice barely above the wind. “like—notice me.”

you don’t reach for him. you don’t make grand declarations. that’s not how you love. 

instead, you stay.

you stand there beside him, shoulder to shoulder, listening to his breathing even out, memorizing the way the city reflects in his eyes.

you hope—quietly, fiercely—that it’s enough.

the next mission goes sideways in the first three minutes.

it’s supposed to be a simple extraction—warehouse, low-level metahuman smugglers, grab the asset, get out. you’ve done worse half-asleep. but something is off the second your boots hit concrete.

you feel it in your chest before you see it.

“too quiet,” you murmur into comms.

“wow,” adrian says from somewhere to your left, voice bright through the channel. “look at you using words.”

you ignore him. you always do—until it matters.

chris barrels ahead anyway. he always does. big presence, big voice, bigger ego. emilia is covering the rear, tense and focused, and you know—you know—that’s the only reason she’s letting him take point.

“chris,” you say. “slow down.”

he doesn’t.

adrian clicks his tongue. “man has the situational awareness of a drunk raccoon.”

you almost smile. almost.

the ambush hits fast. gunfire ricochets, shrapnel screams, and the quiet shatters into noise and motion. you move without thinking—drop, roll, fire, advance. your world narrows to angles and timing and breath.

you register adrian at your side, fluid and reckless, knives flashing. you register chris taking a hit he shouldn’t have. you register emilia swearing viciously over comms.

you don’t register the way adrian keeps glancing at you until later. until after.

when it’s over and the warehouse smells like smoke and copper, chris is patched up and loud about it, emilia is pretending she wasn’t scared, and adrian is… quiet. that’s when you worry.

he’s sitting on a crate, helmet off, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it personally offended him. blood streaks one side of his jaw—someone else’s, you think. his hands are shaking.

you crouch in front of him.

“adrian,” you say.

he flinches. “oh. hey,” he says, too fast. “we done?”

“yes.”

“cool.”

you wait. he doesn’t look at you.

“chris almost got himself killed,” he mutters.

“yes.”

“and you ran to him.”

you replay the moment in your head. the calculation. the choice. “he was exposed,” you say. “you weren’t.”

“uh-huh.”

“you had cover.”

“right.”

“you were not in danger.”

he finally looks up at you then, eyes sharp and hurt and a little wild. “so you picked him.”

“no,” you say. “i picked the problem.”

his jaw tightens. “funny. feels personal.”

you search his face, slow and careful. “this isn’t about the mission,” you deduct.

he laughs, brittle. “wow. you’re so observant.”

“adrian.”

“what?” he stands abruptly, pacing. “you always do this. you say everything like it’s a report. like it doesn’t matter.”

“it matters.”

“does it?” he gestures toward where chris is loudly recounting his near-death experience. “because you seem pretty invested in him.”

“i am invested in the team.”

“see?” he throws his hands up. “that. that right there. you hide behind that.”

you stand too, matching his space but not his volume.

“i don’t hide,” you say. “i prioritize.”

“then prioritize me!” he snaps.

the words hang between you, raw and unfiltered.

emilia glances over, concern flickering. chris doesn’t notice. he never does.

you lower your voice. “this isn’t the place.”

“that’s convenient,” adrian says. “it never is.”

you don’t argue. you just step closer—enough that only he can hear you.

“i listen to you,” you say. “every time.”

he swallows. “you laugh at chris’s jokes,” he says quietly.

“they’re not jokes,” you reply. “they’re complaints.”

“that’s worse.”

you almost smile again. almost.

back at the video store, the tension doesn’t dissipate. it clings, heavy and sour.

adrian avoids you. he’s never done that before.

you notice it in the way he sits across the room instead of beside you. in the way he talks around you instead of at you. in the way his jokes sharpen, turn outward, aimed at anyone who isn’t you.

it feels wrong.

you don’t chase him. you don’t corner him. that’s not how you care. you wait.

it happens on a night that should have been calm.

no mission. no alarms. just the low hum of the video store settling into itself—emilia curled up on the couch with her knees tucked in, pretending she’s not watching chris pace; chris pretending he’s not watching her back. the air is thick with everything no one is saying.

adrian is perched on the arm of a chair, spinning a knife between his fingers, restless. too restless.

you notice. you always do. “you’re going to drop that,” you say.

he grins without humor. “you worried?”

“yes.”

that earns you a look—sharp, searching. he opens his mouth to say something, then stops.

chris chooses that moment to speak. “hey,” he says, gesturing between you and adrian. “you two good? you’ve been weird all night.”

adrian stiffens.

you answer calmly. “we’re fine.”

chris snorts. “you say that about everything.”

emilia shoots him a warning look. “chris.”

“what? i’m just saying—” he shrugs. “it’s hard to tell with her. she doesn’t exactly wear her heart on her sleeve.”

the words aren’t cruel. they still cut.

adrian’s knife stops spinning.

you feel it then—that subtle shift, like the moment before a storm breaks.

“i think,” adrian says lightly, too lightly, “that’s kind of her thing.”

chris raises his hands. “didn’t mean anything by it, man.”

“i know,” adrian says. “you never do.”

emilia stands. “okay, that’s enough. i mean ‘she’ is right here—” but it’s already too late.

“you ever notice,” adrian continues, eyes locked on chris now, “how she listens to you like you’re saying something important? like you matter?”

your chest tightens.

chris frowns. “what’s your problem?”

“my problem?” adrian laughs. “my problem is you always get all the attention and what do i get? i mean, c’mon man... no one takes me seriously. no one notices me!”

the room goes quiet.

you step forward. “adrian.”

he turns on you, hurt flashing into something sharper. “no—don’t. don’t do that calm voice thing. not right now.”

chris looks between you, confused. “is this about me?”

“yes,” adrian snaps. “no! i don’t know.”

emilia moves closer to you instinctively. “adrian, breathe.”

he doesn’t. “i’m tired,” he says, voice breaking through the bravado. “i’m tired of being the joke. of being the loud one. of watching her choose everyone else and pretending it doesn’t kill me.”

you flinch.

chris scoffs. “she doesn’t choose me.”

“she runs to you,” adrian fires back. “she laughs with you.”

“i don’t—” chris stops, glances at you. “do you?”

you don’t answer him. you’re watching adrian unravel, and you know—you truly know—if you don’t act now, you might lose him to the noise in his own head.

“i choose emilia,” you say suddenly.

everyone freezes.

you turn to chris. “she's my best friend, and you hurt her. constantly. whether you mean to or not.”

emilia sucks in a breath.

chris pales. “i—”

“i listen to you,” you continue, steady but firm, “because she needs me to. not because i want you.” then you turn to adrian. “i choose you because i want to.”

silence.

adrian’s eyes are wide, unguarded. “say that again.”

you step closer, placing yourself directly in front of him. no shields. no distance. “i choose you,” you repeat. “i always have.”

his laugh comes out broken. “then why does it feel like i’m begging?”

“because you don’t trust quiet love,” you say. “and i don’t know how to be loud.”

he stares at you, chest heaving. “i just want to be somebody to you.”

“you are,” you say. “you’re the one i notice first. the one i listen for. the one i wait with.”

something in him finally cracks.

he covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. you don’t hesitate—you reach out, anchoring him, fingers curling into his sleeves like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“i’m ready now,” he whispers. “i’ve been ready.”

you rest your forehead against his. “i know.”

the room exhales.

emilia turns away, discreet. chris looks like he’s been punched in the gut.

later—much later—when the video store is quiet and the city hums beyond the windows, you and adrian sit on the roof again.

this time, he leans into you without asking.

“hey,” he murmurs. “if i’m too much—”

“you’re not,” you interrupt.

he smiles into your shoulder. “you’re still kind of cold.”

“yes.”

“but you stay.”

“...yes.”

he hums, content. “i could use somebody like you.”

you close your eyes, listening to the rhythm of him, finally certain he feels heard.

the city never really sleeps. it just lowers its voice.

you notice that more after adrian starts staying the night on the roof with you. not every night. he’s still restless, still kinetic, still full of sharp edges—but some nights, when the noise in his head gets too loud, he finds you without saying a word.

and you let him.

tonight is one of those nights.

he’s stretched out beside you on the concrete, hands folded on his chest, staring up at the sky like he’s trying to read something written there just for him. you sit with your back against the ledge, knees drawn in, listening to his breathing sync with the city’s pulse.

“you ever miss home?” he asks suddenly.

you consider the question. “sometimes.”

“was it loud?”

“no,” you say. “it didn’t need to be.”

he smiles faintly. “figures.”

silence settles again—not awkward, not heavy. familiar. “i used to think,” he says after a while, “that if i didn’t make noise, i’d disappear.”

you glance down at him. “you don’t.”

“yeah. i know that now.” he turns his head toward you. “because you still see me when i’m quiet.”

you nod once. that’s your confession.

he sits up, leaning closer, elbows on his knees. “can i ask you something else?”

“yes.”

“do you ever want more?” his voice is careful, hopeful without pushing. “or is this—” he gestures vaguely between you. “—enough?”

you don’t answer immediately. not because you’re unsure—but because you’re precise.

“i want consistency,” you decide. “i want someone who stays. who doesn’t need to be louder to feel real.”

he swallows. “i can try.”

“you already do,” you reply.

he laughs softly. “god, you make everything sound like a vow.”

you look at him then, really look. the mess and the sincerity. the boy who made himself a weapon because he was afraid no one would hear him otherwise.

“i don’t say things i don’t mean,” you tell him.

his expression shifts—something warm and stunned and reverent. “okay,” he says quietly. “then… i mean it too.”

he reaches for your hand, slow enough that you could pull away. 

you don’t.

his fingers curl around yours, warm and solid. he squeezes once, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is real.

“i’ve been roaming around,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “always looking down at all i see.”

you tilt your head, listening.

“and i didn’t realize,” he continues, “that the person i needed was the one who never looked away.”

your thumb brushes over his knuckles. it’s small. intentional.

he closes his eyes.

“you ready?” he asks.

“yes,” you say. “i’ve been ready.”

he smiles—soft, unguarded, finally at ease—and leans in. the kiss is gentle, unhurried, like something earned instead of taken. no spectacle. no urgency. just two people choosing each other in the quiet.

when you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“promise me something?” he whispers.

you nod.

“if i get loud again—if i spiral—remind me that you’re still here.”

you press a kiss to his temple. “i won’t need to remind you. i’ll just stay.”

he laughs, breathless and happy. “yeah. that tracks.”

you sit together until the sky begins to pale, until the city starts to wake again. when the others join you later, nothing looks different.

everything is.

because love doesn’t always announce itself. sometimes, it just listens.

mornings with adrian are louder than nights.

he hums when he brushes his teeth—off-key, committed. he narrates his every movement in the kitchen like he’s hosting a cooking show no one asked for. he argues with the coffee machine like it can hear him.

you sit at the small table, legs tucked beneath you, watching steam curl from your mug. you listen.

“okay, see, this is why i don’t trust technology,” he says, slapping the side of the machine. “back home i had a percolator that loved me.”

“it didn’t,” you reply.

“it did. it knew my vibes. hated my mom, but she’s also a bitch, so that makes sense.”

you sip your coffee.

he grins at you over his shoulder. “you’re smiling.”

“i always smile.”

“no, you don’t,” he says, triumphant. “that was a me smile.”

you don’t deny it.

he brings you breakfast—toast slightly burnt, eggs overcooked, presentation chaotic. he sets the plate in front of you like it’s an offering.

“fuel for the emotionally reserved,” he declares.

“thank you,” you say sincerely.

he softens every time you say it like that.

later, you sit on the couch while he cleans his weapons at your feet, helmet discarded, focus intense. he talks—not because he needs noise, but because he wants to share.

you listen—not because you have to, but because you choose to.

emilia drops by unannounced, takes one look at the two of you, and smirks. “wow. he’s… domesticated.”

adrian scoffs. “i am feral.”

“you folded his laundry,” she says.

“that was a tactical decision.” you hide your smile behind your mug.

at night, when the world goes quiet again, he curls into you like it’s instinct. his head fits under your chin perfectly, like he was made for this exact space.

“you still here?” he murmurs sometimes, half-asleep.

“yes,” you answer every time.

and he always relaxes. every time.

because he doesn’t need to be loud to be seen anymore. because you never stopped listening. because some love doesn’t shout.

『••✎••』

The alley was a graveyard of sound. Everything was so quiet that it made your own heartbeat feel intrusive. Each step you took echoed off the damp brick walls, sharp against the low hum of a neon sign flickering somewhere above. The air smelled like wet asphalt and smoke—something burning, faint but there. You wrapped your coat tighter around yourself and quickened your pace, clutching the small paper bag of takeout like it was worth something more than ten dollars and tax.

Then it happened.

Swoosh.

A silver blur sliced the air beside your face—so close you felt the whisper of displaced air against your cheek—before it buried itself in the throat of the man you hadn’t even realized was behind you. The sound that followed was a wet, strangled choke, abrupt and animal, his body folding in on itself and collapsing to the pavement like a marionette with its strings cut. Blood pooled fast, seeping toward your shoes, and the knife still quivered where it jutted from his neck.

Your stomach lurched as your knees almost buckled underneath you. Someone just died a foot from you. Someone tried to—

"Wow, that was close. You almost got murdered."

The voice came from the shadows above, calm, chipper even—like he was talking about the weather. A figure vaulted over the fire escape rail and dropped down in a smooth arc, landing with a crunch of boots on gravel. He straightened and stepped forward, and the first thing you saw was the visor—blood-red, glowing faintly in the darkness like the eyes of some comic book nightmare. The mask was black with sharp, white, angular lines, with the red slicing across where his eyes should be. The rest of him was matte black and tactical—body armor, teal and white, scuffed and scratched, splattered faintly with something contrastingly dark. Smoke curled from a tear in his left sleeve where the fabric had burned. He wasn’t clean. He looked like he’d been through hell and decided to punch his way back.

And he had knives. Lots of them. Strapped to his thighs, his chest, even his boots. His hands rested on his hips like he was standing in the breakroom making small talk instead of in an alley littered with fresh blood.

"Uh—" Your throat tried to work, but nothing came out.

"Yeah," he said cheerfully, tilting his helmeted head toward the corpse like it was the punchline to a joke. "That guy was definitely gonna stab you. Or mug you. Or, like, kidnap you and make a skin suit out of you. Who knows? People are crazy."

You just stared, still frozen in place. Your breath fogged the air before you as your brain screamed MOVE, but your legs refused. He sighed, like you were the one being difficult here, then strolled past you and yanked the knife out of the dead man’s throat with a casual jerk. The body made a sick noise, and you flinched so hard you almost dropped your takeout.

"Don’t worry," he added lightly, wiping the blade on the guy’s jacket before sliding it back into a sheath on his vest. "He’s not getting back up. Unless he’s, like, a zombie or something. But then I’ve got bullets for that too."

You blinked. Your voice finally cracked through the shock. "You… you killed him."

"Yeah," he said, like you’d just pointed out it was Tuesday. "You’re welcome, by the way."

Your grip on the paper bag tightened so much that it crinkled. "Why—How could you do that?" you blurted, louder than you meant to, your voice pitching with that shaky adrenaline you were trying really hard to suppress.

He froze for half a second—just a beat—then tilted his head. "Wha… hold on, did you want him to murder you?"

Your mouth fell open. "Well, no—"

"Right. So, then. Problem solved!" He gave a thumbs-up like that settled everything, then glanced down at the charred edge of his sleeve, muttering something under his breath about fire and laundry detergent. Up close, you noticed he wasn’t unscathed—his right arm was nicked with a shallow cut, dark blood smeared along the inside of his glove. The way he favored his left side said he was hiding more than one bruise.

But that voice… God, that voice. Familiar in a way that pinged something sharp in your brain. Bright, earnest, carrying that weirdly upbeat rhythm that made him sound like a golden retriever in human form. And when he glanced your way, even through the mask, you felt it—the energy, the tilt of his head, the cadence of his words.

You squinted. Slowly. "Wait a minute…"

He stiffened, just barely, like his muscles locked for half a second before he pointed at you. "Nope. Don’t do that."

“Do what?”

"The… the thinking thing. I can hear the cogs in your brain trying to—"

You lunged for the mask.

"Whoa—HEY!" He stumbled back as your hands went for that mask of his, swatting at you like you were an overenthusiastic cat. "What the hell—stop that!"

"Take it off!"

"No!" He twisted, nearly slipping on the wet asphalt as you climbed halfway up him like he was a jungle gym. "This isn’t—hey, personal space!"

"You sound like—Adrian?!" Your fingers hooked under the edge of his visor as he tried to duck, but you had adrenaline and determination on your side. He flailed. You grunted. He spun in a circle with you clinging like a stubborn koala.

"WHAT—WHO’S ADRIAN? I DON’T EVEN—oh my God, stop grabbing my—hey, those are sensitive!"

With a triumphant yell, you ripped the mask off.

He froze. You froze.

Adrian Chase—your Adrian, your sweet, awkward, overly chipper boyfriend—stood there in a scorched, blood-smeared vigilante suit, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, a shallow cut dragging crimson down his cheek. His blue eyes went huge, the kind of wide-eyed panic you’d seen before when he forgot how normal social interaction worked. His mouth opened, closed, opened again like a fish that just realized it was on land.

"…uh… surprise?" he offered weakly.

You stared at him for a beat, your brain doing somersaults. Then, softly, you said, "What the fuck, Adrian."

"Yeah, that's… I deserved that." He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace.

You gestured toward the man he'd killed, who still lay crumpled and cooling in a rapidly growing puddle of his own blood. "What the fuck, Adrian!"

"To be fair, he was a criminal. I mean, probably a criminal, maybe. Well, he would’ve definitely become one if he did what he wanted to, so that's, uh, pretty shitty."

"Oh, God—" You pressed a hand over your mouth, stomach doing somersaults, and leaned against the brick wall of the alley, trying to catch your breath. This couldn't be happening. This had to be a nightmare, some bizarre stress-induced hallucination. Any minute now, you were going to wake up, and Adrian would be sleeping beside you in his usual Star City Rockets t-shirt and his hair sticking out at funny angles, snoring into the pillow.

But it wasn't a dream.

Adrian fidgeted, shifting his weight, rubbing his arm like a guilty child. He wasn't good with confrontation. He'd rather talk his way out of a problem than face it head-on, which usually resulted in his signature brand of rambling. It was cute when you were sitting on the couch watching TV, but less cute when you were staring at the dead body of someone he'd stabbed.

"Um… are you okay?"

"No, Adrian." You ran your hands over your face, the adrenaline turning into an angry, nauseous sort of static. "I'm really not."

"Oh, right, that was a dumb question. Sorry."

You sighed and glanced up, trying to keep yourself from shaking. You were angry—God, you were so fucking angry. Angry at him for lying to you, angry at yourself for not noticing, angry at the world for putting him in this situation in the first place. Angry at the fact that all you could think about was that he looked damn good in that suit.

"Look, I know this is… a lot," he said, gesturing vaguely. "But I promise, it's really not a big deal."

"Not a big deal."

"Yeah. Like, super not. It's just, y'know, a thing I do sometimes."

"Just a thing," you echoed.

"Yeah. Kind of like an after-work hobby. Or a sport. Like, I dunno, Ultimate Frisbee. Except with knives. And guns. And—"

"Okay, okay. I get it." You rubbed your temples and glanced over at the corpse. The smell was making you lightheaded, the coppery tang of blood coating the back of your tongue. Your stomach was trying to do gymnastics, and it was losing. "God, I'm gonna be sick."

"Oh, no—hold on, let me help you with—"

"ADRIAN!"

He froze, hovering awkwardly, his arms halfway raised like he wanted to comfort you but didn't know how.

You took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The cool night air helped a little, washing the smell away and clearing the spots from your vision. Your heart rate started to slow. "Adrian," you said again, softer this time. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" He blinked, taken aback, then glanced down at himself. "I'm fine. Just a few scrapes. It's nothing, really."

"But—"

"Look, it's okay. This is just a, um, side gig, y'know? Stabbing criminals, saving the city. No biggie. I don't get hurt much. Honest. Plus, it's fun." He shrugged. "Keeps me busy."

You shook your head. "Adrian, I can't—I can't believe you didn't tell me. This is huge. Why didn't you say anything?"

He shuffled, the gravel crunching under his feet. "I didn't wanna freak you out. That's why I wear the mask. And the helmet. So people don't know it's me. Well, the people who aren't you."

"Oh, God. Your mom doesn't know, does she?"

"Hell no. Can you imagine her face?"

You groaned. "That's a whole can of worms I'm not ready to deal with right now."

"Yeah, she'd be pissed. She hates violence. I think it's a Buddhist thing."

"Adrian."

"Right, right, sorry. Too soon." He paused. "So, are we good?"

"We're not good."

"Oh. Um, how not good?"

"I'm not sure yet."

He swallowed. "Do you need, like, a minute to process?"

"Yes, Adrian. I need a minute."

"Okay, cool, yeah. No problem. I'll just, um, stand over here." He shifted, leaning against the opposite wall. You were suddenly reminded of the way he looked the night you met, his smile bright as a sunrise, his eyes full of starlight. He'd been so earnest, so genuine. It was what drew you in, made you sit next to him at the coffee shop, made you kiss him in the rain. He was so real. So painfully, wonderfully real.

And now he was here, a knife-wielding vigilante with an actual body count.

You watched him for a moment, his head turned toward the street. The wind rustled his hair, the neon flickering overhead painting his face with a wash of colors. He didn't look like a murderer. He looked like a boy scout who'd gotten lost on the way to a campout.

He glanced back. You saw the way his eyes moved, searching yours. Waiting.

"Adrian," you said again.

He straightened. "Yeah?"

"I'm still mad."

"Right, yeah. Totally."

"Like, really, really mad."

"Understandable."

"But—" You pushed off the wall and stepped forward, reaching for his arm. "I almost got killed, and I'm starving, and I love you, and I have no idea what the hell is going on right now, but I need new food since my takeout is cold, and I need cuddles, and I really, really want to kiss you right now."

His eyes lit up, and he grinned. "Oh, thank God. I love cuddles."

"And also answers."

"Right, yeah. Totally. Answers, cuddles. You know, I am known as the cuddle king to all my friends, so—whoa, hey, what are you—"

You yanked him forward, pulled him in until your lips were pressed together. It was a desperate kiss, fueled by adrenaline and anger and something else, something sharp and hot that made your stomach do somersaults. His breath hitched, and you tasted it—copper and salt, a hint of spice.

When you pulled away, his cheeks were flushed, his pupils blown wide, the cut on his cheek bleeding sluggishly. His lips were parted, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. You just patted his shoulder.

"Let's go home," you said.

He nodded. "Yep. Home. Right."

"And Adrian?"

"Yeah?"

"No more secrets."

"I can do that. Easy."

"You swear?"

"Absolutely. I'm the most trustworthy person in the world."

You quirked a brow. "I found out you were a crime-fighting vigilante literally thirty seconds ago. You've been lying to me for months."

"I never actually lied, though," he pointed out. "Just didn't tell you the truth. There's a difference. Like, not a huge one, but still."

You sighed, giving his shoulder a light shove. "Just shut up and take me home."

"Okay, but, before we go, I gotta ask."

"What?"

"Can I, like, hold your hand, or would that be too weird since you're still mad?"

You just looked at him for a beat, then took his hand and laced your fingers through his.

"There," you said. "Better?"

His grin lit up his whole face. "Better."

You walked the rest of the way in silence. Your hand fit perfectly in his, warm and solid and familiar. He stayed close to your side, his shoulder bumping yours, his thumb tracing soft patterns against the back of your hand. For a second, you could almost pretend this was any other night—the two of you heading home together, laughing over the latest episode of The Real Housewives, him making a bad pun about the way the streetlight hit his eyes.

But even if it wasn’t, you decided, it didn't matter. It was still the same. You were still walking side by side, and he was still that sweet, awkward guy you'd fallen for, no matter how many people he stabbed.

And he was right. According to the news the next morning, the guy was definitely a criminal.

It starts like it always does, small, almost invisible. You tell yourself it’s nothing when your chest jumps every time adrian laughs at something stupid.

You roll your eyes when he rattles off a fact about some obscure animal you’ll probably forget by the time the mission ends.

You try not to notice the way your stomach tightens when he leans too close or touches your arm by accident.

But it isn’t nothing.

You’ve liked him for almost a year now, though you’d never admit it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even yourself, because admitting it would be like handing him the power to hurt you, and he already does that without trying. He’s loud. Oblivious. Infuriatingly… adrian.

And somehow, every stupid grin makes you feel like a fool.

The van smells like coffee and bad breath. It’s early, too early, and you’re already tired. Adrian is sprawled across the backseat, a thermos in hand, muttering about sea otters and their “adorable sleep habits.”

“Did you know sea otters hold hands so they don’t drift apart?” he says, voice oddly earnest.

“Yeah,” you mutter, subtly smiling, scrolling through the mission files.

“You’ve told me that three times already.”

He frowns. “Only three? I thought it was four.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I’m sure. You’re a wealth of useless knowledge, Chase. The world is lucky to have you.”

“Hey, it’s called being educated,” he protests, grinning like you should admire him for it.

You roll your eyes so hard your head hurts. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll add it to your resume.'

He blinks at you, puzzled. “You’re… in a mood?”

“Shocking, isn’t it?” you mutter, leaning back in your seat, hands crossed over your chest. You catch him looking at you, that familiar tilt of his head, and your stomach twists.

You hate him. Kind of.

It’s the little things that get under your skin. The way he doesn’t notice when you’re overworked. The way he laughs at some dumb joke while you’ve spent the last hour patching up a bruised teammate.

The way he exists so freely while you’re constantly overthinking every glance and gesture.

And yes, you’re angry. Furious, even. But it’s not the good kind of fury, the “I hate you because I love you” kind from a movie. It’s sharp, itchy, bitter. It makes you rude. And he doesn’t see it coming. That’s what hurts the most.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap one afternoon during a van ride. He’s leaning close, smirking, and probably about to tell you some dumb facts about wombats.

“What? Like what?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“That.” You wave vaguely at him. “The ‘I’m amazing and you’re lucky to be near me’ face. I hate it.”

His grin falters, just slightly. “I didn’t… mean to—”

“Yeah, whatever. Save it,” you cut him off. You turn to the window, pretending the world outside is more interesting than the chaos of wanting to punch him and hug him at the same time.

Then Peacemaker disappears.

Of course, you chase him. Because you always do.

Except when you arrive in the other dimension, it’s not Peacemaker you focus on. It’s Adrian.

Another Adrian. And a woman.

She’s laughing at him. Her hand rests lightly on his arm. He looks at her like she’s the only thing that matters in the entire universe. She's everything that you're not.

You freeze.

Your chest feels hollow. You want to look away, but you can’t. It’s infuriating. You want to scream. You want to rip the universe apart for letting you see this. And you hate that it makes your heart hurt.

You tell yourself it’s not real. Not your Adrian. It’s someone else. He’s not yours. He hasn’t even noticed you this way.

Still, it stings.

Back home, you try to act normal.

You sit farther away in the van. You answer less, smile less, and laugh less. You stop leaning into conversations and stop offering help on trivial things. You’re polite. You’re professional. You’re frosty, maybe even rude.

And he notices. Of course he does.

“You’ve been… off lately,” he says one morning, leaning against the doorframe. His arms are crossed, his frown soft but persistent.

“Really?” you reply, glancing at him briefly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He tilts his head, eyebrow raised. “Uh-huh. Sure. You’ve been snapping at everyone and rolling your eyes constantly. Definitely normal behaviour.”

You snort. “Yeah, I guess I forgot the official Adrian Chase handbook for acceptable moods. Thank you for the reminder.”

“Hey, I’m worried,” he says, stepping closer. “Did I do something?”

You glare. “Oh, of course. It’s always you, isn’t it?” You shake your head, tired, frustrated. “I’m not mad at you, okay? I’m mad at… everything. And I’m not going to sit here and explain it to you, so just… chill.”

He frowns, clearly confused and frustrated. “You’re… really rude right now.”

“Yeah, I know,” you admit, bitter. “Lucky for you, I’m usually polite. You just… push all the wrong buttons.”

“Which ones?” he asks, smirk creeping back in spite of your words.

“You,” you snap, then sigh. “Mostly you.”

He tilts his head again, that expression that makes your chest both ache and tingle. “Okay… noted.”

The tension simmers over the next few days.

Every mission, every stakeout, every long night in the van becomes a tightrope. You can’t stop yourself from noticing him. You can’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes at his dumb jokes and laughing anyway. You can’t stop yourself from wanting to punch him when he leans too close. And you can’t stop yourself from secretly caring when he doesn’t notice you slipping.

It’s exhausting.. truly.

One night, after a mission that left the entire team soaked and bruised, you wander outside into the rain, hoping no one will follow. You need space. You need quiet.

And then he’s there, following you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice careful. “I mean… really?”

You glare at him, rain dripping down your face. “Why do you care so much? You just… don’t notice anything until it’s obvious. Until I’m fuming or crying or—”

He steps closer. “I do notice. I just… I don’t know how to deal with it.”

You shake your head, furious. “Yeah, that’s always the answer, isn’t it? ‘I don’t know how to deal with it.’ You don’t try. You just… exist, and somehow I hate and love it all at the same time!”

He flinches, caught off guard. “I… didn’t know it felt like that for you.”

“Of course you didn’t! Because you never notice anything that matters!” You snap, voice breaking. You can’t stop the tears from mixing with the rain. “I’m sick of feeling like this! I'm sick of caring this much while you float around, completely oblivious!”

He swallows hard, hands lifting as if to reach for you but unsure. “I… I didn’t realize.”

“Of course you didn’t!” you yell, pacing slightly, trying to control the shaking of your hands. “You never do!”

He doesn’t respond. he just watches you wet and angry and vulnerable. And somehow, just being seen like this makes the ache worse.

You turn to leave, shoulders stiff, throat tight. And then he’s suddenly right there, voice quiet. “I like you.”

You freeze, chest tightening. You can’t process it yet. You don’t know if you want to punch him or collapse in his arms. You glance at him, soaked and stunned, but you don’t answer.

He steps closer, forehead resting against yours. The rain pelts down, drowning out the world. “I like you,” he repeats, softer this time. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You stare at him, the anger and relief tangling in your chest, eyes stinging. You finally let yourself drop your defenses, trembling.

And when he leans in, kissed by rain and chaos, it’s messy and desperate and perfect. You don’t think. You just let it happen.

“Adrian, you’ve literally been through worse. Stop being dramatic.” He sat in between your legs on the tiled bathroom floor in his underwear. Refused to sit anywhere else. His Vigilante suit all but discarded on the safe house hallway.

Had to strip him down as soon as the door was closed. Zipping the suit over his shoulders and off his arms while he tiredly complained. He’d lost so much blood already. Stained the passenger seat in his Sebring. Now dripping on the floor.

A line of worry etched between your brow. Just be mean to him so he keeps talking.

“I’m not though! Jesus!” He jerks away from you a little. His broad muscular back tensing as you grab ahold of his shoulder tightly, keeping him in place.

“Well, sorry I’m not exactly a doctor.” Another gentle tug of the needle has a whine catching in his throat.

“Yeah you fucking aren’t- shit!” He reaches forward, gripping at your calve. His strong hand wrapping around the muscle, pulling it closer to himself.

“Just a bit more for me okay?” You slide your hand to the nape of his neck, thumb pressing at the base, digging the nail slightly into his skin. “Tell me what happened again?”

He scoffs. “You’re just trying to distract me.” Another poke of the needle. He grips you harder.

“Just fucking tell me Adrian.”

“Some asshole with a machete. I- ah- I didn’t see him. My visor got broken and I left my glasses in the car.”

“How many bad guys you take out?” You go for another stitch.

He hisses, languidly dropping his head. Panic lurches up your throat. Hurriedly you pat heavy on his nape. “Stay awake for me Ades!”

He lifts his head again. “Kay.”

Just two more stitches and he’s done. Your hands are covered in his blood. His back smeared crimson. You know he’ll be fine in the morning. He always is. Still, it’s scary when he gets like this. He’s not like Chris, who can take blows like a tank and definitely not like the Justice Gang who don’t seem to break even sweat in combat.

Asking again, a little bit louder. “How many bad guys Adrian?”

He pants. “Seven.”

“Wow, thats allot.”

“I’ve done more and you know it.”

“Do I?”

He freezes, feeling the way the sutures slide in his skin. Under your hand a shiver runs through him. The same exact way he did that time you gently ran your fingers down his arm. Overwhelmed.

“Just one more Ades. One more okay?”

He nods. Exhaling a shaky breath through his teeth. You press your thumb nail harder into his nape. Giving any deep pressure you can to alleviate Adrians sensory overload. In tandem he does the same to you, his own nails digging into the fabric of your jeans. Pins and needles fizzing down to your foot.

You knot the string, taking it into your mouth and biting off the excess. Your breath fanning over his shoulder blades as you do so. His back arches, letting out something pathetic. Like a deep mewl.

“Done, we’re done. All done.” Your hands immediately leave him, leaning back just a bit so he can have some space.

Adrians breaths come out heavy and uncoordinated. Hitching every so often. His grip on your calve does not falter. Squeezing and unsqueezing in a timed motion.

“I’m gonna get up now. Okay?” All he can do is shake his head. Soft little no’s coming out airy.

So you sit there, watching as he regulates his system. It’s only after a minute or so he reaches back for you. His other hand coming to your waist at an awkward angle, gripping you hard from behind. Almost tugging.

You look down at where his hand held, white t-shirt covered in him. His palm staining you even more.

“What do you need Adrian?”

He shakes his head, blinking hard. You drag your leg away from him a bit, getting him to turn and look at you as you sit up to meet him half way. You ask again, insistent. “What do you need?”

He looks into your eyes, his own tired and darkened with bags.

“Wanna get this blood off me.” He glances down and over your body. Lifting the material higher, skin of your waist coming into view. “I ruined your shirt.”

“Thats okay.” A tight lipped smile spreads across your face. These stains are never coming out. “Shower?”

He nods.

Adrian got up easily enough. Stepping into the tub was the hard part, having to sit down again once in the tub. Slouching over himself. Every single part of his body just wanted him to fall asleep. Heal up. Maybe get coffee in the morning. Yeah. That sounded nice. With some caramel. Maybe a breakfast burrito too.

The shower felt like lava on his skin when you turned the water on. He groaned out quietly. The grime instantly washing away. Dark red streaming down the curves and grooves of body.

You give him an apologetic expression, clenching your teeth as his body jumps. “Sorry Adrian.”

“S’fine..” He scoots himself backwards, more water covering him, his curls soaking up the water, sticking to his forehead. “Get in.”

You furrow your brow. “You’re okay man, I can wait. You take your time. I’m gonna head to the car. Get us something to wear.”

You turn to go, but he grips your wrist tightly in one swift motion. His whole hand wrapped easily around you. He peered up. Pleading. “Please get in.”

It felt like your heart leaped into your throat in that very moment. You shift from one foot to the other, heat rising up your neck. Giving in almost instantly. “I’m gonna have to take off my pants if I do that.. That okay?”

“Yeah.”

“And my shirt.”

He swallows thickly. “If you’re cool with it. Cause I am.”

“Yeah. I’m cool with it.”

He watches as you strip to nothing but your underwear. Your bra stained right through, dark red blooming across the white cup all the way to one of the elasticated straps. His eyes landed at the little bow on the front of your underwear. Zoning in on that one tiny design detail. His hold on your wrist tightening.

“Um..”

He looks back up.

“Where do you want me?”

He motions in front of him. “Here.”

You step over the lip of the tub, instantly getting doused water. Fuck it was hot. Adrian spread his legs wider, the muscle tense, giving you room to slip into his space. You face him, back against the cold faucet. He looked at you sleepily, too tired from the obvious blood loss to ramble.

Adrians knees bent high over either side of you. Your own scrunched to your chest. He keeps blinking harshly, head dropping only for him to immediately jerk back up. Forcing himself to stay awake. Blood still coated his skin, crusted in his hair and the corner of his mouth.

“Adrian?”

“Mm?”

“Can I clean you up a bit? Faster it’s done, faster you can go to bed.”

He nods.

The bar soap smelled of lavender. Usually none of you would have thought to use it, just sat on the old soap dish getting smaller and smaller from steam. But it was all you had at the moment. Adrian scrunched his nose at the strong scent as you lathered it between your hands.

“That shit reeks.”

You snort, taking his hand into yours “Better than nothing.” and digging your soapy thumb into the meat of his palm. Digits twitching over every tendon you press.

Only when the blood from under his nails, and your own was sufficiently scrubbed away did you move on. Scooching closer, you nudge him.

“Lower your head for me.”

He does what he’s told. Letting his head drop in the space between you.

His curls resisted the soap at first, your fingers getting tangled in the sweaty, bloody mess. Adrian made another pathetic noise.

“Sorry, i’ll be quick.” You mumble, suds finally breaking down the gore that knotted his hair.

“Don’t be.” He breathes, leaning hard into your hands. “Actually, please.. Please get closer.”

You tilt your head, chewing the inside of your cheek, but do so. It was a bit of an endeavour at first. Slipping into his space without touching him, your bodies uncomfortably twisted. Inches apart. But then, he gripped your leg, soapy hand sliding up the back of your knee to tug you closer. Resting your thighs atop his. Slotted together.

The air changed. Your heart hammered in your chest, vibrated in your ears. Adrian dipped his head, resting his damp forehead on your shoulder. Wordlessly you bring your hands to his hair again, massaging at the roots before raking your nails down to the short buzzed back. His breath wavered over your skin, lips catching across your collarbone, letting out an almost silent ‘oh’, but you heard it. Heard every little sound that left him as you ran your hands over his body. His arms trembled, clutching at the meat of your thigh.

It’s only when you take his chin between your pointer and thumb do you get a proper look at him. His green eyes darkened, wide as saucers and glossy. Freckled cheeks a deep rosy colour that traveled to his ears. You rub the shell of his ear with your other hand, massaging the grooves with your thumb. He huffs. Short. Dire. Brow knitted and high.

His lips meet yours before you could think. Who leaned in first didn’t matter. All that did was how he licked into your mouth. The taste of iron thick on his lips. Sleepy and needy.

His hips shifted, just enough to feel him hard between the two thin layers of your underwear. Both soaked through.

“Shit.” He moaned into your mouth, whispered and high. You rub your clothed cunt over him again, catching on his flushed head. Evident with how sheer his white briefs had become from the water.

Slipping down your waist, his large hands grip at the meat of your hips, squeezing harshly with each grind of his own. “Fuck- I can’t- hah- I-” His mouth lands on the precipice of your neck, biting the skin. Your nails dig into his biceps as you yelp, craning to give him better access.

His hold was bruising. Each nip to your skin elicited a rolling warmth below your belly. Sucking harsh over your pulse point. He paws over your chest, pushing your bra out of the way to take one of your tits into his hand, pinching at the nipple, making your back arch into him. Wet skin flush with his.

“I can’t- not like this- wanna.. Will you?” He’s all but whining against the column of your neck, his nose bumping your jaw.

“Will I what Adrian?” His hardness nudges your clit, you could have screamed.

“In- in you! I wanna be in you! Fuck please!”

You’re wrenching down the front of his underwear before he had a chance to finish, cock springing up, tapping against his stomach. He groans at the freedom. Kneeling up, he helps you slide your own underwear off, flinging it somewhere in the corner. Never to be thought of again. You look down at him. His breaths heaving, rosiness now spread down to his chest.

“You okay yeah?”

Adrian nods hurriedly, inching you closer to his body. Every touch sending out ricocheting zings that had him wanting to squirm away. Nerves on fire. Made him want you to touch him harder. To scratch at his skin until he bled. Only to have you sew him up and touch him all over again.

You line him up at your entrance, slipping his weepy head past your folds. A shuddered gasp leaves him as you tease. “Fuck..”

The stretch as you sink down on him had a groan ripping from your throat, nails digging harder into his shoulders with every inch that spread you open. Adrian watched you like you were the greatest thing on planet earth. Chin resting between your boobs, arms wrapped around your middle.

It was slow. Hips rocking into one another, pace uncoordinated but downright addictive. Each thrust hitting just right. The rub of his pubic eliciting shocks through your clit.

Adrian mumbled little accolades across your chest, kissing and sucking over the side of one of your tits before moving back up to your neck. The sting of his teeth etched into the sensitive skin.

Your hands slip up his neck feather like, cradling the back of his head. He shivers under the contact, shaking his head. Hips stuttering.

“Too much?” You kiss over his cheekbone. Pecking the little moles that rest at the highest point.

“Yes! - Yeah. It’s allot. But it’s okay. Don’t wanna stop. Never wanna stop.”

“What will help?” Your fingers clench in his curls.

“Harder. My hair. And! - and Kiss me, please.”

You didn’t have to be told twice.

You tug, fingers curling right at the roots. His head shoots up whining as you take it as to press your lips to his again. It wasn’t as gentle as before. Not as sleepy. Adrians hips thrust faster with each stinging grip you give him. His own hands kneading at your flesh, spreading you open, fucking into you deeper. Hitting right at the base.

Your orgasm takes you by surprise. Washing over you like the sea smashing against rocks. You go rigid, breathing heavy into his mouth as the intense waves have you pulsing around him.

Adrians thrusts falter, feeling you cum with each desperate buck of his hips, soaking his cock. “Did you?-”

“Yeah Adrian I did.” You rest your cheek on his shoulder, hugging him tight to grip the nape of his neck once more.

“Holy shit - holy fuck.” He fucks into you faster, whining loudly into the air. “Where should I? Fuck! Where?”

“Inside.” You mumble, running your lips over the curve of his neck. “Please Adrian.”

His hands squeezed around your middle. Nails dragging down your back, leaving a sting in their wake. He twitched inside you, cumming with each intense thrust. Milking himself for everything he could give you. Ripping an inhuman nose from his chest before silencing himself with your shoulder. Huffing. Whining.

You both sat there. Waves of your pleasure dulling with each second. Heads resting against one another’s shoulders. You tilt a bit, leaning your temple to his.

“Bed?” You ask, scratching the shaved sides of his soaked hair.

“Dibs little spoon.”

Yeah. You could do that.