JAMIE TARTT

⟡ i don't wanna look at anything else (now that i saw you)

part one, part two, part three (coming soon)

JOHNNY STORM

⟡ since the good ones call their exes wasted

⟡ what if he's written mine on my upper thigh (only in my mind)

It starts with a shower. 

You’re freshly awoken and groggy and you had been so tired the previous night that you went to sleep without washing your hair. You, unsurprisingly, woke up with your hair still greasy and unkept which just isn’t right. You curse yourself for not doing anything self-care related the night before, but it’s hard to really care for yourself when you’re teaching five-year-olds for seven hours and then running to the coffee shop for another five hour shift. New York is expensive. 

It’s so expensive that you have to work your ass off to make ends meet, and you’re still living in a shitty apartment on the Lower East Side. The type of apartment where you make sure to make a whole show of opening your apartment and slamming the door shut to alert any lingering mice that a human is home and could hurt them (you could never hurt a fly). The type of apartment where you have to make-do with the fact that your front door doesn’t properly shut unless you turn the knob and click the door closed just right. It’s not the ideal living situation. But you make do: your cat, Chester, is a good tool to scare away mice and you installed a second lock on your door just in case. It’s fine. 

What’s not fine, however, is you stripping off your pajamas before turning the faucet on your tub. 

And no water comes out. 

“What the fuck,” you say, a loud declaration to yourself since no one is around and you really don’t have time for this. You turn to your sink and twist the spout. No water. 

You press your hands to your eyes and hope this is just an unlucky start to your day. You tell yourself that you’ll leave it alone for a few minutes and you’ll come back to the water working, whether it’s ice cold or lukewarm you will shower. You grab your bathrobe and toe your way to the kitchen. 

Thankfully, everything else seems to be working okay. Your toaster perfectly heats the piece of sourdough and you lather it in butter. Everything is going to be okay. You eat your bread silently, eyes double checking that Chester’s bowl is filled with food and water. You smile; as if on queue, the cat makes his way to the bowl and starts eating. At least someone is having a good start to the morning. 

When you’re properly fed and manage to look through your closet for an outfit for the day (there's a maxi skirt that you bought last week that you’ve been dying to show off), you trudge back to the bathroom to try again. You say a little prayer to a God you’re no longer sure you believe in if He would let your day start like this, and turn the faucet again. 

No water.

You don’t have it in you to pull a string of curses from your throat. You have forty minutes to get to work and you’re completely unprepared, and your eyes still haven’t de-puffed. You think you may cry, but that would do you no good. Instead, you go back to your bedroom and to your vanity and decide that you will cope in any way you can. You place your hair into two braids and secure it with cedar-scented hairspray to mask any smell (gross). You still put on your butter yellow maxi skirt with a matching long-sleeve and slip on your loafers. You use your half-empty cold cream to get rid of any residue on your face before applying your makeup as usual. By the time you’re finished, you check the clock to see that you have thirty minutes to make it to the elementary school. 

Before you leave your apartment building, you knock at the apartment across from you. You’re fidgety because you’re running a little late, but you don’t think you’ll be able to function unless your questions are answered. 

Frances, your elderly neighbor, opens the door. She has a book in her hand, the corner of a page dog-eared but she still has a finger in the novel to hold her place. Her eyes light up. “Good morning, dear! How are you?”

“Hi, Frances, I’m doing well.” You feel bad for not exchanging the pleasantry back, but you’re in a rush and you were already late to work last week when your train got delayed. “I’m not gonna lie, though, I’m running late for work but I need to ask—is your water working?”

Frances glances back into her apartment. “Well I just washed the dishes, so yes. I would say it’s working pretty well. Although, it was pretty murky when I first turned it on, which happens all the time! My advice is to let it run for a minute or two and the water will clear right up!”

God. How is this building still livable? You wonder how many health code violations your landlord must’ve dodged, or failed to take care of. 

Your smile is tight, incredibly forced as you thank your neighbor and wish her a good day. 

This, you think, is the worst start to your day that you’ve ever had. 

٠࣪⭑

You find Rachel in her classroom, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair. And when she finally takes notice of your presence and smiles, an immediate warmth flushes you over being looked at in a deeply maternal way. She, you think, has that kind of effect. Many years your senior, Rachel has still managed to become your closest friend at work, always spreading some sort of teaching-wisdom from years of doing a profession that you only started two years prior. For a second, you forget about your troubles. 

You two move in a synchronized manner, exiting the school doors and walking towards Yancy Street. It’s been a ritual for some time now that you two go to Maisie’s during your lunch hour. You think you’ll soften around the edges once you get your hands on a slice of lemon blueberry cake. 

Rachel is the first to break the comfortable silence. 

“You look really pretty today.”

You smile. “Thanks. I don’t feel it, though,” you reply honestly. “You wouldn’t believe it—the water in my apartment isn’t working.” You recount your shower story, and the sink, and how you asked Frances only to realize you’ve just been handed the worst luck for the day. 

“Murky water? Honey, how are you still living there?”

“The rent is so good, someone must’ve been murdered there.” Your mouth had nearly dropped when you saw the ad in a newspaper almost a year ago, bragging to all your friends at the amazing deal you caught. Most of them even seemed impressed by your search. Only, there had been one friend in particular who had seemed skeptical by the cheap price; the same friend who had put in your head that someone was probably murdered for the price to drop that low. You brushed him off at the time. 

“Well, until your water starts working again, please know that my place is always open for you.”

You mutter another thanks as you round the corner to Maisie’s, though you know you’ll never take Rachel up on her offer. You never liked the feeling of intruding in someone’s personal space, and to do that to your coworker seems to be the worst case scenario. You follow her into the shop and begin contemplating what exactly you’re going to do with your water not working. You suppose asking Frances if you could use her shower isn’t a terrible idea. She likes company, anyway. 

You and Rachel spot Ben Grimm before he can even notice. He’s a few people ahead of you, already ordering at the counter with his form towering over the people in front of you. You don’t hesitate to nudge Rachel with her elbow, to which she nudges you back. She tries to hide her blush. You don’t bother hiding your smirk. 

“Hey, Ben!” you call out once he steps to the side of the counter. 

He turns his head the wrong way at first, and you laugh. He follows the sound of your voice, turning the other way as he scans down at the crowd of people. His eyes light up when they meet yours, awkwardly shifting through the people around him until he’s next to you. Your name and Rachel’s slip delightedly from his lips as he clutches his bag of cookies to his side. “How are you guys?”

You and Rachel reply at the same time. 

“Good—“

“—Horrible.”

Ben’s eyes widen. “Okay, let’s backtrack.”

You and Rachel look at each other, and you motion for her to go first. 

“Well, we did finger-painting today. And no fights broke out, no one got paint in their clothes—which is the first year I can say that that’s ever happened. So, I’m feeling pretty great. I’m sure the kids do, too!”

You scoff. “I can’t even get my kids to not get crayon on their uniforms. I don’t know how Leo did it, but his collar is still stained red. Good luck with him in two years.”

Rachel looks like she’s filling that thought into her brain. “Noted.”

Ben shifts his look to you.

You sigh. “My water doesn’t work. I can’t shower.”

“Yikes. You know, I thought I smelt something when you guys entered—“

“Oh, shut up,” you swat his arm. It does more harm to you than him. 

The line moves forward, and you step with it, glaring at him despite the smile threatening to break across your face. You know Ben well enough to understand that the teasing is affectionate. You also know him well enough to understand that the more visibly annoyed you become, the more he enjoys himself.

“I’m serious, though,” he says. “What’re you gonna do?”

You just need to get through the day first; to deal with rambunctious kids before your own problems. You shrug, choosing not to answer.

٠࣪⭑

You hear his voice before you see him. 

You’re too busy sorting through your array of keys, entering the front of your apartment building. Your mind is half on the pesto pasta you plan to reheat in the oven, half on the fact that you have two hours of alone time until your shift at the coffee shop. You hoped that you would spend it watching television with your reheated food, but now you think it’ll be spent trying to get a hold on your landlord. Who always seems to be on vacation. You climb two flights of stairs, fiddling with your apartment key. 

“I wanna see it.”

You jump, a small gasp escaping you as you clutch your chest and follow the sound of the voice. 

Johnny is leaning against your apartment door, eyes crossed and giving you a pointed look that leaves no room for questioning. 

“Johnny,” you lightly scold. “You scared me.”

He repeats, “I wanna see it. For myself.”

“See what?” You push him to the side and stick your key in the hole, turning it and entering your apartment, already knowing he’s a step behind you. You never questioned when Johnny shows up randomly, you just wish he wouldn’t scare you in the process of doing so. You turn back to him and raise a quizzical eyebrow. 

He closes the door behind him, turns the knob and clicks it just right to close. He’s observant like that. “Your water,” he replies. His head tilts as he looks up. “Or lack of.”

You shouldn’t be surprised. “I assume Ben told you.” 

“Like a good friend, yes. I didn’t even get a call.”

You fight a roll of your eyes. “Because it’s not your problem, Johnny.” Still, you guide him to your kitchen sink where he stands in front of it, kneeling down dramatically to stare at it close. When you turn the spout, no water comes out. You do it a second, third time for good measure. He continues to stare at it. 

After a few moments, he sighs and gets back up to his regular height, towering over you. He looks down at you with a frown, like you’re a puppy found in an alleyway. “Your problems are my problems. And this just won’t do.”

You try—you really do—to ignore the flutter in your chest at his words. After all these years, he still manages to disarm you. 

Being best friends with Johnny Storm should be a good thing. While the world only recently discovered his greatness, he’d been your little secret for a bit longer than that. You met when you were still in college, accidentally spilling coffee on his shirt. You’d been more shy back then, less comfortable with his presence, and was sputtering apologies faster than the cars driving by. You guess Johnny had taken a liking towards you, buying you a new coffee despite him being the one with the ruined shirt. He’s just thoughtful like that. 

And it should be a good thing—he’s a good friend! He knows your coffee order by heart, even knowing how to make it himself with just the right amount of cream and sugar. He cooks for you when you’re sick, and does your laundry when you’re fully healed to get rid of the excess germs and grossness that comes with the flu. He brings over leftovers of Ben’s cooking when you’re too tired from work to come to family dinner. Hell, he’s become an amazing hat trick when it comes to career days at school—he came in once with printed science worksheets that he somehow managed to convince Reed to help him put together. 

Being best friends with Johnny Storm should be a good thing. 

Except for the fact that you think you’re in love with him. Which may be the dumbest non-decision you’ve ever made in your life. 

And his words don’t really help. 

“It ‘won’t’ do’?” you manage to choke out. You hope he doesn’t hear the change of inflection in your voice. The way your words sound like it had to do somersaults in your throat before exiting. 

“No,” he says, thankfully still in his head, “it won’t.” His head snaps up, eyes locking on you. Your heart races. “Where’s Chester?”

You both do a once-over of your apartment, eyes lighting up when you spot Chester by the window, soaking up the fall sun. His head instinctively turns, as if sensing the two pairs of eyes on him. He purrs, and turns back to the window. You smile.

“Okay, headcount complete,” says Johnny, clapping his hands once. “Pack your bags.”

Your face contorts. “Huh?”

“Pack your bags,” he says, the way a person would say obviously. “You’re not living here.”

“And why is that?” 

He looks at you deadpan. “You don’t have working water.”

“And where would we stay?” you reply defiantly. “I hope whatever hotel you’re thinking of will come out of your pockets.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be silly. You’re staying with me—with us, I mean. Me, Reed, Sue, Ben. At the Baxter Building."

You’ve been to the Baxter Building a handful of times, more than a handful. You do remember, though, a time you actively avoided the entirety of the building, too intimidated that Johnny lived there and you were still living with your parents in their two-bedroom at the time. The first time you entered was when you and Johnny were supposed to catch a floral exhibit at the MET, but he’d forgotten a coat. He barely spared you a second glance before pulling you into the building, nodding at the lift attendant and entering the elevator. You thanked God that day that no one was home, and you tried your best to not stare in awe at the floor-to-ceiling windows and slick sofas, waiting for Johnny to return from his bedroom. After that day, you’d been invited to family dinner because Sue was just extremely upset that she missed you the first time. Then, family dinners had become a regular occurrence for a while, until you finished your degree and you got a job—two, at that—and the dinners dwindled. You were too tired for the commute and traded Ben’s stellar cooking for your cooking that’s… less so. 

So you’re quite familiar with the layout and sense of comfort Johnny’s home can bring. 

But you gulp. You don’t think you can live there. 

“Johnny—“ you heave a breath, trying to piece your words together carefully. If you say the right things, he might leave this issue alone. “I’m calling my landlord later. He’s going to get my water fixed, I don’t need to go anywhere. I promise.”

He scoffs. He’s walking to your bedroom before you can stop him, “What, your landlord that’s always surfing in California? Yeah, let’s give him a call!” He opens your closet and reaches up on the top shelf where you keep your suitcase, lifting it down with ease. Your eyes turn away from where his shirt rides up, instead turning to stare at your bed because, wow, your throw blanket is super pretty. 

“I’m not asking you to move in with me,” he tries to rationalize the thoughts in your head. “Just pack the essentials, you know, some clothes, cat food, shower supplies, obviously. We’ll call your surfer landlord, and knowing him, he won’t get to it in at least five business days. Once this is all fixed, you’ll come back. Simple as that.” 

“I just—I just really don’t think this is a good idea.” The thought of living with Johnny makes your stomach churn, to be so close to him. Not only do you not want to do it for obvious reasons, but you don’t want to get in his way. His head is always in the clouds, and when it’s not, there’s something to get done. You imagine your perfume getting in the way of blueprints on his dresser. Chester sniffing at his clothes and leaving cat hair in his wake. It’s not a good idea. 

“It’s a great idea,” he says. “I’ve decided. You can’t change my mind, you know that.” 

You do know that. He’s always been the stubborn one. And you thought your stubbornness for not wanting to live in the Baxter Building would rival his own, but you feel your resolve slipping—as it always seems to do around Johnny. 

“I don’t want to get in your way, Johnny,” you say honestly; a last resort that will hopefully make him come to his senses. He’ll hopefully realize that you’re right, that he is very meticulous to how he spends his time and he doesn’t want you there for most of it. It’ll hurt, yeah, but it’ll stop him from doing something he’ll regret. 

He mulls over your statement, arms crossing as he eyes you. You look away, feeling suddenly scrutinized under his gaze. You contemplate if it’s a bad time to ask him to put your suitcase back above your closet (you can’t reach it). 

Finally, after moments that stretch out, he exhales. “Is that really what you think?”

“I mean, I don’t know. I’m just trying to be realistic.”

“Well,” he takes a step closer to you. “I would argue that I function better when you’re around. Johnny loves company, didn’t you know?”

Your nose scrunches. “I hate that. When you refer to yourself in third person.”

“I’m just stating the obvious! Since we’re being realistic.” He places a hand on your shoulder and it’s searing hot, not from any of his abilities. “I’m offering you to stay because I want you too. It’ll be like a really long sleepover—we barely have those! You’re always busy.” 

You bite your lip, contemplating. You feel the weight of his gaze, eyes searing into yours as if they’ll help convince you (they do, that’s the problem). You think about your morning, how pissed you were when the water wouldn’t work. How if it did, it still probably would’ve been cold and you’d be shivering your way into your robe. 

You think of the Baxter Building, considerably more luxurious than yours. You’ve been inside their bathroom before—there were multiple shower heads. 

You think of how much closer the building is to your school. 

You look back up at him, a conclusion beating into your brain. “Permission to be selfish?”

Johnny smirks. “The floor is yours.”

“… A shower at your place does sound nice.”

“Yes!” Johnny pumps a fist in the air, face contorting in a way that has WINNER plastered on it. “Yes! Keep being selfish! You can use Sue’s fancy soaps, and we have really nice towels. Hell, we can even try to give Chester a bath if he's down for it!” He places his hands on your shoulders and levels his head with yours. “This is going to be good. Think of it like a getaway. From this shitty apartment. That I’m still going to try to convince you to move out of, by that way.”

You laugh at that. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll stay with you.”

His smile has been lighting up your world for a couple of years now, grin always made up of sunshine and a softness you could never properly place. It’s disarming, and magical—for lack of a better word in your vocabulary. It’s the reason he’s always been easily convincing you of his antics over the years. It’s the reason you go out of your way to do things you wouldn’t normally do, like picking him up an apple turnover at Maisie’s, just to see a glimpse of the upturned corners of his lips and sparkle in his eye. 

You file the smile he gives you under Top Five Johnny Smiles and grin back. 

“Okay, okay,” his words echo yours, but with the bewilderment of someone who finally got through to someone (does he know you never stood a chance?), “let me help you pack.” He turns back to your closet and eyes the array of clothes. “What shirts do you bring? Oh—what about that red sweater your kids love? The one they said is soft when they hug you.”

You exit your trance now that he’s preoccupied with something else. You quickly scan the suitcase and eye how much you can actually fit because you’re known as a chronic over-packer. You went on a weekend trip with your girls last month, and two days at a hotel in Montauk translated to two suitcases and your purse filled to the brim. You just operate like that, unfortunately. 

“No, not that one,” you reply. “I spilled yogurt on it two days ago.” It’s currently sitting on your ever-growing laundry pile, left unkept as you went about your week. 

Johnny turns to you and rolls his eyes, no bite behind it at all. “We can wash it, anyway. Bring it.”

The next thirty minutes of your life are taken up by going through your closet with Johnny. He holds up various pieces of clothing from your closet and flashes them at you, waiting for your hum of yes or your shake of the head no. If it’s a no, he places it neatly back into your closet. If it’s a yes, he takes it off the hanger and unceremoniously tosses it over your suitcase. He probably thinks he’s being the pinnacle of a helpful best friend—and while yes, he is—but in reality, his trivial sifting gives you a chance to pack more personal matters, like your underwear and bras and journal that you never let Johnny read. Then, you go into your tiny bathroom and collect all your soaps because you’re not actually going to use Sue’s fancy ones, despite what her brother offered. 

He peaks his head into the bathroom door, brows furrowed. “What do you mean you don’t want to bring your green cardigan?”

You side-eye him, zipping up the small pouch you’re using to pack toiletries. “Because I already said yes to two other ones! I’m only staying for a few days, not moving out.”

Your words settle to him as he looks away thoughtfully. “I’m just trying to give you options while you’re there,” he says, “You’re pretty indecisive—“

“Thanks.”

“But anyway, can I switch out your yellow cardigan for this one? This is my favorite.”

You try to stomach the thought of Johnny noticing you enough to have a favorite anything of yours. “I didn’t know my wardrobe was your personal fashion catalogue,” you manage to reply. 

“It’s fall,” he says plainly. “Green is perfect.” 

The rest of your packing journey is uneventful. You make your bed because you don’t want to leave your apartment a disaster while you’re gone. Johnny does your dishes. You manage to stuff Chester’s food and a few toys in the sliver of room left in your suitcase, having to sit on the top to zip it shut. You silently congratulate yourself, though, since you managed to fit everything you need into one suitcase this time. 

Johnny dusts off his hands as he comes out of your bedroom, shutting off the light after he did one last sweep of the area. 

He picks up your suitcase without difficulty, muscle flexing under his t-shirt (not that you noticed). “Lesson plans?” 

“Got it.”

“Chester’s food?”

“I somehow managed to stuff it in his suitcase.”

“Laundry you want to wash?”

You hum, more focused on wrangling Chester into his cat carrier. Surprisingly, he goes in without much of a push. He must know something is wrong with the apartment, or maybe he’s excited about spending a few days in the Baxter Building. 

“Good,” mutters Johnny. “I don’t wanna come back here if you forgot something.”

You let Johnny think that he’s involved in a life-or-death situation, as if the distance between your apartment and the Baxter Building isn’t a thirty minute commute. You wander off to double-check that every light is closed, your lamp is unplugged, and the little water stain Chester left is cleaned. You don’t even contemplate the fact that you might be stalling until Johnny is grabbing your wrist from where you were gonna float past him to make sure perishables aren’t out on your kitchen counter. 

“We double-checked everything,” he says softly. His eyes are boring into yours again your brain goes haywire for a moment because, fuck, his eyes are so blue and soft and staring at you with a tenderness you would give a small kitten. “I know you’re nervous. You don’t need to be.”

You open your mouth to argue—to say you’re not nervous, that you just don't like change, or that you’re fine here in your broken, waterless apartment. But the way Johnny is looking at you makes every excuse dry up before it reaches your tongue. His thumb lingers where it caught your wrist, rubbing small circles at your pulse point. You try to stop your mind from clouding. 

Thankfully, Johnny spares you from having to reply. He clutches your suitcase tighter and guides you to the front door. “C’mon, let’s go before you change your mind on me.”

You mindlessly follow him, nerves building up in your stomach. But also something else entirely. Something more selfish, excitement. At the idea of being in Johnny’s vicinity for a period of time longer than you ever had before. 

“Mice!” Johnny calls out for one last time, turning his head to the expanse of your apartment with a boisterous voice. “Don’t ruin the place while we’re gone!” 

٠࣪⭑

You really could not focus for the duration of the train ride, your mind blended with a mix of excitement and sheer nervousness. 

You don’t know why you’re so nervous. The Baxter Building isn’t some new, unlocked setting. The last time you entered the living quarters of the Fantastic Four was merely a month ago, following Johnny across the expanse of the floor to the dinner table. Ben made whiskey grilled ribs, and the night was filled with quiet giggles because Johnny kept getting sauce in his face. At one point, you grew tired of the mess on his mouth and used your napkin to reach over and wipe the excess sauce on his lips. You remember the moment vividly, your proximity to Johnny slowly growing less and less in your head as you reached over to delicately tap his lips. His eyes had widened considerably, mouth sealed shut as he let you clean his mouth. You tried to make the moment less intimate, tossing the napkin to his lap and muttering to him something about having manners. You blamed the wine you consumed for the flush of your cheeks and the boldness you carried that night. 

You had gone home that night and mulled over your life choices and how they all somehow led to wiping Johnny’s mouth. It felt silly, really. Your face still felt hot. 

You think hard at that moment because something like that may happen again—God forbid a few drinks are in your system—only this time, you would have no private area to return to and question everything. No, you would still be in the same vicinity as Johnny. You pray you don’t embarrass yourself. 

The train stops at 43rd and Madison Avenue. Johnny is hauling you up from your seat before you can further question yourself. Chester meows tragically at the sudden stop. 

“Johnny,” you ponder, mindlessly following him as you peer down at your furry friend. You dodge a few people getting onto the subway cart as you’re exiting. “Will Chester get lost in there?”

“I doubt it,” replies Johnny. “It’s not like the floor is messy, there’s nowhere he can really hide—Ben keeps it as sleek as possible. And we can have H.E.R.B.I.E. follow him around for the first day so we can know any of his hiding spots.”

You nod, satisfied with his response to keep your cat safe. “Sounds good.”

The Baxter Building immediately takes form the second you step up from the stairs of the subway, looming over every other building. It’s daunting, but you’re behind the self-confidence of Johnny Storm, so you let him take the lead. As you get closer to the building, you take notice of the amount of people—tourists, most likely—taking pictures on their cameras of the building. Their eyes can’t even inch away from the spectacle to notice that the Human Torch is in front of them, nearly blocking their shot. 

Johnny takes notice of the overcrowded space in front of the building and leads you to the side entrance—the fancy kind where you need to put a specific pin in to unlock the door. He doesn’t even try to block the numbers he types in as he gets the door open, though you don’t bother trying to remember it. 

You make your way through the expanse of a hallway, coming to a stop where a security guard sits behind a desk. Johnny doesn’t spare him a glance. And, because you’re with him, the guard doesn’t spare you one. You don’t recognize the guard and were moving too fast to catch a glimpse of his name tag, but you assume he must be new. You would be lying if you said you didn’t have a favorite security guard you’ve come across (his name is Robert, and he’s got one of those curly mustaches and kind eyes and his eyes don’t glaze over you, instead giving you hellos and trading conversations). 

Once you’re in the elevator, Johnny shifts your luggage from one hand to the other and places his free hand on the small of your back. He leans down, breath fanning your face that has you wanting to squirm where you’re standing. 

“Final moments of peace before you’re part of the family,” he mutters softly, a grin playing at his lips. 

The way Johnny is saying it can make a person think you got hitched in between the time you saw Ben earlier in the day to now. You’re thankful you’re the only person to hear it, or else there might be an innuendo from Ben or one of those knowing looks from Sue that has you feeling nervous. 

The elevator chimes and the doors open, and you immediately spot the two people who had been at the forefront of your mind. Johnny ushers you in, hand still warm on your back. 

They don’t notice you at first. Ben is farther away, balancing two cups in one hand as the other nurses a boiling pot. He lightly mutters a curse to himself as he stares down at the stove. And Sue is sitting on the couch, surprisingly languid for a woman who has the entire world at the palm of her hand, flipping through pages of what looks like notes in her hand. 

You think for a second that you and Johnny will manage to slip past them without being noticed. It’s not that you don’t want to greet them, but you’re already a bundle of nerves and feel out of place at the thought of staying with them. 

But Johnny clears his throat and the two look up from what they are doing. 

Your name slips warmly from Sue’s lips, who immediately puts down the stack of papers in her hand and stands up. She’s swift in a way not a lot of people are when kicking her feet off the coffee table. “I feel like it’s been forever.”

“Feels like it,” you reply as she walks up to you. “Teaching children can make seconds turn into minutes.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” She takes you into your arms, slightly towering over you in her red heels. She has a similar aura to Johnny, a comforting one that makes you feel warm and safe in her arms—though, for completely different reasons. She hugs like a fresh blanket from a dryer, or your favorite mittens in the winter time. “And Johnny says that you’ll be staying with us?”

You part from her and smile. “I hope that’s okay?”

“More than okay,” she replies, eyes going wide at the thought of you even questioning it. “You’re welcome anytime. I should be upset that it’s under these circumstances, but I’m a bit more excited that there’s someone to babysit Johnny.”

“She’s not a babysitter!” he interjects. “… she just happens to control me better than any of you ever could.”

“Yeah,” Ben calls out from the kitchen. “We know.” He calls your name and motions you over with his now-free hand. 

You smile at him, motioning your pointer finger, gesturing that you’ll only be a moment. You look at Johnny. “Is this a good place to put down Chester?” 

“A perfect place,” he replies. “H.E.R.B.I.E.!” 

The robot slides over at the call of his name. 

“You’re in charge of watching Chester,” says Johnny, rubbing his head softly. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

A few beeps of agreement that you don’t necessarily understand, and you’re unzipping Chester’s bag. 

The three of you, and Ben from afar, watches curiously to see what the feline does next. He starts by peeking his head out and sniffing. His nose crinkles in a way you’re all too familiar with, like when you change his kibble to something more healthy or bring home a new toy from the store. When his eyes finally land on H.E.R.B.I.E, he steps out, in a trance at the small robot. He sits in front H.E.R.B.I.E and observes. 

“Well, looking after him will be easy,” says Johnny. 

“He’s never seen a robot before,” you say. 

“Clearly.”

“I’ve always wanted a cat,” says Sue. “This will be exciting.” 

You grin up at her, happy that Chester will be welcomed warmly by the family. When you’re sure that your cat isn’t going to run off to the nearest hiding spot, you turn your head back to Ben and make your way over to him. He traded staring at Chester for continuing to stir the pot on the stove. 

“Hi,” you say once you reach him, rounding the corner of the stove to stand beside him. 

If you were to rank your closeness with everyone in the Fantastic Four, you think you rank Ben second to Johnny. Your fondness for him happened by chance, really. You both frequent the same bakery and he seems to orbit around Rachel, who you’re constantly with. This allowed for more moments between you two outside the Baxter Building, often sharing a four-pack of meringues while you wait for your lunch hour to end. You exchange baking tips, the kind your grandma passed down onto you, like butter over margarine and adding a pinch of salt to brownie batter. He keeps them in the small notebook he carries everywhere. You feel a comfortability in his presence that you don’t get from Sue, trading maternal for friendly. 

“Try this.” He picks up a spoon from beside the stove and dips into the pot. The red concoction covers the spoon. He leans down to bring the spoon to your lips. 

You don’t hesitate to encompass your lips around the spoon, taking in the savory taste as you hum. The spice hits after you’ve swallowed. And, once again, you’re wondering why Ben doesn’t run a cooking show. You certainly know that he can just snap his orange-stoned fingers and have top producers waiting for him. “That’s really good!”

“Right? It’s for dinner,” he says. “So you better shower, stinky, I can’t have your aroma powering my dish.”

Your nose scrunches. You’re quite used to Ben’s teasing, you like it in a way. No one ever is quite close enough to you where they can comfortably jab you without it hurting a little (Johnny certainly can, but he never does. He saves his digging for Reed). With Ben, you know it’s without malice. “Got it, Captain,” you say. 

“Speaking of a shower,” a voice cuts in. 

You and Ben jump, not even noticing the Johnny had materialized behind you. He looks at you both pointedly before eyeing the spoon that’s still being held up by your mouth. 

“She can be your taste tester later. Let me show her around.”

You ignore the fact that you already know the Baxter Building quite well, and nod. Johnny and Ben exchange a conversation with their eyes that you don’t even try to decipher. 

It’s rare to catch Frank in a good mood. It’s not that he’s fully incapable of being in good spirits, but he’s lived enough life and gone through enough shit for everything to be unimpressing. It’s what makes him a good coach; he sees everything logically and never buckles under pressure. That kind of self-control takes years to perfect. And for Frank, he gained it at the cost of his liveliness. Who cares, anyway? 

He’s going over the lineup for Wednesday’s game. He keeps moving Pietro around because that boy is fast and versatile. He threatened to bench Peter during last practice, but he was just fibbing. He could never unless that genius little shit suddenly started failing all his classes. But that won’t happen because—again—genius little shit. 

Frank is just finishing up and attaching the papers to his clipboard when you come barreling into the office, closing the door behind you. Even thirty minutes before 6AM, your hair is pristine and the sweater you're wearing looks comfy on your figure. Frank thinks he has a navy sweater similar to it, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he watches you blankly. Because your antics are no surprise to him (he’s seen the way you act around Peter; you’re clumsy and hyper at times). There’s a swell of pride in his chest that you have come out of your shell enough to act somewhat like that around him. He wonders how much of yourself you’ve yet to show him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I tried to come in without the janitor noticing. He’s kind of weird.”

Frank doesn’t reply, but makes a mental note to see who’s on shift today and make sure they’re never on it again when you’re around. He’s unsure if he even has the power to do that, but it wouldn’t feel right not to try. 

You place your bag beside the chair across Frank’s, wordlessly going into his fridge and pulling out the breakfast sandwich he had made this morning. He’d woken up extra early because his body couldn’t sleep, instead relishing in the routine of making your sandwich. He mixed brown sugar and chili powder into the bacon this time, adding seasoning to see what your reaction to it would be. It’s been so long since he’s cooked for someone, he forgot how interesting it is to make things a little different to see if the other person would like it. 

You stopped asking if the sandwich is yours awhile ago. Frank is grateful; he hates the back and forth of you trying to be humble about his kindness. He thinks his gestures have been obvious enough that he wants to do these things for you without a thanks. 

Frank likes routine, and he thinks you two have settled into one. 

You sit down, peeling back the foil with practiced fingers. The paper crinkles through the office, filling the silence because conversation doesn’t come too naturally. 

Frank has always been a man made of silence, it’s easier for him to observe than participate. Easier to catalog little things than give pieces of himself. That’s why it’s better to wake up early in the morning with the intention of making you something, an offering to an altar. It’s easier to observe you from the side when you’re not looking, to let affection settle into actions instead of words. 

“You added something new to this,” you say, breaking the silence and having him look up. “It’s sweet.”

He stares at you, the way your tongue passes over your lips to relish in the taste. “‘Woke up early,” he manages a grunt. “Tried something new.”

“I like it.”

He gives a single nod before looking back down. Truthfully, he’s just doing busywork at this point, scribbling with a pencil things that don’t matter. Thirty minutes until practice and he’s always ready early. There’s just a part of him that doesn’t want to move; a part of him that doesn’t want to leave you alone in this space when he could be part of it, too. 

Every so often, he looks up to glance at you. At first you’re eating and scrolling on your phone, not paying much attention to your surroundings. Then as you seem to grow bored at whatever you’re looking at, Frank looks up to see you peering around the office. As you finish your sandwich, you fold the foil like you always do and take the liberty of tossing it into the trash can. You stand up and Frank thinks you’re about to get up and leave. Except, you don’t. 

Instead, you begin to wander around the expanse of the office, paying attention to the walls and clutter. He watches as your finger traces the spines of binders on his shelf, blowing away dust that has collected. He holds his breath. He doesn’t know why. 

“Coach?”

He realizes he’s been staring for too long. He clears his throat. “Yeah?”

You go back to your seat and stare at him wide-eyed, and he already sees the gears turning in your head. “You need decorations.”

Frank blinks. “I have decorations.”

“You have a decoration. You have one singular picture frame, and it’s the only thing making this place look lively. You don’t have anything you can bring that’ll remind you of home?”

“Why do I need to be reminded of home? This is my work.”

You snort. “You should see my apartment. Everything I have there reminds me of home. You need more of that. Maybe then the boys will be less scared to talk to you.” 

“They’re not scared,” replies Frank flatly. “They respect me.”

You give him a look. 

Frank doesn’t bother arguing. He knows how the players perceive him. He hears the way conversations cut off when he walks into the locker room. He notices how backs straighten and laughter dies down before he ever says a word. It isn’t intentional. Somewhere over the years, his face simply settled into something severe enough that people filled in the blanks themselves, and he’s long since stopped correcting them.

“I’m just saying—the only reason I’m not completely terrified of you is because you make me breakfast. And that’s sweet. You should do something so other people are less unnerved.”

“I don’t really care for other people.”

You roll your eyes, and it offends him. “Sure… If not for any other reason—do it so that I can actually learn a little bit about you for once. You’re not much of a talker, so show yourself in other ways.” You don’t give him a chance to reply, instead picking up your bag and making your way to the door. “See you out there, Coach!”

Your name tumbles out of his lips as you’re packing your camera away. “You got a second?”

You look up to see Frank with his eyes cast downward at you. His resting bitch face is unwavering. There’s never a second on or off practice where his face isn’t molded to one of the most unamused expressions possible. You think you’ve gotten pretty good at discerning his angry-angry face from his angry-normal face, but it’s still hard. 

“Yup,” you say somewhat nervously, masking it in what you hope to be cheeriness. You don’t think it’s for anything bad, but with Frank you never know. All you know is you’ve done everything in your power to stay out of his way to not be any kind of inconvenience. 

He motions for you to follow him, which has you gathering your bag and everything you brought along to his office. Players are still making their way back to the locker rooms in various states of exhaustion. Peter’s hair sticks to his forehead from sweat, and he gives you a smile as you walk by. 

“Are you in trouble?” he asks. 

You shrug, but you’re still unsure. You’ve never gotten in trouble with Frank before. Though there isn’t much that he says that isn’t about hockey, he’s been somewhat kind to you. He never raises his voice, instead speaking to you in a manner that you think is his version of trying to be soft. He holds eye contact, but it’s never as sharp as it is to the boys. It’s how you deduce that he’s not the biggest asshole on the planet, and how you found yourself coming to respect him more and more. 

His office sits tucked away at the end of the hallway, a small room you’ve only ever peeked into when dropping off schedules from the athletic department. It isn’t intimidating in the way you’d expect a D1 hockey coach’s office to be. There are game tapes stacked neatly on one shelf, whiteboards covered in line combinations, a desk littered with reports and half-open folders. A framed photo of a much younger hockey team hangs beside his degrees, slightly crooked. You find the photo somewhat endearing, wondering what relation those kids have to Frank. You sit down on the seat across from his desk, a bit timidly as you wait for him to say why you’re here. 

He closes the door behind you, seemingly not paying any attention to you as he walks to the mini fridge beside his desk and pulls out something wrapped in foil. He still hasn’t said a word to you when he places the foil in front of you, just staring. 

You blink at it. At first, you wait for an explanation to come out of Frank’s lips. But when more than a few beats pass with nothing on his end, you muster up the courage to say a few words. “Uh …What’s this?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the edge of his desk. His muscles strain under his long sleeve and you avert your eyes before you could be caught staring. 

“Breakfast.”

You glance from the foil to him and back again. You, again, wait for more of an explanation. Are you supposed to bring this to one of the players? You’re not an assistant is what you want to advocate, but the thought of the breakfast being for you crosses your mind. “For … me?”

He looks like he wants to roll his eyes. “Don’t see anyone else in here.” 

You just stare back blankly, because you’re unsure of how to react. A part of you is deeply confused, because all Frank typically talks about with you is hockey; where to stand to not distract the players, when to safely take pictures during the game, which games the athletic department wanted extra coverage for. That’s the extent of your conversations.

This—giving you breakfast after practice—is something completely out of your realm of normal conversation. You didn’t even know Frank was observant enough to notice that you never bring food with you. But you guess in some ways that he is probably programmed to be, looking after all the players and all. 

“I, uh …” You look back down at the foil, afraid to touch it. “Coach, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.” The answer comes so quickly that it throws you off.

“But I … appreciate it?”

He grunts. “Are you gonna take it or not?”

Wordlessly, you reach out and pick up what looks to be a sandwich. You peel back one corner, the smell immediately finding you before you can even see what’s inside: butter. bacon, egg. Your stomach twists at the reminder that the last thing you’d eaten had been whatever late-night snack you scavenged from your apartment before falling asleep. You open it up fully to see ingredients looked perfect stacked on top of one another. “Did you make this?”

He grunts in confirmation. 

For some reason, that surprises you. Maybe because somewhere in your mind, Frank exists only within the walls of the rink. He arrives before everyone else, leaves after everyone else, head always down looking at a clipboard or barking orders to the boys. The idea of him standing in a kitchen before sunrise, cracking eggs into a pan and wrapping a sandwich in foil, feels oddly domestic in ways you have never imagined him to be. It makes your stomach turn in an unfamiliar way at the thought of him doing it all for you. 

Frank doesn’t continue any pleasantries as he sits across from you in his seat and pulls a stack of papers from the side of the desk to the middle. He begins flipping through them as if to give you space, pretending not to notice the way you continue to look somewhat confused as you take a first bite. 

The next ten minutes go like this: you sit quietly and eat the sandwich because even if you did promise Kate you’ll meet her for a study session, you figure she’ll understand that you didn’t want to be rude when the scary hockey coach went out of his way to make you a sandwich. Frank continues to shuffle through papers, pausing every minute or so to look up to make sure you’re actually eating. 

By the time it’s over, your belly seems considerably more full than when you first got to the rink. You smooth the now-empty sheet of foil across your lap, folding it into a neat square out of habit. The office is still quiet, save for the occasional scratch of Frank’s pen against paper and an exhale from his nose to remind you that he’s still there. It’s oddly peaceful. You hadn’t expected to ever use that word to describe Frank Castle’s office.

His voice breaks the silence without startling you. “Done?”

You look up and nod. “Yeah.”

He reaches over without another word, taking the crumpled foil from your hands and tossing it into the small trash can beneath his desk. The movement is so absentmindedly practiced that it makes you wonder how many times he’s cleaned up after someone else.

“Thanks,” you say. You’re unsure of what to do next because you’ve never been put into this situation before. You're about to stand up and gather your things again, hopefully to make your exit swift so you can both go along with your day. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

He finally looks up. His usual sharp, scrutinizing gaze is replaced with something different. You don’t know what to call it, you’re afraid to. Because if you name his gaze, it’ll have you overthinking. You think you like Frank better as a steel concept, someone who existed solely to coach hockey and glare at boys in their 20s until they fixed their mistakes. That version of him was easy to compartmentalize.

This one isn’t. 

And if you notice what could be a hint of tenderness in his eyes, then this may be all you think about for the next week. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intend. “Really.”

Frank only nods once, as if gratitude makes him uncomfortable. He gathers the stack of papers in front of him, tapping their edges against the desk until they’re perfectly aligned. For a second, you think that’s the end of the conversation. You start to push your chair back, reaching for your camera bag.

“Don’t skip breakfast again.”

You glance back over your shoulder, a sheepish smile already forming. “I’ll try.”

You and Johnny had just come back from trick or treating and were languidly getting the sleeper sofa ready to rest on—well, you were getting the sleeper sofa ready. Johnny surfed through various channels, half a chocolate bar in his mouth. You hadn’t bothered scolding him; he gets away with a lot. Normally, your grandma handled this part of the sleepover, but she was passed out on the recliner upstairs after spending all night giving candy to kids (you and Johnny agreed to raid the leftover stash later). You were trying to slide the sheet to the corner of the mattress with huff when the television volume grew louder. Your young ears perked, mind trading fixing the crumpled sheet to whatever played on the box against the wall—

Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe.

Hm. 

Bed long forgotten, you decided to join your friend on the floor. You tugged your pillow sack of candy closer to you and began to dig on, unaware that history would be made that night. 

“Him,” said Johnny, pushing at your shoulder halfway through the movie to make sure you were watching, “I’m him.”

You didn’t bother replying, instead trying to open a cardboard tube of M&Ms. Your eyes did flash up for a second, observing Flash Gordon on the television; his hair blonde and slicked back with boots that looked a little silly. He did resemble a bit of Johnny the more you thought of it, only feeding into his fantasies that he'd one day save the world. But truth be told, you weren’t paying attention as much as you should. The beginning of the movie, though not horror, scared you enough into focusing on your candy. The Purple Death, a deadly plague in the movie, had done enough to minorly-traumatize you. You didn’t like the thought of the world ending; of everyone getting sick and dying. You imagined the boy next to you, a purple spot left on his forehead, marking him for death. 

You shivered. No way. 

You finally got the tube opened, popping a piece of chocolate in your mouth. And then another. And then Johnny swiped the third into his mouth, giving you a self-satisfied grin before transfixing his eyes back on the television. You continued to half-pay attention to the movie, unaware of the stomach ache that would greet you in the morning. Still, you were in the safety of your basement with Johnny beside you: it’s hard to feel unsafe. 

That night, you both fell asleep on the floor, shoulders slouched against the end of the bed with the television still on and light snores echoing the gloomy basement. 

You dreamt of a plague; of the world ending. You dreamt that the only people left on Earth were you and Johnny, safe in the basement that became a bunker from all illness. You wished you could’ve saved more people. You woke up the next morning unsure of what you dreamt of. 

You shoved Johnny’s shoulder to wake him up, to which he just grumbled about a few more minutes. You gave him one until you were shoving his shoulder again, already getting a waft of pancakes that your grandma was making. 

Thoughts of the end of the world had slipped to the far parts of your mind, but the sinking feeling in your stomach didn’t leave. The act of walking up the stairs and into the kitchen felt like leaving a safe haven. 

And Johnny—

Johnny grew fascinated with the thoughts of rocketships and travelling the cosmos, maybe even saving the world. Delivering a saving antidote. Defeating the bad guy.

The two of you ate your pancakes in silence, mind in completely different places. 

—

Now, exactly sixteen years later, you haven’t thought of the end of the world in awhile. There are more trivializing matters at hand, like making sure you get to work early and that your bi-monthly hair appointment is marked on your calendar. Pillow sacks of candy got traded for your grandma’s hand-me-down Dior purse that you try your hardest to never ruin. Televisions went from black and white to color. Though, you no longer have time to mindlessly sift through channels, instead memorizing the time your favorite sitcom would play and watching it when you had time. Action movies got traded for ABC News, where they convey reports such as the weather and popular celebrities—not the end of the world or deadly plagues. 

And you are no longer the one trick or treating. 

Instead, it’s 8PM on Halloween night and you’re trying to get your little cousin back in time to finish her homework. Her generic witch costume is surprisingly easy to spot and keep up with when all the other children have turned into tiny Ben Grimms and Johnny Storms. You stifle a laugh at the blonde wigs and fabric mimicking the flames of your friend. It’s still something to get used to. 

All these years later, Johnny remains one of your best friends. Actually, best may be pushing it. You eventually fell into different circles as middle school happened, and then more so in high school. He became this pinnacle of man, while you stuck to your book clubs and knitting circles. He took girls out on weekends, while you saw your girls for milkshakes (they were strictly off limits from Johnny’s wandering eye, you not wanting the crossover and risk one of your best friends getting heartbroken by him. Imagine having to console that? Playing the middle man? Hell no). But still, you managed to stay by his side in moments where his head was stuck in a science textbook. He still came over to your grandma’s after sneaking out to see a girl for a few hours. Things had stayed normal. 

Until the space launch. 

Johnny’s first time in space: what was supposed to be an I told you moment between you two turned into something else entirely. Suddenly, you were no longer attempting to find the in-betweens of Johnny and his vast social circle. No, instead, you began sharing him with the spotlight of millions—which is arguably harder to manage. When he wasn’t off saving New York City from evil scientists wreaking havoc, he was doing sunscreen ads and getting plastered on cereal boxes (the first time you saw it, you had admittedly bought three, one for each facial expression… it’s like a relic). Calls to your apartment became less frequent, and you found yourself seeing his face more on a television screen than in-person. 

You didn’t mind, really, you understood. It’s the same reason you don’t get mad when a friend cancels on you when they have to take an extra shift at work, sometimes life just gets in the way. You can’t blame Johnny for life hitting him harder than one ever thought possible. 

A body knocks into yours, successfully prying your eyes from a little Human Torch and withdrawing any thoughts of Johnny Storm off your mind. You silently curse at the man who bumps your shoulder, making sure your cousin doesn’t hear. 

“Can’t we go to a few more doors?” asks Cheryl, tugging at your arm in the direction opposite of her apartment building. Cheryl is nine and incredibly smart for her age—already had a route planned in ballpoint pen of where you guys would be trick or treating and everything! You clumsily followed her route for night, guiding her through the congested streets as she filled her bag with various treats. You think the trick of it all is that your aunt even convinced you to do this. 

“Sorry, kid,” you say, “but your mom would kill me if you weren’t in bed by nine—and you still have homework!”

“Not a lot!”

“I don’t wanna fight about this,” you huff. 

Unfortunately, Cheryl is a also smartass. 

“Mom doesn’t come home until eleven… I won’t tell her if you won’t.”

“Cheryl.” You do your best to give an assertive look, the kind her mom gives when it’s time for bed. But you’re not a mom and you certainly aren’t good at this scolding thing, because all it takes is for your cousin to bring out her puppy dog eyes to feel yourself giving in. You didn’t know nine-year olds still had the ability to do that. 

“Please,” she says, dragging out the word as long as possible. “It’s Halloween! You’re my favorite cousin!” 

You huff because, screw it, it’s awfully endearing being someone’s favorite anything. And you know Cheryl wouldn’t toss those words around lightly; she’s scarily honest for someone who should be decent at lying by that age. If she didn’t like you, she’d probably be begging to go home by now. 

Begrudgingly, though significantly buttered up, you bite your cheek and nod, already thinking of a compromise. “We can take the Times Square route home and see if any of the stores are giving anything. But that’s it.”

You think her smile is enough to light every Jumbotron in the city and you find yourself smiling back. You wrap your arms around her shoulders and head down the street, already seeing bright lights being reflected off each other by the end of the block. 

“Where’d you learn how to negotiate? Bet it’s from me.”

Cheryl looks up at you pointedly. “I really don’t think it took that much negotiating.”

And there’s the honesty you love so much. 

As expected, Times Square is crowded and you grip onto Cheryl tighter as you maneuver the streets, eye on the lookout for any sign of someone passing out candy. You’re surprised—even though you shouldn’t be—at the abundance of Fantastic Four costumes. This age marks four years of when America’s perfect family ascended to something more magnificent and cosmic. It makes sense that everyone would be celebrating. 

“Hey, why didn’t you wanna be Sue Storm?” you ask Cheryl, eyes peeking down at her, wondering why she didn’t follow a clear movement. 

She looks back up at you like you’re stupid. “‘Cus I’m not blonde.”

You roll your eyes. Playfully, of course. 

“Or pregnant.”

Right. 

Finally, you spot a woman handing out a giant bag of candy, at the center of it all, kids lined up by dozens. Still, you’re sure it would appease Cheryl regardless. You guide her to the line and stand in wait. You still have her grip your hand, not wanting to take a chance at her getting lost in the crowd. 

You’re conversing with a mom in front of you while you wait, and you feel particularly old as you discuss bedtimes and sleeping habits with her. You relay Cheryl’s nighttime routine to pass time, slipping in lowly that she still sleeps with a stuffed bunny, to which you get a slap on the back for. 

The mom in front of you laughs. Her curls bounce as she regards Cheryl with a fond smile before turning her attention back to you. “You know, you look awfully young to be a mother.”

You’re about to reply that, actually, you’re not—when Cheryl slaps you on the back again. 

“I didn’t even say anything!” you scold, a sisterly fashion, as you angle your head down at the girl. 

“No—look!” She points to the sky. 

You follow her arm, eyebrows pinched, and heave a gasp. 

Murmurs erupt around you as the night sky suddenly blazes in golden and yellow hues, a sunset coming back for an encore. You stare blankly as your brain tries to rationalize what’s occurring. 

You’ve seen orangutans storm the city and a man create an entire world underground, but nothing could compare to this. Eyes glitter over in wonder and fear as you watch a silver figure descend from the sky. Immediately, you grab onto Cheryl and hold her tightly, though your eyes never stray away. You think you’re too transfixed, feeling a wonder you hadn’t been able to conjure in years. 

It’s terrifying. And it’s beautiful. 

Two hands suddenly grab your shoulder and you’re disillusioned from the figure in the sky, your eyes coming down with a jolt as you’re met with a familiar pair of blue eyes. 

Your eyes quickly scan what’s unfolded in front of you. As fast as the sky turned golden, the Fantastic Four have materialized right before you. They stand tall, as if their presence alone is enough to combat this celestial being, a shield for the rest of the city. You wonder how they do it; how they manage to stand straight and push themselves forward. 

And Johnny—

He stands right in front of you. And he’s never looked more scared in his life. 

And you know why. After the Mole Man’s attack on the surface world, he’d practically begged you not to leave your apartment until he was certain the danger had passed. Whenever the city rattled with something bigger, something worse, he would show up at your door just to see with his own eyes that you were safe. He’s never hidden the fact that he’d rather you stay far from anything even remotely superhero-related. Those were the rare times when his composure slipped—when fear broke through at the thought of losing you.

And now, you are clearly in the middle—literally—at whatever is occurring. And the thought clearly couldn’t scare him more. You wonder, though, if you weren’t here, would he have the same wonder as you? Would he stare at the sky with this terrified, unbridled fascination of what could happen? 

You wouldn’t know. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks pleadingly, hyperaware that you’re caught in the crossfire of something you both are failing to understand. 

Any response you could muster up is lodged in your throat. Your eyes shift from Johnny’s back to above you, because you know you can’t dare to look away for even a second. 

This, you think, is the end of the world. 

————

You’d taken Cheryl back home in a haste, both of you no longer caring about extra candy. You’d gotten prepared to lecture her on getting ready for bed because yeah, despite the world ending, she still needed to brush her teeth (Memento Mori is no philosophy that needs to be taken up by a child). Thankfully, you hadn’t needed to give her any lecture, because your aunt came back from work early. Her eyes had been panicked until she caught sight of you and Cheryl sitting on the couch, taking you both into her arms as she sobbed silently. You had denied any of her pleas to get you to stay the night, wanting to be in the safety of your own apartment to soak everything in. 

The world isn’t ending yet. 

Getting devoured, to be specific. 

Your purse is discarded lazily on the floor, despite your continuous attempts to hold it precious. The hum of your apartment is deafening in its normalcy, but your mind can’t help but replay the events of earlier; Johnny’s hands gripping your shoulders as if you would dissolve right in front of him if he were to let go. The heat of the attention coursing through your arms despite the inability to look away from the sky. 

Your chest tightens at the memory. He wasn’t scared of the silver figure in the sky. He was scared of you being there to see it. 

You discard your shoes to the side of your bed, not bothering to tuck them neatly away like you normally would. You crawl onto your mattress instead, knees sinking in the familiar dip you’ve carved into the side over the years. The city murmurs just beyond your window—horns, sirens, the faint chatter of passerbyers. You don’t need to train your ears on the sound to know what they’re talking about. The sight is permanently etched in your mind, even with your eyes closed. You stare up at the ceiling and imagine the orange glow bleeding through, that silver thing that hadn’t been a hallucination (no matter how much your mind scrambles to treat it like one). 

You don’t attempt to carry out your nightly routine. You don’t carefully pin up your hair before sleep, or wash your face with lukewarm water because your faucet refused to turn cold. You don’t put on a matching pajama set or call your friends to see if they have any late-night Halloween plans that you can tag along in. Instead, you lay still as your heart beats rapidly in your chest. Words echo in your brain. 

Your planet is now marked for death. 

Is this how the world is supposed to end? No plague or apocalypse, but a clear warning. To hold your loved ones close. 

You pull your blanket over you, but it doesn’t warm you. Your heart won’t slow down. 

And then—

A knock at your door. 

At first, you contemplate ignoring it. Now isn’t necessarily the time you’re prioritizing a good rapport from your elderly neighbors. 

But after a few moments, the knocking begins again. This time, more sharp and haste. 

You huff angrily and push the covers off yourself, padding your way out the bedroom and to the front door. You don’t bother trying to hide the annoyance on your face at the intrusion, even if it is Mr. Owen with a batch of Halloween-themed cookies. Your fingers scrape against the door handle as you pry it open. 

You’re not met with Mr. Owen. 

Johnny stands at the other end, hair disheveled with the corners of his eyes crinkled downward. He’s immediately scanning you up and down—face, shoulders, down to your knees—brows pinched. As if you could’ve somehow been physically affected by what had occurred. When he deems you as okay, he doesn’t wait for permission to enter. He just inches past you and shuts the door himself. 

He stops in the middle of your apartment, scanning the open layout as if he’s trying to commit it to memory. The to-do list on your fridges, magazines unsystematically laid out on your coffee table, remnants of your dinner on the kitchen island before you’d left to pick up Cheryl. 

It’s been nearly three months since Johnny had last visited your apartment. You think the true test of friendship isn’t how often you spend time together, but instead it’s whether or not things change if you haven’t seen each other in a long time. Him and you had both gotten tangled up in work, your personal lives, and him saving the world. But it’s nights like the one months ago where you know that you’d always come back to each other, getting back in a rhythm you both had established back when you still rode tricycles. He had dropped by unannounced when you had returned from work, hanging outside your door and checking his watch in increments. That afternoon was spent cleaning your apartment with him, an abnormal domesticity sinking into your heart. He did your dishes while you folded your laundry. You cooked for two. He stayed until you had gotten in bed, playing with trinkets on your dresser before taking his leave when you slipped your sleeping mask on and murmured something about beauty sleep. 

Now, he’s here under much different circumstances. 

Johnny’s voice cuts through the silence, “You’re okay?” 

You blink, unsure of how to respond. You could give him the long response, recalling the existential dread you felt in high school that is now creeping back up on you as the world seemed to have a clock ticking over its atmosphere. You could let a few tears slip as you recollect how it felt to be in your aunt’s arms, bunched up with Cheryl, as she sobbed into the hair of her only daughter and niece. 

There are many things you could say. 

You say none of it. 

“I’m—yeah, I’m okay.”

Johnny doesn’t look convinced. He examines your face, the lip pulled between your teeth, the wrinkle forming on your forehead, the sheer look of fear in your eyes. He exhales. 

“The world—“ he says, conviction clear as day even when you’re not entirely sure if he means it, “—it’s not going to be eaten or devoured or however the fuck she called it. I’m not letting anything happen to you. To anyone.”

You so desperately want to believe that. 

The thing is you’ve seen Johnny and his family take on the impossible, from traveling space and coming back with altered DNA to using that to keep the city—the world—safe. You don’t doubt that they’re going to try and find a solution. You just don’t think there is one. 

For the first time, you feel hopeless. 

Johnny takes notice of your trepidation. 

“Reed’s already doing something,” he says, looking as if he’s admitting something he shouldn’t. “He’s tracking where she’s been and—and we’re going to stop it. Ben is already getting us prepped for a launch and—“

“Wait—what?”

He looks as if he’s been caught. And at least has the nerve to appear guilty. 

Silence stretches between the two of you as he searches for the right words to mutter; something that could ease the sudden nerves flaring inside you. Your mind is immediately infiltrated with visions of Johnny, prepping for launch to tackle the unknown again. Only this time, the stakes are higher. He isn’t going into space to discover the world, but to save it. To defeat this Galactus who appears to be powerful enough to consume Earth. You think of your Johnny, trying to take that on. 

Your heart races rapidly, shaking your head before Johnny has time to respond. “No. Whatever it is Reed is doing, you’re not going. Not this time.”

Johnny stares back at you, distressed at your sudden aggravation. The worst part is he knows this. He knows how scared you were when he returned four years ago and he spent weeks in an observation room. He knows because of your soft murmurs, spoken late into the night on days where it’s just you and him. Where you admit that you’d never been more worried for someone in your life, clinging onto him as you made him promise that he would never make you feel like that again. You knew, in some way, that the begging was fruitless. Space and Johnny’s fascination—obsession—towards it has never wavered no matter how many years go by. But now, you just couldn’t stand it. 

“We’re going to space,” he says finally, slowly, having failed to find a way to sugarcoat it. “We’re leaving in the next two days.”

The world spins. “No, you’re not.”

His brows pinch, trying to mutter your name placating but you cut him off. 

“Do you not remember the last time you went to space, Johnny? Everything changed! You changed. And now you’re gonna go back to what—defeat some cosmic being that’s threatening to eat the fucking planet?” You feel the crack in your voice, the octave that you go up without meaning to. “It’s been four years but I feel like I just got you back. I can’t lose you again. Not to this.”

The admittance hangs between you. 

And Johnny looks—still. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just staring at you with a wounded expression that has your resolve crumbling. It’s a look that unsettles you from how much it makes you feel. You don’t know how you look staring back, but your composure slips even more. There’s no more existential dread or ticking time bomb hanging over the Earth. There’s just Johnny, who is yet again preparing to brave the unknown. 

You can’t lose Johnny. 

Not before the world even ends. 

He reaches over, thumb extending to wipe under your eye, and it’s then you realize you’re crying. He closes the space between you two before you can protest. His grip gentler this time, not the frantic touch from earlier, arms engulfing you as on hand threads through the messiness of your hair—a desperate tenderness that has you leaning against him. Your lungs seize at the feeling of your cheek pressed against his chest—so solid and alive. A reminder that he’s still here, despite your fears. You feel the heat of him seep into your skin, warmth that is his and his alone. The kind that can’t be explained by science or celestial accidents. The same heat that’s always been two steps ahead of you while you lingered in every corner you could fit into his life. 

For the first time in what feels like a decade, your mind drifts back—unbidden—to that night in your grandma’s basement. To Flash Gordon, the Purple Death, to chocolate-covered fingers nudging you as Johnny declared he would save the world. You had shrugged it off back then. But now? Now you wonder if that promise had been the first and only real prophecy you’d ever hear.