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missinghan · 4 years

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aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales.

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage.

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is.

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess.

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time.

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back.

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school.

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence.

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield.

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene.

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers.

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where?

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck.

“What’s your name?”

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed.

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform.

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief.

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care.

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease.

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.”

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly.

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night.

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom.

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle.

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you.

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next.

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world.

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path.

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat.

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind.

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail.

“What the fuck?”

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely.

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less.

Because that’s the least of his problem right now.

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization.

four.

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that.

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand.

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground.

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home.

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager.

Minho feels awful.

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him.

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice.

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out.

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up.

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions.

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?”

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand.

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously.

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?”

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.”

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life.

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld.

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?”

“It’s Lee Minho.”

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five.

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility.

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here.

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life.

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much?

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for.

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too.

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great.

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one.

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike.

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes.

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away.

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor.

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now.

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave.

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child.

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his.

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place.

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then.

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are.

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself.

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process.

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words.

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares.

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in.

You can only nod. “Yeah.”

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest.

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony.

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists.

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years.

Nothing makes sense.

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself.

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break.

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin.

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms.

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within.

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear.

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react.

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about?

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.”

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done.

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart.

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?”

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess.

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection.

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause.

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

318 notes · View notes

imjustthemechanic · 4 years

Text

A Romantic Night at the Museum

Happy valentine’s day to @tytythepilot, who wanted a Pepperony HSAU in which they start out hating each other!

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It was a requirement for graduation: every senior at Triskelion High had to do thirty hours of volunteer work at one of a number of school-approved venues. It was a duty a lot of students complained about, but Pepper Potts had known right away which she would choose. There was a soup kitchen, a retirement home, a recycling centre, the humane society, and a few other places, but on sign-up day her eyes had gone right to the bottom of the list: the Empire State Museum of Modern Art.

It seemed ideal. Pepper was planning to major in accounting, but she was interested in art and art history, and enjoyed visiting the ESMMA. She was already familiar with all their permanent exhibits, so she probably wouldn’t even need an orientation. The people who worked there would doubtless be impressed with her dedication. When she put her name on the list, she did notice that nobody else had chosen the museum yet, but since she was one of the first to choose a venue, she didn’t think much of it.

On November first, Mr. Coulson the history teacher called the seniors down to the gymnasium to get the permission paperwork for their assignments, and to hand out the lanyards and tags where they would log their hours. Pepper set impatiently in the folding metal chair while the various venues were called out. Red lanyards for the humane society were popular, as were green ones for the recycling centre. By the time he got close to the bottom, there didn’t seem to be very many people without lanyards, and Pepper was starting to wonder if there would be anybody else volunteering at the museum at all.

As it turned out, there was one other.

“Finally, for the ESMMA,” Mr. Coulson read out at last, “Potts, Virginia, and Stark, Anthony.”

Pepper bounced to her feet and looked around, blinking in surprise. Tony Stark? She knew he went to Triskelion High School – who didn’t? – but so far she’d only ever glimpsed him from afar. From the gossip that surrounded him she knew he was the son of a wealthy and powerful businessmen, that he’d dated most of the cheerleaders but couldn’t remember their names, and that his picture had been on the front of the October issue of the Triskelion Shield newsletter because he’d won some sort of state science prize. He wanted to work at the museum?

She didn’t see anybody else standing up, though. The other students were all chatting together and comparing lanyards… maybe Stark wasn’t here today? Pepper grabbed her canvas backpack, covered in pins and buttons for various causes she supported, and hurried to the front. Mr. Coulson was waiting at the bottom of the stage, holding out the orange lanyard for her.

“There’s nobody else for the museum?” she asked.

“Word gets around,” he replied, ticking her off on his list. “You and Stark were the only two who signed up.”

“Great.” Pepper hung the lanyard around her neck with a grimace. “I get to babysit the rich kid all by myself.” From what little she knew of Stark, she had no illusions that he would do anything during their volunteer time. As far as Pepper had ever been able to tell, he didn’t even do anything in his classes – she’d seen him sleeping in Ms. Hill’s Calculus course. He probably paid somebody to take his exams for him.

“Depends on where the museum needs you,” Mr. Coulson said. “You might not even see him.”

“God, I hope not!” Pepper snorted, and turned around… only to find herself face-to-face with a boy. He was about her own height, with unkept dark brown hair that needed trimming and brown eyes, and wearing an expensive-looking blazer over a Pink Floyd T-shirt. She recognized him immediately, of course. It was Tony Stark, in the flesh.

The colour drained from Pepper’s face. How much had he heard?

“At least the babysitter’s cute,” he said.

That answered her question – he’d heard all of it. Pepper stepped past him and walked away as fast as she could, shaking. Now she was in for it. The whole school knew everything Stark said and did… it would be a miracle if they weren’t all talking about her by this time tomorrow. And she was going to be stuck with this guy at the museum for two hours a week, the rest of the semester! Maybe she could catch pneumonia or something and be excused from the rest of the school year.

Her friend Betty was waiting for her at the gym exit, wearing the red humane society lanyard. “You’re going to be volunteering with Tony Stark?” she asked.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Pepper informed her, and kept going.

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Tony watched the girl disappear in a huff of ginger hair and oversized sweater, then turned to Coulson for his own lanyard and badge. “What crawled up her butt?” he asked. There were lots of girls in school who didn’t like Tony – there were lots of girls outside school who didn’t like him – but most of them at least knew him. As far as he could remember, Tony had never spoken to that one before.

“I don’t think she believes you know anything about art,” said Mr. Coulson.

“Yeah?” Tony asked.

The truth was, he didn’t really. Tony’s parents were patrons of the ESMMA, along with several other museums in the city, so he’d figured the employees there would be nice to him – but he wasn’t into art for its own sake. Tony preferred things that could be quantified and figured out, while art, particularly modern art, was the exact opposite of that. He’d signed up on the assumption that the museum would give him flash cards or something so he could lead tours and answer questions. He could memorize things like that in a few seconds and be fine. Now, however, he’d been given a challenge. Who was this girl to judge him when she’d never even met him properly.

“Well,” he said, “she’s gonna find out how wrong she is.”

That evening, Tony sat down in front of his computer – he’d built it himself, out of parts of several others – and pulled up the museum’s website. With a can of Red Bull at one elbow and a package of pretzels at the other he sat up almost until dawn, going through the online collection and reading about artists, movements, and styles. Tony could handle being called a lot of things but nobody was going to think he was dumb.

By Friday afternoon, after a couple of additional trips to both the public and museum libraries, he felt he was more than ready. He’d even dug out an old ESMMA t-shirt he’d gotten for free at one of Mom’s fundraisers, and was wearing that and his lanyard as he leaned against one of the metal pillars outside the museum entrance. The museum wasn’t expecting them until four, but there was no way Tony was letting the girl be earlier than he was.

It worked, too – he’d been waiting nearly fifteen minutes when she finally got off the bus. Her long ginger hair was in two braids, and her slender figure was absolutely lost under an enormous camo-green cardigan. Tony was gratified to see her surprised to find him there.

“Afternoon,” he said.

“Hi,” she replied warily.

Tony smiled at her. “What’s your favourite piece in the ESMMA collection?” he asked, as if making polite conversation. “I’m partial to Csaky. Picasso’s a little too abstract for my tastes.”

She frowned for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve never thought about it. Probably the Water Lillies.”

“Monet, cool,” Tony nodded. “Nobody else I asked at school had signed up for the museum. It’s good to know there’s somebody else around who’s got some taste. What do you think of Monet’s red paintings? Are they artistically interesting, or just medically?”

The girl began to smile. “They can be both,” she said. “With impressionists it was all about how they saw the world, right? It was their impression. Both Monet’s cataracts and the removal of them affected that, so it should be reflected in his art.”

Tony had expected her to be squirming by now, having realized she was wrong about him, but that didn’t seem to be the case. He tried to go a little deeper. “What do you think of the idea that after his surgery he could see into the ultraviolet?” he asked.

“I hadn’t heard that before,” she replied. For a moment Tony felt triumphant, but then she continued on, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’d just shown he knew more about impressionists than she did. “I wonder what effect that would have… could we even see it?”

Tony was about to cite a Journal of Art History paper he’d read on the subject, but then one of the big glass doors opened and a man in a blue shirt and white tie, wearing an ESMMA nametag that identified him, appropriately enough, as Art, looked out at him. “Are you two the kids from Triskelion?” he asked.

“Yes,” the girl said, reaching to took the guy’s hand. “I’m Virginia – people call me Pepper.”

“And I’m Tony,” he stepped up to do the same.

“Oh, I know who you are,” said Art, and shook Tony’s hand with enthusiasm. “I’ve seen you here with your folks. Come on in! We’re always happy to have kids from the school.” He held the door open for them. “We look forward to it all year.”

“I’ve been looking forward to it, myself,” said Pepper. “I’ve been to the museum quite often, and I know the layout pretty well.”

“And I can identify every piece in the place!” Tony bragged, not to be outdone as the followed Art inside. The foyer of the building was spacious, with high ceilings, white walls, and abstract-shaped red couches. “That one behind the admissions counter, for example, that’s Matisse’s Two Masks.” He snickered. “The one that looks like a mantis shrimp wearing cool sunglasses.”

Pepper looked at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head, but didn’t say anything.

“Man, it kinda does, doesn’t it?” said Art, grinning. “Great, now I’ll never unsee that! Right this way.” He led them to a door marked staff only, and touched his employee ID card to a panel to unlock it. The inner side had a complicated push-bar arrangement on it, the sort that would probably set off an alarm if somebody tried to open it without permission.

“Ohhh… are we gonna be working in the off-view collections?” Pepper asked in a reverent voice.

“Sort of,” said Art.

They went down the stairs to the basement level, and through a maze of rooms full of shelves and boxes and things carefully stored in glass cases, to a door with no special signs or locks on it, just an ordinary lever handle. Beyond that was a little room with one tiny, dingy window way high up in the wall, looking out on a parking lot, and a lot of metal shelves stacked high with what appeared to be garbage. There were cardboard boxes full of paper, trash bags bulging with heaven knew what, stacks of old magazines, packages of unopened paper plates and plastic forks. Tony frowned as he looked around. He hadn’t seen anything like this on the website?

“Is this art?” he asked.

“This is our surplus from last year,” Art replied. “Menus and leaflets and merch. We need you guys to sort it out – what we can still sell, what we can recycle, what we can donate, and so forth. We save it all year so you kids will have something to do.” He looked so proud of himself, as if he were expecting them to be excited about this.

Tony glanced at Pepper. Her mouth was open in astonishment.

“The café and vending machines will give you sodas and snacks at half price with your lanyards,” Art said cheerfully. “If you need anything, you can call somebody there.” He pointed to a set of buttons below a speaker on the wall. “See you at six!” And he walked out, whistling.

Pepper’s backpack fell out of her hands and landed on the floor. “Word gets around,” she said aloud. “Nobody told me.”

The look on her face and the mournful tone of her voice would have been full as hell if Tony hadn’t been feeling pretty betrayed, himself. “This is bullshit,” he declared. His parents had donated thousands of dollars to the ESMMA over the years. He’d studied for this, and they thought all he was good for was sorting garbage? “I’m going to call my Mom,” he said darkly.

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Pepper felt like the bottom had dropped out of her stomach and all her insides had gone splat on the gritty concrete floor. She’d been looking forward to this for a month, as a chance to work in the stimulating environment of the museum, enjoying art and helping other people enjoy it, too. Now it turned out they expected her to spend the whole time shut in the basement? No wonder nobody else signed u for the museum! Why hadn’t she asked around? Clearly somebody was telling the seniors to avoid the assignment!

It was Stark’s statement that snapped her out of her moment of shock. Pepper had kept her head down the last few days at school, waiting for the ridicule to start, but it never had. It seemed like nobody had overheard the exchange, and Stark must not have told anyone about it. She’d begun to hope that he just wanted to forget about it, too. Her hopes had risen even further when he’d actually seemed to want to talk about the museum and the collection, and when she’d noticed his parents’ names on the big granite slab in the lobby floor. Maybe they were going to get along after all…

Now it was clear after all that he really was just a spoiled jerk. He was here because he thought his family’s involvement would get him special treatment and he was pissed because it wouldn’t. Well, maybe it would do him good to live in the real world for two hours a week.

“Is that what you do every time you don’t get what you want?” she demanded. “Go crying to Mommy and have her fix it for you?”

Stark scowled at her. “Oh, and I guess you’re totally fine with it? You were geeking out a minute ago!”

“I am not fine with it!” Pepper informed him. “I am bitterly disappointed, but some of us don’t have rich parents who can make sure we get our way!” She looked around again at the room’s ill-organized contents, then picked up her backpack and set it on a chair. The sleeves of her cardigan wouldn’t stay up, but she made a show of rolling them anyway before she dug into the first box of magazines.

“What are you doing?” asked Stark.

“I’m doing what I was told to do!” she snarled. “Because I need the credit to graduate, and unlike some people I can’t just nap through all my classes and bribe the school to pass me anyway!”

For a moment Stark just stood there as if she’d slapped him. Then he drew himself up to his full height, which was not impressive when he wasn’t any taller than Pepper, and demanded, “what is your problem? I never even met you until the other day, and you already hated me! You honestly think I can’t do this?” He gestured to the piles of junk.

“I think you won’t,” Pepper replied primly. “I mean, look at you – you’re just standing there! Your parents are so rich you’ve probably never had to do anything in your entire life! I bet your Dad pays off the teachers to give you good marks!”

“I get good marks all by myself!” Stark huffed. “I happen to be a genius!”

If that were supposed to make her think more highly of him, it failed miserably. Pepper threw a magazine at him. “You’re an egotistical twit!” she said. “If you can work, prove it!”

“Maybe I will!” he said. He stood there a moment longer, looking around, and Pepper wondered if he would refuse after all, out of sheer spite. But then he grabbed a box of merchandise from a now-defunct special exhibit on Lichtenstein and started sorting them, rather violently.

Pepper smirked. At least she’d gotten him to participate.

“You’ve got no right to pass judgment on me when you don’t know me,” Stark said after a while.

“Maybe you shouldn’t worry so much about what other people think of you,” Pepper retorted. She opened a second box, and found it was full of old calendars. The guy named Art had said they saved things all year for the Triskelion volunteers, but these were fully three years old. Whoever had been conned into doing this in the mean time couldn’t have been very thorough.

“I don’t care what other people think of me,” Stark said. He was stacking souvenir water bottles into two pyramids, one of bottles that had last year’s date on them, and one that did not.

“Obviously you do, or you wouldn’t be mad at me for not liking you,” Pepper pointed out.

She looked around at the mess, and felt her jaw muscles tighten. This was clearly a job that desperately needed doing and, just as obviously, nobody wanted to do it. The museum staff didn’t want to deal with it, so they left it for the students. The students didn’t want to deal with it, so they didn’t sign up for the volunteer work. Pepper certainly didn’t want to do it… but that in itself awakened a weird form of rebellion in her. Fine, then. She would do it, and she would do a spectacular job, so that nobody else could ever do half as well! She dumped the calendars back in their box, and got out a marker to write the word recycle on the side.

“I’m not mad,” said Stark. “I couldn’t care less if you like me or not. I’m just saying you have no right to an opinion.”

“Of course I do,” Pepper said, “and you’re not making me like you any better by whining about it!” She grabbed another box.

“Maybe I don’t like you, either,” he retorted.

“Good thing I actually don’t care what you think of me,” sniffed Pepper. After their interactions so far, she would have been disappointed if he didn’t hate her. The last thing she wanted was to appeal to a spoiled brat like Stark! She looked over her shoulder at his pyramids. “What are you doing with those?”

“Seeing how high I can stack them,” he replied.

“We’re not here to play,” Pepper informed him. The next box contained multicoloured stress balls. For a moment she wrestled with temptation, then she threw one at Stark’s bottles, as if they were a setup pin a carnival game. They wobbled, then crashed down.

“Hey!” he protested.

“We’re here to work,” she told him.

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That interaction seemed to have set the tone for the entire evening, Tony observed. This girl was absolutely determined to do the job they’d given her, even though it was a stupid rip-off of a job, and if Tony hadn’t been so determined to hate her back he would have found it kind of admirable. If she had that kind of work ethic in her classes she might well end up valedictorian… and since the school was in the habit of choosing one valedictorian of each sex, that meant Tony might find himself sharing a stage with her in June. That sounded like a disaster waiting to happen.

Art had promised to let them out at six. He’d also told them they were welcome to go for snacks or bathroom breaks, but Pepper – why was she called that? Because of her freckles, maybe? She certainly was peppered with those – didn’t stop. Tony was getting hungry and cranky, but he didn’t stop, either. Pepper had thought he’d know nothing abut art and he’d proven her wrong. Now she thought he wasn’t willing to work hard, so he was going to prove her wrong on that, too.

Six o’clock came and went. Upstairs the museum was probably closing up, and Art would arrive any minutes. Pepper kept at it, though, tossing vaguely cubist plush animals around like she planned to do it all night, using her phone as a flashlight to peer into dark corners of the room looking for more. Tony wondered if he ought to say something, but if he did, she might think he was being lazy and he wasn’t going to let her have that. He continued taking bundles of pamphlets out of their elastic bands and dumping them in the ‘recycle’ box as his watched ticked past six thirty and approached seven.

Then the lights went out.

For a moment the two of them just stood there in the dark, blinking. A little bit of light came in through that high-up window, but it wasn’t really enough to see by. After a few seconds, Pepper turned her phone flashlight back on, which made Tony yelp as she shone it directly in his face.

“Hey!” he protested.

“Sorry!” She quickly moved it. “Did you do that?”

“What?” asked Tony. “Turn the lights off? Why would I do that! They probably went off because it’s way past six and the museum is closed.” He went and moved a box so he could stand on it and look out the window.

Pepper stared at him, then looked at her phone screen. “Why didn’t you say something?” she asked.

“Because you would have gone aww, is the little rich boy tired?” Sure enough, there was nobody moving out in the courtyard. The café tables had been put away, and he thought he could make out somebody on the opposite side locking a door.

“So you do care what I think of you,” she said, but didn’t seem interested in arguing the point. As Tony opened his mouth to reply, she turned away and shone the light around the room. “Which way to the stairs?”

“This way.” Tony hopped down from his box and turned on his own phone for extra light. A fat lot of good it had done him, he thought, to memorize those museum maps. None of them had included the basement! But by the light of the LEDs the two young people managed to wind their way through the maze of rooms.

“Oh, Jesus!” Pepper exclaimed, grabbing Tony’s arm.

“What?” he turned around, and nearly jumped out of his own skin as he saw what looked like a winged, humanoid figure looming over them. Then he realized what he was looking at was the shadow of a sculpture in dark stone, projected on the wall and ceiling by the light, and recognized it from the website catalogue – at least that had done him some good. “That’s Csaky’s Messenger,” he said. A black granite cubist angel.

“I knew that,” said Pepper, relaxing her grip.

“No, you didn’t,” he teased. “What did you think it was, Mothman?”

“Shut up and let’s get out of here,” she said. “This place is creepy in the dark.”

It had been kind of creepy in the daytime, Tony thought, with all the old sculptures covered in sheets and so forth. When he moved his own light around the room the shadows seemed to come to life, and it did make the statues look terrifyingly animated. He tried not to think about that as they continued to the stairs.

It was an effort not to cheer when they finally sighted the red EXIT sign. Tony took the stairs two at a time and pushed on the bar handle, not really caring if it set off an alarm. It did not – in fact, the only sound was a dull clunk, and the door did not move.

Tony tried again, wondering if he’d simply pushed it too hard. He got the same result.

“Now what?” asked Pepper.

“It’s locked,” he said.

“What?”

“Don’t panic, it’s not like we’re gonna run out of air or anything,” said Tony, rolling his eyes. “It’s just a locked door.”

“Yes, but that means we’re stuck in here!” she protested.

“It’s not like the museum’s empty!” Tony put his shoulder against the door to rattle it. “Hey! Hey, we’re locked in!” he shouted.

“Help!” Pepper chimed in. “Anybody out there? Help!”

They continued shouting for a few minutes, but it got no reply. If anybody were out there, they couldn’t hear them – or they were just ignoring the cries.

“Why didn’t that guy come back to tell us it was time to go?” Pepper wailed.

Tony very much wanted to know that, himself. “I guess he forgot about us.” He rattled the door one last time and waited a moment, but there was still no response.

She grabbed his arm again. “You can call your parents!”

Tony pulled free of her grip. “Oh, now who wants to call my rich parents to fix everything?” he couldn’t resist saying.

She narrowed her eyes. “That was a tantrum. This is an emergency. I’m sorry I made fun of you, okay? Please call them.”

The apology was startling, but it didn’t change one important fact. “I can’t,” Tony said. “Or if I did, it wouldn’t do any good. They’re in Vienna this week.” He scowled.

The light on Pepper’s phone shut off with an unhappy buzzing sound, but by the light of his own Tony could see that she looked disappointed. “So you were just ranting when you said you were gonna have your Mom yell at the museum people?”

“No, I was gonna talk to her, it’s just that it’ll probably take ages for her to do anything about it, because she’s out of the country and she doesn’t like staying up all night to make phone calls,” Tony grumbled. “Why don’t you call your parents? At least they live here in town.”

Pepper nodded and looked down at her phone, then swallowed when she saw the screen. “Uh… actually, I don’t think I can. I’ve had the flashlight on too long and the battery is dead.”

He reached into his pocket. “You can use mine. You know their numbers, right?”

“No,” she admitted, squirming a bit. “We haven’t had a land line since I was twelve. I’ve always had their numbers in my phone.”

“Well, that’s just great!” Tony kicked the door and then went to sit down on the top step. “So what do we do, just sit here all night?”

“You said you were a genius! Can’t you figure something out?” she asked.

Tony huffed. There she was again, thinking he was dumb. He knew that she was doing it on purpose, and that if he kept reacting the way she wanted, she would quickly come to decide that she could make him do anything she wanted by saying she thought he couldn’t or wouldn’t… but at the same time, he couldn’t let her think she was right. He thought back to the museum maps he’d looked at… this stairwell hadn’t been marked on any of them, which meant the public wasn’t supposed to use them. All the exits probably locked the same way. What he needed was a way to pick the lock, which was going to be difficult when it was inside the bar apparatus.

“Well?” Pepper asked.

“Shut up. I’m thinking.” Tony turned and directed the light from his phone onto the bar. There were some screws that would be easy to take out, but they were in the push panel at the hinge end of the door… he’d need to reach inside somehow. “Okay,” he said, standing up again. “There’s gotta be some tools in that basement, right? I need a screwdriver.”

“Is this a good idea?” asked Pepper.

“I won the Pym Prize for Robotics last month!” Tony reminded her. “My picture was on the cover of the school newspaper, and you don’t trust me with a screwdriver?”

She threw up her hands. “Okay, okay! Do your genius thing!”

Tony checked the battery on his own phone. With the flashlight on it was draining fast. If they didn’t want to be in here with no light but the EXIT signs, he was going to have to find another source of illumination. “And a proper flashlight,” he decided.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all evening,” said Pepper, and followed him down the steps.

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Pepper realized she was being mean and snappish, but she couldn’t help it. How was she supposed to feel when they were locked in a basement? They couldn’t just stay here all night. What about dinner? Her stomach was already growling. She’d been ignoring it earlier because she had wanted to show that she was willing to work. Where would they sleep? There was nothing soft down here to lie on. And good lord, what was going to happen when one of them needed to pee?

All that nervous energy had to go somewhere and the only possible target was Stark – and he was doubly convenient in that capacity because this was his fault. He’d noticed the time passing while she had not. He couldn’t have said something. If he’d spoken up, they could have decided it was time to go and done so, but he hadn’t, the staff had forgotten about them, and now they were stuck down here!

Back at the bottom of the stairs, Stark located a janitor’s closet. This seemed a good place to start looking for emergency supplies – there was a first aid kit and a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall, and on a shelf above them he found a utility flashlight. He gave the latter to Pepper, and had her hold it while he rooted around inside a cupboard, looking for something else.

“What are you doing now?” she asked.

“I’m looking for tools,” he replied. “A screwdriver. A hammer. Something. I’m gonna take the door apart and open the lock from the inside… and don’t ask me if I can do that,” he added, pulling his head out of the cupboard to look straight at her. “I told you, I’m a genius. I can figure it out.”

Pepper sniffed. She would wait and see how he did at getting them out of the basement, but she knew one thing for certain. “You may be a genius, but talking about it all the time still makes you sound like a jerk. Why do you care so much that people know how smart you are?”

“Because it’s important!” said Tony, going back to his rooting around. “Fine, I admit it: yes, I want people to know I’m smart, okay? I’m proud of it. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“It’s fine to be proud, but if you go around talking about it, you’re bragging,” Pepper said to his butt, which was the only part of him she could see. “What happened to humility?”

“False humility is just another kind of lying,” he said.

“It’s polite,” Pepper insisted. “You don’t see me go around bragging. I could be standing here going, oh, they gave me this job because nobody else wants to do it so I’m going to be awesome at it just to show them.”

This time, he actually wiggled back out of the cupboard and sat up, frowning at her in evident confusion. “Is that really what you’re proudest of?” he asked. “That you’re willing to do crappy jobs?”

“I’m willing to do them well,” Pepper clarified. “The people who left all those three-year-old calendars in the box sure didn’t do a very good job of it. Just because nobody wants to do something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it properly. I’m a Hufflepuff,” she said firmly. “I believe in doing things right.”

“Yeah, but that seems like a weird thing to brag about,” he insisted.

“I just said I don’t brag about it,” huffed Pepper.

“No, I mean, it’s a weird example of a thing you might brag about,” Stark said. “Most people would say something like, I’m good at math, or I can beat a new video game faster than anybody I know, or I’ve won prizes for my robots. Your thing is doing terrible jobs?”

His mention to the robotics prize made Pepper wonder if all three of his examples were things he personally considered himself amazing at. “No, they wouldn’t say that, because most people don’t go around bragging.”

“If you asked them,” Stark said, frowning in frustration. “If you go up to somebody and ask them what are you best at they’ll always tell you something! Like, my friend Rhodey is really good at building model airplanes. He’ll tell you all about how he changed them to be more accurate than they were on the box. Or there’s Janet from my physics class who’s really good at her fashion Instagram. What’s your ‘thing’?”

Pepper winced, wishing now she’d never spoken. Everybody had a ‘thing’, didn’t they? Something they were really into. With Jane it was astronomy – everyone knew she’d been accepted to Culver for astrophysics and she could take you out on a dark night and show you three planets, nine constellations, and tell you about how people could figure out the date of supernovas from tree rings. Pepper never understood half of what she said. With Natasha it was ballet and gymnastics, and the phys. ed teachers said she’d probably be in the Olympics someday. Pepper was madly jealous of both of them for having something they were so good at and so passionate about… because she didn’t.

She was silent for a moment – and her very hesitation must have told Stark all he needed to know. “Oh, come on, you must be good at something,” he said. “How about art?”

Pepper shrugged awkwardly. “I like art, but I can’t do it. I took art in freshman year but I wasn’t any good at it. I never felt inspired. I’m more interested in the history than in actually doing it, but that’s not really… not really something you can make a career out of. I guess I could be a museum curator, but…” She looked around the dark room, with that unsettling statue still looming in a corner of it. “A museum doesn’t sound like a great place to work right now.”

“I hear that,” Stark grumbled.

“I’m gonna do accounting in college,” she went on, “because I’ll be able to get a good job that way. I get decent grades in math, but they’re not any better than the grades I get in anything else. My Dad was always one of those if you put your mind to it you can do anything people, and he’s right, because I can do a lot of things well but there’s not really anything I’d say I’m good at.”

Pepper stopped there, because… why had she told him that? It wasn’t something she ever discussed, even with her friends or family. They wouldn’t understand. All of them had a ‘thing’, but Pepper was just… Pepper. She worked hard because if she couldn’t be good at something, she wanted to be decent at as many things as she could. Jill of all trades, mistress of none.

Stark was looking at her like he didn’t know what she was talking about. He probably didn’t. If he was so damn smart, he was probably good at everything and couldn’t imagine what mediocrity was possibly like. What would he know about insecurity?

“Look, just find your tools and get us out of here,” said Pepper.

He crawled back into the cupboard, while she knelt down to shine the flashlight over his shoulder. After a minute or two of sorting around amid cleaning supplies and a set of wrenches, he sat up triumphantly. “Aha!” he exclaimed, holding high a beat-up screwdriver with an orange handle.

“Finally!” said Pepper. “Let’s go!”

They returned to the main floor and Pepper continued to hold the flashlight while Stark knelt down to turn the screws. He tried for a few moments, then stopped and muttered a bad word under his breath.

“Now what’s wrong?” Pepper asked. She could feel her stomach sinking again.

“It’s a Phillips,” said Stark.

“What’s that?” Pepper wanted to know.

“It’s a Phillips head screwdriver!” He pointed it at her like a magic wand. “The screws are all flat heads!”

“Can’t you still use it?” she asked. Pepper admittedly knew very little about tools but she had assembled furniture with her parents, and she was sure her father had once said she could still use a particular screwdriver even if it was the wrong shape.

Stark appeared to disagree – he tossed the screwdriver back down the stairs, and she could hear it clink as it bounced off the concrete steps. “No. You could use a flat head screwdriver in a Phillips screw, but not the other way around.”

“The Phillips… is that the one with the plus, and the flat head is the one with the minus?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Stark sat there for a moment, then examined the screws again. “You got a dime?”

“Nobody carries cash in New York,” Pepper scoffed. She thought for a moment, herself, and then unzipped her backpack and started sorting through it, looking for her keys. “Here!” She pulled them out. “I have nail clippers on my keychain!”

“So what?” he asked, annoyed.

“So they have a flat end!” She took them off the loop and lifted the lever to show him. “Will that fit in the screws?”

Stark blinked, then snatched them out of her hand, grinning. “You’re a genius!” he said, and turned around to start removing screws.

“Oh, like you?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Maybe not quite like me,” he said, but he glanced back over his shoulder to smile at her, and something inside Pepper gave an involuntarily little flutter. Stark was clearly joking, but when he’d said you’re a genius, it had sounded so sincere and spontaneous she couldn’t help but think he meant it.

“There we go!” Stark dropped one screw on the floor, then removed another, and took the entire bar off the door. “Shine the light in here, would you?”

Pepper directed the beam over his shoulder, while he first peered in and then reached to feel around. For a moment he frowned, and Pepper started getting worried again, but this time he seemed to figure out a solution quickly.

“Another equipment run!” he declared. “I know I saw wire cutters in there… I need a coat hanger. I’m gonna snip a length of it so I can manipulate the lock from the inside.”

“There were coat hangers in the junk room!” said Pepper. “They had a box of souvenir sweatshirts that were already on them inside the plastic!”

She pulled open one such packet, and Stark cut himself a length of wire about six inches long. Pepper was starting to feel quite pleased with their collective problem-solving abilities. Stark could find, or at least make, whatever tools they needed, and Pepper had a good memory and could tell him where to find things. When they returned to the door, Stark stuck his makeshift lock pick into it, his hand disappearing into the bar mechanism right up to the wrist, and within a few second there was a clunking sound, and the door creaked open. The light that flooded in was faint, just the evening glow of the city and the fading November sky reflecting off the white walls and tile floors of the lobby, but Pepper was so happy to see it, she almost cried.

“Ta-da!” said Stark proudly. There was a clink from inside the bar as he dropped the piece of wire. “There we… ow!” he exclaimed, and quickly yanked his arm out… or tried to. Something clearly went wrong, because he stopped short and howled!

Pepper almost dropped the flashlight. What? What happened?” she asked. Her imagination offered up horrible possibilities. Maybe there was a mouse or a spider or something in there. Maybe he was going to need her to suck the venom out. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to do it, and she would be known as the girl who let Tony Stark die…

“I’m stuck! I’m caught on…” he gritted his teeth and swore again. “I’m caught on… I think I stabbed myself.”

Pepper felt herself go cold. She set the flashlight down on the floor so that its beam would still illuminate him. “Okay, well, don’t panic,” she said.

“Don’t panic? You’re the one who screamed because you thought the statue was Mothman!” he pointed out.

“Only for a moment! When you’re hurt,” she explained, “you shouldn’t panic because it’ll only make you freak out and do more damage. Now, take a deep breath.”

He breathed in, hard.

“Let it out,” said Pepper.

It came out in a woosh.

“Now tell me what happened.”

Stark grimaced in pain. “I dropped the coat hanger wire,” he said, “and I think it got caught on something. When I tried to pull my arm out it poked me, and when I tried to yank it out fast it went in really deep and I think I’m actually sort of impaled right now.”

In the dim light, Pepper couldn’t see his face very well, but he sounded like he was on the verge of passing out. She thought fast – if he did that, he would go limp, and the weight of his body would pull on that arm, and if what he’d just said was accurate, that could make things much worse.

“Okay,” she said. “Can you back your arm up so it comes out?”

He tried. “I don’t think so. The bar isn’t long enough.” Stark looked at her hands, held up in front of her as she tried to reassure him. “You’ve got small hands. You think you can reach in there and move it?”

“I’ll try,” said Pepper. She took off her cardigan and examined the situation… how would she do this? Stark was right up against the door and couldn’t exactly move over to give her space. She was going to have to practically sit in his lap. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said, moving into place.

He snorted. “I’ve got my arm stuck in a door! Getting ideas is about the last thing on my mind.”

She settled down, sitting on his knee, and wiggled her fingers in around his arm. Immediately she felt something wet and sticky. She pulled her hand back and held it in the flashlight beam, and was horrified to see the red on her fingers. “Oohhh,” she said.

“What?” Stark looked over her shoulder. “Oh, no. You’re not gonna faint, are you?”

“I don’t know if I’m the best person to do this,” said Pepper. She almost stuck the fingers in her mouth, but that wasn’t a good idea when it wasn’t her blood. She couldn’t wipe it on her clothes, either, it might stain. How much more blood would there be if she managed to pull the wire out?

“There’s nobody else here!” he protested. “That’s the whole problem, remember?”

“Yeah, but…” Pepper said helplessly, and stopped there because he was right. It was just him and her. Like sorting the garbage downstairs, it was a terrible job but nobody else was going to do it. It was up to Pepper.

“Right.” She tried to wipe her fingers on the floor, which didn’t work very well, then took a deep breath and tried again. Stark’s chin was on her shoulder watching as she stuck her fingers in between his flesh and the edge of the opening, feeling around for the problem. She could follow the piece of wire for about two and a half inches, the length of her thumb and index finger, and then had to stop. There just wasn’t room to fit the rest of her hand inside and go any further.

“Don’t tug on it,” said Stark weakly. “It’s definitely under the skin.”

“That’s so disgusting,” she whimpered. The blood had been pretty awful, but she could handle it. The phrase under the skin, however, was horrible. Pepper hated things like needles and IV lines.

“Can you get it out?” he asked.

“No,” was Pepper’s immediate reply. “That’s as far as my fingers will go. I’m gonna see if I can find the other end.” She felt her way back, trying to ignore the feeling of warm, damp blood between her fingers. The other end of the bit of coat hanger turned out to be stuck under a lip of metal at the edge of the piece next to the one Stark had removed. She tried to pick at it with her fingernails, to no effect. “I can’t. It’s stuck.”

Pepper wanted to pull her hand back, but realized if she did, it might be covered with blood. For a moment, she didn’t move.

“Okay,” Stark said in her ear. “If pulling it out won’t work, can we push it a little further in?”

“What?” Pepper asked. “No, I’m not going to do that! I wouldn’t do it even if I could!”

“I didn’t mean into my arm, I meant into the space!” said Stark. “I’ll push my arm in as far as I can, and you see if you can get the other end loose and hold it there so I can get out without it getting stuck again, okay?”

“I can’t do that!” she insisted. “What if it pierces something major and you bleed to death?” There was already enough blood on her. The idea of more made her feel ill.

“You won’t if you’re careful,” he said. “Even if you do, I don’t think there’s any major blood vessels in that part of an arm.”

“You don’t think there are? You mean you don’t know if there are? I thought you were a genius!”

“That doesn’t make me an encyclopedia!” he protested. “Being smart doesn’t mean I know everything. Intelligence is a stat – knowledge is a skill! You have to roll a check for it!”

“What?” Pepper asked. The statement made no sense whatsoever for the first few moments, until she realized what he was talking about. “Is… was that a Dungeons and Dragons joke?” His arm was impaled on part of a metal coat hanger, and he was joking?

“Yes! I’m trying to distract us,” Stark said. “Just do it, okay? Stop thinking about it. The faster it gets done, the faster it’ll be over with and we can both get out of here.”

“Right.” Pepper took several breaths in and out, the way she’d told him to do only a few minutes earlier. “Keep distracting me,” she said.

“How?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Tell me about… tell me about your parents.” It was the first thing that occurred to her. She worked her fingers further into the space, to press the piece of wire against his skin.

Stark snorted. “What’s to tell? My Dad’s the smartest guy in the world and nothing I do is ever good enough for him. Have you got it?”

“I hope so,” she replied. “I thought you said you were a genius.”

“I am a genius, just not as much of a genius as he is,” said Stark. He moved his arm a little further, but it wasn’t enough for the wire to come loose.

“Keep going,” said Pepper.

“No matter what I do,” Stark went on, “he’s like, oh, I did that when I was younger than you, and I didn’t have all this money or this fancy edu…” he hissed through his teeth as something hurt, and Pepper began to ease off the pressure she was putting on his arm. “No, hold it there!” he said. “All this fancy education. I didn’t even… oh shit… I didn’t even tell him I won that prize or that I was on the cover of the school newspaper, because he wouldn’t have… oh shit… wouldn’t have cared…”

“Am I hurting you?” Pepper asked. The end was still, just barely, under the lip.

“No, it just hurts!” he said. He moved a little further.

It was only a fraction of an inch, but it was enough. Pepper felt the end of the wire come free, and held it as tightly against his arm as she could. “I got it! Pull it out now!”

He yanked his arm out of the bar. The door, now free to swing, fell open and dumped both young people onto the lobby floor.

Pepper held up her hands. The lobby was semi-dark, but there was enough light to see that her fingers were smeared with blood. It was getting sticky as it began to dry, and the metallic scent stung in her nostrils. Her stomach lurched.

“Oh, man,” said Stark.

She knew she didn’t want to see his injury, but she turned and looked anyway. It wasn’t as bad as she was picturing. The end of the piece was very sharp, but it was only under perhaps half an inch of skin and so close to the surface that the dark metal was visible through the translucent layer of tissue. It was still horrible to look at, but impaled was an exaggeration.

“I gotta… I gotta…” Stark stammered.

“Lie down!” Pepper pushed him onto the floor. “Don’t you dare pass out on me. Wait right here, and I’ll be back.”

She ran back down the steps and grabbed the first aid kit out of the janitor’s closet. When she got back, she found Stark lying there with one cheek on the cold tile, but his eyes were wide and he was still very much conscious.

“I’m gonna pull it out,” she told him.

“Tie something around my arm first, so it doesn’t bleed too much,” said Stark.

“Got it. I think that’s what this is for.” Pepper pulled out a stretchy strap and tied it around his arm above the injury. “There… now like I said, keep talking. Your Dad isn’t impressed by you. Is that why you want everybody at school to know you’re a genius?” Honestly… it would explain an awful lot.

“I guess,” said Stark. “I didn’t think about it that way, but… yeah, probably. It’s nice to be able to brag a little without him telling me how much better he could have done it, you know? He actually wanted to send me to boarding school. Mom talked him out of it, but he just wanted to get rid of me.”

Pepper nodded. “You ready?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“Me, neither,” she admitted. With her left hand she held his, while gripping the wire with her right. Should she pull fast or slow? If she were doing this to herself she would have done it at slowly as possible, probably crying the whole time, but this wasn’t for herself… so she decided to just yank. She held on tight so it wouldn’t just slide through her fingers, and pulled.

It came right out. Pepper tossed the wire aside and grabbed a wad of gauze out of the kit to press against the wound. “How’s that?” she asked.

“Way better,” said Stark weakly. “I don’t think I could have done that myself.”

“That’s my thing,” Pepper said, her voice shaking. “I do stuff nobody else is willing to do.”

“You sure do,” he agreed. “That’s a really great thing to be good at. Go ahead and brag about it, okay?”

Pepper of couldn’t wouldn’t do any such thing, but she nodded, giggling a little in relief.

“What the hell is going on here?” demanded a voice.

A light was suddenly in their faces. Pepper shrieked and grabbed Stark, as he hollered and grabbed her back. Both of them looked up, and then relaxed again as they realized it was just a museum security guard. He was a tall white man with a shaved head and a mustache, staring at them both in horror.

“Who are you two?” he asked.

Pepper couldn’t help it – she started giggling again. “We’re the kids from Triskelion High!” she managed in between bouts of laughter. “We were sorting the stuff in the basement, and they forgot about us and locked us in!”

“Why are you covered in blood?” the guard asked, aghast.

Pepper looked down – she’d now gotten blood from her hands all over Stark’s shirt where she’d grabbed him, and he’d smeared it on her arm. He was also now wiping his face, which got more blood on his cheeks and forehead, but whether because Pepper was setting him off or just because he was relieved, too, he was also laughing.

“I cut myself trying to take the door apart,” he said. “She helped me get unstuck.”

“Why didn’t you call 911?” the guard demanded.

Pepper blinked. That was a good question – why hadn’t they? They could have done that before they even started trying to open the door. They definitely could have done it when Stark first got his arm stuck. Pepper’s phone had been dead, but Stark’s had some time left on it. It just hadn’t occurred to either of them.

Stark laughed louder. “Yeah, why didn’t we do that?”

“I don’t know!” Pepper said. “So much for being geniuses!”

“We’re idiots!” he agreed.

💘 - 💝 - 💌 - 💝 - 💘

The security guard was not laughing. He dialed 911 himself, and summoned the janitorial staff to repair the door and clean the blood off it and the tiles. When the ambulance arrived – along with someone who had the front door key to let them out – the EMTs bundled Tony into the back for inspection. Since it was a chilly evening, they let Pepper sit inside with him while they slathered disinfectants on his arm.

“Are you put to date on your tetanus shots?” one woman asked him.

“Yes, absolutely,” said Tony. “I work with metal all the time, so I keep an eye on that.”

She nodded. “You said your parents are in Austria. Who is your emergency contact?”

“Mr. Jarvis, my Dad’s old butler. I’ll give you the number.”

The medic went to make the phone call, and Tony looked up at Pepper, sitting next to him. He smiled at her, and was gratified to see her smiling back. Apparently she… well, she obviously didn’t dislike him anymore. He’d take that.

“I have a confession to make,” he said.

“Oh, really?” Her thin ginger eyebrows roses.

“Well, you’re sitting there with my blood on your shirt, I figure you deserve the truth,” Tony said. “I don’t know anything about art. At least, I didn’t before last week. Mr. Coulson said he thought the reason you were upset was because you didn’t think I knew anything about it, and I decided to prove you wrong, so I did a bunch of research.”

“To impress me?” asked Pepper. “You didn’t even know me!”

“Well, as we established, I do kinda care what people think of me,” said Tony.

She shrugged. “If my Dad thought I couldn’t do anything right, I’d probably want everybody at school to think I’m a genius, too.”

“I bet everybody at school does think you’re a genius, if you work at everything as hard as you worked at sorting that garbage.”

“Then I’ve fooled them all,” she sighed.

Tony gave her another smile. “No fooling me,” he said, “you’re awesome. Maybe not as much of a genius as I am, but not every girl would get covered in blood to help you get your arm out of a door.”

Pepper shook her head. “Never ask me to do anything like that ever again, okay?” she said. “Next week, you tell me when it’s six o’clock!”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Tony.

A car horn honked outside, and the EMT peeked back in. “Miss Potts?” she said. “Your parents are here.”

“Tell them I’m coming!” Pepper stood up and grabbed her backpack. “See you next week, Stark.”

“Maybe sooner,” said Tony. “We both go to the same school, after all.”

“Yeah, we do,” she agreed. “Maybe sooner, then.”

He reached out and took her hand, and pulled her a bit closer for a kiss. She ducked out of it.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, pulling her arm free. “I know what you’re like with girls!”

“Do you?” Tony asked. “You don’t know me, remember? Give me a chance!”

“Pepper!” a voice called from outside.

“Please?” He pouted and showed her his best puppy dog expression... the one that always worked on Mrs. Jarvis.

She hesitated a moment, then smiled. “Maybe. See you on Monday, Tony,” and leaned back down. She only kissed his cheek, and then she was gone in a hurry, her cheeks flushed as she ran off to meet her parents at the car. Tony, however, was grinning as he watched her go. As evenings when he’d nearly stabbed himself went, that one hadn’t been too bad at all.

#pepperony #valentine's day exchange #tytythepilot

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pluto-fics · 4 years

Text

Inspiration is Motivation － Prologue

Fanfiction | Artist!Taehyung x SingleMom!Reader

Genres: Fluff, Romance, Humor, Smut

Rating: G (for this chapter)

Word Count: 2.385 words

Chapter Warnings: none

Your brows furrow at the earlier statement of your best friend, Hanna.

"Believe me, it'll help you to relax for a few hours and I'll take good care of Ty."

You have no doubt about the latter. Hanna might be that stereotype single woman who likes to go out for a couple drinks every so often, but she is a reliable caretaker and one ridiculously good cook. Based on this, she was an absolute blessing the last two times she watched over your son. However, you still feel a little uneasy about her suggestion.

"I don't know... Tyler is kind of stubborn and moody lately, how could I leave you both alone for nearly four full hours? Not to mention that I can paint at home if I want to, I don't need to go to some weird art course..." you try to defy yourself. The idea of entrusting Hanna with your five year old son for so long worries you. Just the thought of it causes a bad feeling to spread throughout your body. Hanna just rolls her eyes, however. "Listen. I already signed you up for that course this Saturday. It's supposed to start at eleven, won't go past three in the afternoon and you can calmly come back home to Tyler and me having a great time without setting your apartment on fire."

You can't fight down the amused giggle at her statement before you sigh. "Hanna, I really don't-..." you begin, only to be interrupted mid-sentence. "Yes, you do want to try it. I'll be here at 10 this Saturday and you can either go to that course or stay here with us and bathe in my judgment."

And here you are, two days later and sat on a chair in front of an empty canvas and an A3 sized sketchpad, surrounded by strangers who, just like you, are waiting for the course to begin.

You take this time to inspect the equipment provided to you. Brushes and pencils of rather good quality, however accompanied by a cheap, fizzy eraser. The watercolor paint seems decent enough. But the big bottles of acrylics and oils on the desk in the middle of the room, accessible for everyone in it, clearly are not top-notch quality. That of course does not mean it is bad per se, you just might have expected something fancier in the art department of the local Community College.

Your train of thoughts comes to an abrupt stop when you hear someone opening the big wooden door and entering the room, a deep but smooth voice wishing you and your fellow course participants a good morning. The slender figure who just stepped into the room makes your eyes grow wide the second you lay your eyes on him. He is tall, with model like features, facial as well as bodywise. His fashion sense clearly is a little extravagant, for he wears a way too oversized dress shirt with a pair of what almost seemed to be pajama pants of some sort, and a matching beige colored beret topping his head. The big round glasses topping his nose make you curious. Does he need them to see? Or were they simply added to this retro outfit because they fit the vibe?

"I'm glad you all made it here on time, unlike myself" he then speaks while rummaging in the bag he has just placed on top of the desk in the front of the room. You hear quiet giggles erupting from two slightly older women in the back. His lips curve into a handsome smile, not even needing to show the whites of his teeth to make you doubt the existence of a man with such impressive visuals. Yet, you feel kind of stupid for the way you swoon over his looks like a teenager, despite being a grown woman with a child waiting for her to return home.

The young man claps his hands together as if to catch everyone's attention, even though he already possesses the full concentration of everyone in this room. "Now, I'd like to start by introducing myself, if that's alright by you."

He swiftly turns to the chalkboard behind himself and writes down what you assume to be his name.

"My name is Kim Taehyung and I teach traditional art at the local University. But as you can tell, I'm also hosting art courses like this one once a week, while also working as a hobby freelance artist. So I guess you could say that art is my passion."

There it is again. That charming smile of his as he tends to the attentive group of people in front of him. "But enough of me, I think we're all here to improve our skills, so how about we start with some easy warm ups to get creative first?" You notice everyone responding by nodding or already flipping over the cover of the massive sketchpad in front of them to reveal a blank page. Imitating your 'classmates', you flip open your sketchpad and face Mr. Kim again.

He begins by instructing everyone to warm up their wrists by drawing circular shapes of several sizes and shading them to your heart's content to make yourself familiar with the medium you're using. Another hint of his is to try the different art materials provided to each one of the participants and see which one you'd preferably work with today.

A couple minutes later, you can tell Mr. Kim valued his participants' individuality. Only giving a rough theme for the artwork you are supposed to create, he left everything else to you. "Warm Autumn" was the theme he came up with and your mind immediately drifts off into what you would like to call your ‘creative mode’. Images of brown leaves, soft breezes of air and fluffy fabrics of knitwear come to your mind. Thus, you begin by settling on a color palette in warm brown, red and yellow tones and soon start by sketching an idea.

Mr. Kim does no longer talk to the whole course. Instead, he begins to slowly walk around the classroom and take a look at everyone's approaches on the topic. Usually, you'd get so engulfed in your works that you would blend out most of your surroundings. However, Mr. Kim's presence makes it hard for you to fully concentrate on the sketch before you like you usually would. You don't even need to look up to know where Mr. Kim currently stood at, while he gradually comes closer to where you are seated at.

The sound of his steps approaching you slowly sends shivers down your spine, just like the feeling of him standing right beside you, wordlessly examining your sketch. You can't keep from glancing up at his face as his gaze remains locked on the paper before you, an approving look surfacing on his face. He then glances at your face, his eyes meeting yours immediately as he leans down a bit to speak to you with a quieter, low voice. "Nice choice of motives. Do you have an idea for the final composition already?"

You feel your cheeks heating up as you mumble out a shy "Um, kind of", unsure of how to feel about the genuine interest Mr. Kim shows. It's been a while since someone other than your son Tyler had commented on one of your works. The young artist next to you smiles. "You're a fast one, huh? I like that. But let me know if you need anything, alright?" His voice is just as unique as his appearance. And the more you get to hear of it, the more you come to like the sound of it. Nodding your head with a smile, you thank him before he smiles back and moves on to the next participant of his course.

By the end of the course, you have created a piece you are rather proud of - the motives assembled in a harmonic way, adding to the calm and welcoming atmosphere of your painting. Throughout the creation process of it, Mr. Kim came around every once in a while to praise you for your ideas or help you improve parts of your piece in ways you wouldn't have been able to think of yourself. You have actually truly enjoyed today. At the end of the course, Mr. Kim gives his final speech in which he thanks everyone for participating and gives some last advice before sending everyone home with their final artworks. You had just put the materials you had used back to where you got them from, ready to pack your things to leave, when Mr. Kim approaches you with a gentle smile. "(Y/N), am I right?" He addresses you, your heart seemingly skipping a beat at the way your name sounds when spoken with his smooth voice. "Yes, that would be me" you say, turning to him with faked confidence. In reality, something about this Kim Taehyung makes you feel like a shy teenager again. He smiles apologetically as he asks "Do you perhaps have a minute or two to talk? If you're not in a hurry to be somewhere, that is."

To be honest, you want to apologize and leave right now. Tyler is waiting for you at home, after all. And so is Hanna. But your head nods on it’s own accord before your mind could stop it from doing so. What are a few minutes anyway, right?

"Great! Actually, I was curious to see how your piece turned out. To be honest, I didn't really get to look at it yet," he then says as he regards your artwork which is still on the easel at your seat. Examining it interestedly, he chuckles. "You're really talented, you know? This can't have been the first time you’ve painted something like this."

Your lips curve upwards in a bashful smile. "Ah, well actually... It's kind of my hobby. It's just that I haven't had much time to pursue it recently..." you answer. A soft humming noise resonates in his throat before he faces you again. "Are you interested in modern art too?" He suddenly asks, catching you a little off guard. "Modern art?" You repeat, to which he nods. "There's an art exhibition at the City Hall next friday. The main focus of it lays on contemporary artists and most works shown there are paintings and sculptures, rather than installations or anything like that. But I have a feeling that you might like it." You aren't sure where he was aiming at with this information, but you appreciate it. Mirroring his friendly smile, you say "It does sound interesting, yes. But I'm really busy lately, I'm not sure if I'll be able to go."

Mr. Kim seems understanding as he nods. "Well, if you do make it, maybe we'll meet there." He responds, making you nod slowly as you mumble a barely audible "That'd be nice." You want to ask him if there'd also be works of his exhibited there, remembering that he introduced himself as a freelance artist earlier, but the sound of your phone vibrating in your pocket interrupts you. "Ah, sorry" you then say, quickly looking at your phone to see messages of Hanna coming in. It’s nothing serious, just questions about whether Tyler still takes naps after lunch or not, since he apparently got a little energy boost after having eaten well. But it is urgent enough for you to decide that it is time to go home now. "I better get going now. Today was really nice, thank you. And thank you for telling me about the art exhibition, too. As you said, maybe we'll meet there." You speak as you collect your belongings and art piece, Mr. Kim nodding calmly and smiling as he wishes you a nice day before you leave.

On your way home, you keep thinking about today's events. About the fun you have had while painting for the first time in months and the useful help Mr. Kim had offered. The giddy feeling you got whenever he would lean in to talk to you quietly with that soothing deep voice of his. You have really had a great day, even if you still feel a little awkward for being so affected by the male's looks and kind words. But who could blame you, if said artist looks like a piece of art himself?

Arriving at home, the first thing you notice right after opening the front door is the welcoming scent of warm pancakes coming from your kitchen. Peeking past the doorframe, you smile at the sight of your best friend and son pouring dough into a frying pan together, your little son giggling in excitement.

"Hello you two" you greet the diligently working duo and laugh when your son immediately comes running to you to hug your legs and welcome you back excitedly. Crouching down to meet his eyes, you then give him a kiss on his cheek and smile at him. "Did you have a nice time with Hanna?" You ask, your smile widening when Tyler nods eagerly. "Yes! Hanna knows so many fun games for two! We played hide and seek too!” You give Hanna a glance, relieved to see her smiling just as happily as your little son. For some reason you’re always worried that he might be a little too challenging for her sometimes, but seeing her reaction to his happy storytelling, you have no doubt that she adores your son almost as much as you do.

Getting up to greet your friend properly with a short hug, you then look at the pile of pancakes on the kitchen counter. "Someone seems to be hungry, huh" you comment, Hanna rolling her eyes as she speaks, avoiding the topic. "How was the art course?"

You can feel Tyler leaning against your legs, silently requesting your attention. Picking him up to hold him close, you then begin to tell Hanna about the building, the people there, the fun you had when painting something from start to finish for the first time in ages, and in the end you thank her for having made this possible. Yet, a very specific detail you keep to yourself for now － Kim Taehyung.

Thank you for reading the Prologue to my new series “Inspiration is Motivation”!

If you can’t wait to read the next chapter, check out my Series Masterlist and follow @pluto-fics to be notified of new updates.

Stay safe and see you soon! 💜

- Pluto 🌑

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yespoetry · 5 years

Text

Teddy L. Friedline: Gender

REPRODUCTION.

My body has always been a smaller version of my mother’s. From the time I was a baby, my mother and I had the same face—I have my father’s mouth and chin, but he covers these with a mustache and goatee on his own face, obscuring our connections. As I grew older I grew more to resemble my mother—my hair grew in thick dark curls, my cheeks rounded and softened, my mouth nestled between parentheses. I learn to find pictures of my mother from her college days and watch my friends’ faces unfold into shock at our similarity. I accept my mother’s old clothes from when she was my age, tuck oversized button-downs into the back of my jeans, let leather Keds dig into my heels. Through divorce and displacement our bodies have changed shape, but mine remains a false duplicate of my mother’s that she created herself: compressed, pinched, worked like clay with water—before I was born she squeezed me between two clasped hands, fingers folded over fingers, pushing my matter into the center of her palms.

Gender Of The Poet, As Evaluated Through First & Second Derivative Tests

I. f(x) = gender, as I currently experience it

changes by the day discontent I do not call myself genderfluid

lest my scratching brain latch onto it and use it as a spiral

to throw me into what genders can I diagnose myself with

agender or neutrois? what is the difference between

the presence of neutrality and the absence of a presence? nonbinary

or genderqueer? blue-purple or green-orange? I need a list

fully calculated of every gender I will experience I need to be ready

like how the eggs in my ovaries count themselves off each time

my uterus sheds its cicada-skin lining but no let’s stop

remember what I have learned gender is an experience comfort

with a label is more important than its accuracy threatening to run away

won’t make your parents call you the right name I have found

an identity I can sit with I have found a name

I can feel with I have found pronouns that don’t feel wrong

I can rest now

II. f’(x) = gender, as I have expressed it

Critical values:

x = cicada

x = fabrication

x = parent

III. Maximum: cicada

I have constructed a version of myself for motherhood sometimes

she is a cicada she begets begets she is a mythology

of veiny thin wings and of children who all look different who all look exactly

like her propagation mourner the connection between Mother Bug

and myself is our shared cradle-womb the place I am a woman ends at

the place I can construct within me I cannot force myself to hate

IV. Minimum: fabrication

Some days I compress myself arrange flesh beneath nylon

pulled tight I hide behind loose jeanfronts at thirteen I made a penis for myself

from balled-up socks washed shame off them in the laundry I trap

curls beneath a baseball cap that’s a penis if I want it to be

I can pee standing up if I curl the brim stop the cicada-skin falling

if I fold the hat part and tuck it within me my manhood

is a construction canvas and thread held in my pants

I anticipate the moment it will fall out of my Jockeys

V. Neither: parent

when I tell my father I understand how hard this is for him I’m lying

he hides the way we look alike behind facial hair I think that must be what

he means when he says he doesn’t see any guy in me he’s been buying

me clothes from the men’s sections for years he thought it would make

me love him more he bought me almost anything those years

I spent my time climbing in and out of the gender pool wading in

before scraping my stomach trying to climb out maybe I have done

such an effective job concealing my own ungender around him washing

the pride makeup off on the metro home leaving trans emotions at the door

not because he won’t approve he won’t see them right

the way they turn in the light is different his sit in his lap

next to the tub of pimento cheese

VI. f”(x) = gender, as I have moved through it

Critical values:

x = in relation

x = Robin Hood (1973)

VII. Point of inflection [concave up to concave down]: in relation

really we never talked about this the place we met was pronouns

if they preferred a label, they used genderqueer I call myself nonbinary

tank tops masturbation trans bodies corsets binders

we never talked about how did they see themselves in relation to me how

is it different from how I saw myself in relation to them and I don’t mean

me on top of them their hair pulled back my Fisher-Price: My First

Lingerie the relation of above to below within to without my presence

to their transposed presence I mean how did we see each other?

did it differ from how we see ourselves? when they hold theirs up to the window

what pattern does it make on the floor? do

I touch it when I hold up mine? still?

VIII. Point of inflection [concave down to concave up]: Robin Hood (1973)

I hate to admit it my father’s question got me thinking I have scoured

my childhood I cannot find a piece of evidence to show him

say I always loved boy’s toys I was dysphoric and I didn’t have a name for it

I didn’t know I was different for that I knew I was different because kids

called me a devil worshipper not gay not a tranny I have this though

a fascination with soft-drawn foxes the sound of Phil Harris’s

voice the roll of the r’s KING Rrrrichard? not wanting to be

Maid Marian but Robin his teasaucer eyes

ooh de lally, ooh de lally, golly, what a day!

Teddy L. Friedline is a Maryland-based queer writer. They previously served as assistant poetry editor for Crashtest (crashtestmag.com). They are the recipient of various regional awards from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. If you're reading this, they're probably thinking about cicadas. They currently attend Washington College. You can find them on Instagram and on Twitter, both @jadeitebtrdish.

#Teddy L. Friedline #poetry #special feature

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lovelyirony · 6 years

Text

Bodyguards Aren’t That Bad

Dr. Bruce Banner never thought that he’d actually have a bodyguard. But ever since his last…episode, SHIELD hadn’t given him a wide berth. Oh no, they’d sent in one of their most “capable” agents, Black Widow. Or, as she preferred to be called, Agent Romanoff. When they were in public, Natasha. Bruce Banner, like always, just sort of has to roll with it. Everyone who knows him is on the hunt for him, so Bruce moves from place to place quickly. The longest he ever stayed anywhere was in Oregon for six months, and that was only because the only town that could report sightings of him was six miles away. Then, of course, Ross just happened to find him. Now, however, SHIELD has offered protection from Ross, which basically means they call the shots and claimed dibs. Bruce would rather be controlled by an organization with a history of dealing with masterminds and criminals than Ross, who was very rude and mean, as well as one of the worst men Bruce had ever known in the history of living.

He can tell that Agent Romanoff is scared of him. “You know, I don’t bite,” he says one day. She remains silent and cleans her guns. She makes a show of how much damage she can do. Bruce knows he can do so much worse, and she knows that too. It doesn’t stop her from putting on a show. He does things without meaning to. Kills people, and he has no memory of it. It is sufficient to say that he finds it irritating. He and Agent Romanoff start off in Bangladesh. He speaks some, and so does Agent Romanoff. Bruce mainly focuses on helping little children learn their own alphabet, dress wounds, and he takes care of the sick and dying.

“You’re fucking Mother Teresa,” she curses in Hindi.

He replies back fluently, “I don’t fuck older women, Natasha.” He earns his first sort-of smile from the assassin. Which is something big, he likes to think. She hadn’t smiled at him until now.

Natasha likes to watch shitty TV shows, plus X-Files. Bruce kind of has a thing for Scully and a thing for Mulder’s weird as hell theories, so he watches it with her. Natasha makes comments under her breath about Mulder or Scully, and they eventually work up to making sassy commentary out loud. It’s easy, and Bruce finds that he actually enjoys Natasha’s company. But he thinks that she realizes it too, so she goes back to being cold and stony. Bruce is fine with it, because he knows that he isn’t the kind of person people should get along with. Not when he can destroy lives in a millisecond, not when there’s a monstrous personality behind a seemingly calm exterior. Betty has already made her peace with him, and she’s moved on. He can’t say that it doesn’t hurt; he was a pinch away from going into sad-Hulk stage, but barely managed to keep him contained.

Bruce nearly Hulks out in a crowded London. All because of Ross being on his ass and shooting down stores. A kid gets shot in the leg, bright crimson gushing out like paint onto a sidewalk canvas. Bruce can’t stand it, can’t stand the screaming and the mother rushing to help only to get injured again. His skin is tinging green, he’s growing. Nat—Agent Romanoff—grips him by the shoulders, fear bleeding through the cracks in her eyes. “Bruce,” she whispers softly, as if she cares. He can’t help but believe, for a moment, that the spy does. “You can’t hurt all these people around you. Let SHIELD take care of it.” He doesn’t want to let SHIELD take care of it. I can take care of stupid Ross, I can smash him to bits! But he manages to calm down. Manages to force back tears and leave with her.

General Ross gets a standing ovation for trying to contain a threat. After all, civilian casualties happen, don’t they? Natasha silently flips back on an episode where Scully kicks ass (which means Bruce doesn’t know which episode, because she kicks ass in every episode) and makes a wry comment about the really bad special effects. He cracks a broken joke about Mulder and computers. Bruce thinks Natasha understands him a little more.

SHIELD wants him on a mission with Agent Romanoff to get information on something dealing with old KGB lines being in action. Bruce doesn’t really understand. He only understands that he needs a suit and Natasha needs a dress, so they go to a store. A special store that technically isn’t a store but an old SHIELD storage space. Bruce finds a suit that fits him well, a charcoal gray suit with a nice shirt and tie. Natasha goes for a Gatsby feel, and Bruce can’t deny she looks gorgeous. Of course, she has to know this, but Bruce compliments her anyway.

“You look ready to stab someone,” he blurts out, seeing her put a knife up her dress. (He can’t deny seeing a woman as dangerous as her does something to him.) She smirks, slipping earrings that probably have poison in the jewels or something similar into her ears.

“That’s the point, Bruce.” It’s the first time she’s actually called him by his first name. “Your name is Lukas, my name is Ella. Just stick with that. Also, we’re looking to buy area around here.” Bruce nods, settling on some vintage cufflinks that he feels add to the Gatsby theme they have going on here. Well, that Natasha has going on. Bruce just feels like an awkward date that is only here because she needs a date. He hasn’t gone to any dance since his first homecoming, and that had been a complete disaster. (Two words: Brace. Face.)

The party is extravagant. Bruce can practically feel himself stuffing a twenty dollar bill down his throat as he sips on golden champagne. He knows he shouldn’t, but Natasha says only one glass. It helps sell the part. Lukas and Ella are a couple. She always stays close, smiling at other men. He nods at other women who give him coy glances, disappointed when they see Nat—Ella on his arm. She’s the most beautiful woman out there, and everyone knows it.

Bruce finds Natasha to be most beautiful when her scarlet lips give way to a deadly smirk as she throws her knife with excellent precision. Bruce doesn’t really know what to do, so he sits at the bar and sips on some water. A few frozen, horrified people stand her, watching this woman fight. “And it’s all in five inch heels,” Bruce says casually. “Can you believe my fiancée?” It’s casual enough to make people just stare at him. Bruce shrugs, and Natasha flashes him a wink and says “aw, thanks honey!” Bruce nearly laughs, but instead smiles while drinking his water. Natasha Romanoff is one cool lady.

Bruce finds they play the part of suburban-deadly-couple quite nicely. Once Natasha is done, they drive home to the apartment that SHIELD has them at. Natasha changes out of the gown into an oversized shirt that advertises an eating competition that Barton probably participated in, and some old shorts. Bruce gets out of his tux and into lounge pants and a t-shirt that he’d stolen picked up from an archaeology museum somewhere in South Dakota. Natasha just stares at him for a moment, then grabs the car keys.

“We’re gonna get food in our pajamas.” Bruce just rolls with it; despite the embarrassment that will be received, he decides to go along with it; it’s not like Natasha is going to be complacent with his decision. Besides, he thinks he deserves a little fast food, and she knows that he doesn’t eat meat anyway.

They go to a gas station and Natasha gets two hotdogs, both for her. One is loaded with mustard, relish, ketchup, and onions. The other has nothing on it. She eats the plain one first. Bruce is content with his slushie, which consists of strawberry and white cherry. They sit in the car, windows up and low music playing. “What do you watch for fun?” Natasha asks first, chomping down the last bit of her plain dog. “Like, on TV.”

“I don’t really watch anything besides X-Files,” Bruce says. “Don’t really have time on the run.”

“Aw bullshit,” Natasha cracks, face still solemn as a mausoleum. “When Barton and I were in Budapest, he managed to fit season two of Dog Cops into his schedule. There has to be something you like.” Bruce shrugs, thinking.

“If it’s on, Creature from the Black Lagoon. An old classic.” Natasha snorts, rolling her eyes.

“That is the shittiest movie on the planet except for—”

“Plan 9 from Outer Space.” They both say it at the same time, and then Bruce looks at her calmly. “Well, this settles it. We have to see it now.” Which means they have to find a DVD of it. This also means that Natasha calls in about six favors to get it delivered in less than two hours.

They’re practically dying within the first ten minutes because holy hell, the movie is just terrible. After that, Bruce and Natasha become better friends. He learns that she likes preparing food when she has time, and he likes going to museums. She teases him about it, and he teases her about it. Says with all her knife-throwing skills, she could either work in the circus or go on TV and be the next Julia Child. Natasha says she could be way better than some chef who enjoys French cooking. “The French aren’t even that good at cooking,” Natasha says with a sniff. “They just have deceptively small portions.”

It can’t last forever, they both know that. The Avengers Initiative comes up, and they have to pretend like they don’t know each other. She’s cold, distant again. Natasha has realized that being friends is dangerous. So does Bruce. Besides, why would someone like her want to be friends with someone like him? Bruce was antisocial, watched old movies, and decided ultimately that cardigans were way better than suit jackets. There was also the fact that he turns into a giant monster who can kill a person in less than five minutes.

The only good thing that comes out of it is the fact that Tony Stark actually treats him like a human being outright, and not like a porcelain gun. Aka, dangerously fragile. He pretends like he and Natasha have never talked about shitty movies. He even calls her Agent Romanoff and she calls him Dr. Banner. Not Dr. B, not Bruce, and definitely not Bannerino. (There was Tequila Night. They’d always have Tequila Night.) Tony distracts him with Science and a pep talk about the Other Guy. Because apparently, Hulk is The Shit. Hulk likes hearing that, and then pronounces Tony “New Best Friend for Life.”

Of course then Loki attacks and Bruce shifts. He looks at Natasha with so much hurt, because dear God, he promised he wouldn’t. Not to her. But here Hulk is anyway, ready to fuck up his entire life. As usual. Hulk goes on a rampage somewhere random. Bruce doesn’t have the energy to try and see where Hulk wants to go. He just sort of lets him. It confuses Hulk, the way Bruce just completely lets go of control. So he crashes through a building and waits. Waits for Dr. Banner to come to and realize what to do, because Hulk sure as hell didn’t know what was going on. He wanted to find Red Hair, who wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Bruce gets on an old jumpsuit and jumps on a motorcycle to go fight crime. It all sounds like it’s from a cheesy B-flick. Bruce sort of gives a laugh at that. He stares at Natasha, who manages to look beautiful even in the heat of a battle. (It is at this precise moment that Bruce realizes he may or may not like Natasha and it’s not just because her hair always smells like cinnamon and she laughs at honestly, seriously shitty science puns, or when the sunlight hits her hair and she could make an eating competition shirt look good.) They exchange words, and Bruce accepts the fact that Hulk is going to do some serious damage. So he lets him come. “Do your worst,” he mutters, watching emerald green shift. He doesn’t look back at Natasha. Too sentimental for a girl like her.

After the initial first battle, Natasha acts like she’s never known anything about him. Acts like she hasn’t seen the scars that mar his back and stomach, and she definitely acts like he never told her anything personal. He supposes that that’s just going to be how it is with her.

So he tries to forget that he may or may not be in love with her and focus on Science, because Science makes literally anything better. He collects tea samples and goes exploring all over the city with Steve and introduces new cultures to Thor. He and Clint have some of the same humor, and he can always surprise Tony as much as Tony surprises him. Bruce is nice, civil to Natasha. She avoids him.

When Hydra rose up in SHIELD’s ranks, (what the fuck? Seriously?) Bruce knows well enough to lay low. Can’t have the Hulk get bullets bouncing off his skin, even if they tell him Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers went rogue. Bruce, for one, knows that is a bald-faced lie. But he lays low, but he still texts Natasha. Hope you are safe. Don’t die. He doesn’t expect her to see it, doesn’t expect her to do anything with it. They aren’t exactly friends anymore, he thinks. But then again, it’s Natasha. One of the greatest things about the spy is that you never know what she’ll do. What she’ll act like. It’s also one of the worst things about her. She can stay one night, smile up at you, and call you a cheesy dork who has hair like curly fries, and the next morning she’s gone for a week and acts as if you shouldn’t be worried.

She calls him, and it’s silent. No gunfire. “What do you want to talk about?” Bruce asks calmly, and he hates himself a little more, that he can just forgive her like that. Love, stupid. He hushes that side up. There’s not a need for that thought to come out when no one could love such a colossal fuck-up.

“Don’t go anywhere. Don’t do anything. Just stay safe in Stark Tower, alright Bruce?” Her voice is blank, emotionless. She hangs up before Bruce can answer. He sighs at her stupidity, knowing that she knows more than he does. So he stays in the lab, arming himself with the knowledge that there’s not much Hydra can do to him. Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey eventually come down to the lab and say that they need to get to a safe house, because there’s a storm coming that could result in death. Bruce nearly laughs, because they’ve been over it. The Other Guy spit it out. He’s itching to help Natasha, even if it is just to talk. He knows she probably has it handled, what with Steve and a new guy taking Hydra down. So he waits. Because maybe she’ll come back. She has shown that she cares.

Three helicarriers fall to the ocean or on buildings. It brought Hydra down, and the people probably don’t even know that. Bruce walks right out, not even caring if Ross is there for political reasons. He needs to make sure Natasha is alright. He saw the footage of the Winter Soldier. His arm is…breathtaking. Even if he doesn’t work in engineering like Tony does, he knows that hasn’t been a possibility for a prosthetic. It acts almost like a real arm, except for the part where it can rip car doors off like they’re pieces of paper. Tony has already gotten footage and is trying to figure out how it works.

Natasha is in a medical wing, getting medical care. Most agents don’t even bat an eye as he walks in. He’s still wearing a lab coat and glasses, and they just assume he’s medical help. Bruce thinks Natasha still looks beautiful. Her eyes are wide with disbelief at the situation, and she’s trying to process the information. “Natasha,” he whispers, and her head snaps up. She looks at him with…relief. “You’re safe,” he says, swallowing what appears to be a sob.

“So are you,” Natasha says, not a hint of relief in her voice. But Bruce knows it’s there. “I get to receive new covers. What do you think of Dana Anderson? Or Gillian Scully?”

“Both, both is good,” Bruce says dryly. Natasha gives him a small smile. “Finally got around to watching Road to El Dorado. It didn’t disappoint, Natasha.” For now, Bruce won’t mention the attacks, the accusations, or the fact that she dumped every piece of information out on the internet for everyone to see. Tony’s cleaning up as much as he can, but there’s a load of information that will always be in the public spot. Mainly, Tony is focusing on personal details of his friends, Agent Hill, and Agent Coulson. Interestingly enough, there are little details on Fury besides something you could find with a basic hack. It feels bitter.

They talk for a while, and both deliberately avoid talking about the recent events. Until Natasha gets to staring at something that looks like it’s a thousand yards away. So Bruce carefully starts talking about a scientific advancement, waiting for Natasha to get out of her stare. She slowly stares back at him, more emotion in her eyes than he thought possible. “Bruce?” She sounds so…broken. She sounds like him. He looks at her, smiling sadly. “I…I knew him. Winter Soldier.” She sobs as he takes her, holding her. Bruce doesn’t say anything as she tells him about her first love. How she might still love him, even though he tried to kill her. Bruce doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even think about how he loves her more than anyone else in the world. He just holds her.

Of course, Natasha builds back up her emotional wall, tears being dried up and her face becoming solemn. “Thank you, Bruce.” He smiles, and he doesn’t know what she’s thinking of right now, but he has the feeling that she needs to be alone. No one to coddle her, tell her what emotions are right and wrong to feel.

“Call me if you need anything like food or shelter, alright Tasha?” He doesn’t mean to call her that stupid nickname that he thinks about. He thinks Tasha fits her, but maybe she doesn’t like nicknames.

Her eyes spark like electricity at the nickname. “Alright Bruce. Thanks.” At least he knows the nickname is accepted. So he doesn’t have to worry about being killed by Black Widow tonight. Or being killed by Natasha.

They text often. Natasha sends him funny pictures of cats and dogs, and he sends back truly terrible puns. They talk about his work, some of her work. She calls him with emotions catching her throat and just talks. About how Steve keeps searching for Winter Soldier, who is Bucky Barnes, un-fucking-believable, and the new guy, Sam Wilson. Bruce gets the feeling he’s not supposed to hear this, but he still listens. He doesn’t ask her to justify her thoughts, he doesn’t ask her if it’s classified. He lets her talk. Bruce and Natasha go out sometimes, on walks. He drives to a secluded forest, and they hike. She brings granola bars that have dark chocolate and raspberries in them, and Bruce brings tea and water. Sometimes, they sit at the bank of a little river on the rocks, just talking about life. Bruce tells her all about Betty, how he thought that he loved her because she accepted the Hulk as an aspect of Bruce, not the whole story. How Ross is a piece of shit. Natasha sometimes reveals times in her life when things weren’t fucked up all the way. How she used to buy little penny flowers as a child, how her mother used to sing to her and Natasha would dance like a ballerina.

Eventually, they sort of have a thing. Natasha and Bruce always act like they’re in those shitty B-flick cop movies. “My friend left me,” Natasha says, using a chopstick as a long cigarette, puffing out imaginary smoke. “Not sure where his head is at, he’s so down about himself.” Bruce is in a shitty mood about himself.

“Well that sounds terrible,” he says dryly, using a beaker of hydrochloric acid as a flute of champagne that he doesn’t drink. “What would you do to cheer him up?” She grins victoriously, holding up her phone.

“Lots of mozzarella sticks.”

They eat at an Applebee’s. There are sports games going on, and Bruce doesn’t really understand a lot of sports, but he likes looking at men and women yell at the TV. Natasha does too. She sips on her wine, and Bruce gets some sort of fruity tea. It tastes alright. They flirt the night away, Natasha going for more daring lines. Bruce just looks at her. And realizes that he’s fallen hard, and he’s still falling. There will always be cold concrete at the bottom, but for now, Bruce will continue to fall.

When Tony has his party and they’re all laughing, and Natasha and Bruce still flirt. Steve tells Bruce not to waste his time, go after the girl. Bruce wants to laugh in his face and say that he’s already done that. It’s not the worst thing you can do in life. But God, it can be.

Ultron probably caused all of this. Seriously, it sucks. Ultron was Tony’s original brainchild for scientific development and protection of the whole world. Tony won’t tell Bruce what he saw, only Bruce thinks it was something that had to do with space. Because he comes out at the party, all strings and power. Bruce can safely say he has almost never seen anything more bone chilling. And, of course, Bruce helped create some of it.

This means Bruce’s self-esteem (what self-esteem?) goes down by a lot of points, which Bruce didn’t even know it could do because by now it’s all negative, and Natasha won’t look at him either, suffering a dream of her own. (It could be a memory.) Their team is broken. Bruce is huddled with a blanket and they need to go somewhere. Barton is flying the jet, the only one unaffected by whatever shitstorm the weird girl decided to pull. He’s the only one. Thor keeps muttering phrases, obviously coming to terms with his dream. Tony just stares at his hands, then looks brokenly at Steve. Natasha is tight-lipped about her situation, but she’s battle-ready.

It’s a house. Out in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest. It’s a well-maintained house, yet worn. It’s all alone, a pile of chopped firewood set neatly to the side. Clint’s shoulders drop, and so do Natasha’s. So, they know what this is.

Clint has children and a wife. Bruce is somewhat bitter over this fact, that a former mercenary and assassin has children and a wife, plus a dog. Named Lucky. Natasha colors with the kids, teasing them as they call her “Auntie Nat.” Cooper Barton is all smarts, Clint joking that he got none of it from his old man. Bruce smiles as Cooper asks upfront about Hulk’s pants. Bruce says that Tony invented a polymer, and then carefully directs Cooper more towards Tony. Bruce should not be the one handling children. He’s bad with social interaction and kids; most are afraid of him. Cooper, Lila, and Clint’s wife all look at Bruce as if he’s just a person. Only Tony does that, and sometimes Natasha if she’s just hanging out with Bruce as they go to Target and make fun of children’s toys and off-brand food.

He and Natasha have a talk. She looks so domestic in the bathrobe. She wanted to join him in the shower. He can’t give her children. She can’t bear them. Both don’t mind. He falls asleep to the scent of lilac shampoo and the sound of soft breathing. It’s nothing he’s ever had. Not even in the beginning of his life. It’s nice, too nice for Bruce to have. Monsters don’t get nice things or nice people. They get to go through hell and beaten up by the bad guys. But maybe…just maybe.

She says that she adores him. Then pushes him into a pit. Which basically sums up his love life. But he hears her whisper. “I need the Other Guy.” So Bruce will be there, and so will Hulk. Ready to do whatever it takes to help save the day again. Bruce just lets Hulk take the reins for once. Right now, he’s miffed at Natasha for dismissing him so quickly. Kissing the living daylights out of him, making him feel like he could rule the world, and then triggering the Hulk to appear. But it’s Natasha. So he will do her will. Because she’s his teammate. And he’s hopelessly in love with her, but still.

He ends up somewhere with Thor. Bruce wants to sob, because he knew it. He fucking knew it. Monsters don’t get love. They get anguish and rage and pain.

#yeah it's brucenat #but it's an au so i made it better #lovelyirony writes #bruce banner #natasha romanoff #haha fun :))))#i wrote this when i was feeling shitty af so oops #projecting my feelings onto dr. b as per usual!!!!!#haha shit

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