#i wanna kiss him myself | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

plush-rabbit · 1 year

Text

Next Time

Part 4 to A Bad Date and A Late Night Drive

Word Count: 7.5K

A/N: It's a night out for them!!

Despite Johnathan claiming that it was no trouble to him to pick you up from your apartment, you declined the offer. You needed a moment- several if you were being honest- to compose yourself before your date.

If it can even be called that.

You aren’t entirely sure if that’s what it is. You want it to be, but you also don’t want to get ahead of yourself and expect something.

For now, you get yourself ready, donning the best of your attire and making sure your shoes have no scuff marks on them. You grab at a bag, making sure your keys, wallet, and anything else you consider important is thrown inside. While he mentioned that he would pay, you still need to pay a ride fee and you weren’t going to feel entirely comfortable without at least offering to pay half.

Spritzing yourself in perfume and letting it float in the air, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. You smooth out any wrinkles and clear your throat. There’s a nervous bubbling in your stomach, and acid creeps in your throat, and you worry about whether he’ll think you’ll look nice.

You hope he tells you that you look nice.

Your phone buzzes against your desk, a loud noise that makes your bones rattle and nerves worsen. You reach for it, half-hoping that the date was canceled, and the other half, hoping that he’s near the restaurant.

It’s the latter.

Your grin stretches, and you tap your heels against the floor, energy burning in you. The phone buzzes again and you check it eagerly, your spirit dampened slightly when it’s the ride share application letting you know that your driver is already here. Gasping, you look into your purse, doing one quick lookover. Your hands slam against the wall, turning off the light switches as you rush out of your home, racing down and wrinkling your outfit all over again.

The window of a car lowers and you ask the driver for their name, and with a smile, you nod to yourself, slipping into the backseat. It doesn’t take long until a conversation is formed about the status of whether this is a date or not.

“It sounds like a date,” they tell you, their jewelry shining under the passing streetlights.

“Well he didn’t call it that,” you add, playing with the zipper on your bag.

“He invited you out to dinner and if offering to pay,” their smile is heard through their words. “It kind of hits most of the bases for a date.” Their eyes flicker against the rearview mirror, and you smile nervously. “Is this your first time out with him?”

You open your bag and pull out your wallet. “I went on a tour at his work once- he uh, works in a lab-” you hurriedly explain, not wanting to be labeled as a stalker by a stranger- “and afterwards he gave me a lift to a coffee shop and we went for dinner after.” The driver hums and makes a turn. “And before he asked me on-” you meet their gaze in the mirror and you clear your throat- “you know, I had a bad date and he picked me up and took me to a drive-in.” Your finger traces along the spine of the wallet.

“So it’s your third date with him,” they say with certainty.

“No, no,” you laugh awkwardly. “I don’t think it is. I mean, I would like for it to be, but I don’t- I don’t know. What if I think it is and I treat it like it is a date, but it isn’t one for him, you know? I think I’d never speak to him again.”

“You like him.”

While why state it like a fact, you still answer. “Yes,” you sigh. “I tried not to- hence the date that I went on- but, it didn’t do anything. I think it only furthered my attraction to him. “He’s nerdy and cute. And when he talks about his work, there’s like this energy in him.”

“How tall is he?”

You don’t hold back your smile. “Tall. Like real tall.”

They nod to themselves. “And you can’t ask if it’s a date?”

You shake your head. “I know I should, but what if I am misreading everything and he just wants a friend. What if I’m supposed to be that friend and I just make it uncomfortable.”

“Do you want there to be miscommunication between the two of you?” You shake your head, and voice your answer when you remember that their attention is directed to the road. “Then ask the man.”

“I need a way to ask that isn’t so… obvious. I can’t just outright ask if it's a date or not.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I know,” you whine, “but I don’t wanna. I can’t handle rejection, you know.” You tap your wallet against your knee.

“Okay, well you have about five minutes before we arrive, so start brainstorming.” You peek over and see the icon of the car approaching closer to the destination.

“Right,” you breathe out. Clearing your throat, you nod to yourself. “So, Johnathan-”

They make a wrong buzzing sound that bounces in the confines of the car. “Too nervous and stiff. Relax, you know the guy.”

You roll your eyes. “Johnathan!”

“Too eager.” They throw a hand in the air. “You’re being difficult on purpose. And time is running out.” You put your wallet back into the bag.

“Hey Johnathan, I was hoping I could ask you something.” You pause and when no critics are said, you continue. “I just wanted to-” you elongate the vowel, shifting your eyes around- “I wanted to make sure that we’re on the same level. Are we, you know, on a date?” You stop and there’s no words offered. “I feel like that’s still too forward.”

“It’s the best you’re going to get.” The car slows and you see the restaurant outside, and you see Johnathan standing outside in a striped blazer, and he plays with his hands, searching around the establishment. “We’re here.”

You nod. “I think he likes me,” you say out loud.

“I think so too,” the driver replies.

“Payment,” you mumble. “I gotta pay you.” You pull open your app and add a generous tip. You grab at the door handle and turn to the driver. “Thanks for hearing me out,” you tell them.

“It’s part of the job,” they say nonchalantly. “Have fun on your date.”

Your mouth is dry, and you can’t stop looking at Johnathan. You nod eagerly, whispering out a breathless word of agreement, before stepping outside.

Jonathan spots you almost immediately, his hand going up in a wave and you smile, chest swelling with delight. You rush over, holding tightly onto the strap of your bag. You stand in front of him, and he smiles down at you, hands fisting as they fall to his side.

“Hi Johnathan,” you smile.

“Hello,” he says your name so sweetly, and you can only tighten your hands around the strap of your bag. It feels like you’re some lovesick teenager again.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for long.” You kick at the ground, and take a look towards the street. “New York and its traffic,” you joke.

“Oh no, I wasn’t waiting for very long.” He shakes his head. His eyes dance down your view, and when he meets your gaze again, he has this soft look in his eyes. “You look very nice.”

“You think so?” You ask, your heart fluttering inside of your chest. He hums in response, nodding his head. “Thanks! I’m um, I’m glad that you think so. You look nice too. I like your blazer. It suits you.” Your hand reaches forward, grabbing at the lapel and smoothing it out. Your fingers pinch over a piece of white fuzz. It snows down on the ground and is lost on the concrete, and when you look up at him, his hand clasps around your wrist. “Ah, sorry,” you mumble. “It- I thought it would’ve-”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, saving you from a poor excuse. “I didn’t mind.” His hand lets go of your wrists, and it falls back to his side, and with it, he takes a step back. “We should go in. Our reservation was for seven o’clock and it’s-” he lifts his wrist to look at his watch- “seven past five. I uh- I don’t want you to eat somewhere else when you look so nice.”

“Lead the way,” you tell him, stepping away from him.

He holds the door open for you, and he hollows you in, walking forward where the host makes eye contact with him and then you. Their smile is practiced and wide as they greet you. You smile in return and take your place beside Johnathan.

“I have a reservation under Ohnn. Johnathan Ohnn,” he says with a steady voice. You wonder if he practiced the line before arriving.

You’re too distracted by the atmosphere of the restaurant to hold any attention to the conversation happening near you. The lights are warm, a soft yellow, candles are lit at the tables. You can hear snippets of conversations, but it all turns muddled, mixed into noise that you can’t bother to decipher. When he starts to walk, you take hold of his hand, and he returns the gesture, leading you along. Glass clinks together in a sound that is backed by the sound of metal against porcelain, a soft tune that is muted under the noise of people and their joy.

The two are you are sat at a table with a view to the outside. You can see the faint press of fingertips along the glass. Utensils are placed down at the table and menus are given, and you hold it in your hand, skimming over the bolded fonts and your eyes settle on the prices of the meals and appetizers. The candle on the tables fillers, the white wax a milky puddle that stains the glass.

You sit at your table, letting your bag strap across your chair, and pull the menu open. If you were to be honest with him, you had already taken a peek of what was served here in an effort to prepare yourself and not be caught off guard. However, you were not prepared for the cocktail section that was adorned with pictures of what the drinks would look like.

Trying to stifle a gasp, your feet tap against the floor. “Would you think less of me if I wanted to order drinks based on the glass that they come in?” You take a glance over the menu to find him smiling.

He laughs. “Of course not. I had no idea you were one for presentations.”

You shrug. “Not necessarily. But when it comes in glasses as cute as these, I can’t help but be tempted, you know? Oh! Like look-” you turn your menu over to him- “this one is shaped like a little bird! And it has little flowers as its tail! And- And, look there’s a little bathtub with a duck! Oh Johnathan-” you turn the menu back to yourself- “they’re so cute.”

“Feel free to get what you’d like.” You look back down at the menu, and worry at your lip. “Don’t worry about the price tag, I invited you after all.”

Swallowing nervously, you look at the other page of the menu. “I can always pay for my half,” you offer. “I don’t want to take advantage or anything.”

“Really, it’s fine.” He fixes at the sleeve of his blazer, but when he lets go, it falls back into place. You’re here and I was the one to invite you and I’m fine- more than fine with paying for both of our meals. And drinks,” he quickly adds.

Your tongue peeks out to wet your lips. “What are you planning on getting?”

“I was thinking of getting- Oh, I see the waiter!” He says in a startled voice. “Do you know what you want? We can still have some more time, I just-”

“I know what I want, Johnathan,” you reassure, giving a quick scan at the menu and nodding to yourself. “I think I will get the drink.”

“Good. You should. I want you to enjoy your time here.”

“With you?”

He nods. “With me.” The flame flickers, and you hope that you get to see more of him.

As he said, the waiter stops at your table. “Hi everyone! I’ll be your waiter for tonight. So what can I get you started with?” Their tone is cheery and you nod towards Johnathan’s direction, allowing him to go first. With a roll of his eyes directed towards you, he tells the waiter what he’d like to drink. “And for you?” The attention is now towards you, and you nervously tell the waiter what drink you’d like, pointing at the picture where the decorative glass has only enticed you further. “Great choice, that’s my favorite,” they tell you with a smile. Feeling validated at the words, you nod, holding the menu together. “And are you all ready to order or do you need a few more minutes?” Johnathan nods at your direction and you stick your tongue out at him.

“We’re ready,” you tell the waiter, pointing at your order as you tell them what you would like. You nod towards the other end of the small table and Johnathan adjusts his glasses before saying his own order.

“Great!” The waiter writes down the order and clicks the pen. “I’ll go put these in for you and I’ll be right back.”

Left alone with Jonathan and a flickering flame, you tap at the table. “So,” you wince at the fiddly tone, “how did you hear about this place?”

“One of my coworkers said that they brought their husband here. They mentioned how nice the food was.” You perk up at the word “husband” with nerves coursing through your body and running a chill up your spine.

Maybe it is a date, you think to yourself.

“I thought that it would be nice to eat here and I-” he clears his throat and toys with the edge of the napkin that covers the utensils- “I thought that you might also enjoy it here.”

“Thanks for thinking of me,” you say, grabbing your own covered utensils and tracing along the bottom edge of the handle to one of the utensils. “Do you usually eat out at these fancy places?” You try to resist the urge to scratch at your neck.

“No, not usually. I’m a much more reserved type of individual. I only really go to these types of places because of my coworkers or those company dinners.”

“I didn’t know that Alechmax had company dinners.”

“They’re not uncommon,” he explains. Pulling away at the paper that holds the cloth napkin together. “I don’t really like to go, but there’s free food.” He ends the sentence with a shrug.

“I don’t really get company dinners. Some of us go out for drinks, but I think I’d prefer a meal.”

Pulling at the end of his hair, he opens his mouth, only to get cut off by the waiter returning. They move the platter, and set the drinks down first. You pull the drink near the edge, leaving room for the plate. “There you go,” they say, their gaze focused on the food that sits on the platter. “For you, sir,” they say cautiously, placing the plate down in front of Johnathan. “And for you,” they continue, placing your plate in front of you. “Enjoy your dinner and let me know if you need anything else.”

“You know,” you start, tapping your finger against the glass of your drink, “I severely underestimated how much drink I was actually going to get.” The drink is now no more than a few tentative sips from disappearing. Alongside the glass remains a few drops of where the drink stains.

“Oh? Did you think it was going to be bottomless?” He asks, a sharp smile pulling on his features.

You scoff and take much more than a tentative sip that now only lets a small puddle pool at the belly of the bird. “I was distracted by the craftsmanship of the glass,” you snip at him, your voice light and twisted with dally. “I saw a cute design and decided that I needed to have the glass.”

With a fork of food near his mouth, he reminds you of an important fact. “You do know that you don’t get to keep the glass, right?”

Your smile falls and strains into a thin line. “I honestly hate that you told me that,” you whine to him, tapping your index against the stem.

“I apologize for crushing your dreams,” he says without genuinity.

“You know,” you muse, licking at your lips, the drink still heavy on your tongue, “I don’t think you actually mean that.”

He hums, and takes a sip of his still half-full drink. “And what can I do to make it up to you?”

With a hand resting over your heavy heart, you shake your head. “I’m afraid the damage has already been done,” you sigh. He tries to muffle a laugh behind the palm of his hand, but you still catch at it and gasp in mock-offense. “You’re laughing over my pain? That’s awful.” You can’t stop the smile that stretches across your own face, and you shake your head as you take another bite of your food.

“I’ll get you another drink if you’d like. Maybe you can try a different one this time?” He offers, stabbing at his food with the fork. Your napkin dabs at the corner of your mouth, and you can still taste the faint traces of your drink on your tongue. “Would that make it up for you?”

Your head tilts, and you shake your head. “Mm, no.” When you meet his eyes, his own are wide and his shoulders are raised. “You’re gonna have to do more than that,” you tell him. As if on cue, the waiter stops at your table asking if everything is okay, and you can feel Johnathan’s eyes on you. “I’d uh, I’d like a glass of water, please.” You say, your voice lifting towards the end as you feel uncomfortable about asking for more.

“Of course, and anything else?” The waiter turns to Johnathan and with a shake of his head, the waiter nods. “Okay, I’ll be right back with your glass of water.”

With the waiter of sight, Johnathan bites at his food. You look at the thinning drink in your sculpted glass, the flowers dried at the table. “You could have gotten another drink,” he tells you, and you look back at him, warmth in the shell of your ears. “You could have tried the other drink.”

You smile at him, and you hand pinches over a stem. “I’m okay.” You lift the flower and a petal falls to the table. “I like water anyways.” You tap your foot against the floor and smile at him with an impish grin. “Plus, I wouldn’t want you to think that that would make it up after all your snark.”

“No, of course not,” he says kindly.

A glass taps at your table, and you turn. “Your water,” the waiter tells you with a smile. You return it. “Anything else I can get for the two of you?”

“I’m okay,” you say out loud, pulling the glass towards you.

“I’m okay,” Johnathan parrots back..

With a clap of their hands, the waiter tells you to call if either of you need anything else, and walks away to another section. Left alone, you take a sip of your water, the ice spinning around the glass as you stir with the straw. You sit with him, and poke around at your food, taking small bites as he does the same. Silence has fallen between the two of you and you don’t think you’ll get another chance like this to confirm your worries.

“Johnathan?” You ask, setting the fork down. It clinks sweetly against the plate, and his own fork stops halfway as he looks at you. “Can I- I wanna ask you something.” His mouth covers over the fork, and you cross your ankles over the other. “It’s kinda important.” He nods his head, chewing slowly. “You invited me out and offered to pay, and I just- I wanted to know why.”

The napkin dabs against his mouth, and he takes a sip of his drink. You take a bite of your food. In a crumpled state, the napkin sits on the table and he grabs at the fork, pinching the metal between his fingers. “I wanted to spend more time with you,” he says quietly. The food goes down heavy.

Your stomach twists. That isn’t enough for you. Not now. You want him to say that this is a date, but you also realize that you have to ask for it. You chew on your lip, the mint chapstick faint on your tongue. “I want to make sure that we’re on the same page-” your fingers tap against the table- “so I have to ask, and I want you to be honest. Okay?” He nods rapidly. “Is this-” you point to both you and him- “a date?”

“Would you like it to be a date?”

You nod. “I do,” you say in a tense whisper. “Do you want it to be a date?”

“I was hoping it was. I’m sorry that I didn’t make it clear enough.”

Shaking your head, you cross your ankle over the other. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“I-” he turns his head, and looks out the window, and you follow his gaze- “I’ve dated before, but it gets harder to date and most people aren’t necessarily into scientists.” You look at him through the reflection, and you find that he’s already looking at you. “It’s nice having you as company, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable and ruin that.”

“What made you think I wouldn’t have been interested?”

He turns his head and looks at his nearly finished plate. The fork is pinched between his fingers. “You’re pretty. And interesting to talk to. I- The most I can offer is an informative conversation about quantum mechanics and multidimensional traveling- in theories,” he adds. “I would have assumed you were searching for something more than just me.”

“I have to admit that I didn’t think you’d be my type. You got the tall, dark, and handsome all figured out, but, I dunno know. You always struck me as the type to sneer and be less than sweet. But talking to you, like actually talking to you, is nice. You’re nice. And I like that you give me rides, and I like that you’re smart.” You stare at your drink, the ice bobbing lightly.

“I like that you listen.” You smile, and look at him. “I like you. And I would have wanted the two other times that we met to be a date, but I also like the idea of this being our first date.”

Your nail runs over the side of your finger. “I have to remind you that I’m writing an article that goes against your company and could put you in a negative light.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m here with you right now because of that.”

“You’re here because you like me?”

You nod. “I’m here because I like you,” you confirm. “But I also want you to remember that. That if we date, I’m- I might still write the article.”

He stays silent. “I can’t change your mind on that?”

“I don’t know Johnathan. I want to have strong convictions, but I also want to-” you falter. You want him to be happy with you. You don’t want him to regret taking this chance on you. “I want you to still like me even if I continue to write the article.”

“I’d still like you.”

You shake your head. “You can’t be sure of that.”

He takes your hand. “I can be.”

“Would you be disappointed in me if I still wrote it? You wouldn’t regret taking a chance on me?” You lean to him, your nails dragging against his skin. “You’d still like me as much as you’d like me right now?”

“I don’t think I would ever stop feeling the way I feel for you.”

“You can’t promise that.” You run your thumb over his knuckles. “There has to be a line drawn somewhere. I shouldn’t get such a pass from you.”

“Do you- Is there something that would stop you from liking me as much as you like me right now? If I did something bad would you still be interested in me?”

“Mm, if you were actively destroying the environment, then I think that would be a red flag,” you reason. “I kinda like Earth, despite you know-” you wave a hand in the air- “everything. So I guess if you were like polluting the ocean or something, I’d consider that a point against you.”

His smile falters and takes a look around the restaurant, eyes restless and unable to look back at you. “Any- Anything else?”

“Oh goodness, you’re polluting the ocean,” you say with a breathless laugh. You dip your head down, and he coughs awkwardly. “Okay,” you breathe out, holding his hand just a bit tighter, “it’s a red flag if you…” you falter, looking around for an answer intertwined with the flowers outside. You perk up, looking back at him. “It’s a red flag if you throw bottles out of your window when you’re driving.”

“Who on Earth would do that?”

“I’ve seen it. Multiple times.” Warmth bubbles in your chest, flaming your skin, and knots twist themselves into pretty bows. “So is that something you’re doing? Or will do?”

“Never,” he says, shaking his head.

“Okay then.” You nod to yourself, and then to him, relief escaping in a breath. “You don’t throw bottles out of your car. So, what about me? I gave you a thing, you gotta return it.”

“I’d at least want you to talk to me before you write something about Alchemax.” You lift your hand from his, standing the tips of your fingers against his wrist, tapping along his veins. “I don’t want to police your work, I just- I know how important it is for you but I need to know.”

“Can I ask why?” You can feel the bone when you circle over the wrist.

He swallows. “I want to be prepared for it.” You look at him, a frown tugging at the corners of your lips. “I don’t want to be caught by surprise if my name is mentioned,” he says weakly.

“Lucky for you,” you trace along a vein until you can’t reach any further down his arm, “I never intended to write your name. It was always supposed to be about Alchemax and all the weird things that have been popping up. Never about a single person.” You pull a face. “Except maybe Fisk, considering it all.”

“Then why are you here with me?”

“I liked drinking coffee with you.”

“Really?” He questions with wonder.

You nod. “Surprisingly, yes,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “I-” you pause- “Being with you is nice.”

“Being with you is nice,” he quotes back. “I- It’s difficult to date when so much of your free time is spent in a lab or reading through notes.”

“It’s difficult to date when you’re busy chasing a story or locked in a room.” There’s a cluster of freckles around the back of his hands, fading down his arm in soft hues of brown that get lost in the tufts of hair on his arm. “I get lost trying to find the perfect words for only a few clicks.”

“I click,” he adds. You nod without saying a word. “Do you want to go home? I can take you home already?”

You turn his arm over, letting his veins be lit by the lighting. You can feel his pulse quietly beating under his touch. You settle your gaze against him, the reflection of his glasses stare at you. “You won’t even get me dessert?” You say with a hurt tone.

He stiffens, and you can feel his pulse quicken, thumping against your fingertip. “Oh! What would you like?” He turns his head looking at the table- for a menu perhaps- until realizing that the answers aren’t there. Jonathan lifts his gaze towards you again. “I can get the waiter.” He starts to lift his hand, and you snort a laugh. His hand is paused mid-lift.

“You can get me dessert next time,” you tell him, your canines pull at your lip, trying to quell the anxiety that you feel.

“Next time?” He asks in a surprised voice. “I get to have a next time?”

You nod. “Only if you’d like there to be next time.”

“I want there to be a next time.”

A jolt runs through your body and you tighten your hold over the fork. It drops against the plate in sharp notes, and the water cools you as it rushes down your throat. Nodding, you can only speak in a breathless, that he doesn’t comment on. “Good. That’s good.” Looking at your nearly finished plate, you decide to yourself that you’re full, that eating anymore would only cause the twisting in your stomach to reveal itself.

“Would you mind if I paid already?” He asks, his own food only being pushed around.

“No, no. Go ahead,” you tell him.

He scans around the room, his hand partially raised, until he finds who he was looking for. Nodding, he lowers his hand and looks at yours and his plate. “You’re full, right?” You nod with your cheeks warm. “You can get it to go if you’d like.”

“No, I’m good. I’m- This was good,” you say, twisting your napkin at the corners.

The waiter stops at your table, and as you sip on your water, condensation creating a ring around the table, you choose to ignore the words that are said, focusing on the pedestrians outside who pay you no mind.

“The uh- the tip?” You say weakly, and you have his attention. Your fingertips flutter over the clasp of your bag, and you pull out your wallet, grabbing at cash.

He smiles and his eyes are warm. “I already added it to the bill. Don’t worry about it.” Your heart aches and squeezes upon itself as you nod. You want to hold his hand again.

The waiter returns, a clasped book in their hand as they hand Johnathan back their card. “Thank you guys, and have a great evening,” they say with poise and practiced lines. They are thanked, and as they walk away,

Johnathan rises, his card returning to his wallet and settling it back into his pocket. He waits for you to stand, and stands beside you as you grab at your bag, clutching it in your hands, the strap bunched and pierced by your nails. Johnathan walks in front of you, and you hold onto the bag, hoping that the feeling of wanting to hold his hand goes away.

It doesn’t.

Doors are opened for you, and when you sit nestled inside of his car, the seatbelt taught across your chest, you watch him when he enters the car. Music plays quietly, words whispered out against the speakers, and the soft drumming of the instruments are only quiet vibrations.

You watch him for a few more moments, his jaw tight and teeth worrying at his lip. His hands are stiff around the steering wheel, and you cross and uncross your ankle over the other. You wonder what it is that he has to say to you. You hope that it’s something good. You hope that he tells you he wants to hold your hand just as badly as you want to.

“You can talk to me, you know,” you say quietly, rivaling the music that can be heard. “We’re still on our date.”

“Am I that obvious?” You nod. “I thought I was hiding it well.” When you don’t offer any sort of answer, he clears his throat. “It’s about your job. Is that okay?”

Not what you expected, and with partial disappointment, you fist your hand. “Go ahead,” you tell him.

“Why are you so focused on Alchemax?” You don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound so upset and bothered.

“You know better than me that something is going on,” you reply hesitantly. “I know that it’s dumb of me to focus on a company under Fisk, but-” you groan and lower your head, raising it back up with a breath. "I just know that something bad is going on, and it shouldn’t be going on. I mean, come on- none of what he’s doing can be legal.”

“Just leave it alone.” he sounds so defeated, and you don’t answer. “Fisk isn’t someone to mess with. He has connections to bad people. He’ll hurt you.”

“Aw,” you say in a lilt, “ you do care about me.” You tease, but when he doesn’t answer, you lean forward, catching a glimpse of how his face flushes in a dark hue at your words. Your eyes widen and you pull back. “Oh.”

His face scrunches up and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “It’s not- I don't- I mean, I do-” he groans and bites at his bottom lip. You watch him, waiting for him to figure out his words, your attention completely on him, never wavering to the streets, and the people. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to someone I know,” he states.

“What,” you hesitate, trying to find the proper words, “what do you think will happen?”

He sucks in his bottom lip. The air in the car has changed, and you're gripping your bag, scratching your nails along the canvas. “Something that shouldn’t,” he says. “You’re a good person. I don’t- You should let someone else take over the story.”

“So that they can get hurt?” You aren’t sure how to feel about that. You’re sure you’re supposed to feel disgusted, but a part of you feels warm at the thought that he cares for you.

He raises his shoulders, shrinking in on himself. He doesn’t speak again.

The car slows at a yellow light, and a hue of red washes over the two of you. You scratch at your bicep, and keep your gaze on him. “I like spending time with you, Jonathan,” you admit. He whips his head towards you and you avoid his gaze, focused on the handle of the glove compartment. “You’re smart and eloquent with your words. You have this dry sense of humor that gives you a certain charm. You’re dorky in a cute way and I know that we’ve only started to figure out whatever we are right now, but-” you shrug your shoulders and look back at him- “I don’t know. I like you.” He stares at you, and you aren’t entirely sure that he’s processed what you just said. “But you can’t tell me what I can or cannot write. Especially if we aren’t anything exclusive. I mean, I still would take offense if we were exclusive but that’s another conversation.” You wave a hand in the air. “I want to be taken seriously. I don’t want to do another fluff piece. I want to write something hard hitting and something that the public needs to hear even if only one person reads it.”

Green washes over the two of you, and the sound of a car honking has him looking away from you.

“Why?” His fists tighten over the steering wheel.

You shrug. “I dunno,” you murmur. “Dignity, I guess?” You say a bit louder. “I like my job and fluff pieces are easy and whatever; but for at least once in my life, I want to write something great. I want someone to read my article and think to themselves, “‘Wow, this is a great reporter-’” you wave your hands in the air and lower them down shyly- “or something like that.”

“I think you’re a great reporter.” You look at him, and part your mouth open. He continues before you have a chance to speak. “I read some of your older pieces. I thought they were well written.” He glances at you before returning his attention to the road. “I would read it and think to myself that you cared about what you wrote.”

“You read my work?” You ask softly, a ray of warmth flooding to your cheeks.

Jonathan nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” The car turns, and you stay silent. “Fisk isn’t a good man. I need you to understand that. He’s- What I’m working on is important to him. If you expose what he’s trying to do, he won’t hesitate to put a stop to your actions.” The car slows to a roll at a stop sign. He looks both ways before continuing. “I don’t know why you’ve attached myself to me- if you think that maybe I was easy to sway or weak-minded-”

“No, Jonathan, of course not!” You turn your body and reach out a hand, before pulling it back. “I never thought that. I- I knew you were a top scientist. I was- I thought that if anyone was important in the project, it was you. It is you,” you correct yourself. “I thought- I think highly of you, I swear.”

He gives a curt nod. The car drives slowly, and his eyes scan the road. The GPS signals that he has arrived at his destination. He slows the car even more so, and pulls into an empty space conveniently located in front of your apartment complex.

Parking the car, he turns to you. “I am asking you to stop. Write about corrupt politicians or homelessness. Write about Spider-man and his adventures. Anything, but this. Please.”

You straighten your back and cross a leg underneath you. “I know why I attached myself to you,” you start, pulling at the strap from your bag, “but why did you attach yourself to me.”

A small smile pulls at his lips. He stays silent, and the music from his playlist plays softly, filling the air. You reach over and grab at his forearm, and he stretches it towards you, his gaze moving away to watch as your hand slides down his arm and down to hold his hand. You call his name and he looks back up at you.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I wish I had an answer to give you, but I don’t know.” With his free hand, he scratches at the back of his head. “You found my work interesting. You listened to me talk about multidimensional travel without treating it as some joke. You were intrigued. Not many people usually are.” His hand squeezes at yours. “You’re kind. Pretty.” You smile at the compliment. “I find it cute that you pout when you’re jealous.”

You purse your lips. “I do not pout. I have never been jealous when I’m around you.” An obvious lie, but you want to preserve your dignity.

He smiles. “If I told you that Dr. Owens asked me out to dinner, how would you react?”

Thinning your lips to prevent a pout, you turn your head to watch a streetlamp. You can feel a pout begin to happen and rather than give him the satisfaction of being right, you cover your mouth with your hand. Shrugging, you click your tongue. “I’d say that-” your words falter, and you refuse to look at him- “you should go for it. They seem nice.”

"You're forcing yourself not to pout. Does that mean I'm right?" You can hear the smugness in his voice and it only makes you retreat further into yourself.

“You’re like the worst, you know that?” You tighten your grip on his hand.

"Would you really be okay if I went out with them?" You stay silent. "If you say no, I'll deny them. But you have to tell me that."

"Honestly? I think they'd be a better match for you." A bitter smile twists your lips, and you regret saying the words.

He deflates. “No, they wouldn't,” he disagrees. “I don't like them.”

“You should. At least they'd be able to keep up with you in conversations.” You tap at the rubber mats on the floor of the car. “I can't do that.”

“I don't need someone to keep up with me. I want someone to be with me.” He squeezes your hand, and you hold onto it, hoping that he won’t pull away despite you trying to push him. “I don’t want you near Alchemax. I want you to stay far away from it. I need you to understand that. I can’t- I wish I could tell you about it, but I can’t.”

“My work is important to me,” you say in a whisper.

“I know.” He takes in a deep breath, and you watch people walk past the car. You follow a stranger in the rearview mirror, and you look back at Jonathan once the stranger has turned a corner.

“Are you going to go have dinner with Dr. Owens?”

Shifting in his seat, he runs a finger along the edge of the pocket of his blazer. “They aren’t my type.”

You wet your lips. “Am- Am I your type?”

Nodding, he holds your hand tighter. “Unfortunately, yes.” You don’t attempt to hide the grin that brightens your face. He smiles in return, and inches closer to you in his seat. “Is it safe to assume that I’m your type?”

“Sadly, you are,” you whisper out.

“I respect your work-” he pulls your hand closer to him, and you lean yourself closer to him- “aren’t I enough?”

"That isn't a fair question."

"None of this fair."

"None of it?"

He shakes his head. "No. I should have met you before I became a scientist. Or maybe you shouldn't have been such a persistent reporter.” Turning away, he looks out at the street, yellow and white illuminating him.

“I think you'd have made a great postman,” you smile. “I think you’d look good in blue.” He smiles sadly. “I’ll give it some thought, okay?” You rub at the tip of your nose. “You know what’s going on then, right? Like what’s being on?”

His hand slips out of yours. Your fingers stretch out,and curl into a fist, settling over the middle console of the car. “Something that you don’t have to worry about. Please,” he says in a distressed tone. “Just let someone else take the article. Anyone but you. I’ll tell you about other projects that we have planned, anything,” he emphasizes with a plea, turning back to you with sad eyes, “but the one that you’re researching on.”

The seatbelt unclicks, and you see his chest swell, and stay still as he holds his breath. When you reach over with your arm wrapping around him, do you feel him slake in your hold. His arms wrap around you, and you hide yourself in the small of his neck, his hair tickling at your nose. His hands fist over the cloth on your back, and you can feel him shift, bringing you closer to him.

When you pull away, you stay only a few inches away from his face, with your hands still clinging to him. Under the spotty lighting of the speeding cars and the streetlamps that barely illuminate where the two of you sit, you start to count at his freckles. Your hand lifts, your thumb arching over his cheek. His beard pricks under your print, and he leans into your touch.

“You have a lot of spots,” you mumble, “Johnny.”

“Please,” he murmurs, eyes glancing down momentarily before lifting back to meet yours, “anyone else.”

You swallow. “Can I think about it?” His lips pull into a thin line. “I wanna end our date on a good note.” His shoulders fall. “Wanna walk me to the door?”

“Okay.” You pull away, and you can still feel the coarse hair and the soft skin. The car dings as he opens the door, and the lights still shine on the dashboard. You watch as he walks around, and opens your door. The car sings with a rhythmic note as it’s left on. He holds his hand in front of you, and you take it, finding comfort in the way that his hand wraps around yours.

Hand in hand, you walk a few feet to the front door. You stand there, with his car still on and your hands still holding onto each other. “Next time you’ll get me dessert?” You ask in a small voice, not ready to go inside yet.

“I’ll get you whatever you want next time.” he stills, and with a shaky breath exhaled, he leans down. A hand cups over the side of your face, and you're tilted up, and his lips press against the corner of your mouth. You look at him, and he smiles. “Next time.”

You nod. “Next time.”

216 notes · View notes