toxicrelief

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter nineteen

Synopsis: From Rex getting his brains blown out to asking you to dance at an over-exaggerated gala, he has a lot to think about.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.6k

Chapter: 19/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: Depictions of Violence, Wounds, a Panic Attack, and the Subtlest of References to a Boner (lol)

Note: Sorry for how long it took to get this out, I have been so busy every single day. Sorry the sections are so clumsily put together, I wanted to really show his thought process but its been almost 30k words since the last Rex POV chapter and both you and I would hate reading and writing every little thought

Getting the shit beaten out of you isn’t something that most people can say they are used to. As much as Rex hates to admit it, he has definitely started to get more than a little used to it. It was everyday hero business, another Tuesday, or Wednesday- whatever today is. A punch to the face? Elementary school shit. A bullet wound? He had more than he could count last year. A hand being separated from its limb? Well, that’s a little new… Gunshot to the head? What are the chances?

Seriously.

What are the chances of surviving this?

Rex wasn’t one to beg. Not for anything, and most assuredly not his life. There was a list of things he would be much more likely to beg for first. In the grand scheme of things, why should he care if he died? It’s not like he would live to regret it.

However, at this exact moment, as he rested heavily on his knees, breath coming out in heaves as his eyes trailed over the mutilated corpse belonging to one of Kate’s duplicates, he felt it. Like somehow, he was going to live to regret. Even as the metal pressed heavy against the back of his skull. As he feels the bullet enter the chamber, the click vibrating against him. It was over. He could practically feel the blood moving through his arm to escape from the massive mound of a wound left where his hand used to be. Small splattering sounds filled his hearing, drowned out only by the sound of rushing blood from within the confines of his head. There was no daring escape he could make or last-minute save. He was going to die. And somehow, he would still regret. More than he could think of in the split second before the bullet split through his head. But, that didn’t stop the images from flashing by.

--

Rex was sure he died, it was the only thought that could wreck through his mind as he gained consciousness. That was until he opened his eyes to see Cecil leaning against the counter in his hospital room.

If you die, and the first thing you see is Cecil Stedman, you definitely didn’t go up. Looking around the room his gaze landed on a metal sheath enclosed around his left arm. It all started to flood back. The fight, Kate, Rae, the feeling of his radius ramming through the skull of that blonde prick.

“Kate and Rae-?”

“Rae is going to be okay.” Cecil responded curtly, his jaw setting tightly.

The lack of mention towards Kate told Rex all he needed to know. He knew when it happened that there was no way she could have survived that. Even for how much they all seemed to escape death. Hell, he was even sure Rae was done for, he could still hear the sickening crack of her bones reverberating off the insides of his skull. He had been done for. Shot in the head. What were the chances?

“Killdeer saved your life. Or at least saved your mind, my guys weren’t sure they were going to be able to return you to-” He gestures at Rex in an unimpressed manner, “to this.” Cecil ended the statement with a firm look; he wasn’t there to coddle him or tell him it would be alright. He was there to tell him how things were going to be. Killdeer had saved Rex, even after everything. In other words, ‘I swear to god if you cause more problems in the team you’ll wish she hadn’t’. Even doped up on whatever painkillers were running through his system he could see Cecil’s hand.

It intrigued Rex that Cecil put this much effort into assuring the newest member’s seat in the Guardians. Or rather, it would intrigue him to look back on later, as he was a little out of it at the time being.

“Why?” His voice crackled with effort, he didn’t expect Cecil to be honest, but he asked nonetheless.

“Why wouldn’t she? Unless you’ve given her reason not to, hm?” Cecil straightened his tie absentmindedly, perhaps a way to occupy his hands. “You did good work, Rex. Stopped something that could have gotten very bad, very quickly. It was honorable.”

The praise pressed numbly to his ears, not something Rex was used to hearing from Cecil, but he still couldn’t find it in him to mentally accept it. This wasn’t a success. It was luck. Had the bullet been lodged a few centimeters to the left or right, they wouldn’t be talking right now. Kate was dead, and he had no idea how Rae was really doing.

“Is she still here?” He asked without thinking.

“She went home. She’ll be here again I’m sure. If you hadn’t noticed she has a knack for healing, this is kind of her area.” Well now he was just being mean. Rex fought to come up with a response but ended up just sinking further into his hospital bed, grunting softly. Cecil pushed himself off of the counter, seemingly ready to evacuate the room, before pausing. His back was still turned away, because of this Rex was unable to make out his expression. “It’s excruciatingly painful, by the way.”

“What is?” Rex asked.

“Healing. She finds it excruciatingly painful, especially when it comes to more serious injuries.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m sure you’ll see her around. And I don’t want you to give her any of your usual shit.” The thought hadn’t had the chance to even cross his mind yet. “So, think about that before you try to form another conspiracy against her, yeah?”

--

“Well, you look like shit. And that’s coming from a guy who looks like this.” Rex gestures to all of himself.

Mark chuckles, “Heard you’re getting a new hand, too.”

“Yeah, lucky me.” Rex pauses for a moment, “How’s Rae?”

“Holding in there.” Mark responds shortly, settling himself on the edge of Rex’s bed.

A few seconds of silence pass between them. Rex runs his fingers absentmindedly over the cool metal encasing his arm, lining over the different ridges in the steel. After Cecil had left Rex had festered for a long while in the kind of person he had been. The kind of person he is.

The kind of person that Cecil feels the need to tell directly not to give the person who saved his life any shit. The kind of person who cheats on his girlfriend multiple times, even after she let him live with her for a year straight. The kind of person who is rightfully never anyone’s first choice for a mission.

He had been a dick. Rex knew he was a dick, often times he let himself relish in it a little. Really just roll in the shit. But, looking back, what had he truly accomplished? Saved a few cities a few times? He hadn’t even done it alone, that credit would have to be divided across multiple different heroes.

It was not enough to be super. A small voice inside his head had whispered it to him for years, but he pushed it down, drowned it out. Told himself he had a right not to be fully accountable for anything. After all the shit he had been through? It’s a miracle he was even still ‘one of the good guys’.

A bullet to the head quickly had that ideation crumpling in on itself. If he had died, no one would remember him for long. And it would be rightfully so.

“You know, when that bullet went through my head, I saw my life flash before my eyes.” He sat up, talking to the back of Mark’s head. “Yeah, that’s always sounded like bullshit to me, too, but…it’s not.” He frowned timidly. “And I didn’t like what I saw. I was such a dick to Kate. To Eve, too. To-” He mutters out your name, running his hand over his face with a groan. “To every woman I’ve ever been with. None of them deserved it. I don’t know why I had to get my brains blown out to see that.”

“What is it about being a superhero, where we go around saving lives, while ruining them at the same time?”

“Aw, Jesus.” Rex sighs, pushing himself up further. “All right, let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Eh. The reason your face looks all…like that. I don’t know, you know, sad and shit.”

Mark is practically pouting, his eyebrows creased upwards. He sighs before looking away, a hand idly rubbing his knuckles. “I’m not doing too hot in the dating field either.”

“You’re dating that one girl… uh Amber right?”

“I’m actually surprised you know that.” Mark gave him a semi-suspicious look.

“Okay, I can actually listen sometimes, I’m not always clueless.” Rex rolls his eyes, scrunching his nose.

“Yeah, Amber.” He affirms again, “I’m always having to leave her for whatever Cecil needs, or I’m gone for months at a time. I’m flunking out of college; I hardly have time for my best friend-”

“Woah okay, I’m not your therapist, maybe one issue at a time. What are you going to do about Amber?”

Mark lets out a labored breath. “It’s not fair to expect her to wait around, right?” He looks expectantly at Rex, who just stares back before realizing Mark wants a response, and then he just shrugs. “Viltrumites live for hundreds of years. Would it be fair even to waste a few months of her time now, when that could quickly turn to years of her life?”

“That’s assuming you survive your next big fight, Invincible.” Rex snorts, then wipes the smile off of his face at Mark’s scathing look. “Look, having a relationship is difficult even for normal people. And last I checked you’re not. I don’t want to be one of those assholes that tells you ‘if you truly love her, let her go’ or some shit, but,” He pauses. His infatuation with Killdeer was the first thing to spring forward in his mind as he was speaking. She couldn’t stand him; it wasn’t something he could really compare to Mark and Amber. But, in a way, it almost felt like he was disrespecting her by even thinking about her. If he wanted to mend anything between the two of them, he should just leave her alone. He can’t pull some shit like showing up to her apartment tipsy again. “Well, fuck, I guess my point is, do you think that a year from now anything will have changed?”

A beat. “I don’t see how it can…”

“Then maybe that’s your answer right there.”

Mark nods somberly, before slowly turning his gaze back to Rex. “This has been surprisingly insightful…how many painkillers do they have you on?”

“Not enough!” Rex groans, “Shit hurts.”

“Well, thanks, I guess, Rex.” Mark presses his lips together and another small awkward silence passes between them.

“Have you met the newbie?” It was out of the blue, unexpected, even to Rex as he said it.

“Hm?” Mark gave him an odd look. “Shapesmith?”

“No, not him, fuckin’ weirdo. Killdeer. Nurse, healing powers and shit.” He makes a gesture with his hands as if she’s a witch doing voodoo.

“Mmm, no I don’t think so. Why?”

Why had Rex asked? He wasn’t sure. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to talk about her. “Uh, well, I don’t know. You’re talking about Amber and I was trying to think of something equally interesting, you know, for the sake of conversation.”

“And you landed on a new member of the Guardians rather than the fact you’re sitting in a hospital room, with no hand and whatever that is on your head?”

“Okay, first of all, that’s old news, second of all, don’t get sassy with me, I’m missing an arm.”

“I thought that was old news.”

“Don’t push it, Grayson.”

Mark smiles to himself and leans back slightly. “Well, what about them?”

“Ah.” Rex chews on the inside of his cheek. “She’s just, well, she’s been a big topic around the headquarters, I guess.”

“Okay?” Mark raises a brow, cocking his head at Rex.

“Don’t make this fuckin’ weird man-”

“I’m not doing anything-!”

“You’re making me feel weird-!”

“No, I’m not!” Mark laughs, moving to a standing position. “I don’t know what all of this is about, but I bet I can guess.” Rex grumbles in response but doesn’t tell him he’s wrong. “Look man, you’re obviously learning to look back at your actions or- just keep that up. And move slow, or whatever.”

“I made her quit the Guardian’s.” Rex blurted, wincing to himself.

“What?” Mark sighed, his shoulders dropping.

Which led to him sitting back down and Rex spilling completely about everything Mark had missed while he was away. Which Rex realized was a lot now that he was saying it all in quick succession. And none of it was making him look too good.

“Oh.” Mark was looking off into the corner of the room processing. “Well, that’s unique.”

“And on top of all that, Cecil just told me she’s the reason I’m still alive.”

“And I thought me and Amber had issues.”

“Don’t compare this to you and Amber, you and Amber are dating.” Rex groaned.

“This is a lot of drama for two people who aren’t together…You went to her apartment?” Mark squinted at him.

“Ugh.” Rex shrunk further into his bed.

--

Less than a ten percent chance. He had looked it up the moment Mark left his hospital room. There was a less than ten percent chance that he could have survived a bullet to the brain. It ran over and over in his head as he looked at the magazines Eve had brought for him.

“Oh, hello.” Eve’s voice which hadn’t sounded off for a minute after he told her that Mark and Amber were kaput, snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Hi, sorry, is this a bad time?”

Already? It’s suddenly a bit harder to breathe, his chest constricting tightly even though he couldn’t quite make her out from where Eve was sitting. Killdeer was visiting. She had come to speak with him. Between Mark, Eve, and this new visitor, Rex was starting to wonder if he wasn’t as big of an asshole as he thought. Obviously, he had done something right if anyone was still giving a semblance of a shit.

“You look like shit.”

Huh. Maybe a little less than a semblance. Regardless, the relief he felt at knowing that she would visit was tremendous, more than he expected.

--

Twenty bucks my ass. There was no way these were worth even five bucks. He was being conned, he could feel it in every bone of his body. But twenty bucks is nothing in the grand scheme of things if it means she’ll keep visiting. He would pay much, much more.

--

“Does it feel the same?” She’s running a finger over each of his hands. Her skin trailed almost agonizingly gentle over his.

Fuck yes it felt the same. It felt like fucking fire is what it felt like. Uncomfortable burning traveling up his arms directly to his spine. But he didn’t want her to stop, in fact, he couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted less than that specific tingling in this exact moment. “Uh…Yeah pretty- I’d say pretty similar.” His mouth felt dry, and he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

She didn’t pull back, her eyes glued to his hands. He could practically feel his heartbeat edging towards racing. Hopefully, she can’t feel it, with all of her weird powers and shit. Cool fingertips brush over his knuckles, causing his hand to clench against his own wishes. He felt oddly shaky; this wasn’t him at all. Whenever he liked someone, he made a move and he made it quickly. What was holding him back? He didn’t want her to leave. To stop visiting. God, he was losing his touch. At one point he had felt like he could have anyone he wanted. He could talk the talk and had never once been turned down. But with her… He just couldn’t seem to wrap his head around truly wanting her. After everything he had put her through, and his own conflicting feelings.

He could still hear Kate in his head, scolding him for trying to sleep with every woman he came across. He felt like he wasn’t good enough, not worthy. It was a new feeling for him.

He’s grown to respect you. And for him, that sucks.

--

Rex wasn’t sleeping well. Not that he would admit that to anyone. The last thing he needed was some loser telling him he needed to see a fucking shrink. He had made it through life so far perfectly fine on his own…well, minus the whole asshole thing. But he was managing to get better on his own. Right?

He had stumbled through an apology to Killdeer, it wasn’t one of his finest moments, but he knew he needed to do it. She had been drawing away from him. Which part of him thought was for the best. Another, much louder part, wanted her to never leave his bedside. He was surprisingly content. She listened to every stupid story he dawdled on about, and whenever she asked him something he answered or did as she said right away. He didn’t want to give her any reason to remember how much time she had wasted talking with him.

When she had asked to see his new hand again, and then again after that, he was a little taken aback, but he obliged. This proved to be borderline torture. He could feel her. Every touch, every scrape. He had to force his way through thoughts, constantly talking to try distracting from the feeling. She just hummed quietly, full attention on his hand. And thank god for that. Rex had shifted three times now, drawing one of his legs up higher to lift the blanket with it. As determined as he was not to make things weird between them, his body was definitely reacting to her. Another aspect of the torture. This practically felt like foreplay for Pete’s sake.

If he wasn’t kept awake in a purgatory of tossing and turning thinking about her, he was reliving his worst moments in his sleep. At first, it was just the moments before he had been shot. Every detail of the room was imprinted on his subconscious. Then it started to evolve. Other regrets started to push their way forward, sometimes the person behind the gun was an old target of his. Other times he was the one behind the gun, familiar but blurry faces passing by in front of him.

His most recent dream had ended in Killdeer being the one before him. This time it was different. The others had been alive, begging for their lives. She was silent, facing away. The sound of droplets hitting the floor were clear even after he woke up. He said something, something he couldn’t remember. Maybe for her to look at him, stand up, run, do something. But instead, she started slouching forward, the droplets increasing until they sounded like a waterfall. Rushing, pushing, drowning. Blood was filling the room like a flood, pushing up towards his ankles. He couldn’t move, only could watch in horror. It rose steadily, licking up the legs of his suit, warm, unpleasant. Killdeer who was slouched forward on her knees before the gun only slid forward more and more. The crown of her head slowly became lost as the liquid crept higher.

He woke up holding one of the dingy hospital pillows flesh with his chest. Arms wrapped tightly around it, a sheen of sweat covering him head to toe.

--

One mission. That’s all he needed. Rex needed to be in it all again, he needed to prove to himself and everyone else that he was capable.

All fine and dandy until a behemoth with tentacles was throwing him straight through a metal storage crate. Which hurts a lot, by the way. At first, it felt like adrenaline, completely normal when a giant Davy Jones akin monster is actively trying to murder you. Then it started to get hard to breathe, hard to aim. The last metal disk Rex threw at it flew right over his shoulder, only helpful by the smoke cloud it left. This offered enough cover for him to slide over another crate, pressing his back firmly to the hard green metal.

“Don’t do this. Come on, come on, don’t do this to me.” He held his manufactured hand by the wrist, trying to force away the tremors. He tried to take a deep breath, filling his chest with oxygen, only for it to be forced out with another tremor. “You’ve done this a hundred times-” Probably not the best time to be having a vocal pep talk. He can hear the giant throwing different crates in search of him.

“Fuck-” He shouldn’t be on a solo mission yet. Joy was right, she was worried, and she was right. Not that he would ever admit that in a million years. His breathing continued to come out in labored heaving; it was becoming harder to focus his vision.

He needed to stop this before he lost control. The last thing he needed was to pass out midbattle, he was better than this.

“You did adequate. Very promising, Rex. A good soldier.” No, not him. The last person he wanted to think about was that prick.

Rex shook the memory of Radcliffe from his mind, searching through memories, anything to take his mind off this.

“You did good work, Rex.” No, not Cecil either.

“I do everything you wish you could. And that’s rich coming from a guy called Rex Splode.” Bulletproof. Less helpful.

Rex pushed a hand up under his goggles, gloved fabric blocking his vision. He was getting more lightheaded, it hurt to breathe.

“Seriously, Rex?” Eve.

“Asshole-” “Prick-”- He could only seem to conjure negative interactions, there was such a multitude to choose from-

“Thank you.” It’s softer, barely audible over the other memories. But it’s enough to catch his full attention. Cold grey ceilings, hardly visible through the shadows of headquarters. Bright blue lighting. His fingers thrummed gently against the steel floor, a melody he hadn’t been able to place in years. “For pushing me out of the way earlier.” He glances up to see the crown of her head. She’s staring up, chest rising slowly in shallow breaths.

“You probably would have been fine anyways…You know, injuries and all.”

“Just because I can heal it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. So still, thank you.”

Rex lets his hand slide down from his eyes, working to take controlled breaths. It’s becoming easier, his hands are still shaking but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to immediately pass out if he stands anymore.

A crash sounds out closer to where he’s sitting, forcing him to stand up. He’s got this. He’s a fucking Guardian. A bullet to the head didn’t even take him out. This won’t be his last fight, and yesterday sure as hell wasn’t the last time he would ever see her. He was sure of that.

“You’re welcome.”

--

Of course, she didn’t ask him. He just hadn’t expected her to ask Bulletproof of all people. Were they close in some capacity? It doesn’t matter now. The world is traveling by tens of thousands of feet below. A soft snore every few minutes takes him out of the zone, and Rex is tempted to start throwing things at the culprit. He wants to look back, shoot a pointed glare even though Bulletproof isn’t awake to see that. But in doing that he’ll end up looking at her. Something he’s been avoiding doing for at least an hour. He’s actually not sure how long it’s been. It feels like it’s been forever.

The file on their gracious benefactor hung loosely in his hand. Of all people it could have been why did it have to be her? Mune wasn’t even her real name. He doubted that many people still alive knew that though.

A quick glance down revealed that the edges of the file were completely crumpled in his tight grip. So, he disposed of it under the seat in front of him. He’d pick it up later.

He shifted his attention to something else before the unpleasant memories could completely flood back. Jealousy isn’t something entirely foreign to Rex. When he was dating Eve, he constantly would work himself up over every interaction she brought up with another guy. He practically convinced himself, alongside Kate, that Eve was getting with Mark. Another asshole tendency of his that he was working on. The fact that Killdeer had brought up Invincible in a good light several times now wasn’t getting to him. Seriously it wasn’t.

Well, maybe it kind of was.

…

It definitely was, alright? Happy?

Except he knows he has no right to be jealous. The two of them aren’t…well, they’re not anything. Not dating, not- Well he doesn’t know what else, but the point is there’s nothing between him and her.

If he could go back to the night he showed up at her apartment, he wondered if he would have kissed her knowing what he knew now. He had wanted to then, but not in the way he wanted to now. Before he was confused by it, there was attraction, but he never could place quite why. Blamed it on her powers, or even the fact he hadn’t gotten laid in so long. Now it was different. He wanted her. Not just to kiss her, or have some lousy one-night stand. He wanted to be near her, have a true excuse to do things with her now that he was out of the hospital. He wanted to let her trace her touch over his as often as she wanted. He wanted to come back from a mission and sink down onto one of the couches in the rec room next to her while she messaged Cecil about whatever they messaged so much about. He wanted her.

But, he didn’t deserve her. He couldn’t have her. Could he?

“I’m gonna get dressed.” Her voice broke through his thoughts, causing him to jolt slightly.

“Okay.”

--

“Do you dance, Rex?” A simple, innocent question. One he had known the answer to immediately, of course he didn’t dance. It had never even crossed his mind before tonight. Since the night started, however, it had been near the top of his priorities. Any chance he got between idle small talk he was glancing over at the dance floor, taking mental notes.

Where did the lead put his hands, how did they step, turn, twist? It was overwhelming, but he was determined to get it down-pat. Her question had saved him from having to blunder his way through asking.

And dance they did. The grass was uneven and almost caused Rex to roll an ankle more than once. He felt silly, haphazardly. The hand he had placed on her hip was hard to rip his concentration from. The way he could feel the heat through the silk of her dress, the way she stared at him and followed his lead. In hindsight, if he was so determined to not make things weird maybe he shouldn’t have asked her to dance. Because the only thing he could truly focus on was the way her lips curved around every word, every smile, and every laugh.

“You look…” Don’t cross that line, this is not a casual thing to say. “You look beautiful tonight.”  Christ. “By the way.” Once it’s said there is no way to pull the words back in. They hung between the two dancers like fog.

“Don’t tease, I’m not an idiot.” What? He was practically working himself into an aneurism while forcing the words out. And she was just taking it as another one of his jokes. He would have bristled, been upset at how she completely missed his sincerity. How much he had meant it, and how much he had wanted to say it since she first walked into his hospital room. And maybe even before that, but everything before that was far too confusing for him to unravel. Instead of doing any of that, his eyes trailed down her face, the temptation returning once again.

“Tease?” It wasn’t a tease. It was cold, hard fact. He could show her. Show her just how much he meant it, how she makes him feel. Glancing up their eyes meet, he can feel his pulse quicken, burning his veins.  A tension falls on the two of them and he has to consciously resist the urge to tighten his grip on her hip.

Her lips parted, to scold, chide, rebuke, something. At least that’s what he expected, but whatever she was going to say died at her lips. Only the sound of the faint music curls around them, providing the smallest semblance of release from the loaded silence that threatened to swallow Rex whole.

He should ask. There’s no way she doesn’t feel it, right? It’s the only thing he can feel, she’s the only thing he can feel. He needs to-

“So, can I get that dance?” Oh, fuck off!

Her hand immediately leaves Rex’s shoulder as she turns to the voice. Some rich-looking asshole, just like every other rich asshole here.

“You said I could have one if you decided to dance, and from the looks of it, you just did.”

Not just did, asshole. Still are. Go away.

“Uh- Yeah, okay, just give me a moment.” He was still holding onto her other hand as she glanced back. Her expression searched his, waiting for…something. But he just stared back, his stomach clenching unpleasantly as she unraveled her grasp from his. As she heads up the stairs she turns back. “Thank you.”

Any possible words die in his throat, he just stares. It’s pathetic. He should joke, quip, something. Say good riddance! I was getting tired of dancing. Even though it would have been a lie. He could have stayed on that grass with you for hours.

A small stretch of silence passes with Rex standing at the bottom of the stairs. He taps his index finger against the thigh of his slacks. Stupid. Just- well it’s just stupid.

Rex walked around the side of the outer wall, the brisk air cutting through his dress shirt. Going back into the ballroom to watch her dance with some other guy was not at the top of his to-do list. Coward. He should have done something, said something. He didn’t even display displeasure at her going off to dance with some other man. He should have-

A glint catches his eye from inside one of the windows, it could have been anything. A guest entering the wrong room looking for the bathroom, a fucking…cat? He doesn’t know, but he gets an uneasy feeling. Continuing forward, he notes on the outside which room it is. A few servers pass him with polite smiles and trays bearing champagne. With the kind of night he’s having, he grabs a glass as they pass. There was another entrance into the house through a door to the kitchen, or a kitchen at least. Several workers sat on another set of stairs leading up to it, smoking cigarettes on their breaks. They paid Rex no mind, easily letting him pass. Once inside he weaved his way past another handful of workers grabbing another glass on his way out, until he was back in the hallway.

Was it four rooms over or five? He quickened his pace, reaching back at his side out of habit to where his various expendables usually were. Of course, he was wearing a different type of suit tonight, so his hand didn’t make contact with anything. A planter resided outside the first door he planned on checking, small decorative rocks laid on top of the soil. Good enough, he grabbed a handful and placed the mostly full champagne glass haphazardly on the rocks, hoping it wouldn’t spill. After a few short strides he is slowly wrapping his hand around the doorknob.

It was nothing, there wasn’t going to be anyone in the room. He was just worked up from whatever weird feelings he was feeling before-

See? Wasn’t that easy?

It’s soft, muffled. Someone had turned on their transmitter.

I have men stationed throughout the house ready to turn this into a blood bath. Get me Mune, alone, in one of the rooms, and we won’t open fire.

Shit. Which line was that coming from? It wasn’t hers, right? His free hand gripped tighter on the rocks within his grasp.

You must know who I am, which means you must know I am not here alone.

His heart sank. Of course it was her. It couldn’t have been Lance or one of his pricks with the bulletproof vests.

Oh, yes.

 Rex was already letting go of the handle, ready to sprint into the ballroom.

Then you must know this is futile. You’re bringing guns to a fight where your opponents are atomic bombs. In what world do you get what you want and waltz out of here?

Fuck. The men. The guy said there were men stationed around. Rex saw something in that room. He could have easily seen the reflection of their gear.

I have no intentions of leaving.

Whoever had control of Killdeer’s comms knew his identity. If he went to the ballroom, he’d most likely shoot her, if he had a gun. It would be fucking stupid to try pulling this unarmed. And then he would most likely move on to one of the less super-abled guests. Shit, shit, shit. Why couldn’t he run probabilities like Rudy could?

Shooting me won’t help your case.

So, he has a gun.

It’ll sure hurt though. And eventually, you’ll die, and if not, I’ll have plenty of fun seeing if you can.

Who cares about the safety of the fuckin’ guests, he’s going there, NOW.

How did you-

Static crosses over her words, replaced by the familiar ring of Bulletproof’s, they must be blocking her frequency.

Rex, I see at least one bogey over here. I’m near the west wing. Where are you, man?

Rex stopped mid-sprint, a few feet away from the door he had just been about to investigate. “Fuck- I… I don’t know, this fucking house is nuts.”

Oh, come on! Are you seriously sightseeing right now? You’ve got to be-

“No, I wasn’t fucking sightseeing.” Rex hissed low in response. “I thought I saw something.”

What was it?

“I haven’t checked yet-”

Well fucking get on it! We don’t know how many of these guys there are around.

Rex could hear the music crescendo down the hall, he wasn’t that far, he could follow the music... Instead, he turned back to the door, rolling his shoulders before he walked back up to it, and swung it open.

He could pretend to be another drunk looking for the bathroom, get a leg up on them. It was some kind of sitting room, very dimly lit. Couches with fancy stitching and embroidering were circled around an intricate wooden table. Two men were spread out on in opposite corners, wearing tactical gear similar to Lance’s group before they dressed up.

“Whoops, this isn’t the bathroom-”  

One of them is already raising their gun, pointing it directly at him. Not the time, apparently. He charges the rocks, sending them out before him in a controlled explosion. Enough to cause a smoke covering. Now would be an excellent time to have his goggles. Darting behind one of the couches, he tries to listen to where they were after the commotion. Loud boots against the carpet proved to be the only indicator in the already dark room as to where they were located.

One of the men closest to him came up to the couch, Rex couldn’t see where he was but jumped forward at the sound anyways. He collided with the man’s legs, bringing him crashing to the ground, hitting a side table from the sounds of it on the way down. He’s close enough to Rex for him to make out through the slowly clearing smoke that he’s reaching for a knife at his side. Running on pure instinct he pushes the man’s hand up. Forcing the blade into the soft skin under his chin.

Gurgles fill the air around them as the smoke completely dissipates. The other man is standing just a foot or two away, his gun held up. At the sight of his teammate flailing in a pool of his own blood, he hesitates. Enough for Rex to rocket himself up, forcing the gun from the assailant’s grasp. Off balance, they both tumble over the back of one of the couches. Rex fights his way on top, gripping the front of the man’s outfit, then slamming his knuckles into the man’s face. Once, then twice, then a third time, followed by a sickening crack. And for a moment Rex is back in that building, his bloodied arm ramming into the King Lizard’s head. Wiping that snide fuckin’ look off of his face-

A crack, loud and clear. Splitting pain in his side sends him slamming his opposite side into the coffee table. “Fuck!” He draws it out with a shaky inhale. Recovering quickly, he looks up to see a third person entering from the doorway.

She looks around, her eyes locking on the sight of the man now dead and forgotten on the other side of the couch. It’s cool, calculated, her gaze turns back to Rex, and she holds the gun tighter, keeping it trained on him. “Die.”

Well, that’s a comfort. He rolls as fast as he can, another shot embedded in the coffee table behind him. The other guy’s gun is just within his grasp. What are the chances he reaches it in time? His fingertips are brushing against the butt of it, he can hear her moving to where she can aim better.

“Shit-“ He groans, pushing himself up further with his elbow and finally grasping it. He lifted it up just as she was coming into view and-

Hopefully none of this shit was horribly valuable. The blood is never coming out of those cushions.

Rex pushes himself up, sucking air through his teeth as the movement tweaks his fresh wound.

I’ve got two taken down in the west wing.

We took down one near the bedrooms.

Exiting out the door he looked up and down the hall, not sure what he was expecting.

What about Rex? Where’s Rex?

She was okay. The tension in his shoulders lifted briefly as he tried to catch his breath, placing a hand against his side. Another worker was passing by with a platter of drinks headed towards the ballroom.

Does anyone have eyes on Rex?

He panted out each breath, straightening up against the pain blossoming at his side. “What wing is this?”

The worker slows and gives him a confused look which spreads into a knowing smile. “The east wing, sir.” Christ, he think’s your drunk. Rex gives him a tight smile as a gesture of thanks, then waits for the waiter to continue on.

“Got three of those fuckers in the east wing.” He lowers his hand from the comm unit in his ear and lets out a groan, steadying himself against the plant he had grabbed the rocks from. His champagne glass still sitting where he left it.

Author's note: Small change to Rex’s dialogue in the show. Specifically, “to every woman I’ve ever dated” To “every woman I’ve ever been with.” Cause lowkey I head canon that Eve is the only person he’s ever actually dated. Not counting the people he’s slept with. Rex truthers how we feeling tonight?

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped @spidernuggets @sweet-cuddlebug @ohmysoultakemysoul @lapisbwub @velovicy @liquideyes @insirecrate @isnotraven request to be tagged for new parts!

[toxicrelief]

Oh my god who drew this??? Serious….fucking weird who drew this…

(Deep into my Bob Reynolds era, if you know me and you’re see this please don’t look at me)

Drew this while binging season 2 of The Bear💔

[toxicrelief]

I’m so jealous, everyone is so talented ♥️♥️♥️

some rex and rae messing around with rae’s glasses

[toxicrelief]

I have a lot to say. This is curing my writers block WOAH

Nothing like getting pinned down by an evil version of your friend

[toxicrelief]

Commented on a fic with a bunch of comments already on it. The author hadn’t responded to anyone but respond to mine.

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter eighteen

Synopsis: This isn’t your first rodeo anymore. You’re growing confident in your abilities, and you know what you’re capable of. Does anyone else? (The Gala Pt. 2)

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Chapter: 18/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: Mild Descriptions of Blood and Wounds

Note: There are two unintentional puns in this chapter. I had a large section of this written out in my notes app for a long while, 😛Ya’ll know exactly what I'm doing here

The other man led you inside, his grip on your hand much rougher than Rex’s had been. You were a few steps away from the assigned dance area when you realized you still had Rex’s coat. “Oh, crap I should probably-” You took a step back pulling the coat off from around your shoulders. It could have been an attempt to go back, to will him to do or say something, you could come back and dance with this guy after.

“Eh, just place it on the table over there, you can give it to him after our dance, okay?”

You nod begrudgingly, obviously not about to get out of this without raising suspicions. So, you follow him onto the dance floor, he takes your hand and places his other on your hip the exact way Rex had, but his touch inspires nothing in you. This whole excursion has returned to being just another job.

“So, what do you do for work?”

“I don’t.” You say it offhandedly, repeating the same charade you had told multiple people tonight when asked the same question. “I have the privilege of not having to work.” You didn’t divulge further, more information than was necessary would come across like rehearsing from a script.

He hums, “Housewife?”

You take a shallow breath, trying to remember to stay in character. “No.”

He hums again, this time it feels almost antagonistic, his hand gripping tighter on yours. “I hear that those who have that kind of privilege have a lot of time for charity work like this. Is that true?”

“I suppose.”

“Charity is so rewarding, don’t you agree? I love to help people in any way I can. If I have time, I even take visits to the hospital, it’s good to provide companion care, is it not?” You nod distractedly, glancing out at the other dancers, as you both shift with the music. “I just wish I could go in and heal every one of them. Do you ever get that feeling?”

You blinked a few times and then turned your gaze back to him, your brow furrowing.

“What?”

“Go ahead, turn on your earpiece so I can talk to them. This is exciting, isn’t it?” His eyes widen on ‘exciting’ and you feel your blood run cold.

“What was it you said your name was?”

“I didn’t, be a good girl and turn it on, yeah?”

You grit your teeth, it was unlikely he was alone. You needed him to reveal who his partners were before you did anything. Reaching your hand up you press down so you are transmitting.

“See? Wasn’t that easy?” He grabs your face and angles your head to talk directly in your ear.

“I have men stationed throughout the house ready to turn this into a blood bath. Get me Mune, alone, in one of the rooms, and we won’t open fire.”

You are met with silence, most likely because they aren’t sure if the man will be able to hear them conversing or not.

“You must know who I am, which means you must know I am not here alone.” You speak, trying to stop the malice from overtaking your tone.

“Oh, yes.”

“Then you must know this is futile. You’re bringing guns to a fight where your opponents are atomic bombs. In what world do you get what you want and waltz out of here?”

“I have no intentions of leaving.” His eyes glinted, and you felt a pressure placed against your abdomen, no doubt a gun of some sort. He obviously didn’t know everything about you.

“Shooting me won’t help your case.” You bite out, the orchestra still playing loudly.

“It’ll sure hurt though.” He presses it firmer against you, his other hand still leading you in the dance you almost forgot you were both partaking in. “And eventually you’ll die, and if not, I’ll have plenty of fun seeing if you can.”

“How did you get those weapons in here? There were screenings on every individual guest.”

“It’s an awfully big house, you’d be surprised how many hiding places there are.”

“So, you came in before the gala, planted the weapons, then came as guests?”

“What is this, detective hour?” He seems to be growing tired of your questions, his gaze flickering over the other people around you, flashing a fake smile.

“No, I just want the facts straight for when the police arrive.” You scowl at him.

“You seem very self-assured-” His words are cut off with a quiet gurgle, the aggravating smirk dying at his lips. You don’t move, watching coldly as his body goes ridged during his attempted statement. The revolver he had pressed against you he pulls back in a jerky movement placing it back into his waistband. His eyes moments before that were cocky and arrogant now shined with fear, confusion.

“Are you feeling okay?” You say it loudly, loud enough for a few couples nearby to look over. But your expression doesn’t reflect any of the concern that seeps through your voice, contempt is the last thing he sees before he shrivels to the ground, leaving your head feeling raw.

Several people look over in concern, and you blink before putting on your best act. “Oh! Sorry! One too many drinks!” You give an apologetic shrug with an awkward laugh. “Could any of you help me move him off the floor?” A few people come by and move him to a corner, laying him down and commenting things along the lines of ‘this isn’t some college frat party’.

You blurt out your apologies and thanks as they walk away, and then hold your hand up to your ear to make sure your earpiece is still running. “This one’s taken care of. Have you located all the gunmen yet?”

A few seconds passed.

I’ve got two taken down in the west wing.

We took down one near the bedrooms.

Bulletproof’s voice then quickly followed by Lance’s both sounded off. The music crescendos louder, causing you to hold a hand over your other ear so you can hear. “What about Rex? Where’s Rex?”

You snap your head back at a loud sound, someone dropping a chair or knocking over one of the cocktail tables, maybe? You could hardly hear it over the bellowing music.

“Does anyone have eyes on Rex?” You paced over to the backdoor to see if he was still standing there, stepping over the stone of the patio and looking out over the garden.

A lengthened silence beats by. With every second you start to feel more and more sick. Just as you open your mouth to repeat yourself another voice calls out over the comms.

Got three of those fuckers in the east wing.

You let out a sigh of relief at the sound of his voice, then rested your hands on your hips, taking a few deep breaths.

Authorities are on their way, bring all of them to the room I debriefed you in. We don’t want the guests to panic. We’re running a sweep for any explosives as we speak.

“I’m going to need some people to come to the ballroom. I can’t pull this guy out myself without drawing a lot of attention.” You head back into the designated area, whispering apologies to people who had come to stare at the man’s unconscious stature.

Sending men your way.

“Thanks.” You turn off your earpiece and finally look down at the man. “Jackass. Couldn’t have waited five more minutes to pull me into this fucking scheme?”

--

Two men had come to ‘help’ you carry away the leader. When you entered the debriefing room Zandale was standing over five men, all incapacitated in one way or another. Rex was dragging in the last man from his area, and with yours added on it made seven people total.

“Do you know who these people are?” You cross your arms over your torso, feeling far too overdressed to be standing in what felt like a crime scene.

Lance simply shrugged, after barking out a command to one of his men. “Probably someone disgruntled by any number of Dr. Mune’s works. They aren’t the first and it is very unlikely they will be the last.”

Bulletproof takes a few steps towards you, his hands resting on his hips. “Did you get the name of the leader?”

“I didn’t ask.” You shrugged, looking down at him, face relaxed from his state of unconsciousness. You could kick him.

“How did you manage to neutralize him without alerting any of the other guests?” Lance asked, reaching down to pull the man’s revolver from his waistband.

“He must have got overexcited.” You murmured, an awful answer but hopefully with the amount of excitement so far no one would think about it for long. You glanced over at Rex who had settled against the ledge of one of the desks. A pang of guilt flashed over you as you remembered his coat long forgotten, a few rooms away. The feeling was overshadowed as your eyes trailed down to his side. Red tinged the seam of his suit vest, dark towards the center and fanning out lighter around it. “What’s that?” Rex froze as if being caught with his hand in a cookie jar and then followed your line of sight to his side.

“Oh, that’s…uh that’s not mine.” He scratched the side of his face, glancing up at you with a sheepish grin.

“…Really?” You raised a brow at him, quickly closing the gap, your hands coming out to open his vest. Once you were closer you could clearly see ripping in the fabric. An entry wound. “You got shot?”

“Only a little, seriously I’m fucking fine.” He pushes your hands away, leaning back further against the desk as if to evade you.

“Goddamn it, Rex. Let me see it, you’re losing blood.”

“I’ve been through a lot worse, Joy-”

“I swear to god, if you don’t let me assess you-” Rex throws an awkward glance at the people standing behind you, they were probably watching the small commotion, but you didn’t care. He didn’t get to be a martyr right now. “Do we need to go somewhere else?” You whisper the question to him, maybe he’s embarrassed in some kind of way. He took down as many men as the others had combined together. To you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. But you didn’t care about any of that, if he was injured, which he obviously was, it was your duty to help him.

“Joy.” He breathed out with a laugh, looking at you like you were joking, the smile fading when your expression didn’t falter.

“We’ll be right back.” You turn to the group behind you before grabbing Rex’s hand and practically dragging him out of the room behind you. While searching for a nearby empty room you did not look back or speak to Rex. The initial shock of him being once again injured has worn away into irritation. Not only did he not come to you about it. But he explicitly tried to hide it from you. Not very well, but still, the intention was there.

After passing by a few rooms that you had to back out of with an apology to whatever random people were loitering in, you finally found one that was empty. High shelves lined up the walls and across columns throughout the room. Books with every color spine lining each shelf, accented by different busts and artwork. A library. It was dim, only the light coming in from outside and the light flickering under the door illuminated the area. You pushed down the urge to look around and turned to face Rex, who had been entirely silent for the short journey. He looked surprisingly calm, his expression soft, and his lips slightly parted.

“Okay, I need to see.” You dropped his hand, noting how he held on a few seconds longer. Another thing to think about later. Steady fingers come up to unbutton his vest, pushing it off over his shoulders, then moving to his dress shirt. You can feel his breath on your hands, heavy, uneven. Anxiety fills you with the prospect of him having lost more blood than you thought if he is having this labored of breathing.

Peeling away the white dress shirt you look closer at his wound, pushing your hand against his chest to angle his torso out more. The bullet had ripped through his left lumbar region, no exit wound. “Fuck.” You whispered to yourself, glancing around as if supplies would magically appear. “I don’t have any of my stuff. But- that’s fine, I could do it without, just would have made it a bit easier-”

Rex’s expression tightens as if he is just realizing your intent to heal him, even though you had expressed it earlier. “Don’t.”

“Don’t, what?” Your hand that currently rested splayed on his chest shifts, pulling a hair’s width away.

“I don’t want you to heal me.” His gaze meets you for a few beats, and you feel your defenses start to rise.

“I thought we were over this, Rex.” You bite out the words, emotion lacing your tone. “I thought you were trying to be better.” The edges of your mouth curls into an expression close to disdain.

“I am.” His brows lift in hurt as if your word’s stinging him.

“Really? Cause this is the same shit I’ve had to deal with since the beginning. Always thinking about yourself, and your- your stupid pride, ego-” You step back, placing your hands on your hips.

“I’m not always thinking about myself, this isn’t about me-!” Your name leaves his mouth at the end of the exclamation. He holds his hands out in exasperation before running them through his short hair, a groan forced from his lips as the movement tweaks his injury.

“How, Rex? How isn’t this about you?”

He pauses, his eyes dropping to the floor.

“How!”

“It’s about you! Alright?” His tone is low, in a whisper, but he still spits it out with effort.

You blink a few times, confusion flickering across your features. Your arms drop from where they were perched at your hips. “What?”

“I know! I know what it takes for you to heal people, I know about the strain, I know about the pain, all of it.” He runs a hand over his face, then continues. “I’m not having you put yourself through that for something this menial.”

Menial? He was fucking shot! “Don’t worry about me-” You start, holding an accusatory finger out at him.

“I’m going to worry about you, okay!” He practically snarls it out.

You take a step back, not out of fear, but out of habit. Any time you had ever experienced confrontation like this you had given in, backed down. You weren’t going to give in as easily this time.

“I’m not some junior varsity hero, Rex. I’m a fucking Guardian, same as you.” The statement leaves your tongue in a bitter tone.

“Fuck, I know that I know. This has nothing to do with your abilities or-” His tone softens, and he takes a step forward, looking almost apologetic.

“It’s always been about my fucking abilities with you, Rex. When has it not?” You snap before he can finish his statement, stepping forward so that you are completely back up to him, entirely in his space. “If it wasn’t about my abilities, it was about me, fundamentally! I’m either a glorified nurse or an incompetent- fucking-” You stutter, trying to piece anything together through your anger, “I don’t know, a fucking idiot I suppose!”

“I don’t think you’re-”

“If you truly respected me, as a hero, as a Guardian, as your fucking friend then this wouldn’t be a question.” You hiss it out in a hushed tone as you hear people walk by the room, then continue once they are gone. “But you don’t, and I don’t know why.” You trail off in a mutter. Both of you are right up against each other, if you tried to step forward you would be standing on his toes. “What do you want from me, Rex? What is it? ‘Cause I’m growing tired of this dance.”

“I want-” He looks away sighing heavily, then continues in a lower tone. “I want you…”

There’s a pause, you wait for him to finish his thought, irritation still bubbling under the surface.

“You want me…?” You urge him forward through his thoughts.

He looks at you, and for a moment your anger fades minutely. It is just the two of you. The man who pointed out different types of countertops in a home design magazine, voice etched with excitement. The man who volunteered to go on this mission with you, who helped you zip your dress, who danced with you in the grass. The man you were falling for. But he was also the man who spent months actively working against you. Scoffing out your name every time you were brought up by another member. He was changing, you were sure of it, you’d seen the proof. As angry as you were now, you didn’t hate him. But he obviously still held resentment towards you, no matter how small. Or this wouldn’t be a discussion.

“I want you.” He looked down at you, brow furrowed tightly.

“What, Rex, you want me to what?” Frustration oozes through your words as you look up at him.

“Fucking-” He takes a step back, running his hands over his face again. “I want you to not be in fucking pain because of me.” He sucks on his teeth, looking out past you.

You sigh heavily, shaking your head. “Fine, Rex. Do what you want. I don’t care.” You hold your hands up to metaphorically wash your hands of the situation. “You should see if Lance has anything to dress that though. Or it’s going to be a long night.” You turn and leave him standing alone in the library.

--

When you return to the debriefing room there are several new faces, all sporting officer’s uniforms. Dr. Mune was standing talking to one, while others brought stretchers for the dead and wounded. It was a miracle to you how no one from the gala had seen the commotion and started spreading the word. Mune catches sight of you and holds a hand up for you to wait for her. She continues with a quick back-and-forth to the officer, then approaches you.

“They always ruin my fun; I have to bring the event to a close in order for everything to be cleaned up for the brunch tomorrow. Apparently, Mr. Sloane made quite a mess in one of the dining rooms.” One of the dining rooms. Her tone lowers, “I liked how you dealt with Robbie. Very discrete, Merlin.”

You squinted at her, how much had Cecil really relayed to her about you? “Who was he?”

“A ghost from my past, like they always are.” She looks down through her spectacles over to where the man is being loaded onto a stretcher. “This particular one actually worked at the GDA. I’m surprised Mr. Sloane didn’t recognize him. They were in the same program.”

“Program?” You shook your head.

“Mm, Robbie was a few years ahead I suppose, one of the first trials. The chip didn’t take with him.”

You looked at her closer, your brows knitted closely together. “I’m sorry, I’m not following.”

“Hm, I’m surprised you didn’t know. Have you never read Mr. Sloane’s files?”

You cringed at the memory, the general upset that had been caused when it was revealed you had. “Yes, but I only skimmed most of them, and there was quite a bit redacted. I mostly only had access to the extent of other members’ powers, or their drawbacks.”

“Well, my dear Merlin. Mr. Sloane only has his abilities because of my work. I designed the neural chip that gives him his…well, I suppose you could say his spark.” She flutters her hands in an over-the-top gesture.

“He wasn’t born with them?” You knew that there were heroes around who only had powers because of genetic modification, but you hadn’t thought it was very common.

She paused to look at you, taking off her spectacles. “To be truly born with naturally occurring powers is very rare. In all my years I could count on one hand the number I know of that were flukes.”

“I guess I would understand why so many people would want to gain them artificially.” You nod, the sound of the door opening causing you to look back. Rex had finally decided to enter, not looking at you and making a B-line to Lance. Hopefully to ask for medical attention, or at least a medipack.

“I don’t.” She states bluntly. “Just because a curse has its ups, doesn’t change that at the end of the day, it is still just a curse.”

“If that’s how you view it, why did you work to bring it about?” Your brows raise a centimeter, analyzing her reaction.

“Sometimes it takes a few decades to truly see the effect of your work.” Her tone was tired, her attention was shifted to where Rex was standing talking to Lance.

“Would you go back and undo it all?”

She sighs gently. “I have no way of knowing the outcome would be better if I did that, so no. But I wish I could go back and tell myself how it ends.”

You nodded quietly, watching as the last body was removed from the room. Smears of blood streaked across the center of the floor where some of them had been dragged slightly into the pile. With each day that passed, you understood her more and more.

--

With all the bodies gone, and the explosive sweep coming back clear it was time to nudge the guests towards leaving. Dr. Mune gave a tasteful speech about having the class to know when the host wants you to leave but doesn’t want to say it. She reminded them all that they were expected at brunch the morning after, telling them all to board at a hotel she owned down the road. How rich was this lady? She had gone around inviting select people to stay with her in her guest rooms, weaving her way through the crowd somehow faster than you could keep up with. When you had the chance, you gathered up Rex’s coat you had left at a table close to the dance floor.

You saw him after about an hour, he was wearing a new shirt. Lance must have helped him patch his side up because there was no visible wound through the white linen. Irritating was the main emotion that coursed through you at the sight of him, but it quickly gave way to worry. He had survived perfectly his entire life without you worrying about him, but you couldn’t help it. You gave a shit about Rex Splode- or Rex Sloane as you had come to find out tonight.

Somewhere internally, the you from a month ago groaned heavily.

“Shall I have Gareth show you all to your room?” Mune’s voice poked through your thought process.

“Hm?” You wrenched your gaze from the back of Rex’s head, to give her a quizzical look.

“You three will be staying here, yes?”

“Oh, I figured we would just stay at a hotel or something.”

“The only hotel for miles is mine, and it is completely booked.” She shakes her hands at you like it’s no big deal. “I have plenty of space-” She looked over at one of the groups she had just invited to stay as well. “Well, I have space.” She corrects.

“Oh, then sure?”

“Good, Gareth has already brought your things upstairs to the room.”

“Our things?”

“Cecil sent you all outfits for the brunch tomorrow. You never know if there will be a second wave.”

“No, I mean our things, as in all to the same room?”

“There’s only so much space darling, even in a house like this.” She waves down a couple that is about to escape without her talking to them and marches over, shouting greetings.

Oh boy.

Gareth seemed to materialize out of thin air next to you. “Shall I show you to your room?”

You ran a hand over your face with a sigh, already mentally preparing for the argument that was about to happen the moment you all reached the room. Maybe it was set up for three people, and you were dreading nothing.

--

Gareth rounded the three of you up, Bulletproof made several comments about being ready to knock out for the night, which went without response. All three of you were feeling the exhaustion without needing to mention it aloud.

At the top of two different sets of stairs, you all found yourself in a long hall, each set of doors looking identical. The only things serving as landmarks were the different portraits on the wall. The one next to your door portrayed a medieval knight on horseback appearing to be leaving for battle. A woman with golden hair was tying a red fabric around his arm. Mune was nothing if not consistent at least.

Gareth opened the door for the three of you, holding his hand out so you could go inside. After stepping in you looked back to see Bulletproof and Rex loitering outside the door.

“Well, see you in the morning.” Bulletproof waves awkwardly. Rex doesn’t meet your eyes.

“You are all staying in this room tonight, Mr. Randolph.” Gareth states humorlessly, still holding the door open.

Both of them seem to cock their heads to the side in unison, glancing inside as if expecting to see a row of beds. They both only furrowed their brows tighter after seeing the large bed dead center and two couches placed in various different positions in the expanse of the room.

“Oh, hell no.” Zandale steps in to look at the room closer, his gaze flittering over it once again, and landing on his luggage set next to a red upholstered couch. “Seriously?”

Gareth doesn’t respond, just continues holding his hand out until Rex begrudgingly steps in.

You take in the room fully for yourself, sighing once again before speaking. “I guess I’ll take the other couch?”

Author's note: God can these two get along for more than two seconds I’m going to blow my brains out (I did this to myself) Extra points if you know exactly what painting I was describing

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped @spidernuggets @sweet-cuddlebug @ohmysoultakemysoul @lapisbwub @velovicy @liquideyes request to be tagged for new parts!

Chapter Nineteen

[toxicrelief]

Genuinely upset I’ll never have him, INSANE

I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter seventeen

Synopsis: You, Rex, and Bulletproof are working as a private security detail for a high-end donor’s Gala. Your job is to blend in and mingle, which is hard to do when you want nothing more than to stay near Rex the whole evening.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 6k

Chapter: 17/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: None, but the tension is crazy, eat up

Note: Kind of includes an OC like character, so warning for that? No one in the canon universe fit the need for the part so I just made up someone. Sorry if you hate added noncanon characters, I needed someone to be the donor in order to progress this part of the story. This chapter (plus part two of it) is also extremely self-indulgent so I hope you enjoy anyways!

“You think if all the Guardians pooled their money together, we could afford a place like that?” Bulletproof stepped out in front of you and Rex.

“I didn’t even think anything could be that big.” You stated, feeling mildly overwhelmed by the looming estate before you.

“I can think of something-” Rex snickered and then seemed to immediately regret it. “Sorry-”

“Do we just…walk up?” You continued, ignoring Rex, taking a cautious step forward.

“I thought we were arriving early, why are there so many planes already here?” Bulletproof commented, looking back at the large array that lined up with the Guardian’s jet.

“You guys are thinking way too critically about this, I came to party, and that’s what I’m going to do.” Rex, walks ahead of both of you, holding his hands intertwined behind his head.

“We’re here to work, Rex.” You reminded him in a dry tone, but even for you, the anticipation was rising.

To call the estate before you a house, would be a falsehood, to call it a mansion still felt untrue, but closer. It was practically a castle. High-reaching spires jutted out towards the heavens, accented perfectly by the pink tone of an oncoming sunset. Various chimneys contrasted against the sharp peaks with their rectangular structure. As you got closer you could somehow clearly see where the land stopped, and the backyard began. There were various stone walkways, surrounded by meticulously upkept greenery. A fountain laid dead center, although to call it simply a fountain also felt like it was falling short. It was more like a pond, or a small lake, with marble enclosing its sides. A stone pillar in the center served as a base for a small waterfall. Upon approach you could feel the cool spray against your skin.

The backdoor was formed of overexaggerated double wooden doors, pushed further into the dark outer stone wall. There was a covered walkway against the house, vines trailed down from the columns and covered the archways. You figured it was a stylistic choice rather than the owner letting them grow due to lack of care. The whole area was far too well-upkept for it to have been missed. You imagined what they might look like in season and wondered if they would bloom or not. Either way, the whole place was breathtaking.

The large arched windows revealed bright but still soft, yellow lighting from inside. From just a few yards out you could see the busy bustle from inside, all the people within your view wearing identical black suits. Caterers.

“This place is insane.” You whispered, not meant for either of your companions. Stopping, you looked back to take the garden in, as well as the land that spread out for miles. Further off behind the makeshift aircraft hangar, you could make out trees. You did a small spin looking around as far as you could before your vision was stopped by the walls of the building. This entire area was closed off by a forest.

You wanted to laugh, giggle, do something. You couldn’t really believe where you were, well, you didn’t really know where you were to begin with. But to you, it felt like you had walked into a storybook. Any twisting feeling you had felt on the journey here was completely gone and replaced by the buzz of excitement.

After doing another semi-spin to look at it all again you realized Rex was standing quietly, his hands shoved into his pant pockets, staring at you. Clearing your throat you dropped your shit-eating grin and walked forward a few paces, leaving him behind. You didn’t need his negativity ruining this for you. Even as you walked up to the back entrance there was an extra pep in your step.

“Do we knock-?” Zandale’s question was cut off by heavy creaking as the large double doors began to shift on their hinges. It took a few seconds longer than necessary, which made you shoot a small chuckle in Rex’s direction, snickering at the over-the-top feeling of it all.

A single man stood in the center of the doorway. He was wearing a tuxedo, with a dark bowtie, his features seemingly stuck in a look of displeasure.

A moment.

“So-” Rex starts.

“Dr. Mune wishes to meet with you all before guests arrive, please, follow me.” He did not wait, quickly taking off at a pace that felt a lot like running to you. He did not seem to share in your breathless sentiment, easily spouting out facts about different art pieces you passed as if he were giving a tour. Every room you walked through, or rather sprinted through, seemed to have more and more luxurious décor. Complex lighting fixtures both on the wall and in the form of chandeliers, pearlescent columns, and waxed floors. You tried to take as many mental notes as possible to add to your persistent country home daydream. Although, granite columns might be going a little overboard.

“God, this place is a little…” Rex whispered from next to you. He looked far less pleased than you felt. In fact, he even looked a little sour, a firm scowl displayed across his features.

Before you could quietly question him on it the man who had been leading you all slid gracefully to a stop. You did this less gracefully, not expecting it and jerking back a few feet. As fancy as your dress was, you still had the mannerisms of someone more…normal? Is that the way to put it?

It was hard to think that all of this could be viewed as normal for anyone.

“Dr. Mune, your Guardians are here.”

Cheesy. But you were grinning like an idiot anyway. This was already better than any stakeout you had ever experienced the misfortune of being bored out of your mind on.

A woman, tall but well filled out stood next to two workers. She was wearing half-moon spectacles, a pearl-encrusted chain connecting them down to her neck. There was a general no-nonsense air to her. A tweed skirt reached down to her knees, which was met by a pair of black tights. She was wearing a matching jacket with a white flowy blouse underneath. One of the workers uttered a few hushed tones to her, which she responded to with the same frequency. Her maroon-lined lips formed around every syllable. With a nod, the two workers left and she turned her attention to your group.

“Ah, the guests of honor.” She smiles; the action accentuating wrinkles across her face. She couldn’t be much younger than Cecil. However, unlike Cecil, she still had luxurious hair, black with only a few white streaks accenting through it.

The three of you were not the most competent when it came to introductions, but luckily the man who had led you spoke first. “I have given them the tour-” It took you maybe three minutes to reach where you were now, how would that be a proper tour? “And I told Lance to prepare the earpieces.”

“Oh, we’ve already got some.” You start, taking an apprehensive step forward.

“We’ve got jammers placed out all over.” The woman speaks. “You won’t be able to reach each other. My security team has some, that way you can keep them up to date as the night moves forward, yes?”

“If you have a security detail already, why do you need us?” Rex scoffs out. It’s a valid question, but the brash execution has you cringing.

She doesn’t falter in her smile or demeanor. “Because, Mr. Sloane, threats of this magnitude don’t always end well under the careful watch of the everyday man, do they?”

Mr. Sloane? You turn slowly to look at him. His jaw is clenched, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Why are you getting threats?” Bulletproof asked, folding his arms.

“Were you not all briefed in some capacity?" She straightens out her jacket, moving forward towards the small semicircle of people in front of her. “I am not very well-liked by a multitude of crowds. Although-” She turns her attention to the man who had brought you. “Who has the largest price on my head right now?”

“That would be Mister Liu, ma’am.”

“He still upset about that?” She laughed but did not divulge what she was laughing about. “My point is, it could be anyone or anything. Liu doesn’t think it is worth wasting his own time, but he sends assassins now and again.” She flutters her hand like she’s discussing the afternoon weather. “You don’t have to watch me specifically, as I said I have my own detail. However, our most recent threat was remarked as…What was it again, Gareth?”

“I believe they claimed that they would ‘scar the earth so heavily that no one could build in the same area for two thousand years’, ma’am.”

“Ah, yes.”

You paused, deciding if it would be appropriate for you to speak. A glancing over at Rex provides you with no help or comfort in the answer as he was still staring forward with an unpleasant expression. “Excuse me, Dr. Mune-”

“Mune is fine.”

“Mune,” You repeat, “If you are receiving threats like this, should you really be throwing an event like this? Isn’t it kind of…tempting fate?”

She blinks a few times at you, and you feel like the floor is being pulled out from under you.

“My dear, if I heeded every threat nothing would ever get done. This one isn’t half as colorful as the ones I usually receive, but,” She sighs, folding her hands, “I received word of movement that concerns me, so I would rather be cautious.”

“How would you like us to start?”

She explains her estate in detail, promising an escort will show your way to each place once she is done. Throughout she seems exceedingly sure that nothing will happen, which puts you less at ease every time she says it. At the end of her presentation, she tells the three of you to ‘enjoy yourselves’. Rex scoffs but doesn’t say anything else.

“Gareth will take you to get your earpieces and meet the team. I’d like you to stay behind if you please.” You looked up and she was gesturing towards you. Ah, crap.

“We should all stick together-” Rex starts, taking an almost indistinguishable sidestep towards you.

“I don’t bite, Mr. Sloane. And if you wish to indeed, blend, you shouldn’t all stick together, yes?” Her smile remains unwavering, as she ushers him away.

You give him a shrug taking a few steps towards her, when a hand grabs your wrist. Glancing back, you give him an odd look, mouthing a small ‘what?’.

He doesn’t say anything but imperceptibly shakes his head. Now what the hell are you supposed to do with that? This is a job, a duty, you can’t just tell your employer ‘No, I won’t stay behind to discuss anything with you’.

“I’ll catch up.” You reassure, but his reaction was doing nothing to calm any of your nerves.

His eyes almost seem to darken a shade but he just nods, slipping your wrist from his grip and following close behind Zandale and Gareth who were already a good yard or two away.

“Cecil has talked about you.” Dr. Mune starts, turning to a worker who walked up with a book of some sort. She didn’t seem interested in addressing Rex’s hesitation.

“Yeah? Hopefully okay things.”

“Okay is putting it mildly.” She chuckles, before shaking her head at the worker and then turns her full attention to you. “You’re the poster child for everything Cecil wants in a hero. Obedience, self-sufficiency, discretion.” She takes off her glasses, letting them hang down around her neck. “He couldn’t have made a better soldier if he crafted one himself.”

You hummed, not sure exactly what to say to this. Part of you was pleased that Cecil spoke well of you or even spoke of you at all. The other part was concerned as to where this was headed.

“I like you.” She affirms, glancing up and down your figure. “I think we’ll get along just fine.” She holds out her arm for you to take, which you realize after staring at her for a few moments. “You shall be my Merlin.”

What on earth is this woman on about? “Merlin? As in King Arthur?” You ask it with a polite scoff in the way you appease someone who just spoke utter nonsense to you.

“That’s right.” She pats your arm while leading you in the direction the others went. “I took an interest in the Arthurian legend a few decades ago. Security humors me and it pleases me to see everyone fit into their roles.”

“And you think I would be the Merlin in your story?”

“Yes.” She says it like it was a ridiculous question. Maybe the papers Donald gave you all should have mentioned she was about two days away from madness. “Mr. Randolph strikes me as a Bedivere, do you agree?”

“I can’t say I know exactly who that is, Mune.”

She sighs dramatically. “No one ever realizes my true genius.”

“You worked a lot in the body enhancement side of the GDA, didn’t you?” The question slips past your lips the moment there is a lull in conversation.

“I suppose, I don’t work in it anymore, but I hear they still use my blueprints. Or at least I get the royalty check every month in the mail.” She laughs off-handedly. It feels like you have both been walking for ages, passing door after door, the sound of your individual shoes clicking against the floors.

“How long did you work there?”

“Longer than you’ve been alive. I worked there when I was still young, full of life, you know the sob story.” She pauses in her step. “The GDA hasn’t always been the place it is now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t get genetically modified superheroes without casualties.” Dr. Mune continues walking, pulling you with her. “How is Mr. Sloane doing?”

The question takes you off guard. “Oh, Rex?” She nods and you continue, “Pretty good I’d say? He’s excellent at what he does.”

“Oh, I know.” The first true sense of distaste flows off of her. “He always was.” Between this and Rex grabbing your arm earlier, you were questioning what their history was. “He’s a Gawain.” She states suddenly before the two of you pull up to the final door. She let go of your arm and gestured for you to go inside. “My Lancelot will tell you everything you need to know. I do hope you are able to enjoy your evening.” She says your last name, a small twinkle in her eye that made you wonder for a moment if she planted a bomb herself just for her own entertainment.

“Lancelot?” You ask, quirking your brow up slightly.

“It’s cute, right?” She smiles, more to herself than to you, before turning to leave you there.

“But Lancelot betrays Arthur.” You cock your head, and she slows to a stop, a smile still spread across her wrinkled features.

“Good thing I’m not Arthur.”

“Then who are you?”

“Excalibur.”

--

You couldn’t quite decide how you felt about her. She was odd, but she was sure of herself. After so many years and so many accomplishments maybe you would be too. A part of you liked her, the idea of her interacting with Cecil was one that intrigued you deeply. But you were put off on behalf of Rex. He obviously didn’t trust her, and she even conceded to them having some kind of history. Alongside keeping an eye out for anything suspicious, you were also determined to figure out who Mune thought Arthur was.

People began to arrive while Lance, affectionately called Lancelot by Dr. Mune, familiarizes you all with the equipment. He was very no-nonsense, speaking in as brief of statements as he could. Once he felt confident that the three of you were set, he had Gareth come back and take you all to the ballroom, while repeating one last time to notify him if any of you saw anything.

The ballroom was just as meticulously decorated as every other room you had seen so far. Gold plated chandeliers hung from a ceiling painted with a beautiful mural. A night sky with ancient figures all wearing roman attire. The floor itself was wooden, waxed over with something to protect it from spills. A stage sat towards the front, where artists and their instruments were gathered. Tables of varying sizes speckled the area, and there was a bar at each side of the room for refreshments.

The expansive area filled quickly, people from all walks of life, all well dressed in the most obnoxious way. Even still, you could feel your excitement returning. The three of you had decided to stay together for the first few minutes, then slowly peel off into the other parts of the ballroom. Zandale had already made his way over to the bar, speaking with an older man in a suit that looked like it cost more than a year’s rent.

“So,” You looked over at Rex, who had been suspiciously quiet since you rejoined the group. “What’s the deal with you and Mune?”

“There’s no deal.” He says shortly, then sucks his teeth and continues. “She worked at the GDA when I was a kid, I’ve met her a few times.”

“That was a pretty strong reaction for just a few times.” You say it softly, your eyes scanning the room behind him. You doubted that anything would happen this early in the evening, but you still wanted to keep an eye out.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly the happiest point in my life.” Rex grits out, his gaze following the other side of the room behind you.

“Is she not trustworthy?” You wait a moment, but when he doesn’t answer you poke his arm. “Rex, this is serious. We’ve got to get through this job, I need to know if I should be watching her as well as everyone else.”

He rubs his arm absentmindedly where you had poked him. “She’s trustworthy.” He concedes begrudgingly. “She’s practically Cecil in a different fucking font.”

“I don’t mind Cecil.” You mutter, returning to look at a couple that walked through the doors.

“I don’t mind Cecil either, but I don’t doubt that he’d sacrifice anyone of us if he thought it was for the greater good.”

“It’s the job.” You respond simply, but you know he’s probably right. “Hey, by the way, did you know apparently that you are ‘Sir Gawain?’ to Mune?” You raise a brow with a soft smirk.

“She’s still doing that shit?” He sighed. “At least I’m not Mordred anymore. When I was younger, she sat me down to tell me exactly why that was who I was. Not great to hear one of the more prominent adult figures in your life compare you to the bad guy of a kid’s fairytale.”

“I thought Morgana was the bad guy?”

“She is too, but Mordred kills Arthur so- ah shit I don’t even know.” He raps his fingers against the cocktail table the two of you are standing at.

“We’re you a troublesome kid of something? Kill any kings?” You laugh, but your smile falters slightly when Rex does not.

“Uh-”

Are you two going to split up or stand there talking away all evening?

Bulletproof’s voice sounded out over the comms, interrupting Rex before he could finish. He puts a hand to his temple and stays standing next to you for a moment, his fingers still tapping on the table.

“See you soon?” You finally say, giving him a small smile.

He looks at you and blinks a few times before curtly nodding and heading in towards a group stationed behind you.

“Shit.” You whisper to yourself, looking down at your hands as they spread across the dark tablecloth. A glance back to the bar shows Zandale still chatting with the elderly man, but you catch how his gaze flits across the room every few seconds.

“Hello.” An unfamiliar voice fills the space around your table from where Rex had just been standing. A man, most likely in his early to mid-thirties stood before you. He was wearing a light grey suit, with a black bowtie.

“Hi.” You say, giving him a polite smile, glancing behind him to keep an eye on the door.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“No, just people watching.”

“You came to a house of this magnitude and you people watch? You could do that anywhere.” He grins.

“Well, maybe I like to look at all the ridiculous outfits.” Low risk, high reward, He either agrees with you and it’s fine, or he disagrees and leaves you alone.

“You definitely won’t find a shortage of that here. For a gala that is supposed to have dancing, there is a surprising lack of ballgowns.”

“Did you leave yours at home?” You glanced back to where Rex had been, his back was to you as he talked to a tall slender woman with a fur coat. You wanted to know more about his experience with Mune, you were practically counting down the minutes until it would be appropriate to walk over to him again. The woman laughed and you felt yourself stand up a little straighter, what were they talking about? It couldn’t be that funny. You practically felt your mood sour at the sight, turning back to the guy who had welcomed himself to your table.

“Touche.” He says, picking up his wine glass you hadn’t realized he had set down. “You’ll have to save me a dance.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I will be dancing.” You state quickly,

“Well, if you change your mind, save me one.” He lifted his glass to you and walked past you to another table where two people were standing.

You could feel your excitement fading once again. Tonight was going to be a long night if every interaction was like that. And it was going to be even longer if you kept turning to watch Rex seemingly hitting it off with everyone he talked to.

--

The evening was running without a hitch. You managed to make perfectly fine small talk with a variety of people while only conceding to a few drinks. Not that they had time to work their magic with your elevated blood processing. About forty-five minutes in, Mune entered the room, silence slowly falling over the different groups that is only broken by a few whispers.

“I hope you all donate as much as you drink up my fine wines.” The crowd laughs, but Mune seems more put out by them than actually making a joke. “The orchestra will be starting up in the next few minutes to start up the dancing, so I expect every one of you to visit the floor at least once. And if you don’t want to now, have a drink until you do.”

You would need a lot more than one drink to convince you to step out there, even if you didn’t have practically an immunity to alcohol as it was.

You nodded your goodbyes to a couple you had been talking with and spotted Bulletproof loitering around an empty cocktail table.

“Have you seen anything?” You ask in a low town as you take your place next to him.

“I mean, some idiot is definitely trying to steal a few pieces of the silverware but that’s about all the malicious intent I have seen so far.”

“It’s surprising how many of these people hate each other, and how easily they announce it to complete strangers.” You sigh, putting your hands on your hips and stretching out your back.

“You owe me so big for this shit.” Bulletproof grumbles, straightening out his tie.

“What, you’re not even having a bit of fun? You should go dance or something.” You snicker, turning so that your elbows are resting on the cocktail table behind you.

“I hate dances, I hate high society, and I’m starting to hate you.”

“Me?”

“You should have just asked Rex to join, why am I even here?” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply but I do actually like your company on missions Zandale.” You pause before shifting your hand in the air and adding with a smile: “Somewhat.”

“Am I wrong though? You asked me to come to bait Rex into coming didn’t you.”

“No, I asked you to come because I didn’t want to come alone, and you’re one of the only people on the team who can stand me.” You sigh heavily, giving a polite smile to someone as they walk by.

“Well, Rex-”

“Not everything is about Rex!” You say a little louder than you meant to, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose. “I couldn’t ask him, okay? He shouldn’t even be on the field; he was just shot in the head for Pete’s sake.”

“It’s the job.” You cringe at your words being recited back to you.

“I know.” You mutter gently. “But… I want better for him. I want better for Rae. Hell, even Kate should have had better.”

“You can’t protect him.” Zandale shrugs, but his voice is understanding. “Or any of them. We all knew the risks. Do you?”

You look up and out into the crowd, searching silently. Verdant eyes meet you during your search. He’s standing in a circle of people but angled just right so that you can see him between the shoulders of two people in front of him. You angle your head to the side to see him better between the two people. He mirrors the gesture, his lips downturned slightly before they grow into a full boyish grin. You smile back at him and then his attention is taken away from you as someone speaks to him.

“It was easier when he was mean to me.” You murmur bitterly, still watching Rex who appeared to be listening intently to what someone was saying.

“If you want, I could let him know, maybe even help him pull together another scheme to try and get you kicked out.”

“Ooh, enticing offer.”

Bulletproof looked back to where you were looking and sighed when he saw Rex. “You should go talk to him, ask him to dance, something. This thing sucks but it sucks more with your obvious ogling passing over me. I’m gonna barf.”

“I’m not ogling! I was watching someone else over there…” You feign a gasp. “Oh my god! He’s got a gun!” You look back at Zandale, “I’m working, see?”

“You both are insufferable to be around.”

“In a good way?”

“What-? No! How can you be insufferable in a good way?”

Bulletproof heads back to the bar, and you decide to look around outside. Huge double glass doors lead directly from the ballroom into the garden you had seen earlier. Attendees stand outside chatting and smoking cigarettes at several different parts of the patio area. Cocktail tables are set up sparsely all the way out and up to the fountain.

The smell of smoke and crisp night air fills your lungs, it is much cooler outside. A couple passes you, leaving an open table for you to stand at that easily surveys the area.

“I think I’ve missed my calling.” You don’t have to turn to know who it is, an uncontrollable smile crossing your face.

“Yeah?”

“I think I should have been a fucking con artist; these people love me.” Rex moves in next to you, breathing the night air in deeply. “I could do fundraisers, get ridiculous amounts of cash, and then just pocket it.”

“Let me know how that goes.” You snort, swiveling your head to face him.

“Seen anything?” It’s unnecessary, an excuse to keep talking. Even if you don’t fully believe Rae in her insistence that he shares your feelings you can recognize this from a mile away. You had said the same thing to Bulletproof earlier, but that had been to keep things light. Rex wasn’t one for small talk like that.

“Nope, Zandale saw someone stealing some silverware, but it’s been pretty calm, you?”

“Nothing as exciting as that.” He scoffs, his gaze trailing over the garden. You turn so that your back is to the table, leaning on your elbows again while watching the glittering lights from inside. Faint orchestral music can be heard from all over the garden. Couples dance, some with less grace than others, but all of them seem to be putting the most effort possible into it.

A small shiver travels up your spine at the chill of the night air. “God, a little cold out here, right?” More small talk.

Without hesitation Rex is pulling off his coat jacket. He brushed it out with his hand as if it made any difference and held it out to you.

“Oh, I’m not sure I really need-” He pulls his hand back almost imperceptibly and you let out a breath. “Okay.”

He places the coat over your shoulders after you step away from the table. It’s not horribly warm but at least it stops the breeze, Worse than the breeze is the fact that it smells like him. You hadn’t even realized you knew his smell until now, which was something you’d unpack later.

“Do you dance, Rex?” The question leaves your lips and almost instantaneously you can feel Rex tense beside you.

“No.” He responds curtly.

You just nod, not sure if you expected him to say something else. Your hands distractedly play with the edges of the tablecloth,

“Would you like to dance?”

“What? No.” You laugh awkwardly, still intently watching the pairs spin from behind the glass doors.

“I’m not asking if you want to dance, I’m asking if you would dance.” You look over at him and he had shifted, his hand outstretched to you. An actual invitation. “With me.”

“You don’t dance.” You respond softly, your gaze flickering down to his hand.

“I don’t.” He repeats, that boyish grin returning to his face. “Could I have this dance?”

You glance back to the crowd of dancers, then snap your gaze back to him. His emerald gaze is soft and nonjudgemental. You weren’t sure you even knew how to dance. You’d get out there and probably look like a fool in front of everyone. Rex would get irritated because you stepped on his foot one too many times, it was sure to be a disaster-

“You may.” The affirmation seemed to tie an invisible line between the two of you, as your hand met his. He doesn’t lead you into the ballroom though, rather he leads you down the steps into the grass. Most of the people who had left for smoke breaks had slowly trickled back inside. Besides a few stragglers, the two of you were alone.

“Afraid of the crowd?” You joke lightly, as he takes your hand and intertwined your fingers, his other hand coming to rest gently on your hip. Like he was holding it almost painstakingly away from direct contact.

“Maybe I don’t want to share.” He said it offhand as if it didn’t make your brain short-circuit. Weeks of casual conversation and visits to his hospital room, and this was the boldest thing he had said to you. It made you feel warm, fuzzy.

“Oh.” Was all you could manage. Rex took the lead, instructing you to follow his moves. “Where did you learn to dance?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t.” He says honestly. “I just watched the people inside for a long time. It’s fairly simple.”

“You were analyzing the people dancing?” You tried not to outwardly laugh, but your expression was giving you away. “Why?”

A beat of silence passes between you, and you listen to the cues of the loud orchestra rendered quieter by distance.

“I wanted to know what I was doing when we danced.” He admitted quietly, his hand on your hip twitching faintly as he finally let it rest fully against you. The feeling of his hand on you has your head spinning so much that you almost don’t register what he just admitted.

“You were planning on dancing with me?”

“Did I have much choice?”

“Yes, obviously!”

He chuckles lightly. “I’d be a fucking idiot not to take the opportunity.”

“Have you been drinking?” His hand tightens slightly against yours as you take your hand off his shoulder to pull his jacket back over your own once you start to feel it slide.

“Not much. Definitely not as much as Bulletproof, dude doesn’t seem to remember this isn’t a paid vacation.”

You scoff. “I feel bad for asking him to come, I just didn’t want to come alone.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?” The air between the two of you feels like it’s buzzing at the question, and your eyes lock with his.

“Did you want me to?”

“Yes.” His admission is quiet, whispered like it’s a secret. It makes your mouth feel dry, and your body feels even more responsive to his touch than you had thought was possible.

“I’d hoped you would come.”

“Then I guess we both got what we wanted.” A tense silence falls over the two of you as you glide across the grass, a small laugh leaving you as your heel gets caught on the uneven ground and you trip. You can hear the music winding down for the end of the dance, and both of your movements slow.

“You look…” He hesitates, biting the inside of his lip and looking away from your gaze. “You look beautiful tonight. By the way.”

“Don’t tease, I’m not an idiot.” You roll your eyes, but his words make you feel mushy, your guard dropping more by the second.

“Tease?” He cocks his head slightly, but his gaze doesn’t meet yours, it is settled further down your face. The realization sends an electric shock up your spine, into your fingertips.

He slowly looks up to your stare, his eyes half-lidded, and his pupils blown. Oh.

You open your mouth to retort, or really say anything, convinced you were imagining this. He looked down at the action, leaning in a few millimeters, but not enough to close the distance in any meaningful way. He seemed to be watching your reaction, waiting to see you react poorly, push him away, call him out. But you didn’t do any of that. You just waited, your eye darting over his face to watch every micro expression. His throat bobbed but he didn’t lean forward anymore, his brow furrowing.

“So, can I get that dance?” A voice cracks through the tension that had been building to a head, causing Rex to pull back entirely, his attention turning to the person speaking. His hand leaves your hip, but he doesn’t immediately drop your hand.

Mind racing you look up at who was maybe one of the people you would want to see least in the world right now. The man with the grey suit from earlier. He’s leaning against the archway, his arms folded over his chest. “You said I could have one if you decided to dance, and from the looks of it you just did.”

“Uh…” You run your free hand through your hair, willing your thoughts to quiet down so you can think. “Yeah, okay, just give me a moment.”

“The next song’s gonna start.” The man states, an insufferable grin spreading across his face.

You sigh and look at Rex, he looks back, his expression unreadable. Maybe you had misread the whole situation. Imagined that he might kiss you. You slid your fingers from his grasp and headed up the stairs back onto the patio area. “Thank you.” You called back to Rex, who was still standing where you left him.

Author's Note: Fun fact, the idea of Mune comes from a concept I have for a Cecil x reader one-shot. We will see if I ever write it :P

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped @spidernuggets @sweet-cuddlebug @ohmysoultakemysoul @lapisbwub @velovicy request to be tagged for new parts!

Chapter eighteen

[toxicrelief]

He found out he really likes training with his baddie gf

[toxicrelief]

Ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly.

[toxicrelief]

GAAAAAAHHHHHH

I love Gala events in fics 😛😛😛

If you take requests or suggestions, i believe that you would execute a bob reynolds fic with this plot ✨perfectly✨

I literally LOVE all of your bob fics. They’re my comfort reads before i go to bed at night!

Body Paint

Pairing: Bob.Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You are trying to find the best smudge proof lipstick for the upcoming gala that the team needs to attend tomorrow, and you have found the perfect test subject for the swatches.

Warnings: Pure and utter fluff, and there’s quite a bit of sexual tension. The reader and Bob both have feelings for each other and they’re both well aware of the mutual interest (secretly of course), she takes this as an opportunity to tease.

Author’s Note: I loved this request so much and I immediately started writing it because I was so excited to give it a go! So So Fun! Thank you for the submission! :) (also credit to the artist who made the drawing too because it’s fantastic)

Word Count: 3,362

You gave every drug store lipstick display a run for its money with the collection you had laid out across the bathroom sink. An entire rainbow of tubes was scattered in a controlled type of chaos–organized first by shade, then grouped meticulously by brand. Reds on the left, mauves and berries in the middle, and neutrals off to the right like a little modest army. You had even gone so far as to lay a folded white towel beneath the lineup like a staging mat, saving yourself from scrubbing stains off the marble countertop. The air smelled faintly of your makeup remover wipes–sweet and sterile–and your forearm was streaked with half-dried swatches, but it just wasn’t good enough.

This was all in the name of finding the lipstick. The one that not only matched the dress you were wearing to the PR gala tomorrow, but one that was also smudge-proof. You didn’t want feathering, or fading, and you certainly didn’t want it transferring onto napkins, glasses or people.

You wanted security.

You knew you should’ve started this task earlier in the week, but between back-to-back recon debriefs, endless intel meetings, and mediating three separate team arguments that nearly ended in Walker and Yelena actually strangling each other, the lipstick trials had fallen to the bottom of your to-do list.

Now there was less than twenty-four hours to go, and you were elbows-deep in swatches and stress.

You capped one more tube with a dissatisfied sigh and reached for the next–

Only to pause at the sound of a soft knock on the bathroom door.

“Y-Y/N?” Came Bob’s voice–muffled, hesitant and laced with that familiar nervous warmth. “I-I need to come in and get my brush. I forgot it after my s-shower…” You froze, mid-reach, one hand hovering over a berry toned satin finish tube. Your lips curled into a slow smile.

Perfect timing. For you, anyway. For Bob? That remained to be seen. You crossed the small tiled room in a few barefoot steps and swung the door open with a grin.

“Excellent! You’re just who I need.” Bob blinked at you like a deer caught in LED headlights. His shirt–black, baggy, and soft–was damp around the collar, clinging to his skin and chest in a way that made it impossible not to look. His light brown hair curled at in little waves at the ends, still damp from his shower that was still kissing the walls, and the navy sweatpants sitting low on his hips were hugging him far too well for a man who clearly didn’t see himself in the way you were seeing him in.

”…Wh-What?” He asked, brows furrowed, gaze daring from your eyes to the mess of tubes on the counter.

“Come in,” You said smoothly, reaching out and tugging him gently by the wrist, guiding him over the threshold with ease, “Sit on the toilet lid, and hurry up with the hair brushing…I need a test subject.” He obeyed-but only in the way someone might follow a siren calling them to certain doom. He moved like he wasn’t sure if he’d stepped into a trap or a daydream.

”L-Last time I heard the words ‘test s-subject’ I ended up getting injected with a sun god…” He mumbled, grabbing the brush from the hanging organizer on the shower door. You laughed, warm and low at the comment.

“Relax. I’m not injecting you with anything. You’re perfectly safe with me.” Bob sat down slowly, brush limp in his hand as his gaze swept across the counter again, scanning over the contents that you had lined up with such care.

”S-So what is all of t-this?” You turned slightly towards him, unscrewing a velvet-matte red as you spoke.

“I’m trying to find the perfect lipstick for the gala tomorrow,” You said matter-of-factly, swiping the colour gently across your bottom lip, “It has to match my dress and it has to be smudge-proof.”

Bob tilted his head, watching your quick movements intently, “Smudge-proof?”

“Yes. I don’t want to be constantly running to the bathroom to check for fading or fix transfer stains. I want to actually enjoy the night. Have a drink. Maybe dance. You know…Breathe.” He gave a thoughtful little nod, bringing the brush through his damp hair.

”D-Didn’t really think about that, a-actually…” You turned away from your reflection to look at him, a coy smile peeling onto your lips.

“Most guys don’t.” But Bob wasn’t most guys of course, and as expected, a beat later he added to the conversation again…

”…W-Wait…Why does it have to be completely smudge-proof though? I mean if you’re just–“ You shrugged, letting your gaze flick toward the mirror, while your lips pressed together, transferring the color over to the bare one above.

”You never know,” You said casually, “I might be planning on kissing someone.” Bob froze like someone had yanked all the oxygen out of the room. His cheeks–already pink from the post-shower warmth–turned a deeper, rosier red in seconds. It bloomed across his cheekbones, dusting the tips of his ears, and spread like a sunburn. His mouth opened slightly like he meant to say something, but all he managed to get out was:

”O-Oh…” He choked, swallowing the lump of nerves in his throat. The brush in his hand was still mid-motion through his damp locks, but it had stopped moving entirely. You smiled at him.

”Alright,” You started, twisting the lipstick down and putting the cap back on with a soft click, “First one. You ready?” He nodded slowly, like he couldn’t trust his voice. His eyes tracked you as you stepped forward–deliberate and unhurried–until you were standing directly between his legs.

His brush lowered slightly, and then the wave of your scent hit his nose.

Your perfume was warm, and sweet, with a hint of plum riding off of the tail end of each inhale he took. Beneath the main notes there was something tropical–maybe coconut from your makeup remover, or the vanilla-tinged balms you always wore when your lips were bare.

But now your lips weren’t bare at all. They were red, and bold, and smooth, just like fresh velvet. He looked up slowly, through his lashes, and found you were already staring down at him. You tilted your head, smiling, the curve of your mouth smug in a way that made something tighten in his chest.

You didn’t say anything as you reached forward–fingers brushing gently along the side of his jaw, your thumb just beneath the hinge of it. He let you tilt his head more toward you like he was made of clay and you were the ceramicist.

He dropped the brush into his lap, forgetting about it completely.

Your face hovered near his and he could feel his breath hitch audibly. You leaned in slow enough that he swore he could hear his own heartbeat ringing through the room.

Then your lips pressed to his cheek.

Warm, firm and lingering. It wasn’t a quick peck either. Not an innocent brush. It was a kiss.

You lingered just long enough for him to feel the curve of your mouth, and the faint stick of product with the pressure of intention behind it. He could smell the stain now–berries and heat, sharp pigment and your sweet breath that had a faint scent of strawberries from the gum you chewed on. If he was a sailor and you were the siren…He would be dead at sea.

When you pulled away, he swore the room was spinning a little. You cocked your head to the side and looked at the mark you had left just above the apple of his cheek. A bright, undeniable red, plastered on his pale tone.

“Hmm,” You said thoughtfully, “Definitely transferred.” Bob sat in stunned silence, skin still tingling from where your mouth had been–he didn’t know whether it was because he was allergic to the ingredients or because it was just him buzzing from all the adrenaline, though he would find out in due time. You dabbed at your own lips with a tissue saturated in make-up remover, wiping the colour clean.

“Not a keeper,” You mumbled, “It’s a shame–it was a really good match.” He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find words, nor could he find a way to breathe. He didn’t even know how he was still alive at this point, all he knew was he saw you reach out again.

You selected the next shade carefully.

A sultry plum–deep, and elegant, with just enough bite to stand out. You rolled the colour across your lips in smooth, practiced strokes, then blotted once on a folded tissue before turning back to him.

Bob still hadn’t moved an inch. He was still sitting frozen on the seat, brush limp in his lap, his shimmering blue eyes flickering between your mouth and the floor. The cheek you had kissed was flushed a bit deeper now.

“Test two,” You announced gently, stepping into his space again, until the hem of your t-shirt brushed against his thigh and he had nowhere left to look that wouldn’t betray him in some way. Your hand came up to his jaw again–just two fingers this time, soft and easy, tilting his face the opposite way.

His lashes fluttered under the feeling of your breath brushing over them as you kissed him again. This time it was just below his temple, closer to the hinge of his jaw–closer to where his pulse was throbbing faintly beneath his skin. You pressed a little firmer this time, letting your breath fan against his ear.

Bob inhaled a quiet breath through his nose, attempting to keep himself calm, but in reality he was gripping the fabric of his sweatpants between his fingers like it was the only thing holding him back from collapsing. When you pulled away, you didn’t look at him, you just kept your focus on the mark.

”…Transferred,” You murmured, brushing your thumb lightly over the stain–making sure it was more of a caress than a swipe. You didn’t move back this time, you just grabbed another makeup wipe and removed the color before reaching for another.

It was a dusty rose this time, it was softer, and much more muted than any of the other colors he had seen you in.

Once you had applied it, you leaned in–closer now–and kissed the slope of his cheekbone, just beneath the curve of his eye. Your lips barely grazed the skin there–it was as if you did it to see if he would flinch or move.

Bob’s jaw tensed under your touch, and you were hyper aware of his breath hitting your skin in short, warm bursts, his chest lifting against you. He hadn’t said a word–but his hands had now left his lap and were gripping the edge of the counter, white-knuckled in anticipation.

You reached for the next tube–something far more delicate than the dusty rose before it. A pink so faint it was almost nothing at all. A whisper of colour. You applied it, blotted it, then turned again. Bob had somehow managed to get a handle on his breathing in the moments you were applying the next colour, but it was too controlled. You could practically feel the storm building beneath his skin, golden and humming, and desperate to stay still.

Your thighs brushed the inside of his knees as you tilted his head up to yours again, looking at the way his skin was flushed and warm, beneath the shades of pinks and reds…A gradient of restraint. You leaned in, and this time your kiss landed just beside the corner of his mouth, not touching it, but close enough to tease.

Bob made a sound. It was barely audible. A sof, helpless little nnnnh in the back of his throat–like a gasp that had gotten stuck on the way out. You didn’t say anything. You only bit back a knowing smile, and pretended not to hear it. You just wiped your lips again and moved on to the next shade–a creamy nude gloss, with just a hint of peach.

You came back in and kissed beneath his jaw, where the stubble was soft and patchy and tender. The spot made him twitch, his throat working under the weight of the kiss, like he was trying to swallow air.

His breathing changed then and became heavier and shallower.

And when you came close to him again, in a different shade–this time pressing your lips right onto his Adam’s apple–Bob’s head tipped back instinctively.

Like he was offering himself up to you–surrendering himself completely.

You continued to kiss him, moving progressively lower, marking him up with various shades. Then suddenly you found yourself at the hollow of his throat, just between the lines of his collarbones. His chest was rising faster now, with flush traveling beneath his shirt, like it was echoing the trail your mouth had carved against his skin.

You pulled back slowly, lips hovering about the damp collar of his shirt, bringing your hand up to brush over the fabric.

”Oops…” You murmured softly, putting on a teasing tone beneath your words, “I think I’m running out of room.” Bob looked down at you with eyes that were no longer blue. You hadn’t even noticed he had his eyes closed tightly for the majority of this until now.

There was gold flickering at the edges. Sentry was just barely cresting the surface–quiet, curious, and turned-on by the proximity. He was enamoured by what was happening, and Bob was allowing him to watch through his eyes because he was too focused on trying to keep himself together. The air around Bob was shimmering faintly, vibrating with tension like he was lighting up the room.

The sensation of your lips had done this…You had done this, and you were proud of it.

Your nails dragged gently down the front of his shirt, tracing a circle around the fabric.

”I think you may need to take this off…To give me more space of course.” You whispered, watching as his brain seemed to short-circuit. His eyes were still half-lidded, heavy with heat and something distant and flickering gold. But when they opened fully they met yours with the softest, most terrified kind of care, glancing down at your mouth just as your bottom lip slipped between your teeth…And that’s what did it for him. That was the punch of encouragement to the gut.

He gave you a small nod, then reached for the hem of his shirt. His hands trembled slightly from the kind of overstimulated shyness that lived just under the surface of his flesh, in the space between ‘I want this’ and ‘I don’t know what to do with all of it.’ He peeled the black shirt up slowly, exposing inch after inch of pale skin, dusted with freckles and pure heat. There were a few scars here and there. A mole right near the dip of his sternum. A faint sheen of sweat that bloomed across his chest and shoulders from the heat in the room–or from the heat of your lips…Possibly both.

The fabric came over his head, messing up his semi-brushed hair in the process, and he folded it carefully in his lap like he was going to get up to put it on display or something. You let yourself stare.

At the freckles on his collarbones, the ones on his biceps. The soft stretch marks that feathered under his arms and the little curve of his ribs as they flared gently with each nervous breath he took. You wanted to map everything with your mouth.

So you did.

You leaned in again, with a fresh colour on your lips–deep pink this time, and kissed just beneath his collarbone, then a little to the right, then down the slope of his chest–right over where his heart was pulsating beneath its shield of flesh.

Bob made a quiet sound, something soft and strangled that never made it fully out of his throat. His hands were still in his lap, his thumbs gripping the hem of the shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from grabbing yours. Every part of him was vibrating–his jaw clenched, chest rising, shoulders tense–and still he let you do it, staying perfectly still.

You changed shades, kissing higher, then lower.

A sheer gloss that glimmered under the light as you kissed just below the curve of his pec. A matte brick red as you moved toward the center of his chest. Then you put on something soft again, something nude and barely there, as you pressed your hands against his thighs for a bit of leverage while your lips found the inside slope of his ribcage. You could’ve sworn you felt his knees buckle under your hands.

By the time you reached the underside of his pectoral muscle, you heard the faintest breath catch in his lungs, like he couldn’t even take full breaths anymore. And then you kissed just above it.

One final, perfect kiss.

You pressed your lips down and held them there–longer, slower, firmer–fighting back the urge to mark the skin with something that wasn’t lipstick. You felt the flutter of his pulse beneath it. And when you finally pulled away, you let your lips ghost against him, your eyes trailing down to where you had kissed.

“Ooooh. This one’s good…I think we found it. No transfer!” You announced, looking up at Bob, seeing the ruined look plastered on his face.

His eyes were heavy, shot through with blue and gold. His mouth parted. His skin was flushed a deep red and marked in soft lip stains, all across his chest, neck, jaw, and face. The air shimmered around him like static clinging to the atmosphere, and he was breathless. He let out a sigh.

”P-Perfect,” He whimpered, so dazed his words barely had shape to them. His body shifted, like he was meaning to stand–maybe to retreat, maybe to run cold water over his steaming body, maybe just to breathe–

But you didn’t let him.

Before he could even try to get up, you surged forward and kissed him on the lips. Hungry, wet, and deep. You kissed him like it was the conclusion to a story you had been telling in colour across his skin. Bob let out a muffled, desperate little moan into your mouth, as his hands found your waist, then your back, then your hips–grabbing, pulling, and holding. He crushed you to him, allowing all his restraint to unravel all at once, letting what little control he had slip through his fingers.

You kissed him like you had wanted to from the very start. Like all the kisses around his whole body led to this one final one–this overwhelming, messy, and utterly perfect one.

He kissed you back with awe. With the kind of pressure that said ‘thank you, please don’t stop, I’ve been waiting.’

You pulled back just enough to breathe–barely. Your foreheads bumped, and the air between you was heat, electricity, and trembling silence.

Bob’s lips were swollen now. Kiss-bitten, and wet. But when you looked…

The colour on your lips hadn’t transferred onto his. You smirked, and reached up, gently swiping the faintest trail of spit off his swollen bottom lip with your thumb, tilting your head to the side.

”Fantastic,” You whispered, leaning forward just a bit, “It’s definitely kiss-proof.”

[toxicrelief]

THIS IS SO PRECIOUS OMG

HIS LITTLE SCRUFFY BUZZ

I drew up something super quick and similar with @isnotraven

I want to gnaw on him

Crawling Back to You

Chapter sixteen

Synopsis: You realize a bit more about how you feel towards Rex that extends past just being teammates. Just in time for a specialized mission you’re the only one interested in going on.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Chapter: 16/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: None

Note: I loved reading your guy's shocked comments last time, you're all so funny. This chapter and the next were both going to be one chapter but this one is already so long it would probably end up being 10k+ words 😭 Then the chapter after the next one will be a Rex POV. Reblogs, comments, likes, taglist requests are all very appreciated!!

You don’t like him. Not like that, that’s ridiculous. You could hardly stand him a few days ago! It wasn’t even just dislike, you hated him. And he hated you. He spent months trying to get rid of you. This is ridiculous, more than ridiculous it’s… well, it’s just plain idiotic. You barely like him enough to visit his room! And that’s just because you feel bad. Sure, he seems to be making an effort of sorts to be better, but that does not erase months of heartache and borderline misery. Heartache isn’t the right word, that implies that he has some kind of effect on your heart, which he does not.

But he was at least semi-good company after long shifts at the hospital. Who else did you have? Rae didn’t want to entertain you constantly, and she was still asleep most of the day because of her healing process. So, who else did you have other than the asshole? You just liked to see his steady improvement; it was akin to a social experiment. Nothing more. And as far as social experiments went at least he was somewhat good company. You liked the banter as much as you hated to admit it. And you liked how much he seemed to concede to what you were saying. A stark contrast to the Rex who had fought you on everything. If you asked to see his new hand, he would let you see it without hesitation. If you told him to stop talking while you were trying to focus on a message that just popped up from Cecil, he would instantly shut up. It was like he had been trained almost overnight. Sure, he could be funny, and surprisingly insightful but that doesn’t mean anything either.

At this very moment, he’s telling you how annoyed he is at his hair. Which as of now was starting to grow out from the close-cut buzz he had received during surgery. It was a little scruffy, not nearly long enough to be weighed down, so it just stuck out in different directions. He looked dumb in an endearing sort of way. For the first part of your visit, he just sat with one hand on his head as if it would hide it from you. Chunks stuck up through his fingers, and he somehow made it look perfectly natural for someone to sit like that. Until he needed to talk about something with more animation, and then his annoyance at how it looked was forgotten. You didn’t think it looked that bad, it was very different from his usual look, but not bad. It looked soft-  

Ah, shit.

You were starting to like Rex.

It was hard enough to look him in the eye after your dream the other night. It was embarrassing honestly. You might have self-indulged a little, asking Rex to inspect his hand for fully no reason other than because you wanted to. He didn’t even ask why, just offered it and kept talking.

“Cecil’s talking about getting me to be field ready after today-”

You hummed quietly, only half listening after your sudden realization. God, Rae was going to have a field day with this.

“I hope my suit is all fixed up, you know? If not I guess I could call Eve or something cause the amount of damage it had I doubt I could patch it up-” His left hand was still nudged towards you, palm up, even though you were no longer examining it.

“Wait, you said Cecil wants you back on the field?” You dropped your thought process for a moment, finally focusing fully on him.

“Uh, yeah.” He said with a small nod. “I’m getting discharged today, they said I’m basically good to go-”

“I don’t think ‘basically’ isn’t very assuring.” You frowned.

He tilted his head a little at you, a sly smile ghosting over his lips. “You worried about me, nurse?”

Normally you would roll your eyes, quickly followed by an exasperated groan. But now, you could swear the temperature of the room went up a few degrees. “No, I’m worried that if you get put on a mission, you’ll fuck it up. You should be fully healed before going out again.” Harsh, maybe harsher than it needed to be. But you didn’t want him reading into the way you had just looked at him.

“First of all, fucking ouch. Second of all, if you’re so worked up about it, why not just check me yourself?” He holds his right hand out to where you sit on the recliner.

You glance down at his hand before snapping your gaze back up to him. “Well, if the doctors say you’re good to go-”

He barks out a laugh. “What is going on right now?”

“They are professionals, they know what they’re doing.” Your eyes jerk down to his hand for a second again, which he is still holding out to you.

“You just said-” Rex raises a brow, but before he can finish you interrupt.

“Oh, piss off, fine.” You grab his hand a little rougher than you meant to. You can feel him tense from the gesture which sends a feeling down your spine. Good or bad, you couldn’t quite tell, but you felt it. You close your eyes, focusing on whether there are any remaining injuries, and surprisingly enough, besides a few left-over bruises he seems fairly fine. You let go after healing the measly remainder, “See? You’re all set.”

“See?” Rex repeats, confusion lacing his tone. “See what? I wasn’t the one raising doubts,” He looks to the other side of the room as if looking for an imaginary camera. “What-?”

“Gotta stop living in the past Rex, keep moving forward.” You stand up swiftly, preparing to leave. Should you feel bad for borderline gaslighting the poor guy? Maybe. But you were feeling your own confusion as it was.

“Wait.” Rex’s voice calls out as you go to grab your coat. “Are you still coming around the HQ?”

“Yep, still work there.” You folded your coat over your arm.

“So, I’ll see you around?” He’s wincing slightly as if he’s being too vulnerable, and he has to express it externally.

“Yes.” You affirm, your expression softening. “I know where you live, don’t worry.” You give him a small smile.

“I know where you live too.” He says back.

“Great, and I know where I live, and you know where you live, so we’ve got that covered.” Not sure how to fully end this exchange, you take a few steps back to exit the room.

Rex opens his mouth as if to say something, but quickly snaps it shut, gripping the sheets of his hospital bed tightly. His jaw ticks as he looks off to the side, and you decide you need to get out of there now before you make a fool of yourself.

“See you later, Rex!” You call out as you step out of the room.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You’re entering Rae’s room; some trashy reality TV show is playing on the screen. Rae herself is working on some breakfast, obviously not enjoying it much. “Hello?” She raises a brow at you as you close the door with an unintentional slam.

“Hi.” You respond as you sink into the chair.

“Did someone die?” She eats a spoonful of her food, shuddering as she swallows.

“Worse.” You respond dramatically, your hands covering your face.

“They’re making you move into The Guardian’s HQ?”

“Ohhh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You peeked through your index and middle finger to look at her.

“Eh, not really. Then I can’t escape to your apartment for drink  nights. So, if it’s not that then what is it?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“Probably.”

“It’s so ridiculous.”

“Come on, are you being paid by the word?”

“Rex.” You close your fingers, feeling your face heat up again.

“Of course.” Giggles sound off from Rae’s direction as soon as you say it, not needing to ask another clarifying question. “I knew this was coming.”

“How?” You tried not to sound extremely pathetic, but it still came out in a half whine. “I couldn’t stand him!”

“You brought him a bottle after you kicked his ass, constantly looked at him when he was around, talked about him when I was over-” She starts counting out on her fingers.

“You’re the one who brought him up when you came over!” You exclaim.

“Because I knew you wanted to talk about him!”

“He has been the major cause of any drama or problem in my life, of course I’d want to talk about that. That doesn’t mean I liked him!” You held your hands out in an animated fashion as you spoke.

“Oh no, you definitely didn’t like him. But you thought about him all the time, didn’t you?”

“Ugh, you’re not making me feel better.”

“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about it being one-sided.” She finally ditched the food, pushing it away with a sour face.

“What?” You slouch more in the chair, swiveling to face her.

“Every bit of energy you’ve taken up talking, or complaining-or whatever, about him, he’s done like tenfold over you. He’s obsessed.”

You sigh and roll your eyes, somehow sinking further down. “I wish I had your level of delusion, Rae.”

“Call me delusional all you want, give it a few days, weeks.” She pauses and looks at you. “Or months, given the sluggish pace you two have been moving. I might be dead by then with the likes of this job.”

“Oh boy.”

Rae takes the pause to turn more towards you, letting out a groan at the exertion which has you shooting up even though she has no intentions of letting you help. “So, what made you finally realize?”

“Are you sure I can’t help in some way?” You rub your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Stop changing the subject, help me by giving the details.”

You sigh for what must have been the millionth time since entering the room. “I had…a dream.”

“Ooh, the scandal!”

“Shut up.” Pause. “Yeah, I mean kind of.”

“Call me the moment he shows up at your apartment looking like a lost puppy, Bulletproof is going to owe me so much money.”

“I really hope you’re joking.”

--

“No offense, but since when did we take orders from you, Donald? Where is Cecil?”

“This isn’t orders, it’s a prospect job.” Donald responded with a cool air.

He was always good at taking the shit everyone gave him. It made you feel for him more than most.

A few days have passed since you last saw Rex at the hospital. Somehow the two of you just couldn’t seem to coincide at the headquarters. It was frustrating, and even more frustrating than the lack of his presence in your life, was the fact that it frustrated you in the first place. You had walked by instinct to his room at the hospital multiple times the day after he left just to be greeted by sterile air and the smell of various detergents used to clean the area. The disappointment that filled you with the sight of it was not lost on you.

Right now, you finally saw him. The Guardians were assembled for some ‘special’ mission. Donald had gathered you all on Cecil’s behalf, it had all been very vague. Every member was present minus Rae, who was still recovering, and now going through physical therapy. And Kate, who was well…dead.

The memory of the fallen member had its effect on you just like every other mistake you had made. In order to be productive, both as an individual and as a hero, you had to push it away every time it entered your mind. You could wallow or you could act. You choose to act.

“A job? I thought we already had jobs. You know, being that we are Guardians and all.” Rex’s voice sounded out from the other side of the group, causing you to shift your attention. He was wearing his suit, and from the state of it he had recently been in a fight. His headpiece was pushed back but his goggles were perched on top of his head, his short hair poking up around it. You clenched your jaw tightly, he should be on vacation, having a break, or I don’t know, in therapy? He almost died. There’s no way that he came back from that completely fine. In that case, maybe you should be in therapy too, the number of times you’ve kind of almost died. But that’s only kind of so you’re obviously exempt. Rex shifted slightly, his line of sight landing on you, which sent you looking back at Donald again with no idea how long you’d been staring.

“This is technically out of Guardian jurisdiction, but an important donor has asked us specifically for undercover security detail.”

“Wait, we’ve been asked to be someone’s glorified security guards? Isn’t that a bit below our pay grade?” Bulletproof sounds off from right next to you.

“There are plenty of other heroes around, do you need a portfolio that you could send to him? I still have one from when I was running tryouts for the new team.” Rudy input a bit further down the line.

You glanced over before adding your own contribution, “Donor? Aren’t we government-run? How do we have donors?”

“They have asked specifically for members from The Guardians. You can technically refuse, but it wouldn’t be without repercussions.” Donald focuses on you. “There are a select few donors that contribute to the GDA and other operations, which entails all of you. Makes for more funds for renovations after damages that occur after Guardian missions.”

It makes sense, kind of. Cecil made a comment to you once about how much it costs to use his teleportation device, and with how much upkeep the Guardians themselves take just from missions, you can’t imagine it is in any way cheap. But donors?

“It would be a small detail, two or three. The person of interest has received a few concerning terroristic threats and wants to be sure everything runs smoothly.”

“Everything, as in?” Amanda questions.

“It’s a fundraiser, a gala-”

“A dance? This is ridiculous.” Immortal interjects, scoffing at Donald. “We are the Guardians of the Globe, not some dollar store rent-a-cop business.”

A few voices intertwine, speaking out all at once, mostly sounding disgruntled, displeased. On one level you understood their reservations. This was not the kind of thing any of you dealt with. Stakeouts? Sure. Life-threatening last-minute situations? Of course. A money-raising ball with the off chance of terrorism? Not as much.

Rex’s voice was surprisingly not one of those you heard. You tried to subtly look over at him, just to see that he was already looking right at you. Seemingly gauging your reaction. After looking away so suddenly earlier you would be pushing your luck doing it again right now. There was nothing else you’d rather do than break this scathing contact, but you just looked at him. And he looked back, his pale green gaze washing over you. Internally, you were trying to decide how long an acceptable amount of time would be to look at him, giving him a small smile. You didn’t have to wonder for long, because he broke the eye contact first. His attention turned to Immortal who was saying something about none of them partaking in this “obsolete distraction”.

“I’ll do it.” Before you fully thought it through the affirmation passed your lips. You weren’t really sure what the big deal was. So, what, it’s not some city-leveling threat. It almost sounded like fun, even exciting. You would be able to dress up, play a part, improvise. It would be a nice change of scenery.

Immortal sighed heavily. “You can have her. But we can’t spare anyone of importance.”

Give me a fucking break. You closed your eyes, letting out a controlled breath before turning to Bulletproof. “Come with me.” You whispered.

“Oh, hell no. I don’t want to have to dress up for some dance. No way.” He whispered back, not turning his head.

“Please! It would be at least a few days away from this place. It could be like a vacation.” You hiss, determined to get someone to go with you. Bulletproof was nice enough, and you knew he would be professional, which you couldn’t say for other members.

And you wouldn’t dare ask Rex.

“Ugh.” Bulletproof grumbled quietly. “I’ll go too.” He said loud enough for everyone else to hear.

Donald nodded, giving you what you swore must have been a look of appreciation, but with the glasses, you just couldn’t tell.

The Immortal grunted in displeasure but didn’t comment, folding his arms.

“I’ll also go.”

The whole group turns their attention to the voice that spoke from the other side of the room.

“What? I’d never say no to a party, you guys should know that by now.” Rex expressed with a composed tone.

“We can’t spare both you and Bulletproof.” Immortal said gruffly, turning to Donald. “Won’t just one person do?”

He couldn’t even use your name. Your expression betrayed how much this was getting under your skin, but you couldn’t seem to return to indifference.

“Technically, only two members are needed-” Donald starts,

“If something happens Bulletproof can just fucking fly back-or something, right?” Rex cuts in, drawing attention back to him.

“Technically-” Bulletproof begins, holding a hand up to his chin.

“Great. Then it sounds like we’re set.” Rex finishes and you catch his eye for a moment, mouthing a small ‘thank you’, to which he briskly nods, looking back at the Immortal.

“Very well.” Immortal bites out, leaving the conversation entirely, followed closely by Black Sampson.

“Shall I too go on this adventure?” Shapesmith asks, which is immediately shut down but a hand on the shoulder from Bulletproof and a shake of the head.

“You will each receive a detailed briefing later today by handout.” Donald explains to the three of you that agreed to attend. “The Gala is located on the donor’s personal land in northern Montana. The morning after will consist of a special guest brunch which you all will be attending as well. There will be rooming for you there as they want you on scene all night long just in case. And it would also be easier on resources to keep you all there.”

“Who is this person?” You inquire, Donald has not said anything specific this whole conversation other than where this dance would take place, and that the mystery person was a donor for the GDA.

“That will be in the handout you receive.” He stated concisely.

“Why all the secrecy?” Rex furrows his brow, folding his arms.

“Discretion is involved regarding every donor.” Donald responds, straightening his tie. “The gala is tomorrow night, you will all be flown in tomorrow afternoon, outfits and identities will be assigned to you.”

Bulletproof looked exceptionally put out, Rex looked like he was trying to solve long division in his head, and you? Well, you were borderline ecstatic.

--

You would never get used to using a private jet. After so long flying commercially, all the space felt like heaven. Your back didn’t start aching after the first hour, you could stand up and stretch your legs, even more you could write an essay about the bathroom. The other times you had traveled in the Guardian-affiliated-jet it had been the whole team. Now it was just you, Bulletproof, and, worst of all, Rex.

The carpet was a crisp maroon, the rest of the interior was a sterile white. Which you thought sharply contrasted with the Guardians of the Globe headquarters, that consisted mostly of aluminum tones. The walls of the plane’s interior were accented with mahogany plating, something you couldn’t decide if you thought was tacky or classy. The opinion changed every mission.

Any excitement at the prospect of being in semi-close quarters with Rex again was quickly drowned out by Rex and Bulletproof incessantly bickering.

“I’m just saying I still think you could have come up with a more inspired name.”

“I’m about to be inspired to knock your teeth out.” Bulletproof spit back.

You didn’t get between them, eventually they would both wear themselves out.

The clouds outside your window hung far below. Clustered together, forming wool-like patterns. For a moment you imagined what it would be like to surf on it. Then you looked back at the handout Donald had provided you each with. The three of you were meant to be covert, blend in. You were each free to use your own names, as apparently most of these people were not horribly well-informed. However, you each had been assigned backstories. You were a philanthropist by blood, having inherited a section of the oil industry. Rex was a wildlife activist who had traveled all over the world. Zandale was meant to be a journalist who was writing about the event for Time Magazine. Hopefully, there wasn’t someone there actually from Time Magazine, but you guessed that Donald already checked the guest list for that.

When you first read through it you had mentioned to the other two that you thought it was odd that Rex was the person who had been all over, rather than Zandale, who could fly.

“I have been all over.” Rex had said defensively.

“What? When?” You had scoffed.

“Just…well, a while ago, I don’t fucking know.” The tension in the room had skyrocketed for reasons you weren’t sure of, so you didn’t ask further.

The donor was someone named Dr. Mune. Apparently, the doctor was a genius. Having created many of the lifesaving measures the GDA is still using today. One of those included the brand-new hand Rex was situated with. You wish you could have seen Rex’s reaction to that information. Would it make him work harder on the mission? Or did he feel indifferent to it? It made you feel more connected to the job; the new hand was nothing short of a work of art. Memories of how it felt against your touch flood your vision, sending electricity down your spine.

“Joy?” You turned as Rex said your nickname, feeling annoyance at the sound of it after it had been used so long as an insult. Or at least that was how you had formerly perceived it.

You hummed in response, waiting for him to speak.

“Well, what do you think?” Rex said, tilting his head.

“I think you’re both extremely annoying.”

“God, I already know that. Focus! Whose name is better?”

They both looked at you expectantly. It was weird to see Bulletproof, or rather Zandale, without his goggles on.

“Do I have to take a vote?” You sighed heavily, turning back to the window.

“Yes.” They responded in unison.

“I like Invincible’s name most probably.”

“That was not one of the options but thank you for reminding us of your crush.” Rex retorted, a hint of bitterness lacing his words.

You scoffed, turning back towards them, ready to correct him, only to hear Zandale let out a laugh. Your gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowing. He was pursing his lips and purposefully not looking at either of you. Shit. Rae hadn’t been joking. Great.

“What?” Rex looked at him too, his brow drawing together tensely.

He bit the corner of his upper lip, looking up at you first then at Rex, then back and forth a few times. GREAT.

“How do you know I don’t have the hots for Bulletproof here, hm?” You panicked, you had to say anything to get him to get off Zandale’s obvious trail.

This caused them both to turn their attention to you. “What?” They said in unison again, which made you laugh.

“God, you two are like Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum, I’m surprised you don’t get along better.”

Rex shook his head while holding his hands up as if putting away all of this information to deal with later. “Okay, can you just answer the original question?”

You hum again, you could be honest, or you could really mess with Rex. Unfortunately for Rex… “Honestly, probably Bulletproof.”

“Suck it!” Zandale shoots up out of his seat, doing some kind of air-pump gesture.

“You- you’re lying! She’s fucking lying don’t listen to her!” Rex holds his hands out in distraught, watching as Bulletproof had his own little celebration.

For a brief moment, you made eye contact with him, smiling the cheesiest grin. His annoyed expression softened as he sucked on his teeth. For that small moment, it felt like it was just the two of you. Your smile shrunk into something more genuine, gentler. And for some reason, you waved. It was small, you hardly lifted your hand. His gaze dropped to it, and a small smile ghosted over his lips before he returned the action. His free hand gripping the armrest tightly.

--

Bulletproof had nodded off, his head rested against the edge of the window next to his seat. You were thankful more than anything he didn’t snore. He had already changed into his tuxedo for the night, it bunched up at his chest while he slouched against it. Someone, somewhere in high society would have cried at the sight.

You and Rex hadn’t changed yet. Rex exclaimed that he wanted to remain a free man as long as possible, and you thought it would be more exciting to dress up closer to landing time. Your stomach was already starting to twist unpleasantly each time the pilot announced the amount of time until arrival. It was similar to your first mission, fresh, and unfamiliar. A good portion of your stomach aches revolved around glances to the other side of the plane at your teammate. After the conversation had died down, he hadn’t looked in your direction once. You would have felt hurt by it, wondered if he was starting to hate you again. But it felt too charged, too intentional. The old Rex wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot a glare in your direction. This was nothing like that.

You would glance over at him from time to time, his gaze was on his lap, and had been for almost an hour, his hands clasped together, left thumb tapping the tip of his right one. You were positive he could see you somewhat, because every time you looked over his jaw clenched.

We will be making our descent in forty-five minutes.

“I’m gonna get dressed.” You whisper so as to not wake up Zandale while rising out of your seat. Rex practically jumps out of his seat at the broken silence.

He clears his throat. “Okay.”

What was that? “Are you okay?” You grab the garment bag containing your dress, and the shoe box next to it from the overhead rack.

Rex nods, letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, obviously, I just forgot you were here.”

“You forgot I was here?” You raised a brow, holding the garment bag over your shoulder as you turned to look at him.

“What? I’ve got a lot on my mind. Whole…mission and everything.”

“Okay, weirdo.” You laugh, moving towards the nose of the plane where the restroom is located.

Once inside, you pulled the dress out. It was a silky material- well, it probably was silk now that you thought about it. You would have to thank Donald for whatever strings he had pulled to make it your favorite color. The dress was sleeveless, with a mock neckline. It was fairly simple, the end of the dress reached down to your ankles. The shoes had a few inches of heel to them, which made you hope there would not be any hitches in the night, as you’d have to ditch them the moment you needed to sprint anywhere.

After getting it all situated and neatly folding your streetwear you started to pull the zipper up on the back of your dress, only for it to get to a point on your back you couldn’t reach.

A few beats of silence passed before you tried reaching your hand over your shoulder to get it, with no success.

You were not going to be able to do it on your own. How had women for decades zipped their dresses alone? Should you take it off, zip it, and try to pull it over your head? If it ripped in any way you were royally screwed. With a defeated sigh, you grabbed your stuff, put your hand out towards the door, and slowly pushed it up.

Rex was standing in the aisle, pushing his show box back into the overhead space. He had gotten dressed at the same time as you. Got dressed is a loose way of putting it. If someone could spin their way into clothing, you imagine they would look like Rex did now.

“You’re going to wrinkle it.” You put your things down in the first seat you walked by, straightening out the front of your dress absentmindedly as you made your way to him.

“I don’t think the shoes are going to wrinkle-” Rex started with a scoff before he closed his mouth from the scathing look you gave him and…something else.

“The suit, jackass.” You try not to smile, as you finally reach him. “This is supposed to be buttoned- you missed one of your shirt buttons.” You point out, the end of his dress shirt lopsided at the bottom. “Your shirt is also meant to be tucked in. Didn’t you see how Zandale looked?” You hold your hands out offering to help but he brushes you off, undoing his shirt himself with a groan.

“Since when were you two on a first-name basis?” He mumbled, working his way down them.

“Since I started treating him like a human being, so always.” You roll your eyes at him, folding your arms as you wait for him to catch up.

Did you forget he was, for lack of a more delicate way to put it, completely and totally built? No. You had seen his torso before, you had spent the better part of a half-hour with your hand pressed to it, healing him after a wound you had inflicted. But this wasn’t like that time. Then, you had been focused on the shame you had felt for causing the injury in the first place. Now, you were a bystander. Waiting to tell him how to properly wear his suit.

At first, you watched him, the way his hands flexed with each button. How the white linen of his shirt accented his chest underneath, which was becoming more and more visible. The way his chest rose and fell subtly with each inaudible huff. You eventually had to look away, determined to look at anything that wasn’t the warm tone of his skin.

His hands caught slightly on the last button, and he muttered something about ‘not having to put up with this shit’ as if he wasn’t the one to put it on wrong in the first place. “So, I just-?” He started from the bottom, lining each hole up to its corresponding button. He paused after a few, glancing up at you as if checking he was doing it right.

“Yep.” Your voice cracked in the worst way, forcing you to clear your throat as inconspicuously as possible. “Have you never worn a button-up?” Anything to get your mind off the fact you were blushing right now based on how warm you were feeling.

“You don’t really get the opportunity much in this business. Only time it’s ever come up was for funerals. The only one I’ve ever considered going to was for the old GDA director. But I didn’t end up going so…” He pauses for a moment, his thumb rubbing a few times over the material. “This good?” He asks, holding his hands up so you can see.

“Yeah, that’s good.” You respond softly. “Now you’ve got to tuck it in.” A breath passes as he does as you say. “What was he like?” You aren’t sure if you should ask, but you do any ways.

He stops what he’s doing and looks up at you. Making direct eye contact for the first time since your wave earlier. “The director?” A small look of confusion spreads over his features, clearly not thinking you would ask further.

“Yeah, I’ve never heard anything about him.” You tighten your arms closer over your torso, nibbling on the inside of your cheek.

“Oh, well-” He continues tucking his shirt in, “He was, well he was an asshole is what he was. If you think Cecil is uncaring, you should have seen Director Radcliffe.”

Even from the way Rex called him by his title rather than his first name like Cecil, you could feel the difference in relationship. “Were you around him a lot?”

“Yeah.” Rex said softly. “Okay, so I button this up then or do I leave it open?” He gestured to his suit vest.

You file away that conversation for later, not wanting to push him further than he was comfortable with. “Yes, you button that.”

“Do I tuck it in?”

“No.”

“What about this?”

“Wait, where’s your tie?”

Rex looks around for a moment, his hands suspended out partially as he looks around. “It was…ah, here.” He holds it up triumphantly after grabbing it from where it lay crumpled a few seats down. It was the exact same shade as your dress, in the same silky texture. You wanted to sigh. You were going to look like prom dates.

“I’m guessing you don’t know how to tie it?”

Rex looks down at it for a split second before looking back at you. “Do I really need it?”

“Yes. You will stand out immediately. This whole thing is supposed to be undercover, remember?” You hold your hand out for him to hand it to you.

“You know how to tie it?” He looks at you with suspicion, as if you’re trying to pull a fast one.

“Yes, now will you let me help you?” He looks down at it for a moment, then begrudgingly gives it. “I learned in the hospital, I had this one patient who never let me heal him, but he always wanted to wear a tie.” You start as you signal for him to bend down, he does so without convincing and you hook it around his neck, angling it so it would rest under his upturned collar. “He never wore a suit or anything, but he insisted on wearing one over his gown. The first day I was there, I had no clue. He got really mad, huffed, puffed, the whole act. Told me he never wanted to see me again unless I learned how to tie a tie.” You looped it, “When I got back to my apartment, I was so frustrated. I swore I was going to quit at the hospital, quit with Cecil, everything. I was scared to join the Guardians, and I didn’t think I was ready-”

“You were scared to join the Guardians?” Rex interrupted; a quick glance up revealed that he was staring at you intently. You returned your eyes to your work, ignoring the rekindled heat that spread across your face.

“Don’t interrupt. Anyways, I was so mad. I picked up my phone to call Cecil, I was done. And then I got distracted. I opened a tutorial on how to tie a tie, then another. And soon enough I had watched way more than I needed, and I was sure if I tried again I could do it.”

“And did you?”

“No.” You laughed, “I screwed it up immediately, and he threw his Jello at me.”

“Jesus, really?”

You nodded. “And then I went back the next day and tried again, and the same the day after that. Until one day I did it right. He never thanked me or acknowledged the times before, but slowly he started telling me about his life. His wife who passed away a few years ago, his children that didn’t know where he was. Everything. I used to look forward to seeing him.” You finished tying it, but you didn’t let go quite yet.

“Do you still see him?” Rex’s voice came out soft, you could feel his words against your face.

“He died.” It was short, simple, but not sweet. Bitter reality. “He had stage four leukemia, even if he had let me heal him it wouldn’t have mattered. I can’t fix stuff like that.” You folded down his collar, your fingers lingering over it. You could feel his body heat just below the fabric.

“Did you go to his funeral?” You looked up at that. His gaze wasn’t on you but shifted to the side. You weren’t sure what response he was looking for, or why he asked, but you answered.

“No.” It was a quiet response, uttered so soft he could hardly hear, even from his close proximity. He met your gaze, searching it quietly. And you let him, staring right back.

Five minutes to arrival.

The pilot’s voice jarred you both, causing you to let go of his tie, and remove your fingers from his collar. The sudden interruption sent Rex back into a fully upright position, rather than the slouch he had been partaking in for your ease. He shoved the tie under his suit vest and straightened out the jacket.

“How do I look?”

You held your hand up in a spinning motion and he did a quick turn. “You clean up pretty well. Almost looks like you weren’t in the hospital a few days ago.” He looked good, so good you didn’t want to keep looking at him. This almost qualified as torture.

“That’s all I needed to hear.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling from the depth of it. Just that small detail made your stomach flip. You needed to get this under control-

Oh, right, your dress. “Rex, can you actually help me with his?”

He nods, waiting for you to do something but you just stand there. Shit, you should have just risked ripping the damn thing. “It’s my dress. I can’t get it zipped.”

“Oh.” He blinks a few times. “Your dress has been unzipped this whole time?”

“I got it part of the way, so it’s not falling off or anything, calm down.” You tried to joke but your palms were sweating. If anyone needed to calm down, it was you. All you were doing was asking for a zip, pull yourself together. After checking that he was still waiting to help, you shake out your hands at your sides and then turn so he can do what you’ve asked. “Hopefully you’re better at zipping than buttoning.” The chuckle that follows your words is dry.

“I think I can manage.” His voice is low, and you can feel his breath fanning over the back of your neck, causing you to suppress a shiver. You should have asked Bulletproof, woken him up, or something. You can feel his fingertips press lightly into your back as he holds the two sides together so that his other hand can pull up the zipper. The contact itself gives you goosebumps, every thought you can conjure now that isn’t about the feel of him is praying that he doesn’t notice. “I think you’re set.”

“Thanks, Rex.” His hands don’t leave your back in haste, his left hand brushing over your exposed shoulder blade. You turn a notch, looking at him against your better judgment.

He clears his throat and puts his hands down. “You’re set.”

“You said that already.” You smile, mildly confused.

He stares at you again, expression unreadable, and his jaw ticking like before. Then, he steps back. “Someone’s got to wake sleeping beauty.” His previous expression fades and is replaced by one of mischief, as he tips over to where Bulletproof is. Fully intending to scare him awake.

The plane eventually landed, and the three of you talked about your game plans, which ended up just being ‘don’t be suspicious, mingle-’ pretty self-explanatory.

“Where are we?” You were looking out the window, your fingers splayed out around it as you leaned down. There were other planes around you, but from the way you were angled, you couldn’t see the airport.  

Both of the guys shrugged, helpful as always. You moved to the nose of the plane where the pilot had already opened up the door.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Rex followed up close behind you.

“We landed in the backyard.”

Rex looked out at the other planes lined up next to you and then over at the looming mansion. “What the fuck?”

Author's Note: Rex is so yapper boyfriend core. Guys tell me what color’s your dresses and Rex’s tie is :3

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped @spidernuggets @sweet-cuddlebug @ohmysoultakemysoul request to be tagged for new parts!

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter sixteen

Synopsis: You realize a bit more about how you feel towards Rex that extends past just being teammates. Just in time for a specialized mission you’re the only one interested in going on.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Chapter: 16/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: None

Note: I loved reading your guy's shocked comments last time, you're all so funny. This chapter and the next were both going to be one chapter but this one is already so long it would probably end up being 10k+ words 😭 Then the chapter after the next one will be a Rex POV. Reblogs, comments, likes, taglist requests are all very appreciated!!

You don’t like him. Not like that, that’s ridiculous. You could hardly stand him a few days ago! It wasn’t even just dislike, you hated him. And he hated you. He spent months trying to get rid of you. This is ridiculous, more than ridiculous it’s… well, it’s just plain idiotic. You barely like him enough to visit his room! And that’s just because you feel bad. Sure, he seems to be making an effort of sorts to be better, but that does not erase months of heartache and borderline misery. Heartache isn’t the right word, that implies that he has some kind of effect on your heart, which he does not.

But he was at least semi-good company after long shifts at the hospital. Who else did you have? Rae didn’t want to entertain you constantly, and she was still asleep most of the day because of her healing process. So, who else did you have other than the asshole? You just liked to see his steady improvement; it was akin to a social experiment. Nothing more. And as far as social experiments went at least he was somewhat good company. You liked the banter as much as you hated to admit it. And you liked how much he seemed to concede to what you were saying. A stark contrast to the Rex who had fought you on everything. If you asked to see his new hand, he would let you see it without hesitation. If you told him to stop talking while you were trying to focus on a message that just popped up from Cecil, he would instantly shut up. It was like he had been trained almost overnight. Sure, he could be funny, and surprisingly insightful but that doesn’t mean anything either.

At this very moment, he’s telling you how annoyed he is at his hair. Which as of now was starting to grow out from the close-cut buzz he had received during surgery. It was a little scruffy, not nearly long enough to be weighed down, so it just stuck out in different directions. He looked dumb in an endearing sort of way. For the first part of your visit, he just sat with one hand on his head as if it would hide it from you. Chunks stuck up through his fingers, and he somehow made it look perfectly natural for someone to sit like that. Until he needed to talk about something with more animation, and then his annoyance at how it looked was forgotten. You didn’t think it looked that bad, it was very different from his usual look, but not bad. It looked soft-  

Ah, shit.

You were starting to like Rex.

It was hard enough to look him in the eye after your dream the other night. It was embarrassing honestly. You might have self-indulged a little, asking Rex to inspect his hand for fully no reason other than because you wanted to. He didn’t even ask why, just offered it and kept talking.

“Cecil’s talking about getting me to be field ready after today-”

You hummed quietly, only half listening after your sudden realization. God, Rae was going to have a field day with this.

“I hope my suit is all fixed up, you know? If not I guess I could call Eve or something cause the amount of damage it had I doubt I could patch it up-” His left hand was still nudged towards you, palm up, even though you were no longer examining it.

“Wait, you said Cecil wants you back on the field?” You dropped your thought process for a moment, finally focusing fully on him.

“Uh, yeah.” He said with a small nod. “I’m getting discharged today, they said I’m basically good to go-”

“I don’t think ‘basically’ isn’t very assuring.” You frowned.

He tilted his head a little at you, a sly smile ghosting over his lips. “You worried about me, nurse?”

Normally you would roll your eyes, quickly followed by an exasperated groan. But now, you could swear the temperature of the room went up a few degrees. “No, I’m worried that if you get put on a mission, you’ll fuck it up. You should be fully healed before going out again.” Harsh, maybe harsher than it needed to be. But you didn’t want him reading into the way you had just looked at him.

“First of all, fucking ouch. Second of all, if you’re so worked up about it, why not just check me yourself?” He holds his right hand out to where you sit on the recliner.

You glance down at his hand before snapping your gaze back up to him. “Well, if the doctors say you’re good to go-”

He barks out a laugh. “What is going on right now?”

“They are professionals, they know what they’re doing.” Your eyes jerk down to his hand for a second again, which he is still holding out to you.

“You just said-” Rex raises a brow, but before he can finish you interrupt.

“Oh, piss off, fine.” You grab his hand a little rougher than you meant to. You can feel him tense from the gesture which sends a feeling down your spine. Good or bad, you couldn’t quite tell, but you felt it. You close your eyes, focusing on whether there are any remaining injuries, and surprisingly enough, besides a few left-over bruises he seems fairly fine. You let go after healing the measly remainder, “See? You’re all set.”

“See?” Rex repeats, confusion lacing his tone. “See what? I wasn’t the one raising doubts,” He looks to the other side of the room as if looking for an imaginary camera. “What-?”

“Gotta stop living in the past Rex, keep moving forward.” You stand up swiftly, preparing to leave. Should you feel bad for borderline gaslighting the poor guy? Maybe. But you were feeling your own confusion as it was.

“Wait.” Rex’s voice calls out as you go to grab your coat. “Are you still coming around the HQ?”

“Yep, still work there.” You folded your coat over your arm.

“So, I’ll see you around?” He’s wincing slightly as if he’s being too vulnerable, and he has to express it externally.

“Yes.” You affirm, your expression softening. “I know where you live, don’t worry.” You give him a small smile.

“I know where you live too.” He says back.

“Great, and I know where I live, and you know where you live, so we’ve got that covered.” Not sure how to fully end this exchange, you take a few steps back to exit the room.

Rex opens his mouth as if to say something, but quickly snaps it shut, gripping the sheets of his hospital bed tightly. His jaw ticks as he looks off to the side, and you decide you need to get out of there now before you make a fool of yourself.

“See you later, Rex!” You call out as you step out of the room.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You’re entering Rae’s room; some trashy reality TV show is playing on the screen. Rae herself is working on some breakfast, obviously not enjoying it much. “Hello?” She raises a brow at you as you close the door with an unintentional slam.

“Hi.” You respond as you sink into the chair.

“Did someone die?” She eats a spoonful of her food, shuddering as she swallows.

“Worse.” You respond dramatically, your hands covering your face.

“They’re making you move into The Guardian’s HQ?”

“Ohhh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You peeked through your index and middle finger to look at her.

“Eh, not really. Then I can’t escape to your apartment for drink  nights. So, if it’s not that then what is it?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“Probably.”

“It’s so ridiculous.”

“Come on, are you being paid by the word?”

“Rex.” You close your fingers, feeling your face heat up again.

“Of course.” Giggles sound off from Rae’s direction as soon as you say it, not needing to ask another clarifying question. “I knew this was coming.”

“How?” You tried not to sound extremely pathetic, but it still came out in a half whine. “I couldn’t stand him!”

“You brought him a bottle after you kicked his ass, constantly looked at him when he was around, talked about him when I was over-” She starts counting out on her fingers.

“You’re the one who brought him up when you came over!” You exclaim.

“Because I knew you wanted to talk about him!”

“He has been the major cause of any drama or problem in my life, of course I’d want to talk about that. That doesn’t mean I liked him!” You held your hands out in an animated fashion as you spoke.

“Oh no, you definitely didn’t like him. But you thought about him all the time, didn’t you?”

“Ugh, you’re not making me feel better.”

“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about it being one-sided.” She finally ditched the food, pushing it away with a sour face.

“What?” You slouch more in the chair, swiveling to face her.

“Every bit of energy you’ve taken up talking, or complaining-or whatever, about him, he’s done like tenfold over you. He’s obsessed.”

You sigh and roll your eyes, somehow sinking further down. “I wish I had your level of delusion, Rae.”

“Call me delusional all you want, give it a few days, weeks.” She pauses and looks at you. “Or months, given the sluggish pace you two have been moving. I might be dead by then with the likes of this job.”

“Oh boy.”

Rae takes the pause to turn more towards you, letting out a groan at the exertion which has you shooting up even though she has no intentions of letting you help. “So, what made you finally realize?”

“Are you sure I can’t help in some way?” You rub your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Stop changing the subject, help me by giving the details.”

You sigh for what must have been the millionth time since entering the room. “I had…a dream.”

“Ooh, the scandal!”

“Shut up.” Pause. “Yeah, I mean kind of.”

“Call me the moment he shows up at your apartment looking like a lost puppy, Bulletproof is going to owe me so much money.”

“I really hope you’re joking.”

--

“No offense, but since when did we take orders from you, Donald? Where is Cecil?”

“This isn’t orders, it’s a prospect job.” Donald responded with a cool air.

He was always good at taking the shit everyone gave him. It made you feel for him more than most.

A few days have passed since you last saw Rex at the hospital. Somehow the two of you just couldn’t seem to coincide at the headquarters. It was frustrating, and even more frustrating than the lack of his presence in your life, was the fact that it frustrated you in the first place. You had walked by instinct to his room at the hospital multiple times the day after he left just to be greeted by sterile air and the smell of various detergents used to clean the area. The disappointment that filled you with the sight of it was not lost on you.

Right now, you finally saw him. The Guardians were assembled for some ‘special’ mission. Donald had gathered you all on Cecil’s behalf, it had all been very vague. Every member was present minus Rae, who was still recovering, and now going through physical therapy. And Kate, who was well…dead.

The memory of the fallen member had its effect on you just like every other mistake you had made. In order to be productive, both as an individual and as a hero, you had to push it away every time it entered your mind. You could wallow or you could act. You choose to act.

“A job? I thought we already had jobs. You know, being that we are Guardians and all.” Rex’s voice sounded out from the other side of the group, causing you to shift your attention. He was wearing his suit, and from the state of it he had recently been in a fight. His headpiece was pushed back but his goggles were perched on top of his head, his short hair poking up around it. You clenched your jaw tightly, he should be on vacation, having a break, or I don’t know, in therapy? He almost died. There’s no way that he came back from that completely fine. In that case, maybe you should be in therapy too, the number of times you’ve kind of almost died. But that’s only kind of so you’re obviously exempt. Rex shifted slightly, his line of sight landing on you, which sent you looking back at Donald again with no idea how long you’d been staring.

“This is technically out of Guardian jurisdiction, but an important donor has asked us specifically for undercover security detail.”

“Wait, we’ve been asked to be someone’s glorified security guards? Isn’t that a bit below our pay grade?” Bulletproof sounds off from right next to you.

“There are plenty of other heroes around, do you need a portfolio that you could send to him? I still have one from when I was running tryouts for the new team.” Rudy input a bit further down the line.

You glanced over before adding your own contribution, “Donor? Aren’t we government-run? How do we have donors?”

“They have asked specifically for members from The Guardians. You can technically refuse, but it wouldn’t be without repercussions.” Donald focuses on you. “There are a select few donors that contribute to the GDA and other operations, which entails all of you. Makes for more funds for renovations after damages that occur after Guardian missions.”

It makes sense, kind of. Cecil made a comment to you once about how much it costs to use his teleportation device, and with how much upkeep the Guardians themselves take just from missions, you can’t imagine it is in any way cheap. But donors?

“It would be a small detail, two or three. The person of interest has received a few concerning terroristic threats and wants to be sure everything runs smoothly.”

“Everything, as in?” Amanda questions.

“It’s a fundraiser, a gala-”

“A dance? This is ridiculous.” Immortal interjects, scoffing at Donald. “We are the Guardians of the Globe, not some dollar store rent-a-cop business.”

A few voices intertwine, speaking out all at once, mostly sounding disgruntled, displeased. On one level you understood their reservations. This was not the kind of thing any of you dealt with. Stakeouts? Sure. Life-threatening last-minute situations? Of course. A money-raising ball with the off chance of terrorism? Not as much.

Rex’s voice was surprisingly not one of those you heard. You tried to subtly look over at him, just to see that he was already looking right at you. Seemingly gauging your reaction. After looking away so suddenly earlier you would be pushing your luck doing it again right now. There was nothing else you’d rather do than break this scathing contact, but you just looked at him. And he looked back, his pale green gaze washing over you. Internally, you were trying to decide how long an acceptable amount of time would be to look at him, giving him a small smile. You didn’t have to wonder for long, because he broke the eye contact first. His attention turned to Immortal who was saying something about none of them partaking in this “obsolete distraction”.

“I’ll do it.” Before you fully thought it through the affirmation passed your lips. You weren’t really sure what the big deal was. So, what, it’s not some city-leveling threat. It almost sounded like fun, even exciting. You would be able to dress up, play a part, improvise. It would be a nice change of scenery.

Immortal sighed heavily. “You can have her. But we can’t spare anyone of importance.”

Give me a fucking break. You closed your eyes, letting out a controlled breath before turning to Bulletproof. “Come with me.” You whispered.

“Oh, hell no. I don’t want to have to dress up for some dance. No way.” He whispered back, not turning his head.

“Please! It would be at least a few days away from this place. It could be like a vacation.” You hiss, determined to get someone to go with you. Bulletproof was nice enough, and you knew he would be professional, which you couldn’t say for other members.

And you wouldn’t dare ask Rex.

“Ugh.” Bulletproof grumbled quietly. “I’ll go too.” He said loud enough for everyone else to hear.

Donald nodded, giving you what you swore must have been a look of appreciation, but with the glasses, you just couldn’t tell.

The Immortal grunted in displeasure but didn’t comment, folding his arms.

“I’ll also go.”

The whole group turns their attention to the voice that spoke from the other side of the room.

“What? I’d never say no to a party, you guys should know that by now.” Rex expressed with a composed tone.

“We can’t spare both you and Bulletproof.” Immortal said gruffly, turning to Donald. “Won’t just one person do?”

He couldn’t even use your name. Your expression betrayed how much this was getting under your skin, but you couldn’t seem to return to indifference.

“Technically, only two members are needed-” Donald starts,

“If something happens Bulletproof can just fucking fly back-or something, right?” Rex cuts in, drawing attention back to him.

“Technically-” Bulletproof begins, holding a hand up to his chin.

“Great. Then it sounds like we’re set.” Rex finishes and you catch his eye for a moment, mouthing a small ‘thank you’, to which he briskly nods, looking back at the Immortal.

“Very well.” Immortal bites out, leaving the conversation entirely, followed closely by Black Sampson.

“Shall I too go on this adventure?” Shapesmith asks, which is immediately shut down by a hand on the shoulder from Bulletproof and a shake of the head.

“You will each receive a detailed briefing later today by handout.” Donald explains to the three of you that agreed to attend. “The Gala is located on the donor’s personal land in northern Montana. The morning after will consist of a special guest brunch which you all will be attending as well. There will be rooming for you there as they want you on scene all night long just in case. And it would also be easier on resources to keep you all there.”

“Who is this person?” You inquire, Donald has not said anything specific this whole conversation other than where this dance would take place, and that the mystery person was a donor for the GDA.

“That will be in the handout you receive.” He stated concisely.

“Why all the secrecy?” Rex furrows his brow, folding his arms.

“Discretion is involved regarding every donor.” Donald responds, straightening his tie. “The gala is tomorrow night, you will all be flown in tomorrow afternoon, outfits and identities will be assigned to you.”

Bulletproof looked exceptionally put out, Rex looked like he was trying to solve long division in his head, and you? Well, you were borderline ecstatic.

--

You would never get used to using a private jet. After so long flying commercially, all the space felt like heaven. Your back didn’t start aching after the first hour, you could stand up and stretch your legs, even more you could write an essay about the bathroom. The other times you had traveled in the Guardian-affiliated-jet it had been the whole team. Now it was just you, Bulletproof, and, worst of all, Rex.

The carpet was a crisp maroon, the rest of the interior was a sterile white. Which you thought sharply contrasted with the Guardians of the Globe headquarters, that consisted mostly of aluminum tones. The walls of the plane’s interior were accented with mahogany plating, something you couldn’t decide if you thought was tacky or classy. The opinion changed every mission.

Any excitement at the prospect of being in semi-close quarters with Rex again was quickly drowned out by Rex and Bulletproof incessantly bickering.

“I’m just saying I still think you could have come up with a more inspired name.”

“I’m about to be inspired to knock your teeth out.” Bulletproof spit back.

You didn’t get between them, eventually they would both wear themselves out.

The clouds outside your window hung far below. Clustered together, forming wool-like patterns. For a moment you imagined what it would be like to surf on it. Then you looked back at the handout Donald had provided you each with. The three of you were meant to be covert, blend in. You were each free to use your own names, as apparently most of these people were not horribly well-informed. However, you each had been assigned backstories. You were a philanthropist by blood, having inherited a section of the oil industry. Rex was a wildlife activist who had traveled all over the world. Zandale was meant to be a journalist who was writing about the event for Time Magazine. Hopefully, there wasn’t someone there actually from Time Magazine, but you guessed that Donald already checked the guest list for that.

When you first read through it you had mentioned to the other two that you thought it was odd that Rex was the person who had been all over, rather than Zandale, who could fly.

“I have been all over.” Rex had said defensively.

“What? When?” You had scoffed.

“Just…well, a while ago, I don’t fucking know.” The tension in the room had skyrocketed for reasons you weren’t sure of, so you didn’t ask further.

The donor was someone named Dr. Mune. Apparently, the doctor was a genius. Having created many of the lifesaving measures the GDA is still using today. One of those included the brand-new hand Rex was situated with. You wish you could have seen Rex’s reaction to that information. Would it make him work harder on the mission? Or did he feel indifferent to it? It made you feel more connected to the job; the new hand was nothing short of a work of art. Memories of how it felt against your touch flood your vision, sending electricity down your spine.

“Joy?” You turned as Rex said your nickname, feeling annoyance at the sound of it after it had been used so long as an insult. Or at least that was how you had formerly perceived it.

You hummed in response, waiting for him to speak.

“Well, what do you think?” Rex said, tilting his head.

“I think you’re both extremely annoying.”

“God, I already know that. Focus! Whose name is better?”

They both looked at you expectantly. It was weird to see Bulletproof, or rather Zandale, without his goggles on.

“Do I have to take a vote?” You sighed heavily, turning back to the window.

“Yes.” They responded in unison.

“I like Invincible’s name most probably.”

“That was not one of the options but thank you for reminding us of your crush.” Rex retorted, a hint of bitterness lacing his words.

You scoffed, turning back towards them, ready to correct him, only to hear Zandale let out a laugh. Your gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowing. He was pursing his lips and purposefully not looking at either of you. Shit. Rae hadn’t been joking. Great.

“What?” Rex looked at him too, his brow drawing together tensely.

He bit the corner of his upper lip, looking up at you first then at Rex, then back and forth a few times. GREAT.

“How do you know I don’t have the hots for Bulletproof here, hm?” You panicked, you had to say anything to get him to get off Zandale’s obvious trail.

This caused them both to turn their attention to you. “What?” They said in unison again, which made you laugh.

“God, you two are like Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum, I’m surprised you don’t get along better.”

Rex shook his head while holding his hands up as if putting away all of this information to deal with later. “Okay, can you just answer the original question?”

You hum again, you could be honest, or you could really mess with Rex. Unfortunately for Rex… “Honestly, probably Bulletproof.”

“Suck it!” Zandale shoots up out of his seat, doing some kind of air-pump gesture.

“You- you’re lying! She’s fucking lying don’t listen to her!” Rex holds his hands out in distraught, watching as Bulletproof had his own little celebration.

For a brief moment, you made eye contact with him, smiling the cheesiest grin. His annoyed expression softened as he sucked on his teeth. For that small moment, it felt like it was just the two of you. Your smile shrunk into something more genuine, gentler. And for some reason, you waved. It was small, you hardly lifted your hand. His gaze dropped to it, and a small smile ghosted over his lips before he returned the action. His free hand gripping the armrest tightly.

--

Bulletproof had nodded off, his head rested against the edge of the window next to his seat. You were thankful more than anything he didn’t snore. He had already changed into his tuxedo for the night, it bunched up at his chest while he slouched against it. Someone, somewhere in high society would have cried at the sight.

You and Rex hadn’t changed yet. Rex exclaimed that he wanted to remain a free man as long as possible, and you thought it would be more exciting to dress up closer to landing time. Your stomach was already starting to twist unpleasantly each time the pilot announced the amount of time until arrival. It was similar to your first mission, fresh, and unfamiliar. A good portion of your stomach aches revolved around glances to the other side of the plane at your teammate. After the conversation had died down, he hadn’t looked in your direction once. You would have felt hurt by it, wondered if he was starting to hate you again. But it felt too charged, too intentional. The old Rex wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot a glare in your direction. This was nothing like that.

You would glance over at him from time to time, his gaze was on his lap, and had been for almost an hour, his hands clasped together, left thumb tapping the tip of his right one. You were positive he could see you somewhat, because every time you looked over his jaw clenched.

We will be making our descent in forty-five minutes.

“I’m gonna get dressed.” You whisper so as to not wake up Zandale while rising out of your seat. Rex practically jumps out of his seat at the broken silence.

He clears his throat. “Okay.”

What was that? “Are you okay?” You grab the garment bag containing your dress, and the shoe box next to it from the overhead rack.

Rex nods, letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, obviously, I just forgot you were here.”

“You forgot I was here?” You raised a brow, holding the garment bag over your shoulder as you turned to look at him.

“What? I’ve got a lot on my mind. Whole…mission and everything.”

“Okay, weirdo.” You laugh, moving towards the nose of the plane where the restroom is located.

Once inside, you pulled the dress out. It was a silky material- well, it probably was silk now that you thought about it. You would have to thank Donald for whatever strings he had pulled to make it your favorite color. The dress was sleeveless, with a mock neckline. It was fairly simple, the end of the dress reached down to your ankles. The shoes had a few inches of heel to them, which made you hope there would not be any hitches in the night, as you’d have to ditch them the moment you needed to sprint anywhere.

After getting it all situated and neatly folding your streetwear you started to pull the zipper up on the back of your dress, only for it to get to a point on your back you couldn’t reach.

A few beats of silence passed before you tried reaching your hand over your shoulder to get it, with no success.

You were not going to be able to do it on your own. How had women for decades zipped their dresses alone? Should you take it off, zip it, and try to pull it over your head? If it ripped in any way you were royally screwed. With a defeated sigh, you grabbed your stuff, put your hand out towards the door, and slowly pushed it up.

Rex was standing in the aisle, pushing his show box back into the overhead space. He had gotten dressed at the same time as you. Got dressed is a loose way of putting it. If someone could spin their way into clothing, you imagine they would look like Rex did now.

“You’re going to wrinkle it.” You put your things down in the first seat you walked by, straightening out the front of your dress absentmindedly as you made your way to him.

“I don’t think the shoes are going to wrinkle-” Rex started with a scoff before he closed his mouth from the scathing look you gave him and…something else.

“The suit, jackass.” You try not to smile, as you finally reach him. “This is supposed to be buttoned- you missed one of your shirt buttons.” You point out, the end of his dress shirt lopsided at the bottom. “Your shirt is also meant to be tucked in. Didn’t you see how Zandale looked?” You hold your hands out offering to help but he brushes you off, undoing his shirt himself with a groan.

“Since when were you two on a first-name basis?” He mumbled, working his way down them.

“Since I started treating him like a human being, so always.” You roll your eyes at him, folding your arms as you wait for him to catch up.

Did you forget he was, for lack of a more delicate way to put it, completely and totally built? No. You had seen his torso before, you had spent the better part of a half-hour with your hand pressed to it, healing him after a wound you had inflicted. But this wasn’t like that time. Then, you had been focused on the shame you had felt for causing the injury in the first place. Now, you were a bystander. Waiting to tell him how to properly wear his suit.

At first, you watched him, the way his hands flexed with each button. How the white linen of his shirt accented his chest underneath, which was becoming more and more visible. The way his chest rose and fell subtly with each inaudible huff. You eventually had to look away, determined to look at anything that wasn’t the warm tone of his skin.

His hands caught slightly on the last button, and he muttered something about ‘not having to put up with this shit’ as if he wasn’t the one to put it on wrong in the first place. “So, I just-?” He started from the bottom, lining each hole up to its corresponding button. He paused after a few, glancing up at you as if checking he was doing it right.

“Yep.” Your voice cracked in the worst way, forcing you to clear your throat as inconspicuously as possible. “Have you never worn a button-up?” Anything to get your mind off the fact you were blushing right now based on how warm you were feeling.

“You don’t really get the opportunity much in this business. Only time it’s ever come up was for funerals. The only one I’ve ever considered going to was for the old GDA director. But I didn’t end up going so…” He pauses for a moment, his thumb rubbing a few times over the material. “This good?” He asks, holding his hands up so you can see.

“Yeah, that’s good.” You respond softly. “Now you’ve got to tuck it in.” A breath passes as he does as you say. “What was he like?” You aren’t sure if you should ask, but you do any ways.

He stops what he’s doing and looks up at you. Making direct eye contact for the first time since your wave earlier. “The director?” A small look of confusion spreads over his features, clearly not thinking you would ask further.

“Yeah, I’ve never heard anything about him.” You tighten your arms closer over your torso, nibbling on the inside of your cheek.

“Oh, well-” He continues tucking his shirt in, “He was, well he was an asshole is what he was. If you think Cecil is uncaring, you should have seen Director Radcliffe.”

Even from the way Rex called him by his title rather than his first name like Cecil, you could feel the difference in relationship. “Were you around him a lot?”

“Yeah.” Rex said softly. “Okay, so I button this up then or do I leave it open?” He gestured to his suit vest.

You file away that conversation for later, not wanting to push him further than he was comfortable with. “Yes, you button that.”

“Do I tuck it in?”

“No.”

“What about this?”

“Wait, where’s your tie?”

Rex looks around for a moment, his hands suspended out partially as he looks around. “It was…ah, here.” He holds it up triumphantly after grabbing it from where it lay crumpled a few seats down. It was the exact same shade as your dress, in the same silky texture. You wanted to sigh. You were going to look like prom dates.

“I’m guessing you don’t know how to tie it?”

Rex looks down at it for a split second before looking back at you. “Do I really need it?”

“Yes. You will stand out immediately. This whole thing is supposed to be undercover, remember?” You hold your hand out for him to hand it to you.

“You know how to tie it?” He looks at you with suspicion, as if you’re trying to pull a fast one.

“Yes, now will you let me help you?” He looks down at it for a moment, then begrudgingly gives it. “I learned in the hospital, I had this one patient who never let me heal him, but he always wanted to wear a tie.” You start as you signal for him to bend down, he does so without convincing and you hook it around his neck, angling it so it would rest under his upturned collar. “He never wore a suit or anything, but he insisted on wearing one over his gown. The first day I was there, I had no clue. He got really mad, huffed, puffed, the whole act. Told me he never wanted to see me again unless I learned how to tie a tie.” You looped it, “When I got back to my apartment, I was so frustrated. I swore I was going to quit at the hospital, quit with Cecil, everything. I was scared to join the Guardians, and I didn’t think I was ready-”

“You were scared to join the Guardians?” Rex interrupted; a quick glance up revealed that he was staring at you intently. You returned your eyes to your work, ignoring the rekindled heat that spread across your face.

“Don’t interrupt. Anyways, I was so mad. I picked up my phone to call Cecil, I was done. And then I got distracted. I opened a tutorial on how to tie a tie, then another. And soon enough I had watched way more than I needed, and I was sure if I tried again I could do it.”

“And did you?”

“No.” You laughed, “I screwed it up immediately, and he threw his Jello at me.”

“Jesus, really?”

You nodded. “And then I went back the next day and tried again, and the same the day after that. Until one day I did it right. He never thanked me or acknowledged the times before, but slowly he started telling me about his life. His wife who passed away a few years ago, his children that didn’t know where he was. Everything. I used to look forward to seeing him.” You finished tying it, but you didn’t let go quite yet.

“Do you still see him?” Rex’s voice came out soft, you could feel his words against your face.

“He died.” It was short, simple, but not sweet. Bitter reality. “He had stage four leukemia, even if he had let me heal him it wouldn’t have mattered. I can’t fix stuff like that.” You folded down his collar, your fingers lingering over it. You could feel his body heat just below the fabric.

“Did you go to his funeral?” You looked up at that. His gaze wasn’t on you but shifted to the side. You weren’t sure what response he was looking for, or why he asked, but you answered.

“No.” It was a quiet response, uttered so soft he could hardly hear, even from his close proximity. He met your gaze, searching it quietly. And you let him, staring right back.

Five minutes to arrival.

The pilot’s voice jarred you both, causing you to let go of his tie, and remove your fingers from his collar. The sudden interruption sent Rex back into a fully upright position, rather than the slouch he had been partaking in for your ease. He shoved the tie under his suit vest and straightened out the jacket.

“How do I look?”

You held your hand up in a spinning motion and he did a quick turn. “You clean up pretty well. Almost looks like you weren’t in the hospital a few days ago.” He looked good, so good you didn’t want to keep looking at him. This almost qualified as torture.

“That’s all I needed to hear.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling from the depth of it. Just that small detail made your stomach flip. You needed to get this under control-

Oh, right, your dress. “Rex, can you actually help me with his?”

He nods, waiting for you to do something but you just stand there. Shit, you should have just risked ripping the damn thing. “It’s my dress. I can’t get it zipped.”

“Oh.” He blinks a few times. “Your dress has been unzipped this whole time?”

“I got it part of the way, so it’s not falling off or anything, calm down.” You tried to joke but your palms were sweating. If anyone needed to calm down, it was you. All you were doing was asking for a zip, pull yourself together. After checking that he was still waiting to help, you shake out your hands at your sides and then turn so he can do what you’ve asked. “Hopefully you’re better at zipping than buttoning.” The chuckle that follows your words is dry.

“I think I can manage.” His voice is low, and you can feel his breath fanning over the back of your neck, causing you to suppress a shiver. You should have asked Bulletproof, woken him up, or something. You can feel his fingertips press lightly into your back as he holds the two sides together so that his other hand can pull up the zipper. The contact itself gives you goosebumps, every thought you can conjure now that isn’t about the feel of him is praying that he doesn’t notice. “I think you’re set.”

“Thanks, Rex.” His hands don’t leave your back in haste, his left hand brushing over your exposed shoulder blade. You turn a notch, looking at him against your better judgment.

He clears his throat and puts his hands down. “You’re set.”

“You said that already.” You smile, mildly confused.

He stares at you again, expression unreadable, and his jaw ticking like before. Then, he steps back. “Someone’s got to wake sleeping beauty.” His previous expression fades and is replaced by one of mischief, as he tips over to where Bulletproof is. Fully intending to scare him awake.

The plane eventually landed, and the three of you talked about your game plans, which ended up just being ‘don’t be suspicious, mingle-’ pretty self-explanatory.

“Where are we?” You were looking out the window, your fingers splayed out around it as you leaned down. There were other planes around you, but from the way you were angled, you couldn’t see the airport.  

Both of the guys shrugged, helpful as always. You moved to the nose of the plane where the pilot had already opened up the door.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Rex followed up close behind you.

“We landed in the backyard.”

Rex looked out at the other planes lined up next to you and then over at the looming mansion. “What the fuck?”

Author's Note: Rex is so yapper boyfriend core. Guys tell me what color’s your dresses and Rex’s tie is :3

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped @spidernuggets @sweet-cuddlebug @ohmysoultakemysoul request to be tagged for new parts!

Chapter seventeen

[toxicrelief]

I just drew two of my characters together for the first time ever. I’ve had them since I was 10 years old, and I drew and wrote about them seperately. Every time I’ve written or rewritten the concept I have for a book I’ve never got to the point of the MMC so they’ve never actually met. But they’ve always been destined for each other. A decade later they have finally met in one art piece.

Party 4 u by Charlie xcx save me please

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter fifteen

Synopsis: Rex doesn’t seem to mind your company much, and you don’t mind giving it, at first.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.6k

Chapter: 15/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: None

Note: Reader is the festering final boss. I also realized I haven’t really been offering for people to join the taglist, so let me know if you want me to add you!

Rejection was starting to get easier. Maybe it was because you had real-world experience now that you didn’t have before. Or maybe it was because you had more important things to worry about than whether a patient was going to let you heal them or not.

“I did it!” You said, almost ecstatic. You panted out a few breaths, putting your hands on your knees to try to regain your loss of oxygen.

“Did you just run here?” Cecil said dryly, handing some kind of booklet to a worker standing nearby.

“Yes!” You straightened up, still not having caught your breath. “I did it!” You repeated again, giddiness overtaking your composure.

“Don’t waste my time, kid. Did what?”

You open your mouth to answer then realize it might not be the best idea to blurt this out with everyone else around. “Oh… uh… The thing-”

He blinked at you a few times before sighing and rolling his eyes. “Alright, everyone out.” Without missing a beat the different agents and workers around the room hastily made their exit. To hold that much respect, so much immediate power. You were almost jealous; you couldn’t seem to ever get anything done without everyone around you questioning you or being suspicious. “Now, what are you talking about?”

“Viltrumite blood.” Your excitement hadn’t ebbed. “I just tested it out in the room, it’s easy- like ridiculously easy-”

“Christ, have you slept at all?”

“Yes.” You tightened your brow a bit, feeling mildly offended. “Am I allowed to be excited about something we have been working on for months or-?”

He nodded quietly, taking in the information while putting a hand over his mouth in thought. “How do you know?”

“I-” You were starting to feel a little deflated. “Well, I mean I just said, I tested it out in the training room…on the blood bag?” You wrapped your arms around you in a defensive stance. “And I felt it, yesterday I saw Mark- or Invincible or whatever. We shook hands, and I felt it. It was like he was just another person, but still, I don’t know- different.”

“Different?”

You thought carefully for a moment. “I suppose you could think about it like getting water somewhere on a trip, or just in a new place in general. The water at home you are used to, it tastes like home and you’re comfortable drinking it. Then you go somewhere new, and in other places it can taste weird, or bad even, I guess. It tastes like water, you know it’s water. But you’d rather the stuff from home.”

Cecil hummed softly, still thinking. Although you doubted he ever stopped even when he was off duty. If he ever was. “Very good, Killdeer.”

“Yeah?” You felt your excitement return a little from the direct praise.

“Yes, this is good. I want you integrated back in with the Guardians.”

“Wait, what? Already?” Your grip around your arms loosened a little, this was not at all the direction you had expected this to go.

“Yes, already. We are down three Guardians.”

“Won’t there be some resistance?” You responded quietly.

“I have spoken with the Immortal and Robot. I explained that the fainting spells are from overexertion and they took it well enough. It should get them off your back, but honestly, I’m sure it’ll still be tense.” He shifts slightly as if he isn’t sure what to say next. “Donald told me about your discussion.”

You nodded, swallowing roughly at the mention of the topic you had been avoiding thinking about since your conversation with Donald. Maybe you should be angrier with Cecil, furious that he hid it from you. You had been unhappy at the idea of it, but after talking to Donald you had received almost a type of closure. Last night you hadn’t been plagued by your repetitive nightmare. It wasn’t gone, you knew you would be seeing that grotesque imagery for a long while still to come. But now, you knew what it was. Why it happened. A part of you still blamed yourself. You should have swept the perimeter, asked Cecil if there would likely be anyone else on the premises. At the end of the day though, it had happened. You didn’t have control over it, you weren’t even conscious while doing it. But it had still happened.

Cecil had done a lot for you, at least it felt that way. He found you and encouraged your abilities. He trained you, got you a specialized room in the training facility and in the hospital. You had grown fond of him. A small voice chirped in the back of your head, was it possible you were making excuses for him? Not properly holding him accountable for anything he has done?

As if you’re the one to be holding anyone accountable.

“I am glad to see you’re…shit, I don’t know, taking it well?” He was never amazing at being sentimental or comforting. He could do it, but it seemed like he only had it in limited quantities. Saving it for widows and orphans.

You gave him a tight smile. “I manage.” After a moment of loaded silence, you spoke up again. “When should I check in with the Guardians?”

“Soon. Within the next few days is preferred.”

--

“Where did you even find this?”

“Oh, don’t get started with me, I never buy this shit.” You dropped two magazines on his lap, you had seen it for free in a random kiosk while walking outside the hospital. It was about two times smaller than the magazines Eve had brought.

“You paid money for this?” He held them up, his mouth drawn together in an almost too-intentional frown. The way his lips were slightly quivering told you that he was struggling not to laugh.

“You gonna pay me back?” You asked, sitting at the end of his bed like you had the last visit.

He opens his mouth to respond with indignation, but his words are delayed slightly as he watches you. Maybe you should have just sat in the recliner rather than right against his leg. You hadn’t even considered he might not want you to. “Well…fuck, how much were these?”

“Twenty bucks.” You lied, a small smile spreading across your face as you looked down at the booklets you had given him. They were so obviously not worth that much that it tickled you.

“Twenty- what the fuck?” He itched the section of his head that was available to him outside of the helmet contraption. “You got scammed.”

“Not my problem, is it?” You held your hand out, knowing full well he most assuredly did not have his wallet anywhere nearby.

“Just add it to my tab.” He sighs, leaning back again in his bed.

You had seen him when you first arrived this morning. Tension filling your body as you peeked through the curtains. His whole demeanor had changed at the sight of you, that same shit-eating grin that you had seen the night before spreading across his face. If he was going to be nice you were not complaining. You even found him…enjoyable? Now that he wasn’t giving you that telltale look of disgust, and spitting accusations against you, you were actually getting to know him a little. So far the conversation had mostly revolved around furniture and home décor. But this morning he even talked a little about Mark. Which you listened to with bated breath.

“Are you even listening?”

You nodded a little too quickly, with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Aw shit. You’ve got some schoolgirl crush on him, don’t you?”

“Oh, brother.” You rolled your eyes. “Have you never had a favorite hero, Rex?”

“Yes, and you’re looking at him.” He had said, looking a little bitter for the rest of your visit.

Eventually, you left to go run rounds, but now you had come back. The doctor you had been working with had shooed you away after practically tripping over you for the fifth time. Why not see just how new and improved Rex seemed to be?

You pulled your phone out in an exaggerated manner, opening your notes.

Rex’s head snapped up to watch you. “You’re not.” He uttered in disbelief

“I am.” You said, your smile grew more by the second as you typed ‘Rex: $20’ and showed the screen to him.

“Ugh. More stingy than a hooker.”

“With much less of the fun.” You laughed, putting your phone away.

“Those didn’t even cost you twenty bucks, did they?” He gave you a nasty look, but it wasn’t the same as any he had given you before. This one didn’t have the load of intention behind it. He was enjoying your company, even with all your uncertainties you knew this for sure.

You simply shrugged at him, until he let it go scoffing to himself.

“Do you want me to…” You paused, knowing it was best not to get too comfortable. Against the warning buzzers going off in your head, you decided to offer it anyway. “Do you want me to help you at all?” It was vague, you knew it was. But you also knew he would understand what you were implying.

He blinked at you, his residual smile fading slightly. “Well…”

“It’s fine really, don’t feel bad for saying no. If you ever feel bad for anything-” Fuck.

“What?” He brow drew together slightly but he didn’t say anything else, waiting for you to clarify.

“Sorry, that was- really rude, actually, shit.” Yeah, you were not making this any better. “This is just a little jarring for me.” You held your hand out at him.

“Did you just gesture to all of me?”

“Yes?” You winced, a shade of embarrassment dusting your cheeks.

He sighed, but his disposition towards you didn’t close. “I guess that makes sense.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He almost snapped, a semblance of the Rex you had known poking through. “Sorry.” He said without wasting a single breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

So, it was a conscious choice. He was choosing to be nicer. The realization of this overtook any hurt your ego might have obtained from his retort. Was this his way of apologizing for being a dirtbag to you for so long? Rather than saying it directly he just intended to pretend it never happened? You weren’t sure how the prospect of this sat with you.

“Almost broke your cover there.” You said softly, hoping your response would be well received rather than egging him on further.

He was still pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. But his lips perked up in an unmissable smile.

You felt a little more comfortable after seeing that, so you poked his leg to get his attention. His eyes opened, his gaze landing where your hand had touched then slowly traveled up to your face.

“So, what about it?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drilled into you until you felt the need to look away. That unfamiliar feeling from yesterday returned briefly.

“Fine.” He rasped out with feigned reluctance. “But you’re not going to accidentally fuse this thing to my head, are you? ‘Cause I’ve already got accelerated healing and shit; I don’t have to risk it.” He pointed up to the metal contraption with his metal-enclosed stub.

You pretend to consider the possibility, then shrug. “I actually don’t know.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Who said I was trying to make you feel better?” You met his eyes again as you chuckled. For that moment you wondered if he was remembering the first time you had almost this exact same interaction. Back in his room after you had accidentally injured him. That felt like a lifetime ago now.

“Fine, let’s get it over with, Nurse Joy.” He sat up, shaking his hand out a few times before holding it out to you.

“Okay, what is that all about?”

“You don’t know who Nurse Joy is?” He looked genuinely surprised.

“Should I?”

“Did you even have a childhood?”

You just gave him an incredulous look.

“Ugh.” He pulled his hand back as you stood up to move to the recliner. Since it had wheels it was much easier to pull up to the bedside and comfortably sit next to him rather than pulling him towards the other end of the bed. “Pokémon?”

“Pokémon?” You repeated, he had to be joking.

“Yeah, fucking Pokémon, get over it.” He grumbled quietly.

“The kid’s show?”

“As I said, did you even have a childhood?”

You laughed, he seemed surprisingly embarrassed for having been the one to give you the nickname in the first place.

“I watched some SpongeBob.” You said intentionally, knowing it would irritate him. Whether it was true or not was another story. For you to know, not for him.

“Figures.” He gives you a sideways glance which you pointedly ignore. You hold out your hand, waiting for him to willingly give you his forearm, after a second’s hesitation he gives it to you. He feels warm, you’re almost concerned he has a fever, but from how lucid he is you doubt it. You brush your thumb lightly over his skin as your fingers grasp the underside of his forearm. You could swear you felt him jerk slightly. It was possible your hands were cold to him. If he felt this warm to you, they had to be.

“You good?” Rex hadn’t breathed in since you grabbed his arm. “I know it feels uncomfortable at first, but are you really not used to it yet?”

“Are you seriously asking me if I am used to feeling my skin stitch together on its own?” You nodded curtly. “Jesus Christ.” He sat back against his bed as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

You snickered before closing your eyes to concentrate.

--

“You’re back?” Bulletproof froze at the door of the training room just as he was about to enter.

You glanced back at him, internally sighing. “Yep. Surprise!”

He nodded before continuing into the room, taking residence at a machine next to you. “You enjoy your break?”

You tried and failed to hold back a scoff. “Break? What break?”

He lifted several plates onto the metal bar before settling his back against the bench. “About the best you’re going to get around here.”

“How was the whole mars thing?” Small talk didn’t bother you much, it was better than tense silence. And at least he was being amicable.

“Shitty. After all of that, I’m surprised Shapesmith is staying on the team, but I ain’t leading it so-”

The conversation lulled briefly. Shapesmith was not someone you harbored poor feelings for, but it would be a lie to say you weren’t at least mildly bitter that everything came so easy to the guy. Even worse, you didn’t think he even realized just how easy he was having it.

With everything that had been happening, and all of it happening so quickly you hadn’t sat and thought about how miserable you had been. Shit, it was hard to imagine that at one point you had been attending missions with the Guardians without resistance. You were been going on missions solo too, with zero failures so far. Well…one failure. They didn’t even know about that and still, you never felt welcome. Rae was lovely, Bulletproof was cordial. Shapesmith did whatever he does, and Amanda didn’t seem to mind you. But the people who disliked you made it known, more than the people who liked you or felt neutral did.

Immortal demanding your submission hadn’t only occurred the one time. Every mission you had with him felt like a humiliation ritual. He would pause briefings to call you out specifically, asking you to repeat what he had just said. Like a fucking schoolteacher. Kate would either glance at you out of the corner of her eye, or she’d snicker quietly. Rudy let you be, but even he would question you in briefings, asking you what exactly you were planning to do. It made sense at first, to them you were just a healer. They have no clue what else you were capable of. Even still, they knew you had enhanced strength and durability as much as the next person. The first few missions should have been proof enough.

You felt yourself starting to get worked up at the unpleasant memories. Black Sampson, although he never paid you much mind, had taken it upon himself to scold you after a stakeout. Cecil and Donald lied to you to your face. And Rex… God, Rex took up enough space in your subconscious to write a fucking book. And now he got to act a little nice and it was like it never even happened? You had played into it, been glad for the lack of hostility after so long with it. Now as you were letting it fully sink in though, you realized that you needed something. You need an apology. Even if you felt that you were responsible for what happened to him and Rae, it didn’t erase everything he had done.

Still stewing in your own corner of regrets and grudges a voice sounded off that drew you out of it. At least, for the time being.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back.”

You gave Bulletproof a genuine smile. “Me too.”

--

You had been avoiding his room all day. It was like there was a detector in your head that sent off sirens every time you neared it. You thought sleeping on it would make it easier to manage but you had simply just festered. Rex was getting better. Today they were removing the headgear after you had rendered it useless with one session. As much as you hate to admit it, your return to hospital work has had extreme benefits. All of the work you did on Rex hadn’t even left you with a residual twinge. In the moment it hurt a little, but the second you removed your hand, it was over.

‘You don’t deserve to be in the Guardians’ How many times had he used that stale line with you? You weren’t worth it.

When a break finally made its way into your schedule you decided to sit in Rae’s room. Picking at something you put together haphazardly at the cafeteria earlier. “He’s so annoying.” You continued a small rant you had started up; every added sentiment just fueled the fire. Rae was not conscious to hear any of your ramblings. However, once she finally woke up you were sure she would be happy for that.

You dropped your food back onto your tray. “Do I even have the right to still be mad?” You looked her over with a sigh, before pulling her blanket up a bit higher. She was no longer in the incubator. After a brief discussion with her doctor, he told you that she was healing at a quick rate, her body was just keeping her in a comma-like state until she was healed up better. For a moment, you considered it, it would be so easy to reach forward and press your fingertips to her arm, speed it up. Cecil had told you specifically not to accelerate her healing. He probably had his reasons, not that he ever told you them.

“I miss you.” You said it softly, a whisper. “I’m sorry I didn’t go with Rex. I don’t know if I could have stopped this, but I wish I had been able to try.” Her face showed no signs of change. The beeping on the monitor remains the same. What else had you expected?

“Sorry, I thought I heard your voice in here.” A nurse poked her head through the door, you had seen her a lot over the several days you’d been spending almost all your time at the hospital. Her name was…Stephanie? Or Stacy? Hannah?

“Yep, I’m here. Do you need me?”

“Oh, it’s no rush, Rex was just asking about you.”

“Oh, really?” You scoffed, looking back at Rae as if she could see the irony of the situation.

“…yep.” She thought you were quite odd.

“I’ll check on him in a bit, thank you.” You sighed the moment the nurse left, leaning further back into the recliner as if you could shrink out of existence. Eventually, you had to face him, you were just wasting time. “Don’t go anywhere, yeah?” Again, no response. “Tough crowd.” Hopefully, if she had been conscious, she would laugh at that rather than leave you in the awkward silence you had made for yourself.

The short walk to Rex’s room felt even shorter today, as you stood outside of it you wondered what you would say. Would you play nice? That is what you seemed to do best. You’d done it this far at least. Confrontation scared you. Eventually he would leave this room and the two of you would be on the same team again. Then again, the chance of things being awkward never had deterred him before. If it had, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

“Hello, Rex-” You started as you walked in, but you stopped as soon as you saw him. He was asleep. A hand still gripped around one of the pathetic magazines you had gotten for him. You had never seen him look so relaxed, almost peaceful.

God, you were becoming soft, you should wake him up and demand an apology, something. But you didn’t. You stepped past the curtain, took the magazine out of his hand, and placed it quietly on the pile. The hospital blankets always felt scratchy to you, maybe you should offer to bring his duvet from his room at the Headquarters. You straighten it out gently, your hand brushing over his in the gesture.

If the circumstances had been different, you wonder if the two of you could have ever been friends.

--

Groundhog Day. That’s a movie, right? The one where Bill Murray lives the same day over and over until he learns to fall in love or something like that. It’d been a while since you saw it, but it didn’t seem to matter. As far as you knew you were living it. Wake up, hospital, Guardians, hospital, Rae, apartment, sleep. Over and over. You had stopped by Rex’s room a few times since the last time, but it was oddly quiet, he would just read or asked you about your day. It wasn’t unpleasant, but you were positive he could sense your shift in demeanor. Maybe he was worried that if he talked too much you would remember that you were upset with him. Rae still wasn’t awake yet, but the doctor assured you it would be any day now.

“Check this shit out.” Rex flexed his left hand for you to admire.

“Oh, wow.” It was like a toddler showing you a bark chip at the park that was bigger than the rest.

“Oh, come on, you don’t think it’s at least a little cool?”

“It’s cool, Rex. But I can’t credit you for any of that, you literally had no hand in making it or installing it or-”

“Did you just make a pun?”

“Have you ever looked into getting diagnosed with ADHD or, I don’t know, literally anything that is wrong with you?”

He laughed, rubbing his new hand absentmindedly. “What’s got you so pissed off, hm?”

“Should I go grab a mirror?” You said it like it was a joke, but honestly, you weren’t sure why you were feeling so sour. You were suspicious it was probably because of the Groundhog Day thing though.

He’s quiet for a beat, looking down at his hand as if waiting for it to move on his own. “Fuck, I’m- well, you know.” He gestured at you helplessly.

“What?” You laugh, confusion clear in your inflection.

“You know.” He reiterates, his mouth opening and closing while he tries to formulate the words.

“I’m not good at riddles.” You raise an eyebrow at him, squinting slightly.

“Christ, well you know-”

“You already said that.”

“Hold on!” He would have been wringing his hands through his hair if it wasn’t about two centimeters long. “Well, I’m sorry.”

You sat for a second waiting for him to continue, but he didn’t. “Oh, that’s it? That’s all you were trying to say?”

“Baby steps, okay?” He puts his hands over his face like he’s being physically pained.

“…Okay?” Should you push him to see what exactly he was sorry for? Or just hope he meant for everything and let it go?

“I was an ass.”

“Was is a loose term-”

“Okay, first of all, can you let me get this out or are you just going to keep interjecting?”

You tilted your head to each side as if deciding, but you didn’t say anything else.

“I was an ass, and I still am.” He glanced over at you. “But I was really fucking shitty to you. And maybe it took a bullet to the head to fully see it, which is not amazing.”

You hummed in agreement, which earned you a scathing look.

“But either way, I regret it. You have always…carried your weight with the team. I just don’t like new things.” Once again you think he’s going to continue but he doesn’t.

“Oh, uh-” He’s almost wincing waiting for your response. “You don’t do this a lot do you?”

“Are you telling me I’m bad at apologizing?”

“I’d never dream of it.” You rolled your eyes, but you gave him a subtle smile. “I appreciate it.”

He nods at you, the edges of his mouth downturned trying to hide his own grin.

“Let me see.” You hold your hand out, gesturing for him to let you see his new hand.

“Hm?” He doesn’t move, holding his hand in the other direction further away from you.

“God, what do you think I’m going to do? Rip it off? Let me see. You were the one talking all high and mighty about it.”

“Be careful.” He apprehensively holds it out to you.

“Are you kidding me?” You blink a few times at him.

“I don’t know!” He says defensively. “It’s all new to me too.”

You shake your head at him, taking your nondominant hand and placing it under his wrist, then you use your dominant hand to trace lines over the faux skin. “It feels real, did they tell you what it’s made of?”

Rex didn’t respond with haste, his eyes focused on your hands. “Uh, I think they said something but I kind of wasn’t listening.”

“I don’t know what else I expected.” You sighed, placing your palm against his knuckles. You couldn’t feel…anything. Whatever this was there was no blood in it. It was entirely mechanical. “It feels so real.” You murmured softly, more to yourself than to Rex. “Lemme see the other one.” He held out his other hand without hesitation, flexing it slightly before you touched it. Now you had a hand on either of his. It was interesting, how much you could feel in his right versus his left. You were so focused on it that you got carried away for a moment, your fingers brushing lightly over his real hand.

“Does it feel the same?” Your voice came out in a hushed whisper, you were trailing your index fingers over the two separate hands. After a pause you looked up at Rex, who looked down at his hands as soon as you made eye contact.

“Uh…Yeah pretty- I’d say pretty similar.” He swallowed roughly.

You should let go, this was going on for longer than it should, you were going to make him uncomfortable. His hands were soft though, and when you brushed your touch over his knuckles on either hand, he flexed them, as if it was a reflex. It fascinated you. But it did something else too, it brought back that feeling. The one you’d been ignoring. You liked that the smallest touch caused his body to react in some way. In any way. You would have to put that away to think about later.

“Hello!” A chipper voice forced its way through your thoughts. Causing you to immediately draw back your hands from Rex. Shit, now it looked even worse because you had jumped so hard. The heat that was quickly manifesting on your face probably was also not doing you any extra favors.

“Hey, Eve.” Rex straightened up, clenching his fists against the hospital bed. “You bring any more magazines?”

“I don’t know how often you think that they release more of those, but it is not that often.” She sits down at the end of his bed, her gaze landing on you. “Hello again.”

“Hi.” You responded. You needed out. NOW.

“We didn’t get to properly meet, my name’s Eve, or, well it’s Samantha but everyone calls me Eve.”

You say your name in return, giving a mildly awkward nod of your head. God you were making it worse.

“I thought your name was Joy?” Eve gives Rex a quizzical look, and he doesn’t return it, suddenly very interested in the seam of his shirt.  

“So, how did you and Rex meet?” You really didn’t want to open that can of worms again.

“We were on the Teen Team together. That was a lifetime ago though.” She smiled at him.

Now, you had no reason to feel at all jealous. You didn’t even like Rex. Eve seemed really nice, and you were actually interested in learning more about her. But something about the way she sat down without hesitation, and the smiles she kept giving him were making you feel mildly queasy. You should really get more sleep. “The Teen Team?”

“You never heard of the Teen Team?” Rex spoke this time, surprise clear in his voice.

“I don’t really keep up with…well anything I guess.” You shrugged, you hadn’t really cared to keep posted until the Guardians were massacred.

“They were the best team ever!” Rex exclaimed loudly.

“No, they weren’t.” Eve rolled her eyes. “We weren’t even the number one teenager-centric team.”

“In my eyes we were.” He held his hands to his chest, fingers intertwined, as if reminiscing.

“Who else was on it?” You asked, gazing jumping between the two of them.

“It was me, Rex, Kate, and Robot.” Eve answered.

“Just the four of you?”

“Hey, that’s all we needed!”

You sat for a few more minutes listening to them reminisce. After one particular story about Rex staying at her house for a year straight you realized where you had recognized her. She had been in one of the pictures on his wall in his room. You weren’t sure exactly what their history was but, you were glad he was able to keep one friend off the team. It still made you feel oddly upset, but you were determined to be mature. There was genuinely no reason for you to feel like this anyway. It was stupid.

“Well, this has been lovely, truly, but I should really-”

“You should stay.” You glanced to the side to see Rex staring at you. His brow was creased slightly, his eyes slightly unsure. You wished he wouldn’t look at you like that.

“I’m sorry-” You were interrupted by a doctor peeking into the room.

“She’s awake.” Is all he said before passing on by.

“I’m sorry, I have to go. But it was so nice learning more about you, Eve.” You stood up.

“Likewise.” She smiled back.

You turned to Rex, who was still staring at you. As you made eye contact his jaw clenched. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here.”

--

You wanted to hug her, but you didn’t. Instead, you walked in and stood awkwardly by the curtain as a doctor and nurse duo filled her in on what had happened. She glanced over at you a few times, but in all mostly paid attention to the two who were talking. While you waited, your mind drifted back to Rex, replaying the feel of his hand against yours. Entirely normal and definitely not indicative of anything else.  

“We’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning to run some tests, m’kay?” The doctor said to Rae, which she nodded back politely to. “She’s been in here almost every day to share lunch with you. Hell of a friend.” The doctor pointed at you. You could curl up and die.

Rae’s attention focused on you as the two of them left. “Every day, huh?”

“I think they overdramatized it a day or two.” You gave her a smile.

“Did you at least save me some chips?”

“I tried, but you never seemed to want to take them from my hand.”

Rae gave a soft chuckle, wincing after the exertion.

“Can I help?” You plopped down in the recliner, wheeling it over to the bed.

Rae laughed again, holding her hands out to stop you as you eagerly moved forward. “Hold on, let me catch my breath.”

“Sorry.” You responded quickly.

“Don’t be.” She laid back, closing her eyes for a short period before opening them again. “I appreciate the offer, but I must decline.”

You open your mouth to argue. You wanted to help her, needed to.

“It has nothing to do with you.” She says before you can interject. “I don’t want to be healed yet.”

“What? Why?” You tried not to sound like you thought she was crazy.

“I need to remember this. Remember all I have had to go through as a hero, as a Guardian. Whatever.”

You nodded even though you didn’t really understand.

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it? You win one battle, but eventually, you will lose the next. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But it’ll happen. There’s no other way for this all to end.”

You blinked a few times. “It is exhausting. But doesn’t it help to know you’re making a difference?”

“What difference?” Rae’s voice still came out soft even though her words carried bite. “I have been in this business a long time and I don’t think I have ever seen it.”

“The Headquarters is too high up. Too far.” You start, leaning forward on your knees. “I have been in this hospital for months on and off, and more recently I have been here all day every day. I can see the difference in every single patient who tells me about how a superhero saved them. It can feel like every day is exactly the same, but to them-” You gesture to the rest of the hospital. “It means everything.”

Rae nods, but she still looks exhausted.

“You don’t have to continue, Rae. You can quit.”

“Like you did?” She gives you a cheeky grin, obviously having been waiting to say something to this point.

“Well…” You sucked on your teeth trying to bide your time. “Quit is such a strong word, isn’t it?”

“I knew it!” She said triumphantly. “I told Rex that you’d be back.”

“Ugh, I’m so glad you both were so worried.” You rubbed your face tiredly.

“I wasn’t worried, I knew you’d be back. You wouldn’t leave me.” Her eyes shined. “Misses-spends-every-lunch-in-my-room-while-I’m-in-a-comma.”

“Is that going to become a whole thing now?”

“Only until I forget.” She pokes you. “How is Rex doing by the way?”

“Rex?” You pretended to have to think about it. “Yeah, I think I heard he’s doing okay.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“He’s good. I swear.” You laugh. “He seems to be trying to turn a new leaf.”

“Well, that’s good.” She smirked before opening her mouth, “Must have found someone worth being better for.”

“Oh my god, Rae are you still on about this?”

“He asked me for your number and address so he could apologize, there’s no way that means nothing!”

“It could mean nothing!” You respond with a layer of exasperation.

“Sure.�� She lengthens the word as long as she can in a tease. You chuckle in response, covering your face with both hands.

“You could always stay with me you know.” You say it after she has gotten the teasing out of her system. “If you need a break from the Guardian’s. I have a spare room.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She reaches out, placing a hand on yours. “Thank you.”

--

You stood in a breakroom area at the hospital, taking a quick break between patients. A soft click told you that someone had entered the room with you. One glance back revealed that it was Rex, freshly healed up, flexing his new hand in front of his face. He looked good, healthy. He wasn’t wearing the hospital garbs anymore, they had been replaced by street clothes. You didn’t pay much attention to them though; your eyes were drawn immediately to Rex himself. He had his hair tied up again in the trademark look you had become accustomed to.

“Wow, you healed quickly.” You titled your head at him, hoping your voice reflected that you were happy for him, rather than sounding condescending.

“I told you, accelerated healing.” He rolled his shoulders, taking a few steps forward.

“Even still.” You closed the distance, looking him over. Accelerated healing sure, but accelerated hair growth? That really did shock you. “Well, you look good.” It slipped out, instantly making you press your eyes closed. Embarrassment hot against your face.

“Do I?” He cocked his head to the side with a smug smile.

“Don’t push it, hotshot.” Hotshot? God, when did you get so overconfident?

He stepped closer, you had to crane your neck slightly to continue looking at his face. He was standing awfully close, but you didn’t back away. Why did you never back away?

“Why do you keep visiting me? Hm?” His voice comes out in a hushed tone, ghosting over you.

“It’s good for comradery, in the team.” You stammer out, your eyes drifting down to his lips as he speaks.

“Bullshit. Maybe that first visit was just for that, but you kept coming back. You could have just come the once. But you didn’t.”

You swallowed dryly, he was leaning in slightly at this, his sage eyes searching over your face. “I needed to make sure I didn’t make a mistake. I- I mended your bullet wound.” You admitted it quietly as if you were scared for him to know. “I wanted to be sure I didn’t actually cause lasting damage.”

He sighed and stepped away from you, running a hand through his hair up to the elastic before dropping his hand to his side. “I wouldn’t have even been here if you had just come with me.”

Silence enveloped both of you. You knew that he was right, but you also hadn’t expected him to voice your exact thoughts after whatever was just happening. “I…I know.” You whispered.

“But you can make up for it, can’t you?” You looked up, feeling mildly confused, just in time to see him cross the distance he had walked away back to you. “Make it up to me.” In what felt like a millisecond his mouth was on yours. His hand travels up the back of your neck into your hair. He felt greedy, his hand closing tightly over as large of a cluster as he could grasp. He deepened the kiss, his tongue swiping over your lips to gain entry-

You snapped your eyes open, quickly adjusting to the dark. Soft rays from the streetlights far below sifted in over your curtains leaving a soft yellow glow on your ceiling. Your breath was coming out in swift heaves. It felt uncomfortably hot in your room, so you threw off your duvet, still panting in an attempt to regain your lost breath. You could still feel his hands in your hair.

Shit.

Author's Note: Guys be honest am I moving too fast? Like I know were almost at 70k words but it’s finally starting to be less one sided and I feel like I’m waterboarding you guys. Also hopefully you guys have seen or heard of groundhog day or I just mischaracterized you so bad 💔

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped request to be tagged for new parts!

[toxicrelief]

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling

warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together. 

Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish. 

You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick. 

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch. 

A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand. 

“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms. 

Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.” 

She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open. 

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

END.

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter fourteen

Synopsis: Your mind is running faster than you can control. To avoid spiraling you are determined to do anything but sit around at your apartment.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 6k

Chapter: 14/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: Extremely Mild Depictions of Injuries

Note: Two-ish more chapters until one I have been waiting to write for months 😛😼

Taking time off had previously seemed to you like an escape. You fantasized about it a few times after difficult fights, being able to lie in your bed in your apartment and do absolutely nothing. Now that you were being ordered to do it, everything about it felt like a chore. The books on your shelves didn’t pique your interest, you had no one to invite over being that Rae was in a coma, and you did not have much reason to drive around town and run errands. God, were you just a loser?

You could slam your head into the wall a few times, see if that did anything for you. After your visit to the museum, you had rushed home, panicking over the implications of the differences in tales between what Cecil told you and the story the worker had relayed to you. A truth you didn’t want to accept. But it wasn’t a truth yet, right? You couldn’t be sure of your potential fault in the security guard’s death, in John’s death. You needed to confront Cecil and ask him what was true, and what wasn’t. You needed…

What did you need? You had slid to the floor against your front door, soft sobs sounding out in your quiet apartment. Between the discrepancies with your first mission, and whatever happened to Rex and Rae, you were beginning to feel like you were being eaten alive. Guilt, shame, regret, all of it washing over you time and time again like ocean waves pulling at embedded driftwood. It hurt to breathe, to think-

And then you woke up. Hours later, lying on the entry rug in front of your door.

It was the early hours of the next day, over twenty-four hours since you had been woken up to assist with the emergency operations. Your solution to all of these new conflicting feelings about the events of the previous day was simply thinking about something else when it started to surface. The lump in your throat reappeared as you looked at the empty carousel picture frame Rae had given you. You needed to do something. Something other than wallowing in this godforsaken apartment.

--

“What part of take a break wasn’t clear to you?”

“Fuck!” You were working up a sweat, your dominant hand held up, fingers outstretched towards the ReAnimen on the ever-familiar gurney. You had decided you would practice. If the Guardians wanted to raise a fuss about you passing out, having episodes, whatever, you would have to get better. You needed to be better. You needed to be able to go far longer without even getting a headache, or even a twinge. The only way you could accomplish this was practice. Even though working with ReAnimen had proven to be a lot worse at producing results than actual field in experience, you weren’t exactly able to produce some villain out of thin air for you to fight. “Fuck- fuck- fuck!”

You had been trying to make the corpse do anything. Shift, stand up, scratch its ass, ANYTHING. But you were met with nothing, just the sound of your own labored breathing. It didn’t budge, didn’t even tremble. You realized quickly that you couldn’t even feel the blood that resided within it.

“Did you hear me?”

You turned to look at Cecil who had entered moments ago. You knew it wouldn’t take him long to find out where you were and that you were trying to train. But, it had taken surprisingly long. You had run through scenarios in your head. How you would immediately confront him about the security guard, demand an explanation. How he would tell you to go home, and you would refuse, continue working. But now that he was standing here, and after at least an hour of trying to make any kind of connection you were feeling nothing but more fragile. It was stupid. Humiliating even. You had grown so much, completely competent on missions on your own or with others. You could bring people to their knees, literally. And now you couldn’t even get this thing to lift a finger, let alone anything useful.

Cecil’s expression softened slightly before he let out a gentle sigh. “What are you doing, Killdeer?”

You shook your head, running your hands through your hair. “I can’t-” How could you have killed that guard? It wasn’t possible, you couldn’t even get this damn ReAnimen to move. It wasn’t possible. “There’s still blood in there, right? No one removed it because I wasn’t here?”

“There is.” He affirms after a pause, and then he says your name, probably in hopes of getting you to focus on his earlier question. “Why are you here?”

“I have to be better.” You said quickly, extending your hand out to it again, drawing your eyebrows together in concentration.

“Quit it kid, you’re just gonna hurt yourself.” You ignored him, still tensing your entire hand as your eyes watched for any sign of movement. Still nothing. You felt like a little kid trying to test if you secretly had powers after watching a movie. Which wasn’t helping with the humiliation problem.

With a groan you lowered your hand, panting out a few breaths from the strain. “God fucking dammit.” You muttered.

There was a loaded silence as you looked down at your hands, delayed panic starting to settle in. You couldn’t make it move. What did this mean? Were you done? Destined to be powerless for the rest of your life after getting a taste? Could you just be normal again? Maybe you would work some kind of office job, watching as a building across the street gets demolished in a nearby tussle between some new super-villain, attempting to take over the world, and some well-meaning superhero. You would be a powerless bystander.

“You should go to the hospital.” Cecil’s voice cut through the silence.

“Do you think they’ll fix this?” Your voice had more snark to it than you meant it to. Luckily Cecil seemed to be more sympathetic than you thought he would be. In fact, he almost looked… content?

“Stop being difficult. I think it would be good for you to practice some healing rather than this, don’t you?” You glanced at the unmoving form on the gurney and then back to Cecil. “If you can lengthen your stamina in that regard, I’ll consider letting you work on Rex and Rae, help them get back in the field faster.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” You responded quietly.

“It’s not my job to worry about how you feel.” He says matter-of-factly, but after a pause, he sighs again. “Hopefully it will make you feel better, kid.”

--

The hospital didn’t bustle with panic today. The halls were mostly empty, except for the occasional nurse progressing through their rounds. You could hear the persistent rhythmic beeping from every room you passed. The sound eventually fades into the background as the day goes on. It had been a while since you were on hospital duty. Cecil had taken you off after a patient had screamed at you, throwing everything at you they could find in their vicinity. You had experienced many unpleasant interactions during this part of your training, but that one stuck with you more than the rest. Each time you stood next to the doctor who explained some patient’s options to them, you watched the different reaction spread across their face before they even spoke. In less than five seconds after you were mentioned you could tell if your help was going to be welcome or scorned. You could tell if they thought you were a miracle, or unnatural. A freak. Which is exactly what the person who had been throwing ChapSticks and various utensils at you had called you.

Today had been better. There were a surprising number of children in the hospital, all of them sporting similar injuries, scrapes, and gashes. A doctor later told you that there had been some sort of incident at a nearby park, a building collapse, or something similar. You had been given such an expansive number of stories for each individual and how they got there that it was hard to keep track.

You now stood in the hall, leaning against the wall after a few hours of work, holding your fingers to your temple. On the happier side, you still had your powers. It must have been a fluke earlier with the ReAnimen, stress clouding your abilities. On the far less happy side, you could feel your brain pulsing within the confines of your skull. In fifteen minutes when the pain subsided you would go back to it, you needed to be better. But as for right now, you could throw up.

“You doing okay?” A familiar voice spoke from right next to you.

“’s fine, thank you, Donald.” You didn’t open your eyes, squeezing them shut to the point you started to see shapes and colors behind your eyelids.

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.” You responded softly. After a few minutes of silence, you started to feel the pain ebb slightly. Your body regenerating. Time to return to work.

“Oh god!” You exclaimed, jerking to the side quickly as you blinked your eyes open to see that Donald was still standing there. “Have you been there this whole time?”

“Yes.” He said with a subtle frown.

You stood for a moment eyeing him. Was that all he was going to say? “Are you okay, Donald?” You finally asked.

He hesitated for a brief second, his brows creasing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just stood here watching me for ages…in silence.” You raised a brow at him. “You worried I’m gonna have an episode, or are you needing to talk about something?”

“Can’t I stand with my friend?”

“Are we, Donald?” You laughed in a soft exhale. “Friends that is. Is that what this is?” You gesture between the two of you. On one hand, you were being honest, maybe a little less subtle about it than usual. You and Donald were on good terms, but friends? Maybe a week ago you would have quickly agreed. Smiled to yourself later that someone confirmed they thought well of you. Now you have bigger problems. Cecil had been the one to tell you that the security guard had been shot by one of the thieves. If this was not true and Cecil had lied, Donald had not told you otherwise. Hell of a friend.

“You’re upset.”

You sigh, straightening your back out in a stretch that has you immediately slouching forward again as it sends a cramp through your spine-adjacent muscles. “I’m tired is all, Donald. It’s good to see you.”

Donald is silent, still frowning. For once you wished he didn’t have those damn glasses. You couldn’t even tell if he was still looking at you. “If you have something to say or ask, just say it.”

“Donald, lets not-”

“You are obviously stewing on something. Tell me.”

You grimace, cursing yourself for your readability. You have to start being more subtle. “Donald-” You’re about to deny it, tell him he’s reading too far into it, you’ve just had a bad few days- bad week- bad life? But his head tilts slightly and you purse your lips closed, biting the inside of your lip. “What happened in the museum? My first mission, Donald. The one where the security guard died-”

“I know which one.” He interjected; his expression didn’t change at all from what you could tell. He just stood there staring at you for a moment. His pointer finger tapped lightly against his thigh.

Just as you were about to continue, he looked off to the left of him, into an open room next to you. It was vacant, you had chosen to stand here specifically because of that. If your headache had worsened, you had planned on lying down. “Follow me.” He said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door after you trailed in behind him. “The security guard-”

“John Spencer.” You blurted. You weren’t sure why. Even you referred to him as the security guard in your head. But at this moment you felt the need to humanize him. Carry the full weight of what his death meant.

“Mr. Spencer,” Donald continued, “Shot you.”

“I know, Donald-” You started with a groan, before he interrupted you, holding one of his hands up.

“That’s it, you know now and you knew then that he shot you.” You cocked your head almost imperceptibly.

“Okay?”

“Think back. You sat on the ground, having been shot for the first time in your life-”

“Hopefully the last.”

“You sat down, with him still pointing the gun at you. You didn’t knock him out like the others or disarm him in any way. And then you started to lose consciousness.”

“Why would I knock out a random civilian?” You questioned.

“To you, how you are now, it makes sense. He shot you. You can heal it back up with relative ease. To your subconscious, you just got shot, and didn’t do anything about it.”

You nodded, trying to follow what he was saying.

“We’ve been monitoring your brain activity during your episodes for a while now. Right before an occurrence there is a lull in your neurons. A moment, and you pass out to recuperate, you have a massive spike in cognitive functioning. Usually, this gets put back into the regeneration process, giving you a little more juice to stay awake longer.” He explained, gesturing with his hands. “It seems, or our hypothesis is, that you have a built-in defense mechanism. If your subconscious believes you are in danger it will… well it will save you.”

“Save me…” You trailed off, folding your arms over your chest. “Save me as in, kill whoever was threatening me.” It wasn’t a question. You had put it together now. It was all related to your subconscious, that was why you kept dreaming about John’s death. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a memory.

The blood speckling the wall up past the painting. His mouth hanging open as blood begins to shower from his throat. How you could feel that his legs were completely lacking in blood, not just low, squeezed dry. It had all happened.

“None of our agents were teleported in because once it started, we weren’t sure how long you could keep it up. How many bodies you could drain before you fully passed out. We had to wait until you collapsed, and by then, he was dead.”

You blinked a few times, your eyes strung slightly as you furrowed your brow somehow even harder. “Why…Why didn’t Cecil tell me the truth? Why didn’t you?” You turned your gaze to him, trying not to let the hurt reflect off your tone.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Donald looked sympathetic. “And we did not know enough about it. We needed to conduct more research.”

“You don’t get to decide what information I am allowed to have when it relates to me. I killed someone! I can’t just continue on like nothing happened! I am meant to protect people for- Jesus!” You ran both hands through your hair, pacing back and forth.

“Would it have helped?”

You slowed to a stop, slowly returning your attention back onto him. “What?” A soft crack taking over your tone.

“Would it have helped for you to know that you killed him? Would you have fought the same way on missions?”

“I- I don’t know Donald, maybe I would have quit.” You jumble out your words with an almost exasperated sigh.

“How many lives would have been lost if you had quit?”

“There’s no way to know for sure any of them would have been lost, Donald-”

“More than one. We know that. Rex and Rae, you saved their lives yesterday.”

“If I hadn’t quit the team, they might have avoided that completely!”

“All I am hearing is that you shouldn’t quit.”

“Goddamn it, Donald!” You ran a hand over your face. “It’s not the same. I could have…” You paused, biting the inside of your lip against the urge to start tearing up. “I could have saved them, Donald.” The conversation easily shifts to your guilt over Rex and Rae.

“You did save them.” He reaffirms gently.

“I didn’t save them from any of the pain. Rex was shot in the fucking head for Christ’s sake. Rae looked like she’d been crushed by a semi. And I was sleeping soundly in bed.”

Donald pauses, his gaze seems sympathetic but you can’t quite tell because of the glasses. Not that you want his sympathy. You want someone to hold you accountable, tell you how much of a shit bag you are. “The truth is,” He says your name, “You have done a lot of good, and you could beat yourself up over what has gone poorly. Or you can get up and do better.”

You don’t respond, chewing at the inside of your cheek. ‘what has gone poorly’, as if it is out of your control.

“I know firsthand the frustration of being lied to by the GDA. By the director.” The ridge of his lips rises slightly in what almost seems like a snarl. “We should have told you sooner. But sometimes this is just part of the job.” Even as he says it you can tell he does not necessarily agree with it. “Director Stedmen keeps a lot of secrets, he has a burden bigger than most. Especially after the incident in Chicago with Omniman.”

You sigh, but you feel your face soften slightly. “Does Cecil know you’re telling me this?”

“If he doesn’t, I am sure he will soon.”

You both stand there for a few moments, the silence enveloping you. You weren’t sure how to feel. Part of you had thought that knowing definitively would fix something, anything, everything. But now you knew, Donald had confirmed one of your worst fears, and you…didn’t feel any different. You could still hear the faint beeping of different machines in other rooms, and the shuffling of footsteps as they passed the closed door behind you.

“The world keeps spinning, huh?” You said with a tired smile, still trying to fully process everything.

“The world keeps spinning.” Donald repeated, his expression melancholy.

--

You and Donald decided to get lunch together at the hospital cafeteria. It was exactly what you expected, bland and forgettable. But it was nice to be able to sit and discuss with Donald. You weren’t sure if you could really be classified as friends. But you did truly believe he wanted what was best for you. He didn’t tell you what his issues with the GDA were, but you figured that it was for the best as well. After you had both finished and he eventually got called back in for one reason or another, you went back to it. People rejected you or accepted you. Over and over.

The amount of work you were doing would have felt more strenuous if you didn’t have so much to think about. The doctor you were shadowing around after shift change at one point snapped her fingers in front of your face because you had been zoned out to the point you had not heard her repeating your name.

“Do you need a break?” She asked, tilting her head at you, as she stood with her hands on the keyboard of the room’s computer. She had been updating the notes for a patient you had just mended back together.

“No!” You said quickly, startling the patient who was rubbing their arm, sitting on the bed. “Sorry, I mean, no.”

“How long have you been working for?”

“Well like a few months I suppose but I’ve done some volunteer-”

“Today.” She interrupted.

“Oh,” You thought for a second. “What time is it?”

“Why don’t you make this easy for me and just tell me what time you started.”

A little rude. You looked over at the patient before turning your attention back. “Six or so.”

“Go home. Come back tomorrow.”

“I’m not tired, I can keep going-” You stuttered, quickly faced with the reality of what it meant to go back home. The silence that awaited you.

“I will have you removed from the premises if I need to. Get off the clock, rookie.”

As far as you knew you were never on the clock to begin with. ‘Rookie’ my ass. But you didn’t argue back. Your temperament was too unpredictable recently, you didn’t want to say something you would regret. If you planned on continuing this work for the next few days, or weeks, or whatever Cecil wanted, it would be very awkward if you started making enemies.

You looked back at the patient and gave them a reassuring smile as they looked back and forth between you and the doctor. God this was a bit demeaning.

You didn’t want to go home yet. As you left the room your head swiveled left and right to take in the long, sterile hall. It was getting late, and the cafeteria was more than likely closed now, maybe you would just go to your old room.

Your room. Every now and again you recognized how odd your whole situation was. Granted you had not stayed there much recently…minus a short three-day stint, but it was still yours. You watched your shoes travel over the ground as you walked, not needing to look where you were going as the routine started to sink back in. You probably should have looked up though, people were still walking through the halls even if you weren’t looking for them. Which led to your shoulder slamming into someone who was walking past you.

“Shit!- I’m so sorry-” You started, rubbing your shoulder as you turned, whoever it was felt like walking into a brick wall.

“Oh no, I’m- wait don’t I know you?”

You straightened your posture out some as you felt the recognition dawn on you. “Yes, actually. Not formally though.” Shit.

“You were with Cecil when he came to my college,” Mark stated cautiously like the memory was unpleasant for him. It wouldn’t be surprising, honestly, Cecil pushed him pretty hard.

You nodded, feeling your brows draw together slightly at the already awkward tension falling over whatever this interaction was. “Yeah…” You stood there for a moment, before glancing around. You weren’t sure what or who you were looking for. Maybe anything to save you from this interaction. “I’m Killdeer, by the way.” You awkwardly told him your real name as well on top of that, explaining that you were a new Guardian member. Well, sort of a Guardian member.

“Oh. That’s you?” Mark eyebrows lifted in faint recognition.

“What’s me?” You were almost afraid to ask, crossing your arms loosely.

“Oh nothing, I just heard Rex talk about you.”

“What?” You were five seconds away from forming a permanent wrinkle between your eyebrows from the confused look you were giving him. “When?”

“Like, two minutes ago.”

“He’s awake?” Your arms dropped immediately. How long had he been awake? What had he been saying to Mark about you? And, even more importantly, with how much he hated you before all of this, how much did he hate you now? The thought of it almost made you wince. How high were the chances that you walked into whatever room he was in, and he immediately tried to explode you? Explode you? Detonate you? What even was the right word for this? Whatever, he’d do something to you around the lines of attempting to stop you from…continuing…anything.

Ever again.

Probably.

“Yeah, for a little while-”

“Which room?” You blurted.

“Uh?” Mark gave you a weird look, but a touch of a smile ghosted over his lips as he told you the room number.

“Thank you.” You jerked your head in a nod at him and almost immediately started heading that way, before doubling back to Mark. “It was nice to kind of formally meet you, you’re a big inspiration.” Good god. You were going to stay up at night thinking about this for a long time.

“It’s nice to meet you too?” He laughed, shaking your hand that was outstretched towards him.

The touch sent something through you. It wasn’t a jolt or some kind of electric current. It felt like a click. This was your first time making direct contact with him. The closest you had been to his life source. You could feel it. How it pumped in his veins, how a cluster of cells traveled to work on a bruise that must be hidden somewhere under his shirt.

This was a new development, an excellent development.

After the awful few days you were having, you could feel your mood lift slightly at the prospect of being able to tell Cecil something good. You had cracked Viltrumite DNA. You could feel it, but you couldn’t test it. You had no proof. For the first time in the months you had been in training, you wanted to go back to that cold training room. Test your abilities against that Viltrumite blood bag. You could feel even now that you would have complete control.

“Thank you!” You said again, hoping he wouldn’t be even further weirded out by your instant demeanor change, and the way you practically skipped away from him.

--

Crap, what number did he say again? Were you even in the correct building? After passing by a desk with nurses stationed at it three times, they finally waved you down and asked if you needed assistance. After the embarrassing ordeal of having to tell them you were “looking for Rex Splode” and them asking what his last name was, and you saying “…Splode?” you finally were able to get the correct number.

You watched as the numbers on the corresponding doors slowly ascended as you passed through the hall. You were only a few away now, and your pace was slowing.

Now that you were starting to process the excitement of your new development, and the shock of Rex already being awake, you were starting to realize how little you thought this through. What were you going to say? You should have made a plan, or a script, or something! You knew eventually he would wake up. You should have brought alcohol again, that worked pretty well last time.

And then you were at his door. It was cracked slightly open. A voice spoke from inside, feminine; one that was unfamiliar to you. You should go; he obviously has a visitor. Or maybe it was just a nurse? If someone else was there, was it less likely he would try to kill you? He wouldn’t actually kill you, right? You were just overthinking it.

Yeah…

You pushed the door open apprehensively, practically holding your breath. The curtain is pulled closed, and before you think better of it you trail your hand over the material, pulling it slightly ajar.

“Oh, hello.” An unfamiliar voice sounded from in front of you. A woman with bright ginger hair sat at the foot of the bed, blocking your view of the person who resided in it. You recognized her but you couldn’t quite place it.

“Hi, sorry, is this a bad time?” You’re already stepping back to exit the room, immediately taking the given opportunity to run. To be anywhere else.

“No, please!” She stands up, “I was just about to leave.” As she stands you make direct eye contact with the man she had been talking to in the bed. He’s tilting his head to the side, shifting himself so that he can see around her. You swallow dryly as you take him in, it feels as though your throat sticks closed at the sight of him.

He had on what almost looked like a metal helmet, light azure highlights shining off of it on the sides and front. It must be there to assist in his healing process, you doubt that it’s a new fashion statement. His right eye was slightly bloodied beneath the ocular lens. The section of his head the helmet did not cover revealed a choppy buzzcut they must have done after your assistance was no longer needed. Most surprising of all, he was smiling at you, not just smiling but practically beaming.

“Sorry.” You utter softly to the woman, giving her an apologetic smile.

“Really, don’t worry about it. I can only take him in small doses, you’re saving me.”

“Seriously? I almost died!” Rex whined, but his eyes quickly returned to you.

The woman gave you a polite nod before waving at Rex and exiting the room. Leaving you to the exact situation you were hoping to avoid by a guest being present.

You were now standing alone in Rex’s room. He maintained the most ridiculous grin you had ever seen, it almost unnerved you. Maybe it only felt ridiculous because you had hardly seen him smile before. Not in any genuine way.

“She seemed nice.” You said, not stepping any closer.

“Eve?” He responded, “Yeah, she is.”

Another beat of silence.

“You look like shit.” You could walk off a cliff. That’s the best you could come up with? Real conversation starter.

“You should see what the other guy looked like.” He quipped, his smile still not faltering.

Your eyes traveled down over him for a moment. His left arm which had been a bloody stump the last time you saw it was now sheathed in a metal covering. If he was telling the truth about looking better than whoever he had gone up against did, you almost couldn’t imagine the amount of damage done.

You opened your mouth again, to say- well really anything. Then your eyes landed on what looked like magazines being propped up by the metal appendage. “What’s that?”

“These?” He held one up, and after you nodded, he held the same one out for you. “Fucking brilliant is what they are!”

You stepped forward to take it out of his hand. “Ten biggest bedroom makeovers for your new dream home?” You read off the headline on the cover aloud. “A home improvement magazine?”

“Not just one.” He corrects, fanning out the other ones for you to look at.

Shit. You scrambled his brain when healing it. You knew that it was such a tender organ, and you botched it. Shit. You were never going to be able to heal anyone ever again. “Oh…That’s really…nice.” Should you tell someone? Get a doctor?

He looks up at you, his eyes squinting slightly. He pauses and you almost wonder if whatever he was thinking of fluttered out of his grasp. God, is that because of you too? You weren’t sure this kind of thing could even be fixed. Then he spoke. “I didn’t think you’d come.” It’s soft, hesitant.

“Do you want me to go?” You were already holding his magazine back out to him again, preparing to go. The last thing you wanted to do was agitate him; he’d already been through enough on your account.

“What?” His brows drew together slightly, and he made no move to take the booklet back.

“I’m sure you’re tired-”

“You should sit.” He said beckoning to the end of his bed where Eve had been sitting.

You hesitated. “How are you feeling, Rex?”

“Pretty good, considering I’m missing a hand, and have like fifty billion other things wrong with me.” He smiled. “Sit.” He gestured again, it wasn’t a command, but an invitation.

After a moment you decided to take him up on the offer. “You sure you’re feeling, okay? You’re being very… agreeable.” You squinted your eyes at him, if you kept saying stuff like that you were sure he’d snap out of it pretty quickly.

He seemingly ignored your question, opening one of the magazines. “See this?” He turned it towards you. “I think this would go really well in your entryway, right?”

Your eyes traveled over his face as he held it out to you. His expression was soft, he looked almost relaxed. After you didn’t say anything for a moment his eyes shifted from the page of the magazine up to you, which caused you to instantly look down. An unfamiliar feeling falling upon you. You chalked it up to the nauseua you had been feeling off and on all day.

“Rex, that’s like five hundred bucks.” You raise a brow at him.

“You’re a fucking superhero, you don’t think you can afford it?”

--

Rex had practically gone through the whole magazine with you, telling you what he thought was ugly, and what he thought worked well together. As well as assigning certain pieces of furniture to you personally. Saying “this looks like something you’d like.” And sometimes it was, other times it was the ugliest thing you’d ever seen in your life. He snickered each time before he pointed the ugly ones out, which made you wonder how mushy his brain truly was. That seemed very in character for him to you.

But overall, you didn’t discuss anything substantial. You didn’t ask him what happened to him and Rae, you didn’t mention his visit to your apartment, and you didn’t apologize. You figured you could do it all with time, as of right now he was alive. You’d have time to apologize later, but a secret part of you almost hoped he didn’t remember the interaction. Or any of your interactions, from how nice he was being to you.

When you got up to leave, he had frowned, sitting back in what felt a lot like disappointment.

“Will you come back tomorrow? Not that I’m desperate for company or anything, fuck, everyone is crowding to see me.” You looked around the empty room for a moment before returning your attention to him. “You just seem like you could pick out some good home magazines. That’s all.”

“Sure, Rex.” You had said, cocking an eyebrow up at him.

You pulled your phone out as you walked away, dialing Cecil.

Hello?

“Has anyone run any kind of brain scans on Rex yet?” You asked quickly, leaning against the wall a few rooms away.

Yes, why are you calling me this late to ask that?

“Sorry, I just visited him and he was acting strange. I’m worried I… healed something wrong. I mean you know how delicate the brain is-” You started speaking quickly, feeling the mild panic set in again that you had ignored during your entire visit.

Killdeer, his EEG results came back all clear. He’s completely fine. Go to bed.

“Oh…really? Because he seemed a little-” You heard a click and pulled your phone away from your ear. “-odd.” He hung up. Well, at least Cecil isn’t worried about it.

You looked up, the halls were more empty than usual. A quick glance at your phone told you that it was much later than you had thought it was. A steady rhythmic beeping brought you out of your daze, a dim light illuminated out of a dark room in front of you. After glancing up and down the hall you move towards it, exhaustion overshadowed by your curiosity.

A long tubelike structure with a glass cover glowed hazily in the center of the room. Cyan light showered over the walls and floor, licking away at the shadows. An unfamiliar-looking person rested inside, a blanket over her up to her midsection. Her hair spread around her head, sepia-colored locks almost mimicking a halo. An oxygen mask plastered over her mouth, her chest slowly rising and falling.

Looking around for a chair, your eyes locked on the recliner with wheels that resided in every room. Stepping forward, you pulled it up next to the contraption. Sitting down you ran your gaze over her again, her arms were both in bandages and her face was swollen almost beyond recognition.

“Hi, Rae.” You whisper, sitting down in front of the glass incubator, pushing your back against the seat. You rap your fingers against the armrest of the chair, your eyes slowly drooping more and more until you completely pass out.

Author's Note: Lowkey next chapter might have a bit of fluff don't tell anyone tho hehe

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 request to be tagged for new parts!

Chapter fifteen