[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xmnqfix.jpeg[/img] [sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=cb6b06][b]#cb6b06[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=d13b00][b]#d13b00[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=808080][b]ghost rider[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/RMJEeiz][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=808080][b]garage[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]............[/color] [color=00674f][b]#00674f[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=808080][b]sentinel[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://i.pinimg.com/736x/9f/2f/b1/9f2fb187ae06fc21f8a02d1bff323fbb.jpg][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=808080][b]kitchen > garage[/b][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]The kitchen looked like it had been the battleground for a minor domestic war. Flour dusted the countertops like fresh snowfall, streaked where her hands had dragged through it in frustration. A bowl, too large for the task, sat half full of something that aspired to be dough, though Zaria was almost certain dough wasn’t supposed to look like… that. The rolling pin lay abandoned on its side, lightly smeared with pink jam she wasn’t sure was supposed to be on it. A whisk clung to a desperate clot of butter like it was holding on for dear life. Zaria stood in the center of the chaos, shoulders drawn tight, brows furrowed at the holographic recipe floating serenely in front of her. The instructions shone in soft blue light, precise and clear, utterly indifferent to the existential crisis happening beneath them. [color=00674F]“I swear it looked easier in the video,”[/color] she muttered. [color=d6d6d6]“Miss Von Doom,”[/color] J.A.R.V.I.S. said in his ever-patient, ever-composed tone, [color=d6d6d6]“The recipe specifies cold butter. You appear to have… softened yours to the point of liquefaction.”[/color] Zaria let out a small, strangled noise. [color=00674F]“I panicked! It wouldn’t mix, so I… heated it up.”[/color] She lifted the bowl, then put it down again before the ooze could slosh out. [color=00674F]“I was trying to be efficient.”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“Efficiency,”[/color] the AI replied gently, as gently as artificial intelligence could be, she supposed. [color=d6d6d6]“is not typically achieved through improvisational melting.”[/color] Zaria scrubbed her hands over her face, leaving streaks of flour along her cheeks. [color=00674F]“I’ve fought bounty hunters, J.A.R.V.I.S. Lots of them. Why is baking harder?”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“Because,”[/color] J.A.R.V.I.S. mused, [color=d6d6d6]“Bounty hunters do not require precise measurements.”[/color] She huffed, amused despite herself, then looked around the kitchen again, really looked. If Logan were here, he’d be leaning in the doorway with that long-suffering look of his, arms crossed, raspy voice ready with some teasing remark. If her brother were here, he’d have made fun of her until she threw a utensil at him, and then he would have taken over for her. But James… James would’ve shown up at eleven-thirty, hands in his pockets, expecting lunch and company and maybe—maybe, trust. And she hadn’t been there. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t even know how to explain why that mattered so much, but it did. It mattered in a way that scared her a little. [color=00674F]“Okay,”[/color] she said, exhaling sharply, [color=00674F]“We’re starting over. How do I fix this? Can I fix this? Is it fixable or should I throw myself off the balcony and hope I splatter poetically?”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“I would strongly advise against self-defenestration,”[/color] J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. [color=d6d6d6]“And yes, we can salvage this. First, please place that bowl, carefully, into the sink. Then retrieve fresh butter from the refrigeration unit.”[/color] She moved as directed, dumping the bowl into the sink with a wet, sugary [i]plorp[/i] that made her wince. [color=00674F]“J.A.R.V.I.S.,”[/color] she said as she crossed to the fridge, [color=00674F]“Do you think James will still be upset?”[/color] There was a beat—infinitesimal, but present. [color=d6d6d6]“I believe,”[/color] the AI answered, [color=d6d6d6]“That Mr. Blaze was disappointed. Not angry. You have done him no irreparable harm.”[/color] Her throat tightened. [color=00674F]“I don’t know how to… do this,”[/color] she admitted softly. [color=00674F]“Friends. Promises. Not messing things up.”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“You will learn,”[/color] J.A.R.V.I.S. said, and something about the simplicity of the AI’s statement calmed her frayed nerves ever so slightly. [color=d6d6d6]“Now, cube the butter. Small pieces.”[/color] Zaria held the block of butter, fingers pressing into the greasy surface with a grimace, hesitating over the knife. [color=00674F]“…Define small?”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“Half-inch,”[/color] J.A.R.V.I.S. said. Zaria made her first slice. It was decidedly [i]not[/i] half an inch. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on it nervously as she hesitated. There was a pause. [color=d6d6d6]“…Close enough,”[/color] the AI said diplomatically. She snorted, an inelegant, unguarded sound, and for a moment, some of the tension in her spine eased. Zaria pushed the butter into the flour as instructed, working slowly, carefully, determinedly. Her fingers were clumsy, her movements awkward, but she was trying. Really trying. [color=00674F]“J.A.R.V.I.S.?”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“Yes, Miss Von Doom?”[/color] [color=00674F]“Do the instructions say how to make them taste like somebody’s childhood?”[/color] She looked down at her hands, at the mess she was turning into something better. [color=00674F]“Because I think that part matters most.”[/color] A softer note entered the AI’s tone. It was astounding to realize this was not an actual person, but something that had been coded to respond in such a way. She still didn’t fully understand how he worked, but he was the most helpful thing in this tower thus far. [color=d6d6d6]“Only intention can do that, I’m afraid.”[/color] Zaria swallowed hard and kept working. For James. That was when Alfred entered the kitchen like a man stepping into a crime scene. He stopped dead in the doorway. Absolutely frozen. For a long, quiet moment, the only movement was his left eye giving a single, pained twitch, so small any other human would have missed it, but Zaria caught it with the precision of someone trained to notice danger. And Alfred Pennyworth, war veteran, medic, ex-intelligence operative, survivor of unspeakable Gotham nonsense… looked [i]horrified.[/i] Horrified in a dignified British way, which somehow made it worse. His gaze swept slowly from the flour storm coating the countertops, to the jam-streaked rolling pin, to the sacrificial whisk glued to butter, to the holographic recipe, and finally, to Zaria, elbow-deep in a bowl of flour and butter that was clumping like drywall plaster. [color=d6d6d6]“…Miss Von Doom,”[/color] Alfred said carefully, his voice so polite it bordered on surgical. [color=d6d6d6]“Might I inquire as to why it appears as though you’ve attempted to bake inside a tornado?”[/color] Zaria blinked at him, cheeks burning. [color=00674F]“I—um—I’m making pop-tarts.”[/color] There was a full three seconds of silence. Alfred stared at her like she had told him she was attempting open-heart surgery on the countertop. J.A.R.V.I.S., ever helpful, chimed in with impeccable timing. [color=d6d6d6]“Miss Von Doom is attempting to prepare homemade strawberry pastries as an apology for disappointing Mr. Blaze.”[/color] Alfred drew in a breath so sharp it could cut glass. [color=d6d6d6]“Ah,”[/color] he said, and something in his posture softened. Just a touch. [color=d6d6d6]“A noble endeavor. And one I suspect Mister Logan would approve of.”[/color] Zaria’s throat tightened. She wasn’t even sure how he knew about Logan, but a part of her wasn’t surprised. It felt like Coulson and Alfred knew everything. [color=00674F]“If he were here he’d tell me I’m doing it wrong.”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“Yes,”[/color] Alfred agreed dryly, stepping into the room with the air of a man approaching a wounded wild animal. [color=d6d6d6]“But he would be correct. You are doing it very wrong.”[/color] Zaria groaned and pressed her hands to her face, smearing new streaks of flour across her skin. [color=00674F]“Why is that not comforting?”[/color] Alfred clapped his hands once, brisk and authoritative. [color=d6d6d6]“Right. Stand aside, Miss Von Doom. I’ve handled worse than this.”[/color] He glanced down at a glob of something that may have once aspired to be dough. His jaw tightened imperceptibly. [color=d6d6d6]“Much worse.”[/color] It sounded a little like a lie, actually. Not that she was going to complain. He moved with startling efficiency—rolling up the sleeves of his immaculate shirt with military exactness before surveying the damage. Within minutes, he had dumped the doomed bowl from the sink into the trash, rinsed and replaced the tools with frighteningly swift precision, and wiped down three square feet of counter with the silent, resigned sorrow of a man who knew he would be cleaning up after young superheroes far too often. Then he gave Zaria a firm, encouraging nod. [color=d6d6d6]“Very well. Let’s salvage your culinary… aspirations.”[/color] [color=00674F]“I’d call them attempts,”[/color] she muttered. [color=d6d6d6]“Attempts require momentum,”[/color] Alfred countered. [color=d6d6d6]“What you’ve been doing is flailing with purpose.”[/color] Zaria stared. [color=00674F]“Is that… is that better?”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“A marginal improvement.”[/color] J.A.R.V.I.S. chimed in again. [color=d6d6d6]“Mr. Pennyworth has taken over the role of supervising chef. I shall remain secondary support.”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“Very good,”[/color] Alfred said. [color=d6d6d6]“Now, Miss Von Doom, hands washed. Properly. And then we shall address your dough.”[/color] She washed her hands like she was preparing for surgery, under Alfred’s scrutinizing gaze, before returning to the workstation. Alfred placed a fresh bowl in front of her, already containing the proper proportions of flour and salt. [color=d6d6d6]“Cold butter,”[/color] he said, handing her a perfectly chilled stick from the refrigerator. [color=d6d6d6]“Diced. Into half-inch cubes.”[/color] Zaria hesitated. [color=d6d6d6]“I am aware,”[/color] Alfred said, [color=d6d6d6]“That J.A.R.V.I.S. attempted this step with you previously.”[/color] Zaria winced, trying not to pout because Alfred really [i]did[/i] know everything. [color=00674F]“It didn’t go well.”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“I deduced that when I discovered a butter puddle.”[/color] She picked up the knife. Paused. Alfred positioned her hands gently but firmly. [color=d6d6d6]“Here. Thumb curled inward. Press, don’t hack. And breathe. Cooking is not warfare.”[/color] [color=00674F]“It feels like warfare.”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“Then consider me your commanding officer in this campaign.”[/color] She snorted, again, and something in her chest eased, just like before. Under Alfred’s instruction, her cuts were cleaner, closer to the right size. He nodded approvingly. [color=d6d6d6]“Well done. Into the flour now.”[/color] Zaria dumped the butter in. [color=d6d6d6]“Now, incorporate with your fingertips. Not your palms. Warm palms melt the butter prematurely.”[/color] [color=00674F]“Like this?”[/color] she asked, fumbling. [color=d6d6d6]“Precisely. Gentle. Think of coaxing, not crushing.”[/color] Zaria blinked, and after a few moments she added. [color=00674F]“This is… nicer than I expected.”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“It is,”[/color] Alfred said mildly, [color=d6d6d6]“Baking is meant to be a relaxing endeavor, as it is difficult to produce anything edible when one is panicking.”[/color] J.A.R.V.I.S. added, [color=d6d6d6]“Her panic level was at 82%, earlier.”[/color] Zaria groaned softly. [color=00674F]“Why would you tell him that?”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“Because,”[/color] Alfred said, [color=d6d6d6]“It explains the dough on the ceiling, and the butter liquefaction incident.”[/color] She ducked her face, flushing darker. [color=00674F]“I’m never living that down.”[/color] [color=d6d6d6]“No,”[/color] Alfred agreed. [color=d6d6d6]“You are not.”[/color] But when she peeked at him, he was smiling. A small, warm tilt of the mouth that felt like approval. Real approval. [color=d6d6d6]“Now,”[/color] he said, straightening, [color=d6d6d6]“Shall we continue? We have pastries to complete, a kitchen to restore, and a friend to make amends with.”[/color] Zaria’s chest tightened again—this time not with panic, but something fragile and hopeful. [color=00674F]“Yeah,”[/color] She said quietly. Zaria wondered, distantly, if this is what life could have been like if her dad was… anyone else. [center]* * *[/center] James had been restless since training. He wanted to get out of the tower and go on a ride… He wanted to leave, feeling more out of place with every passing hour. He had packed his bag with what little bit of clothes he had that Zaria meticulously unpacked earlier that morning. With one less outfit after his whole training fiasco, there was an excess of room that felt… [i]off,[/i] like he was leaving something behind. He made his way down to the garage without running into anyone—[i]thank god[/i]—but now there was the whole hurdle of actually getting on his bike and leaving. No matter how much he tried, hooking his saddlebag up to his motorcycle, getting seated and even putting on his helmet… He couldn’t bring himself to start the engine. He remained in that limbo for over half an hour, ass going numb on the seat and sweaty palms pressed to his thighs. All the while the spirit kept calling him a [color=d13b00][i]Pussy[/i][/color] every time he reached for the keys in the ignition. After being chastised nearly a dozen different ways, James ripped off his helmet and threw it across the garage. [color=d13b00][i]Well [/i]that[i] was dramatic,[/i][/color] the voice nagged at the back of his head while the sound of his helmet rolling across the ground echoed loudly throughout the vast concrete room. [color=cb6b06]"For the love of God, [i]shut up![/i]"[/color] James ran his hands back through his hair before peeling off his leather jacket and throwing it on the ground. James couldn’t go on a fucking ride because he promised he wouldn’t leave the tower alone. He couldn’t leave because that same promise made his feet drag like they were strapped to cement blocks. And he couldn’t bring himself to trudge back up to his room because… of his pride? He was lonely?... Maybe he was just a pussy like the spirit said. Unable to make a single fucking decision, James resigned himself to one of the rolling mechanic’s stools and started tuning up his motorcycle as a way to keep his hands and mind busy. By the time the elevator had started its descent to the garage, James had rid himself of his shirt to avoid getting one of his last decent pieces of clothing covered in grease. His shaggy hair was pulled back in a short and sloppy ponytail that only held half of his hair out of his face. Smudges covered him like polka dots from his head to his waist, while his hands were entirely black almost all the way up to his elbows. Metallica played throughout the garage with a little help from J.A.R.V.I.S., blocking out all other noises… including the spirit’s judgement. The elevator chimed softly as it reached the garage, the doors gliding open with a smooth whisper that somehow made Zaria’s pulse jump into her throat. The tower’s garage was cavernous, sunlight slanting in through high windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams. Rows of sleek vehicles sat in immaculate lines, polished to mirror shine. A lingering smell of gasoline and motor oil clung comfortably to the air, grounding, warm in a way that reminded her faintly of Logan. And there, exactly where J.A.R.V.I.S. said he’d be, James sat beside his motorcycle. He hadn’t heard her yet. Which somehow made everything worse. Zaria swallowed, adjusting her grip on the plate before she dropped it. Six pop-tarts sat on it, three perfectly golden, neatly frosted, even drizzled, with Alfred’s help, like something out of a bakery case. The other three were… earnest attempts. Lopsided. Frosting sliding off one side. One looked like it had gotten into a fistfight and lost, strawberry filling was oozing out of its edges like some kind of murder scene. Her face still had flour streaks on it, she knew because Alfred tried to wipe one away and she dodged out of pure fight-or-flight instinct. Her hair had a dusting of white like she’d been caught in a light blizzard. Her shirt, once black—now had the patterning of someone who’d hugged a bag of flour at high velocity. She felt ridiculous. Terrified. Stupidly hopeful. The elevator doors tried to close behind her, nudging at her back like a passive-aggressive reminder she couldn’t stand here forever, so she stepped forward. Her fingers tightened around the plate, holding it in front of herself like it was a shield. Six pop-tarts. Three proud. Three… less so. All hers. All stupid. All she could think to bring. The music hit her. Loud. Grimy. Fast. It barked through the garage as if warning her to turn around while she still could, it was the sort of music Logan liked though, and that gave her just a little bit of confidence to step forward instead of turn away. There he was though, James, shirtless, grease-stained, doing… something to his bike that she didn’t really understand. It looked complicated, and messy. She swallowed. Hard. Fear and anxiety swirled inside of her like a tornado. Her feet moved anyway. [color=00674F]“Uh—hi,”[/color] she tried to say over the music, but it barely came out. She had to move closer before she was even in his peripheral vision, before he could hear her. Her heart was pounding so hard she swore he could [i]hear[/i] it through Metallica. [color=00674F]“James,”[/color] she blurted, a little too loud, the moment she was close enough that he couldn’t pretend not to notice her. James was hunched over tightening a bolt with a socket wrench when he caught movement out of the corner of his eyes. He paused just a second, sparing Aria a sideways glance. The pit of emotions that had been churning in his stomach since he left training tightened and contorted. If he was [i]actually[/i] planning on leaving it was too late now. He knew once she noticed his packed bag there would be no way to avoid the conversation. Either he’d make her guilt grow or he’d be a jackass… Maybe both. He let out a soft sigh that was lost somewhere beneath the guitar solo from Master of Puppets. He finished tightening that single bolt before discarding the wrench into the toolbox at his feet and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, adding another grease mark to his already peppered skin. [color=cb6b06]"Hey J.A.R.V.I.S., stop the music,"[/color] he called over the loud electric guitar. Then like spontaneously going deaf, the garage was silent as the grave. The only sound filling James’s ears was the residual ringing from the absence of the noise. Greasy hands pushed off his knees as he stood. The movement shifted the stool and sent it rolling behind him until it stopped, caught on the sleeve of his leather jacket and his saddlebag. He looked down at Aria with dark circles under his eyes, patiently waiting for her to speak. His face was a mosaic of exhaustion, frustration, sadness, and about twenty other emotions all rolled into one. And then, because there was no turning back, because her guilt was crawling up her throat, she just started [i]talking.[/i] [color=00674F]“I… missed lunch. And I’m really, really sorry. I know you said you were okay, but—”[/color] She cut herself off, inhaling sharply. She couldn’t stop now, there was still so much Zaria felt like she needed to say, but all the words were getting caught in the back of her throat, choking her. [color=00674F]“I thought—I thought maybe—well, you said they reminded you of your sister. And I wanted to make something that [i]mattered.[/i] I’ve never baked anything before, and I didn’t know what I was doing but I tried, really tried, because I didn’t mean to hurt you and I know I did, and—”[/color] Her eyes burned, her throat was closing up, and she couldn’t look at him, so she thrust the plate out and held it in the space between the two of them. [color=00674F]“I just wanted to fix it. These… these are for you.”[/color] James studied her face, brows furrowing as the words fell from her like a nervous vomit, one after the other. He didn’t notice the tray clutched in her hands until Aria mentioned his sister, then his gaze fell to the strawberry pastries, half of them looking like they were purchased from a gourmet bakery while the others looked like a child that tried. The sight made his chest tighten with an aching homesickness that always laid dormant inside him. He knew which ones were hers the moment he saw them and for a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he liked those more. Seeing the tears forming in her eyes made the tension fall from his shoulders and his brows curve upward with subtle concern. Before he could find the words or form a sentence, the tray was shoved into the space between them and the cold metal pressed against his chest. James’s gaze fell to the offering a second time and instinctively went to take it until he saw the blackness of his hands out of the corner of his eye. [color=cb6b06]"I… Give me a second."[/color] He held up an index finger and took a step away. Then he stopped and turned back to face her. [color=cb6b06]"[i]Please[/i] don’t cry… I’ll just cover you in grease."[/color] James cautiously turned from her, making sure Aria wasn’t going to burst into tears the second he stepped away. He half stumbled half stepped over the toolbox and made his way over to the sink. It took him several minutes of scrubbing his arms with the abrasive soap to get most of the dirt, grime and grease off of his hands. But no matter how hard he tried, it still remained embedded under his nails and in the creases of his skin. He grabbed an excessive amount of paper towels and dried his hands, then used what was left to try and wipe the remaining grease from his chest and face to no avail. After tossing the dirty, bunched up towels into the trash he slowly approached Aria like she was an injured animal he didn’t want to scare off. James hesitantly reached out and grabbed one of the uglier misshapen poptarts. He turned it over in his hand, studying it before looking over at her. [color=cb6b06]"You know you can buy these at a gas station for like… five bucks, right?"[/color] He brought the pastry to his mouth and took a bite without hesitation. The trust that he had in them not being contaminated one way or another was surprising considering the state of her eggs that morning, but she made the effort to bake poptarts from scratch… He could stomach a bite or two. He looked a bit surprised at how [i]normal[/i] they tasted. Sure they looked like a five year old made them, but they were just as good, if not better than actual poptarts. The corner of James’s mouth curled upward into a weary smile as he took another bite and grabbed his stool to sit back down with a sigh. [color=cb6b06]"Thanks,"[/color] he spoke quietly and a bit awkwardly, not knowing what else to say, but knew he needed to say something. [color=d13b00]Thanks? [i]That’s it?[/i][/color] the spirit goaded him beneath the ringing in James’s ears. [color=cb6b06]"If you don’t shut up I’ll take a bath in holy water,"[/color] James replied through his growing headache. He took another bite of the wonky poptart hoping to drown out that damn voice and calm some of his twisting and conflicting emotions. Zaria didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it shuddered out of her—quiet, barely audible even in the sudden silence of the garage, but enough to make her shoulders finally drop from around her ears. The sight of him actually eating the pop-tart, [i]her[/i] pop-tart, the ugliest of the batch, the one she’d nearly thrown in the trash twice, sent a tiny, fizzy rush of relief through her, like her ribs had loosened their grip on her lungs. But the relief didn’t stop her hands from trembling. She rubbed her thumb against the edge of the plate, smearing a faint streak of flour onto the metal in the process. Her gaze flicked from his face to the pastry in his hand, then back again, searching for any sign, any, that he wasn’t secretly forcing himself to chew. When she finally found her voice, it was soft. Fragile. Barely there. [color=00674F]“Does it… um—”[/color] Her fingers tightened on the plate. [color=00674F]“Does it taste okay?”[/color] The question stumbled out of her, nervous and uneven. She tried to smile but it wobbled, her bottom lip catching between her teeth. She couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting, shifting her weight, brushing flour from her sleeve, pushing her hair behind her ear even though it immediately fell forward again. Anything to keep from wringing her hands like a child waiting for a grade and dropping the plate, adjusting how she was holding it constantly. Her eyes darted to the pop-tarts Alfred had made, the perfectly frosted ones, the ones that looked like they belonged in a commercial. Those would’ve been safe. Predictable. Normal. But he hadn’t taken one of those. He’d picked [i]hers.[/i] And that made everything much, much worse. [color=00674F]“I mean—you don’t have to say it’s good just because I’m… uh. Crying-adjacent.”[/color] Her laugh was thin and shaky. [color=00674F]“I know they look like they were assembled during a small personal crisis. Which they were. But Alfred said they were technically edible, and—yeah.”[/color] She realized she was rambling again and snapped her mouth shut, inhaling sharply. A beat passed. Then, quieter—small enough he could have missed it if he wasn’t listening. [color=00674F]“I really wanted them to be good.”[/color] Her gaze lifted to him again, open, uncertain, hoping in a way that made her chest hurt. [color=cb6b06]"You didn’t try them?"[/color] James asked her with a mouthful of food, pausing in the middle of chewing, brows tugging together a bit confused. He swallowed, looking between the half eaten poptart in his hand then up at Aria from beneath the tousled hairs that fell in his face. [color=cb6b06]"So… It’s poisoned?"[/color] The corner of his mouth curved upwards into a weak lopsided smile before he intentionally took another bite while a laugh rumbled in his chest. He then leaned to the side, reaching out with his free hand to grab a nearby stool and slowly rolled it towards her legs in a silent offering. James didn’t really know how to do this whole [i]friend[/i] thing. It had been years since he had a person who remained in his life for more than 24 hours, and according to the clock it had been… [i]29 hours[/i]. So she was already breaking that record. There was still a part of him that was a bit sore and guarded from getting burned the single time he opened up to someone in over a decade. She apologized and he knew she meant it, but there was still some kind of internal roadblock he couldn’t get around. So rather than trying to fill the silence with a slew of words that he’d fumble to put together and likely wouldn’t make a sentence, he ate in a tentative silence. After finishing the last bite, James cleared his throat wishing he had something to drink but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and shit on Aria’s attempt at making amends. His hands rubbed his thighs anxiously before looking over at her. [color=cb6b06]"They’re good… Slow acting poison though. Might want to up the dosage next time,"[/color] he teased softly. His quiet tone didn’t quite reach his usual casual calmness, but it was getting there… Slowly. James wasn’t often in the territory of having to forgive someone. He knew it would take time, but that’s it. Everything felt like uncharted territory, and awkward… Really fucking awkward. Zaria blinked at the stool like it was some rare, delicate thing, an invitation she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept. For a moment she just stood there, frozen in that breathless in-between, plate clutched like a lifeline. Then, with a small, almost instinctive nod, she eased herself down onto it. The faux leather of it was cool beneath her legs, grounding in a way she didn’t expect. Her knees drew together, her hands hovered awkwardly over the plate, and she let out a soft, watery laugh at his joke, thin but real, threaded through with a kind of exhausted relief. [color=00674F]“No. I—”[/color] she sniffed, scrubbing her sleeve across the corner of her eye before any tears could fully commit. The laugh hiccuped again, gentler this time. [color=00674F]“They weren’t… meant for me.”[/color] She stared down at the pop-tarts, her crooked pastry soldiers lined up beside Alfred’s pristine creations, and her fingers tapped nervously against the rim of the plate. [color=00674F]“I made them for you.”[/color] The words slipped out soft but firm, unadorned. Somehow that naked honesty felt more terrifying than any apology she’d stammered earlier. [color=00674F]“I didn’t try them because…”[/color] Her throat bobbed. [color=00674F]“I’ve never had a pop-tart before.”[/color] She lifted her gaze, just for a heartbeat, like she was checking to see if he’d laugh, even though she knew he already knew this much, but this time she wasn’t sure she could join him. [color=00674F]“So I wouldn’t even know if they tasted right. Or wrong. Or like…”[/color] Her hand fluttered vaguely, searching for a word she didn’t have. [color=00674F]“Pop-tarts.”[/color] A breath trembled loose from her chest. [color=00674F]“I just wanted to try to do something nice.”[/color] The silence in the garage was too loud, deafening almost, but her voice dropped to something quieter, something raw enough it felt like she was peeling open a seam she’d never touched before. [color=00674F]“Something that was… actually mine. Actually genuine.”[/color] [color=cb6b06]"[i]Well[/i],"[/color] James mused into the silence of the garage as his cleaned hands ran along his grease stained jeans, slowly and unintentionally getting dirty again. [color=cb6b06]"If those are mine—"[/color] he pointed at the plate where three perfect and two massacred poptarts waited to be eaten and enjoyed, [color=cb6b06]"—I can choose how they are eaten… So you should have one and I’ll buy you shitty gas station poptarts the next time we leave the tower."[/color] [color=d13b00]"Can [i]I[/i] have one?"[/color] the spirit asked, with his deep demonic voice falling from James’s lips. [color=cb6b06]"You don’t have a mouth."[/color] [color=d13b00]"Semantics."[/color] Zaria stared at the plate for a long, suspended heartbeat, like the pop-tarts themselves had suddenly become sacred objects, fragile and glowing beneath the garage lights. The offer settled over her slowly, gently, like snowfall on stone. Her fingers twitched against her knee, hesitant, unsure, caught between fear and something that almost resembled warmth. Then, with a soft exhale, she reached out. Deliberate. Careful. She chose one of the ugly ones, one of hers, its uneven frosting cracked at the corner, the dough slightly lopsided as if it, too, had been nervous during its creation. Her hand shook as she lifted it, cradling it like something precious she wasn’t entirely sure she deserved. The banter between James and Judge tugged a smile to her lips, small, edged with lingering nerves, but real. There was a strange comfort in the way James argued with his demon like it was a bickering roommate rather than a creature born from torment. Judge’s low, rumbling demand, James’s flat refusal, something about the absurdity of it loosened a knot in her ribs she didn’t know she’d been clenching. She even let out a faint laugh, barely more than a breath, but threaded with a shy, startled amusement. [color=00674F]“I’ll eat one,”[/color] she murmured, lifting the misshapen pastry a little higher as proof. Her gaze flicked to him, bright with nervous sincerity. [color=00674F]“But the rest… the rest are still yours.”[/color] Her voice warmed, softening around the edges. [color=00674F]“I made them for you. I meant that.”[/color] She looked down at the pop-tart in her hand, studying its crooked lines, the places where the frosting had pooled or split, the faint indent of her thumb from when she’d set it on the tray earlier. For some reason, holding it now made her chest tighten, not painfully, but with something achingly tender. Something strangely hopeful. She inhaled, steadying herself, and added—barely above a whisper, but clear enough to reach him. [color=00674F]“Thank you… for sharing.”[/color] James’s brows pulled together in disbelief rather than a normal ‘you’re welcome’ like most people would have offered. [color=cb6b06]"If you thought you could bring down a platter of poptarts and get away without eating at least [i]one[/i] of them, you’re crazy."[/color] He let out a small, incredulous puff of air that slipped from beneath pursed lips. [color=cb6b06]"But I’ll be sure to take the rest up to my apartment for breakfast or something… If that would make you happy."[/color] His last words came out slow, tentative and far more soft than his usual dry sarcasm. He didn’t look in her eyes, his gaze remaining focused on the grease stains along his jeans and the black oil that clung to the creases of his fingers and remained beneath his nails. Zaria felt her smile bloom before she could stop it, small and warm and entirely unguarded. The elevator’s low hum, the quiet settling of the garage around them, everything seemed to soften as she watched him study the stains on his jeans instead of her face. She shifted the half-eaten pop-tart in her hands, crumbs dusting her fingertips, and let the words rise gently, like steam off something freshly baked. [color=00674F]“It would,”[/color] she admitted, voice a murmur shaped by sincerity rather than shyness. [color=00674F]“It would make me really happy.”[/color] Then, almost tripping over her own earnestness, she added quickly, [color=00674F]“But only if you’re happy too. That’s what matters most.”[/color] Her cheeks warmed, not with embarrassment but with the fragile, glowing hope that he understood—this wasn’t gratitude out of politeness, or some attempt to repay kindness with obligation. It was simply the truth, offered to him the way she offered everything important: gently, carefully, with both hands. James’s brows rose slightly at her final comment. He couldn’t recall a time in his life where someone claimed to care more about his own happiness more than… well, than their own. He held out his hands like he was trying to calm a frightened animal, but a lighthearted, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. [color=cb6b06]"Calm down there, tiger. I’ll compromise that it matters that we’re [i]both[/i] happy, but there’s no way in hell my happiness matters most."[/color] He dropped his hands gently to his knees for a beat before pointing an index finger toward her. [color=cb6b06]"Also if you wake me up early tomorrow then some of those poptarts are yours."[/color] His eyes squinted slightly as he wagged his finger in a gentle, mostly playful warning. Zaria’s grin unfurled slow and bright, like sunlight catching on something fragile and making it glow. She lifted her chin in a small, almost defiant nod, soft, but certain. [color=00674F]“Then we’ll call it even,”[/color] she murmured, amusement threading through her voice like silver ribbon. [color=00674F]“Your happiness, mine… equal stakes. No arguments.”[/color] The playfulness in her eyes softened into something warmer, gentler, as if the words themselves had anchored her to the moment. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and let her smile settle into something quieter. [color=00674F]“And I can… definitely see myself enjoying one of the pop-tarts in the morning.”[/color] Her gaze dipped to the plate and then back to him, the corners of her mouth lifting just a touch more. [color=00674F]“If you don’t mind sharing.”[/color] [color=cb6b06]"Good,"[/color] he replied with a sure nod and a slight ease of his posture. While other people, [i]normal[/i] people, would have seen Zaria’s comment as some sort of innuendo at the implication that she’d see him in the morning. But James only took it as confirmation that the blonde hellion that had deemed herself his headache, burden, and friend intended to wake him up bright and early like she had that morning. And while the idea of being woken up prematurely already made him grumpy, the thought of someone being impatient enough for his company that they have to wake him up to see him sooner was… comforting. [color=cb6b06]"I wouldn’t have offered if I minded."[/color] Silence stretched for a beat, thick, humming, taut. Then, almost without warning, the words began to slip faster, unfiltered, like some dam inside her had cracked. [color=00674F]“I’ve never had a friend before.”[/color] The sentence landed between them like a confession. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying. Just… true. She set the plate down carefully on the nearby workbench as if her hands needed to be freed to say the next part. Or maybe because they were shaking too hard to carry the weight of it. [color=00674F]“My father, he…”[/color] Her jaw tightened, as though the name itself made the bitter taste of iron bloom across her tongue. [color=00674F]“He kept us, my brother and I, inside the castle. Always. Latveria was outside, but we weren’t part of it. We were… possessions. Projects.”[/color] Her voice grew quieter still, but sharper, edged like broken glass. [color=00674F]“Every lesson was about control. Power. Silence. He said kindness was a liability. Compassion was weakness. That caring for anyone made you… breakable.”[/color] For a moment, her eyes unfocused, gaze distant, like she was seeing marble corridors and cold stone walls instead of grease-streaked concrete and metal. [color=00674F]“He tried to beat it out of us.”[/color] The words weren’t metaphor. Not entirely. A brittle laugh escaped her, not humorous, just a splinter of sound. [color=00674F]“It never quite worked on me.”[/color] Then she seemed to realize what she’d said, what she’d [i]revealed,[/i] and her spine straightened abruptly, breath hitching as though she’d just stepped somewhere she shouldn’t. Her hand shot up to tuck flour-dusted hair behind her ear again, automatic, shaky, panicked. [color=00674F]“Sorry,”[/color] she whispered, voice shrinking, retreating. [color=00674F]“That was… too much. I didn’t mean to—”[/color] Zaria swallowed hard, gaze dropping to her knees, shoulders curling inward like she could fold herself back into something smaller. Safer. [color=00674F]“I just… forgot.”[/color] A beat. Quieter. [color=00674F]“How little I’m supposed to say.”[/color] James remained quiet and patient, hands clasped together in his lap as he listened to whatever she wanted to say and let her words run their course. He twiddled his thumbs for a few seconds, trying to parse together a coherent thought before he spoke. [color=cb6b06]"I don’t really have friends either… None that last more than 48 hours anyway."[/color] He looked across the tool littered space between them, then held her gaze. [color=cb6b06]"But even if I did, I wouldn’t share information you’ve told me in confidence. That’s no one’s business."[/color] He reached up and brushed back the loose strands of hair that fell in his face and attempted to tuck them behind his ear, but they slipped free not a moment later. [color=cb6b06]"Your dad sounds like a dick,"[/color] James commented with a half-hearted laugh. [color=cb6b06]"I think you and that Tobias guy could start a support group. [i]‘Shitty super villain dads anonymous.’[/i]"[/color] His posture relaxed some, shoulders slouching forward slightly and knees spread casually. [color=cb6b06]"Gotta make sure you have ‘villains’ in the title, or Lieutenant Buttplug might show up."[/color] He grimaced at the thought of Captain America Jr. weaseling his way into—well, anything—with that uncomfortable lecherous gaze. That man looked like a poster child for a predator. Zaria had just taken another bite of the pop-tart, when James said the words [i]Lieutenant Buttplug.[/i] The laugh hit her like a punch to the diaphragm. She choked on strawberry filling, coughed once, then doubled over with a strangled, hiccuping sound that was completely ungraceful and entirely uncontrollable. Her shoulders shook as she struggled to swallow and breathe at the same time, one hand pressed to her sternum, the other clutching the mangled pastry. A smear of jam streaked her thumb. Tears prickled the corners of her eyes, but this time, blessedly, from laughter. [color=00674F]“L–Lieutenant—”[/color] she wheezed, then dissolved into another breathless laugh. [color=00674F]“I can’t—James—”[/color] It took her a full thirty seconds to get herself under control again, to sit upright, to swipe at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. She inhaled slowly, shakily, her grin too wide and too bright for someone who had nearly cried in this same garage not ten minutes ago. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, gentler, still laced with leftover laughter, but carrying something deeper beneath it. [color=00674F]“Thank you.”[/color] She didn’t clarify what she was thanking him for. She didn’t need to. It was the laugh. The kindness. The way he hadn’t recoiled from her honesty. The way he hadn’t mocked her father—well, not in the wrong way. All of it. Her smile softened further, turning rueful, almost tired but warmer than before. [color=00674F]“And… yeah. My dad sucks.”[/color] She said it with a wry, lopsided twist of her mouth, the kind of confession she wasn’t sure she was supposed to make out loud. But it felt good, strangely good. James’s own smile grew. It was small and steady like the sun rising over the horizon in the morning, a blooming warmth. No matter how he felt or how the slight sting from being forgotten that morning still lingered at the back of his mind somewhere beside the spirit, making someone laugh… [i]Truly[/i] laugh always eased the tiniest bit of tension that was ever present, tightly knit between his shoulders. It never removed it completely. James couldn’t recall what it felt like to ever really be… [i]at ease[/i], but for a fleeting few moments as Aria cried and struggled to form words, it lightened the load. He groaned, a mix of annoyance at shitty father figures and discomfort as he tried to stretch some of the soreness from his arms. [color=cb6b06]"Mine does too."[/color] James let out a laugh that was almost more of a wheeze, awkward, a little forced, but laced with good intentions and sympathies. [color=cb6b06]"Don’t get me wrong, yours wins by fucking miles—"[/color] He made a gesture with his hand, sweeping it to the side as if to say Doom won by a landslide. [color=cb6b06]"He gets that giant ass Nascar trophy that’s like the size of a small country. My dad gets one of those cute little participation ribbons."[/color] He chuckled and held up his thumb and index finger so close together that they were practically pinched as he mentioned the tiny medal his own dad got in the grand scheme of ‘shitty dad awards.’ Zaria let out a small, wry laugh, the sound threading between the echoes of silence in the garage and the faint hum of the garage lights. Her eyes glinted with mischief despite the lingering nerves, and she leaned slightly forward, resting an elbow on her knee as if sharing a conspiratorial secret. [color=00674F]“Maybe,”[/color] she said, voice playful, soft but edged with a teasing warmth, [color=00674F]“We really should start a… ‘Bad Dads’ club. We could make matching T-shirts, like those cheesy family reunion ones, but way cooler. You know—‘World’s Shittiest Father—Est. Doom’ and ‘Tiny Ribbon Edition—Also My Dad.’”[/color] She let her smile bloom wider, hoping it was enough to tug a laugh from him—hoping that in some small, ridiculous way, they could share a moment of levity, of connection, even in the shadow of their fathers. James laughed softly as his posture softened, shoulders slouching forward into a more comfortable and tired looking hunch. He clicked his tongue, made finger guns, and flexed his thumbs like pulling the trigger. [color=cb6b06]"Upgrade it to a hoodie or jacket and I’m sold."[/color] He shrugged his shoulders at his own shitty joke. [color=cb6b06]"You could get a two for one special with Judge."[/color] He pointed toward his head but more specifically his unwilling passenger that rattled around his skull. [color=d13b00]"Why am I included?"[/color] The voice rumbled to life through James’s mouth. [color=cb6b06]"Isn’t your dad like [i]satan?[/i] That’s pretty fucked up."[/color] [color=d13b00]"[i]Spirit[/i] not demon,"[/color] Judge corrected, annoyance palpable in his gruff voice. [color=d13b00]"Try again."[/color] [color=cb6b06]"God isn’t much better,"[/color] James corrected himself with a wry chuckle. Zaria’s grin unfurled before she could stop it—small at first, shy at the edges, but undeniably real. She ducked her head just slightly, as though the gesture might hide the warmth blooming across her cheeks. [color=00674F]“A hoodie would be better anyway,”[/color] she admitted, voice soft but laced with playful agreement. [color=00674F]“More room for dramatic slogans. And I like being cozy.”[/color] The words slipped out lightly, almost breezy, but beneath them was the quiet sweetness of someone amazed she could joke like this with him, even after she’d fucked up. Her smile softened as Judge rumbled to life through James, the familiar, uncanny cadence echoing against the quiet of the garage. She watched the two of them banter with a tender sort of fascination, Judge’s gravel-edged indignation, James’s dry, effortless sarcasm, woven together like two mismatched threads that somehow made perfect sense. There was something strangely comforting in it, something grounding. Like listening to siblings squabble over the radio station during a long drive. She let out a quiet breath, her gaze flickering between the man and the spirit who shared him. [color=00674F]“I… mean,”[/color] she said softly, almost hesitant, her nose wrinkling in thought as she traced the worn seam of her sleeve with her thumb, [color=00674F]“God… definitely isn’t much better.”[/color] The admission came with a faint, uncertain shrug—half agreement, half a quiet confession of her own complicated relationship with divinity, morality, and the people who wielded it as a weapon. [color=cb6b06]"I’d rather put my faith in a God like [i]Magni[/i] than the big guy upstairs,"[/color] James commented while pointing upwards in the general direction of God, the heavens or whatever other bullshit. [color=cb6b06]"At least the Asgardian is, ya know… [i]tangible.[/i]"[/color] Zaria’s lips curled into a small, amused grin, something soft around the edges, like a smile that had learned how to bloom carefully. She angled her head just slightly, watching him gesture skyward as if the ceiling itself might house a divine audience. [color=00674F]“Yeah,”[/color] she murmured, voice threaded with a quiet warmth, [color=00674F]“Tangible is… definitely easier to work with.”[/color] Her fingers toyed with each other, restless but thoughtful, as her gaze drifted toward the concrete floor and then back up to him, a gentle flicker of mischief behind her eyes. [color=00674F]“I mean, no offense to anyone with a pantheon on speed dial, but the whole ‘I am a god’ thing makes me feel weird. Like I’m trapped in a bad movie and waiting for the villain monologue.”[/color] A soft huff of laughter escaped her, brief but real, easing something tight in her chest. [color=00674F]“Just… people deciding they’re divine? I don’t know. It’s a lot.”[/color] She shrugged lightly, but her gaze remained steady on him, and the spirit nestled somewhere behind his eyes, as if that honesty was an offering she trusted them to hold. [color=cb6b06]"Yeah you’d think with my whole… predicament."[/color] James motioned toward himself with a soft sigh, before resting his forearms back against his knees. [color=cb6b06]"It’d make sense for me to believe in God, [i]a[/i] god… And maybe he’s up there. I don’t know. But if he is, then he’s royally fucked my shit."[/color] He shrugged his shoulders with a casual indifference. [color=cb6b06]"I’m not worshipping any god. I put my faith in myself and the people I keep in my life… And we’re not gods,"[/color] he added with a weak laugh. Zaria let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something brittle loosening in her ribs. She lifted a hand as if to gesture at the air, at nothing and everything, the ruins of belief and the things people tried to build in its place. [color=00674F]“Well… my dad thinking he’s a man-made god is more than enough to put me off worshipping anything with a throne or a halo,”[/color] she murmured, humor thin but true. Her smile wavered, not from embarrassment but from the echo of old wounds, then steadied, small and real, like a candle that refused to go out. [color=00674F]“So… I get it. Faith in people feels a lot safer. A lot more honest.”[/color] A beat passed. Her gaze drifted toward the concrete floor between them, then back up to him, uncertainty shadowing the edges of her expression. She fidgeted with a corner of her pop-tart, picking absentmindedly at a crumble of crust. [color=00674F]“And Luke…”[/color] Her throat tightened around the name. She swallowed. [color=00674F]“He… makes me uncomfortable.”[/color] The words felt small, but they trembled with truth. Her gaze flicked to James again, catching the faint grimace he’d made at the name. Something eased inside her, as if a spring that had been wound too tight finally loosened a fraction. [color=00674F]“So… thank you. For earlier.”[/color] There was no babbling this time. No rambling. Just a quiet sincerity that rested heavy between them, fragile, but real. [color=cb6b06]"Yeah, well…"[/color] James started with a sharp inhale as he ran his palms along his thighs, stopping when his hands came to rest on his knees. [color=cb6b06]"I never really liked people who couldn’t take a fucking hint… I’m about as subtle as a sledge hammer,"[/color] he added with a half-hearted laugh as his gaze fell to his calloused fingers rapping against his kneecaps. [color=d13b00]"He sounded like those rapists we smited a couple months ago,"[/color] Judge chimed in without any sassy or sardonic remarks, just sharing an observation similar to how one would comment on the weather. [color=d13b00]"Smelled like them too."[/color] James’s fingers curved into the palms of his hands, turning his knuckles white as half of the muscles in his body visibly tensed even if he didn’t move an inch. His expression was tight and pensive with furrowed brows and clenched teeth that made the muscle along his jaw prominent beneath his cheekbone. [color=cb6b06]"Just… don’t be alone with him."[/color] He held up his hand to stop her before she made any assumptions. [color=cb6b06]"It doesn’t have to be with me. I just don’t trust narcissistic pricks with an ego. They’re the type of people to do fucked up shit and blame the victim."[/color] His hand fell but before it landed on his leg, he stuck his index finger up into the air to interject himself. [color=cb6b06]"I will fucking kill him if he tries anything—"[/color] with anyone in the tower? Sure. But Aria more specifically, he just wasn’t going to say it. [color=cb6b06]"I’d like to see his stupid Captain America ass try and stop me."[/color] After a moment or two passed of awkward silence, James ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. [color=cb6b06]"But uh… [i]yeah[/i]. You’re welcome. He obviously doesn’t find me attractive, so I have that going for me,"[/color] he added with a wry laugh that bordered on self deprecating. But for once, he didn’t mind being left out of that particular situation. The last thing he wanted was Luke trying to get in his pants. Zaria felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth settle in her chest, a little ember of relief that refused to burn out no matter how tightly she held her emotions in check. Listening to James, seeing the way his hands tightened and flexed, the subtle tension in his jaw as he spoke of people who made him uncomfortable, it was… comforting. Not in the usual sense of safety, because she’d never known much of that outside her brother or Logan, but in the delicate, grounding sense of someone finally giving a damn. She wasn’t used to this. Not truly. Not someone who didn’t have some ulterior motive, who didn’t see her as a pawn, a means to an end. But here he was, telling her, without exaggeration, without performance, that he cared. And she realized, with an odd mix of awe and hesitation, that it mattered. That she mattered. Her lips curved into a small, soft smile, the kind that tugged at the corners in a way that made her feel exposed and alive all at once. Her gaze lingered on him, warm, a little sappy, and for a fraction of a moment she let herself just [i]look,[/i] absorbing the subtle shifts of his expression, the easy way his voice softened despite the bitterness threading through it. She swallowed, hesitated, and then spoke, letting her words come out slow and measured, as though each one was carefully chosen from a treasury of vulnerability she didn’t often access. [color=00674F]“Luke’s… dumb,”[/color] she said, almost teasing, though the underlying seriousness made her tone firm enough to carry weight. She flicked a glance toward him, warm and honest, and added softly, [color=00674F]“I get it. I’ll… be careful around him. Don’t worry.”[/color] Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the stool she was sitting on, as if it grounded her in the moment, kept her from spiraling into the too-familiar space of distrust and fear. She let her smile soften further, and the uncharacteristic sappiness of it made her chest ache in a way that was almost sweet, almost painful. [color=00674F]“I… I’m really not used to anyone caring, not like this. Not for me. But… It's nice. I hope I get used to it eventually,”[/color] she admitted, her voice lowering to a near whisper, sincere and unpolished, raw with that strange mixture of relief and hope. It was a confession that felt dangerous to let slip, but she felt the need to let it out anyway, the need to stake a small claim to something that wasn’t constant disappointment or fear. She tilted her head just slightly, brushing the flour smudges from her cheek without thinking. [color=00674F]“I—thank you,”[/color] she murmured, letting the words hang in the air, fragile and earnest. Not just for the warnings, or the protection, or the small thread of trust he offered, but for the simple fact that he cared. And that… was something she wasn’t ready to let go of, not ever. [color=00674F]“For what it’s worth, I… care about you too.”[/color] The seriousness of the conversation and the weight behind Aria’s authenticity rested heavy in the air between them. James couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes. His gaze remained intent on the steel toed tip of his boots and the smudge of coagulated oil that stuck to it. He cleared his throat and tapped his heel as he tried to piece together words into a clear thought. [color=cb6b06]"In a place like this—[i]World[/i] like this—"[/color] His hand motioned in a general circle at everything that surrounded them as he tried to downplay what Aria said, or redirect conversation… Or deflect… [i]something.[/i] [color=cb6b06]"It’s good to have someone watching your back. Not that I think the people here wouldn’t but… They’re pretty wrapped up in their own shit. I’m just… [i]here.[/i]"[/color] He shrugged his shoulders as he peeked up at her from beneath his brow and the loose hair that fell in his face. [color=cb6b06]"Resident atom bomb. I… Don’t really have any personal stakes in all of this…"[/color] [color=d13b00][i]Liar…[/i][/color] the spirit chided him within the privacy of his mind. James sucked in an awkward breath, gaze falling back to that one goopy chunk of oil. [color=cb6b06]"Well, I [i]didn’t[/i]..."[/color] he corrected himself, barely louder than a mumble under his breath. He scratched the back of his head, then in the typical way he tried to avoid seriousness—or more specifically being vulnerable—he stood up… But he didn’t leave or walk away. Instead he focused on busying his hands and mind, by gathering up the tools strewn around his bike. He managed to get half of them put away before he remembered that he wasn’t finished and there were a handful of bolts that still needed to be put back on. [color=cb6b06]"[i]Fuck,[/i]"[/color] he muttered under his breath before crouching down in the place Aria found him earlier. He grabbed one of the bolts and spun it onto the threaded piece of screw until he wasn’t able to tighten it by hand any further. James grabbed the ratchet, slipped it around the bolt, then froze… [i]She cared about him too.[/i] The thought bounced around his head like a pinball. It left a weird twisting and warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that wasn’t from the poptarts, something he couldn’t describe. He just knew if he didn’t say something, he’d regret it… He sighed softly and rested his forearms against his bent knees. [color=cb6b06]"You don’t have to worry about me. With the asshole riding shotgun, it’s nearly impossible to kill me."[/color] [color=d13b00][i]Smooth.[/i][/color] [color=cb6b06]"For fuck’s sake,"[/color] James grumbled under his breath as he tossed the ratchet aside with a loud clatter that echoed throughout the empty garage. Grease covered fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, streaking his eyes with smudges of black. [color=cb6b06]"[i]Thank you…[/i]"[/color] He turned his head slightly to look back over his shoulder at her, but his gaze didn’t lift from where it was fixed upon the ratchet that laid at his feet. [color=cb6b06]"... for caring,"[/color] he added barely above a whisper as if saying it too loud would make it too real, or wash it away entirely. Zaria listened to him with her heart in her throat. His voice, his discomfort, the clatter of the discarded ratchet—all of it pressed against her ribs until she wasn’t sure if the ache there was hers or borrowed from someone else. She shifted where she sat, drawing her knees up just slightly, and let her gaze trace idle lines along the concrete floor. When she finally spoke, her voice came out soft, fragile in a way that wasn’t weakness so much as honesty laid bare. [color=00674F]“I’m… not entirely sure I have much stake in any of this either,”[/color] she admitted, her gaze drifting toward the dim halo of light cast by the overhead lamps. [color=00674F]“Not personally, not the way the rest of them do. I’m not the kid of an Avenger, or a soldier, or a God. I’m just… me.”[/color] She exhaled slowly, her breath trembling at the edges. [color=00674F]“But Logan would have helped. He would’ve grumbled and complained the whole time, and said everyone was an idiot, but he would’ve stayed. He always stayed.”[/color] Her voice dipped, softened further, a faint crack on the last word that she swallowed before it could fully break open. She went quiet for a moment, her hands folding in her lap, fingers tightening as if bracing herself against something only she could see. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just heavy, thoughtful. When she finally looked up again, her eyes carried a fragile clarity, a truth she hadn’t spoken aloud until now. [color=00674F]“And… I’m almost certain my dad has something to do with all of this.”[/color] The bitterness there wasn’t sharp; it was weary, resigned, like she’d grown up expecting catastrophe as naturally as sunrise. [color=00674F]“It just… feels like him. The scale of it. The chaos. The arrogance to think only he can fix, or ruin, everything. Why wouldn’t he be involved?”[/color] Her fingers unclenched slowly, palms opening in a helpless, small gesture. [color=00674F]“So it feels like the least I can do is help. Even if it’s only in small ways. Even if all I can do is be another pair of hands, or another voice saying ‘I’m here.’”[/color] Her gaze softened, drifting to James’s back—the tense set of his shoulders, the way he still hovered between vulnerability and retreat. She hesitated, then let the words fall with a gentle honesty that felt as delicate as unfolding wings. [color=00674F]“And… I’m glad you stayed too.”[/color] It was quiet, but not uncertain. Soft, but not weak. A truth offered like an open door, warm and steady, waiting for him should he want to step through. She let out a small breath, and then shifted the conversation sharply. [color=00674F]“So… what’re you doing to your bike?”[/color] James leaned over and slowly picked up the discarded ratchet. He idly spun the socket with his thumb and index finger, filling the silence with a quiet [i]click, click, click.[/i] [color=cb6b06]"I almost did… [i]leave.[/i]"[/color] His confession fell like lead in a still pool of water, rippling the surface and weighing heavily in the space between them. He didn’t look back at Aria. He didn’t motion toward the packed bag that rested on the ground beside his bike. [color=cb6b06]"Then I wanted to go on a ride… Let Judge out of his cage."[/color] The metal wheels of his stool squeaked as he scooted forward, the sound sharp like a blade ricochetting of the concrete walls of the garage. [color=cb6b06]"And I remembered a promise I made not to leave the tower alone…"[/color] He slid the socket back onto the bolt and started tightening it, to busy his hands, or mind, or maybe just give him something to focus on that wasn’t [i]her.[/i] After a minute that dragged on for an hour, only filled with the repetitive cranking of the ratchet, James finished the first bolt.. [color=cb6b06]"I just… Started taking it apart and putting it back together."[/color] He leaned over, reaching down on the ground between his feet to pick up the next bolt. Grease stained fingers slipped it onto the tread and started to tighten it like the first. [color=cb6b06]"I’m not used to being in one place for this long,"[/color] he added while rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, covering the pale skin beneath his dark hair with a black smear to match the rest of his body. For a heartbeat, Zaria froze. Not outwardly, not in any way that would have drawn his attention, but somewhere deep, quiet, and instinctual, like an animal pausing mid-step in tall grass. The words [i]almost did leave[/i] struck with a soft, hollow thud behind her ribs, the kind that stole the air without making a sound. A thousand responses flared and burned out all at once, fear, relief, something dangerously close to loss, and she was profoundly grateful that his back was still to her, that his attention was locked on bolts and steel and oil instead of her face. It gave her time. Time to swallow it down. Time to smooth the tremor out of her breath and hide how the idea of him leaving had made something in her chest go cold, and how the knowledge that he’d stayed, for a promise he’d made to her, made it ache in a way she didn’t yet have language for. She watched the slow, methodical movement of his hands, the way he needed motion to anchor himself, to keep from drifting. It was familiar. Comfortingly so. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, gentle, almost casual, as though his confession hadn’t just reached into her and turned a key. [color=00674F]“Yeah…”[/color] she said softly, tilting her head as her gaze lingered on the bike, the pieces laid bare and slowly made whole again. [color=00674F]“Staying in one place for too long feels strange to me now, too.”[/color] She drew one knee up, resting her arm loosely over it, grounding herself in the posture. [color=00674F]“Logan and I… we moved a lot,”[/color] she continued, quieter, more thoughtful than sad. [color=00674F]“Never stayed anywhere long enough to get comfortable. Long enough to breathe, maybe. But not long enough to settle.”[/color] Her mouth curved into something almost wry, almost fond. [color=00674F]“There were always people looking for me. Bounty hunters. Collectors. People who thought turning me in, or [i]owning[/i] me, would earn them something.”[/color] Her fingers curled briefly against her sleeve, then relaxed. [color=00674F]“So we kept moving. Different cities, different borders, different names sometimes. Long enough for me to learn how to pack fast and sleep lightly and not leave pieces of myself behind.”[/color] She exhaled, slow and even. [color=00674F]“It’s… weird, being here. Knowing I could stay. Knowing I don’t have to be ready to run at a moment’s notice.”[/color] Her eyes lifted to his back again, warm and impossibly gentle. [color=00674F]“But I think,”[/color] she added, almost thoughtfully, [color=00674F]“Taking things apart and putting them back together makes sense. When you don’t know how to stay still… you fix something instead.”[/color] It wasn’t a question. It was understanding, offered quietly—like she’d been standing right beside him the whole time, even when he’d thought of leaving. James listened to her words, quiet and pensive in his understanding. He was thankful that she didn’t ask, more thankful that she didn’t cry at the mention of him nearly leaving… Because he didn’t, he stayed. He lingered in that garage, taking apart and putting back together his bike a million times over in hopes that someone would come talk him out of it… That she would. A faint, weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he finished tightening the final bolt and set the wrench aside in the tool box. [color=cb6b06]"There wasn’t really anything to fix, but I definitely might have broken it,"[/color] he joked with a soft laugh. His motorcycle was fine, he knew it was, but he made the joke all the same as a way to breathe some levity into their conversation. [color=cb6b06]"Might need to take it out for a spin tomorrow to make sure everything is in working order."[/color] His comment was innocent, laced with a subtle hint that [i]they[/i] should go on a ride tomorrow… After all, he did make a promise. He took a couple minutes to clean up the remainder of the tools, placing them neatly in the box and putting it back in its home on the workbench. Without a word, James slowly trudged across the garage, the sound of his heavy footfall echoing off the walls as he retrieved his discarded helmet. As he returned to Zaria, he wiped the grease from his hands against his jeans. [color=cb6b06]"That poptart reminded me how hungry I am,"[/color] he commented as he stopped in front of her. He slowly held out his hand toward her, a gentle offering to help her to her feet or carry the tray… either. [color=cb6b06]"Did you still want to learn how to make cheeseburgers and mac and cheese?"[/color] There was a brief moment where his gaze fell to his palm, noticing the dark streaks that still stained his skin and the grease caked beneath his nails. His fingers reflexively curled inward until his knuckles turned white, partially embarrassed at the gesture but more so at the tainted offering. But he pushed past his own awkwardness with a sigh and slowly opened back up his hand, although he’d understand if she didn’t take it. Zaria watched him move, watched the grease-smudged hands, the slow, tired gait, the quiet devotion with which he packed each tool away as if order might be enough to keep the world from slipping through his fingers. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip, a nervous habit long-formed and never quite broken, as her thoughts spun themselves into knots she couldn’t loosen. There was a version of her, an older, more terrified one, who would have run. Who would have taken the image of that half-packed bag like a warning flare and made for the exit before anyone could leave her first. She knew how that story went, get attached, get abandoned, get handed another wound to carry. Logan disappeared, and she learned what it meant for grief to echo. If James left, she knew, deep down in the marrow of her bones, it would feel like someone had taken a chisel to the small, fragile thing in her chest that had only just begun to resemble hope. She was here to find her Logan. That was her mission, her anchor, her purpose. But every hour, every conversation that unraveled between her and James like thread pulled from a seam, made something inside her shift, like a puzzle piece she hadn’t known was missing had finally clicked into place. And she was so scared of what that meant. Scared that she wasn’t supposed to want that. Scared that she did. When he turned and offered his hand, awkward, stained, uncertain, she hesitated only a breath. Then she placed her palm against his, her fingers curling gently around the warmth of him, the grease smearing against her skin like ink. She didn’t care. The contact grounded her. Rooted her. Reminded her that, for now, he was still here. [color=00674F]“I’d like that,”[/color] she murmured, her smile soft, almost shy, glowing faint around the edges like something that couldn’t quite hide how much it meant. She didn’t care that he’d probably meant to take the tray, letting herself be pulled to her feet instead. [color=00674F]“Learning, I mean. After you shower.”[/color] A beat. Something lighter. A breath of a laugh. [color=00674F]“You look like you got into a fight with an oil can.”[/color] [color=cb6b06]"Says the girl covered in flour,"[/color] James commented with raised brows as he lifted his free hand, using the back of his finger to wipe a white smudge from her cheek with a gentle—and slightly awkward—smile. His gaze then fell to where her hand still lingered in his, not pulling away when she got to her feet but resting in the comfort of his touch. A warmth bloomed across his cheeks, but he didn’t pull away. He tugged against it slightly to reach down and scoop up his bag, yet his hand remained available, fingers lightly encompassing hers without a word. The truth of it was… James had been so starved for human connection and physical touch, that even something as innocent as Aria’s hand lingering in his meant more than he was capable of putting into words. A touch was rare. Friendship, rarer still. He had entered that garage with every intention of leaving, a non-minor part of it due to that very girl… and still he stayed, folding under a tearful apology and poptarts. They crossed the garage together, her hand retreating only when she needed to steady the tray. The elevator doors slid open with a gentle chime, and she stepped inside, pressing the button for his floor. Stainless steel reflected both of them, her smaller frame, his slouched shoulders, the careful space between them that felt charged with something unnamed. As the elevator began to rise, she didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Her eyes stayed fixed on the dim outline of their reflections in the doors, her hands tightening infinitesimally around the tray. [color=00674F]“I’m glad you stayed.”[/color] It came out quiet—so gentle it barely seemed like sound. But it was real. A truth she hadn’t known how to say until it pressed itself out of her like air from lungs too full. James’s head turned toward her, his gaze falling to the flour dusted hair at the crown of her head. A lopsided smile tugged at one side of his mouth while he adjusted his hold on his bag. [color=cb6b06]"Yeah… me too."[/color][/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [@mjolnir][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]