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plush-rabbit · 10 months

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Phantoms and Memories

Continuation to Spots and Stops

Word Count: 3.4K

A/N: If i let if go any further, it would have been well over 5K so I had to cut up the chapter ( ◕ᴗ◕)っ✂ (its also in his pov this time!! and so will next chapter)

As Johnathan runs, he’s thankful that the effects of the Super-Collider had given him longer legs. He doesn’t think he’d be able to run as long if not for the long strides that he takes as police chase after him. This most certainly isn’t fair- he hadn’t even stolen anything! When the cops had stopped and shined their light at him, he panicked and immediately set off.

The lights of the vehicle flash behind him, red and blue filling the night and people move out their way as a cop shouts at him to stop. One in the cruiser and the other pursuing him on foot.

Turning a corner, he grabs at a spot near his wrist- the jacket he wears pushed to his elbows- and holds onto it. He doesn’t trust himself to throw it and jump into it- knowing his luck, the hole would be much too small, and he’d just get stuck in it. No. Not again.

Instead, he jumps up, and the creaky ladder of a fire escape bangs down. Once more, he’s thankful for the long legs that allow him to climb easily and take two stairs at a time compared to the cop who is trailing behind. Reaching the roof of the building, he puts the spot in front of him, and taking in a shuddering breath, he stops. He hasn’t done a long jump with one of his holes before. It’s been something quick and nearby- nothing faraway. But hearing the cop behind him, there isn’t much time to ponder about where he’ll end up, he just hopes that wherever the spot leads him to, is home.

Like blinking, it’s a moment of darkness, falling into nothingness, until he realizes he is falling. His legs kick out until just a second later, he falls onto a soft surface- bumpy, but soft. He lifts himself up on his forearms, scanning around what appears to be a dark room. Maybe he did manage to control where he went this time.

His hand pulls at whatever it is that squishes under him. In the dark room where the only light comes from a streetlamp behind closed blinds, he sees that it’s a pillow shaped like a flower. The fabric stretches down where his hand has fisted over one of the stuffed petals. He turns, and he freezes. He holds tightly onto the pillow and he can barely make it out, he can barely make you out, but it’s you. Asleep on your bed and asleep in your room.

How you didn’t hear or feel him fall onto your bed is beside the point- even with being a heavy sleeper, that must be a stroke of luck for him. Why are you here? A better and appropriate question is why is he here? He doesn’t want to be here. He can’t be here. Sure, you had invited him to come if he needed something but he doubts that you actually meant it- more as a nicety than anything- and even if you had meant it, he doubts that you meant it like this.

The flower goes behind him, and he waits- quiet and still, he hopes that you don’t wake up. Please, don’t wake up. To whatever deity that listens to him, he promises that if you don’t wake up, he’ll never see you again. He can’t handle seeing your reaction if he stopped by unannounced. Crawling slowly, he moves to get off of your bed. Even with you being such a heavy sleeper, every time the bed creaks under his weight, he pauses, the bed creaks under his weight and every creak has him go rigid.

His feet are flat against the floor and he turns, your phone lighting up as a message enters. His curiosity gets the best of him and he takes soft footsteps to peek. It’s from an unsolved number that simply asks if you’re awake. Hurt grips at him in unforgiving claws.

The time is ten past two. Your phone is fully charged, and he takes another look at you. You still sleep soundly and undisturbed. He unplugs your phone, and lets the cable hang over the drawer knobs. No matter how many times he told you that charging your phone overnight is harmful for the battery, you never seemed to listen. You continued to charge it.

Turning to you, he sees that the blanket is askew, draping over the side of the bed. Adjusting it, so that it now covers your body, he tucks you in, pulling it up to your shoulders. He lifts his hand up and hovers your head, and as his fingertips brush against your skin, he pulls back. The memory of you reacted when he last touched you is fresh in his mind. You recoiled away. He wonders if you washed yourself of his touch right after he was kicked out. Instead, he watches you, asleep and unaware of him. Your phone lights up again, and he frowns. Taking another peek, it’s the same unsaved number. Looking back to you, he fists his hand at his side. He wishes that he could touch you one more time- just a final touch, a final kiss to allow him to let go of you. But he can’t do that- he’d feel awful knowing that he did something to you. You’d probably be disgusted with him if you knew what he was doing.

He should leave.

You didn’t wake up. He did promise that if you didn’t wake up, he wouldn’t return- he wouldn’t see you again. You’ve moved on, and he should too.

Still, he can’t pull himself away. He wants to look at you like he would before. He wants you to look at him like you would before. He wants to slip into the bed beside you and pull you to his chest and feel you rest your hand over his stomach. You sleep, and he stares and it’s creepy and gross and an invasion of your privacy, but he can’t help it. He needs to look at you, needs to engrave you into his memory until he can picture you without even trying.

His hand lifts again, shaky and unsure as it reaches over, and just as he’s about to trace over your features, your phone rings. Scurrying, he hides himself behind the bottom edge of your mattress. He pulse himself down, making sure that not an inch of him is seen over where you sit.

The ringing stops, and he hears your voice.” Hello?” It’s raspy and heavy with sleep. He can’t hear the other side of the conversation no matter how much he tries to strain his hearing. “Yeah, well I was asleep.” You mutter something under your breath too light for him to hear. “I’m listening, I’m listening.” You pause. “Yeah, no I’m not really in the greatest mood considering that I was woken up in the middle of the night.” You never liked being woken up- he’s made that mistake a few times. “Look-” you exhale- “I’m sorry that I led you on-” it doesn’t sound sincere but rather annoyed- “but it’s over, okay? Like for good.” Another pause. “No, no. It’s over. I’m done. Good luck or whatever. Bye.”

Your phone lights up the room in a bright glow and as quick and blinding as it came, it’s snuffed out. He hears you fall back into bed. You groan and the bed shakes as you turn.

Silence fills the room and Johnathan’s heart beats in fear. He just has to wait a few minutes until you’re back to sleep. It won’t take long. You’ve always been quick to fall back to sleep and after being rudely woken up, you’ll slip off into slumber in no time.

He waits and waits, and after what feels like eternity, he hears soft thumping- you’re kicking into the bed. “Fuck,” you whine. “Fuck.” You toss and turn, and he can hear the assault on the pillow as you try to make yourself comfortable.

Oh no. You can’t fall back to sleep.

He should have left when he had the chance. This is his punishment.

Carefully, he peels off a hole, and places it beside himself, maybe he can slip away like this, he enters his hand into the hole. Keeping his gaze fixed looking above, he pushes his hand into the hole, fingers outstretched, fluttering about looking for a flat surface. He’s elbow deep, the hole on his face contorting into what would be frustration if he still had his face. He can’t find it, and you’ve already begun to kick at the blankets and grumble at yourself.

You’ve already lost your sleep- taken away by a phone call from someone who you used to date.

Johnathan tries not to dwell on that. It’s too fresh of a wound. You’re too fresh of a wound.

As he reaches further down, his body presses against the floor. All he needs is to know that something is on the other side, something that might break his fall or would at least get him out of your room. Too focused on looking up to see if you’d peep your head over, he feels something ghosts over the side of head, fleeting and spindly, and he yelps.

Oh fuck. He turns, hoping to find a spider, but it’s just his hand, the portal made to just be a few feet away from where he made it

“Hello?” Your voice is alert. Even if he were to be quiet, you’d never buy it.

The light clicks on, and he can hear you rummage through your nightstand. “Hello? No, fuck. I- I have a weapon.” Your voice is shaky. He stays silent, pulling away the spot and making another one that ends up on your wall on the opposite side. “I'll call the police.”

He lowers his head and lifts an arm. “It’s me. It’s just me.” He hopes that he’s the only one with white skin that you know.

“Johnathan?”

His head knocks against the wooden frame of the mattress, and he lowers his hand. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pop in unexpectedly. I just- I got myself into a pickle and I just threw a spot and now I’m here.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

He had wanted to go home. Or at least pop in anywhere but here. He can’t believe that his holes would betray him like this.

The bed creaks, and he pulls his arm back from the spot, watching above him, seeing if you’d peek over to see him. You don’t. “A pickle? Are you okay?” He can hear the soft rustle of the blankets. “Are you hurt?”

He shrugs, but you can’t see him. “Oh, um. Yeah, yeah.” His knees feel as if they’re on fire and he’s ready to put this day behind him. “I’m okay.”

You stay silent.

“I’ll get out of your hair, I just- It’s hard to control my holes and where they take me.” He fumbles with another spot. That one pools on your ceiling.

“Jonathan?”

He pulls the spot back. “Yeah?”

“You can say no, but um, can I see you?”

The spot of his face stretches, and he feels his body tense. He remembers how you reacted to him the first time. And the second time- granted he did catch you in a vulnerable moment, but it was because of him that you were so- so vulnerable. He should tell you no. He should leave and never look back, and never think of you. But then you call his name, and his resolve crumbles. When the two of you were together and happy, he could never tell you no; he could never deny you anything that you had wanted.

His hands brace themselves against the edge of the bed frame, and he stands, looking down at the ground, unable to see you. Never has he felt so bare and exposed.

The bed creaks, and he sees a shadow approach and a familiar shirt peeks in the corner of his vision. He can feel your eyes on him, and your hands flex and unflex in want. He should look at you. He should give himself that grace, he should take one look at you while you look at him. When he looks up, he’s tilting his head down, head cocked to the side, as you look at him with doe eyes shining in unshed tears. Your hands fist into his old shirt, and you look at him.

“It’s rude to stare,” he mumbles.

You still continue to stare. You suck in your bottom lip, your teeth teasing at it, and he hates that he can’t kiss you, that he can’t touch you without one of you resulting in tears. You swallow, and part your lips once more. Would you still taste like mint? Or would you taste like sleep? Would you close your eyes and pretend that he was someone else if he leaned towards you? Are you pretending that he’s someone else right now? Are you only able to stomach him and his appearance because you think of someone else?

“Can you eat?” You ask, and it’s almost laughable that all that you could tell him, and it’s that. A simple, curious question. It’s entirely you.

“Yes,” he answers. What would you say next? Would ask if he could chew? If he still has teeth that would tear apart meat and grain? Would you ask if he still has lips? Would you continue to ask him questions so that he could stay a little while longer in the comfort of your bedroom? “Why do you ask?”

“Are you hungry?” Your hands fist over the stomach of his old shirt. “We- I can make you something if you’d like.”

He’d eat glass if it meant that he could stare at you some more. “I can eat.” You give him a ghost of a smile, and he takes it eagerly. “What do you have around?” Is he allowed to be greedy? Can he ask and ask until you can no longer give him what he wants?

You climb off the bed, adjusting at the shirt and pulling down the legs of your shorts. He follows you out of your room, and now as a stranger in your home, he feels like a ghost invading your space- walking past memories that he no longer has access to. He walks past the living room, the weight and tension a swirling mess, threatening to pull the both of you in and keep you stuck forever in a loop of grief. He holds his breath until he enters the kitchen. Motioning for him to sit at the table, you open the fridge, a cool blast makes goosebumps prick your skin.

Turning your head, you look just like how he remembers you. “Are you okay with sandwiches?”

“Do you have chips?” He’ll be greedy and gluttonous- stuffing himself full of food in order to sit with you longer.

Nodding, you begin to pull out the ingredients to make sandwiches and he watches from the chair, stiff and cold, wanting to believe that he won’t be back after tonight. But as you bring out the plates and pull out the drinks- his favorite is still in your fridge even after all this time remains unopened and cold. You place the ingredients in front of him and alongside you, he prepares his sandwich.

You’re done with yours fairly quickly, and you turn on the television, and a late night show fills the room. Fake laughter, and fake applause is all that rings in him, and in his hand is a sandwich made with a gluttonous desire to take all that he can.

When he takes a bite, it’s sour.

“We probably should have toasted the bread,” you tell him, peeling off the crust. “Untoasted is fine and all it if we were going to make sandwiches-”

“-We should have done it properly,” he finishes. Looking up at you, he can’t finish the sandwich- not when it tastes like it’ll give him heartburn. “Chips?” The drink remains unopened, collecting condensation on the side and dripping onto the placemats on the table. Hissing comes from the soda, and he looks at the opening.

“In the pantry.” You take a bite of your sandwich and glance at him through the corner of your eyes. “You’re free to check.” You close your eyes, humming at the mouthful of food in your mouth.

He stands, and searches through the cabinets, a brand new bag of chips sits, and he grabs at it, the colors popping against his skin. Reaching down into a drawer, he pulls out a reusable straw. A metallic one, the silver distorting his image in the reflection. It sits beside yours- iridescent and solid colors.

The chips sit at the table and the straw- his straw- sits in his drink. He turns his head every time he takes a sip. You don’t look at him. This entire time, you haven’t casted a glance towards him except in the beginning. You make small conversation as you eat your sandwich and place a few chips onto your plate. Your drink is opened, and you never take your eyes off of it. The television still plays. He’s only taken small bites of his own, the taste not returning, and the bitterness staining him.

“Why did you ask me to stay?” His holes are shifting, swirling and constricting as he waits for your answer.

You cast him a glance. Finally, you look at him. “I just-” you let out a long exhale- “You want the truth or a lie?”

“The truth.”

Shrugging, you take another sip and look at him, turning your body in the chair to fully face him. “I-” the words get stuck in your throat and you look away- “I have no right to say it, but I missed you.” He stills. “I know what I did was awful, but-” you hold the can and the aluminum bends under your touch- “you were right. It’s still you.” You look at him again, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look so saturnine. Even your tone is sorrowful and empty, and the words hang in the air, unanswered to.

He stays silent. And you continue, keeping your gaze on him. It must be taking all of your willpower to even do so.

“Do you think you could stay a while?” He’s silent. “You can say no.” You turn away from him, and push yourself away from the table. “I know that I shouldn't be asking you anything of the sort, but I hope you’ll say yes. If not, then you know, just lock up when you leave.”

You have the gall to ask that of him. You open your home to him, and offer him food, and he takes it with acid poisoned in him, with hands stained with muck and gunk, and his pale white skin is stained with holes and spots. And still, as if it were the first night that he spent with you, anxiety chills him to his core and roots him in place.

He’ll get up and lock the door behind him. Johnathan will rid himself of you, and let all of this be some dream that felt too real. He’ll do it. His chest fills with air, and the chair scrapes against the floor. He’ll leave a mess behind, and when you clean it in the morning with the bird chirping outside and the soft rays of light shining against your table, you’ll miss him. Every step that he takes is heavy, and slow, weights placed on his ankles to pull him back so as to not make a dumb mistake. You can hope that he’ll say yes, and he can hope that when morning comes, you’ll still miss him. And he stands in the living room, back where he stood before you all those nights ago.

The room looks so different. Emptier.

Every step has him hoping that he’s making the right decision. What more could you ever say to him? What words could ever mend him back together? What tenderness could ever replace the cold and callous nature that you bared at him in his weakest moments? He holds the doorknob in his hands, and he hopes that he’ll never get to find out. He hopes that when he closes the door behind him, he’ll have it all figured out.

#the spot #the spot x reader #johnathan ohnn x reader #johnathon ohnn #jonathan ohnn headcanons #johnathan ohnn #im gonna start using the h in the fics #but will i go back and fix the rest #probably #porbably not #i dont know #im lazy #i have to go to work so tags are rushed but yeah #hopefully the next part is tonight or tomorrow #i had to split it up #it was gonna be way to long #as a single chapter #plus the mood shifts so ya know #i think that was a good break

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plush-rabbit · 10 months

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A Bad Date and A Late Night Drive

Part 3 to Simmering and Smothering

Word Count: 5.4K

A/N: I didn't wanna study quantum and physics and science at like 12am, so, yeah the explanation (when you get there) is cut off for a reason

You stand outside a bar, pulling your jacket closer around your body, not for warmth, but for comfort. Sniffling, you think about calling for a taxi but after the night you’ve had, you rather not. You don’t think you could deal with the questioning looks, the one that writes a story in their head, that wants to know the details and asks every question to pry them out of you with the same gentleness that a crowbar has.

A close friend is another option. Your fingers swipe over your contacts and the thought about contacting any friend right now seems embarrassing despite the situation. Far better than a taxi driver, but when you stare at the contact name, you can’t bring yourself to click the green icon. Their pitiful gazes would make you squirm and wish for the taxi driver. They’d comfort you over your failed date and tell you that you’re great and any other positive quality that they could think about just to make you feel better.

You don’t want to feel better. You want to be distracted; you want your mind taken off of the past hour.

There’s a chance that the person who you want to call won’t even answer, but you're already feeling low enough, anything more is just icing on the cake. You scroll until you find the name ‘Johnathan’ and rubbing your nose, you press the phone icon. It rings and rings, and you think that you should hang up and take your chance walking home. Sucking in your breath, you pull the phone away, ready to hang up. He’s busy, you rationalize to yourself. He has no time to answer you- and that’s perfectly fine.

“Hello?” His voice Comes out, unsure and tentative.

“Johnathan?” You think that you could cry. You lean your head closer to the phone, and fist the fabric of your jacket.

He calls out your name, soft and concerned. “Are you okay?”

Ignoring the question, you kick at the ground under your feet. “Are you busy?”

A pause. “No.” You hear something clink against a surface. A glass, maybe? “Why? Do you need something?”

You’re starting to regret calling him. “I’m um- I’m at this bar. I was wondering if I could get a ride?” You shouldn’t have bothered him. Maybe he was busy and he was saving you from embarrassment. And maybe out of the kindness of his heart, or the fact that even to yourself, you sound so pitable, he says yes. “Thank you,” you say breathlessly, relief making your chest light.

“Of course. I’ll be over right away. Something scrapes against another, a harsh unforgiving sound and you hear the twinkling of glass bump into each other. “Sorry,” he mumbles into the phone. “I’ll need the address.”

Nodding, you hum a noise. “I’ll text it to you.” Sucking in your bottom lip, and teasing it with your teeth, you clear your throat. “Um, no rush or anything. Just uh- I’ll be here.” You pull the phone away, his voice softer now that’s far away, and you can hear him bump into other things, and a beeping noise. Your fingers copy-and-paste the address into the text box. “Okay, I just sent it.”

“I'll be there soon. I’m walking towards my car already.” As if to prove himself, you hear the sound of keys clash against one another.

You want to ask him to stay on the line, but he already seems so frazzled at having to pick you up. You wonder if he’d even agree to keep talking to you if you asked. Biting your tongue, you lean against the wall of the building, and nod. “Like I said, take your time. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Sniffling, you nod. “Just don’t get lost. Okay, Johnathan?”

“I’ll try my best not to,” and the way that he says your name has your hand twisting the fabric over your stomach, heat rushing at your chest to the cups of your cheeks.

“See you soon,” you muse and at his goodbye, the phone clicks and you’re left looking out onto the streets of New York.

True to his word, he arrives shortly after your phone call. You wave towards him, and he waves in reply, and his blinkers light the street. Behind him a car hinks, and you scurry to the passenger side door, pulling on the handle only to find it locked. Your mouth straightens in a line when the car behind him honks again. There’s a click, and the door opens.

The air conditioner cools your warmed skin. When the seatbelt clicks, he pulls forward, only to be stopped by a red light. You can only imagine the fury that the car behind him has.

“Hi Johnathan,” you tell him.

His head turns towards you, and with red casting a glow in the car, he nods. “Hi,” he says, your name said in a soft voice. The light turns green, and he takes his gaze away from you. “How are you?”

It’s much easier to share with a stranger than with a friend, but when you look at him, you can’t bring yourself to share. You wonder what he thinks of you. Does he think of you as a friend? Or perhaps something more? Are you still just that pestering reporter that follows him like a lost pup? Oh, you hope that you’re more to him than just that.

“Oh, you know-” you cock your head to the side, watching out the windshield- “I’ve been better.” You stay silent for a beat, and with guilt twisting at your stomach, you focus on the bitter taste on your tongue. “I went on a date,” you force yourself to say- every vowel and consonant tasting like acid and cheap alcohol.

You hear him hum, and still seeing him in the corner of your eye, you turn your head, watching the passersby through the window. “Oh.” The word comes out soft and weak. He clears his throat. “How was it?” You can see him much more clearly than you had intended.

“Bad.” You fist your hands into your jacket. “He was just- weird. Like odd.” He’s silent again. You need to fill the silence. You need words to be shouted and spat, and poison to drip before you feel your throat begin to close and before your eyes start to water. “Thank you for picking me up.” You turn towards him, and you tap against the rubber mat of the car.

“Of course,” he tells you in a whisper. “Anytime.”

Your eyes take note of the lab coat that he still wears, and the way that he stays hunched over, eyes barely being able to be kept open. “You said you weren’t busy.” He takes a quick glance at you and returns his gaze to the road. “You’re wearing your lab coat. Did I take you away from something?”

“That’s not important,” he answers quickly.

“It’s important to me,” you whisper, the seat belt stretches as you turn yourself and lean over. “Johnathan.” He startles at his name being called, but he still does not give you an answer. You frown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If I had, I would've called a taxi or something.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He waves his hand nonchalantly.

“But-”

“I made the choice to answer your call. I was the one that told you that I wasn’t busy. You don’t have to apologize.” He takes a quick glance at you. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why did you lie then?”

His hands tighten over the steering wheel. “I don’t know.”

Shifting your gaze and feeling your heart start to quicken, you tap your hands against your thighs. “Do you wanna know why I called you?”

“Will I have to answer you if I say yes?” There’s a smile teasing at the corners of his lips, and you wish he’d smile at you.

You shrug. “That’s up to you.” You tap your shoes, a quick little pitter-patter fills the car. “I wanted you to pick me up. I know my friends would have, but I didn’t want to see them. Not when I look like this.”

“I think you look nice.” He’s quick to respond, and you catch his eye for a moment before he turns it away. “I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “That’s not the right thing to say, is it?”

Smiling, you lean against the seat. “You don’t have to apologize,” you tell him. Sucking in a shaky breath, you let go the same way. “I just- I wanted-” you shake your head- “I needed someone.”

“And you thought to call me?”

You turn in your seat, and suddenly the air conditioner in the car isn’t enough to cool your burning skin. “Should I not have?”

Shaking his own head, he sucks in his bottom lip. “No. I mean yes- yes you should have.” At a red light, he turns to you, and the red illuminates his skin. “I’m glad that you did.” He doesn’t stop looking at you. “I’m glad that I was able to help.” He scratches at the side of face, his nails drag down, ruffling at his beard. “It’s not as if you could have known I was going to be busy.”

“If I had known that you were busy, I wouldn’t have called,” you say without thinking, hating to be an inconvenience to him. You wanted to be fun, not something that he had to care for. And yet, you called him because you couldn’t dare to be seen by anyone else.

He shakes his head. “You can always call me. If it’s something that you need, I’ll do my best to deliver.”

You’ve heard similar statements before, and every time you took the offer of the statements, it only made you feel smaller, feel like you were much more delicate than anything else. You felt too needy, too whiny- it would leave a sour taste in your mouth.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, and you stare out the window. A part of you hopes that after this night, he doesn't contact you again. Then mabe, you’d get over your silly, little crush.

Your name is called. You hum in response, not wanting to face him just yet. “Are you hungry? Do you want to stop somewhere and get something?”

Pushing yourself deeper against the seat, you hope to disappear. “I don’t want to take up anymore of your time.” You shake your head.

“I’m offering. You’re not taking up my time.” The way his words are heavy with sincerity, makes you turn to him.

“For real?” You ask, and he nods. “Okay, yeah. We can do that.”

Nodding, he waits at a stop sign, and grabs his phone and types in an address. “I know this drive-in. We won’t even have to get off. We can stay in the car.”

“Okay, good.” You let out a weak laugh. “I don’t really think I want to see other people, right now.” The voice rings into the air, telling him to make a right.

“It’ll just be us, I promise.”

Smiling, you nod. “Alright then,” you let out a breath, sinking into the seat. “Lead the way then, Johnathan.” You sweep your hand in front of you.

The silence between the two of you is broken by the directions given out, and the music that plays from the radio. You tap your foot along to the beat, and stare out the window. You think you should talk to him- ask about his day, or if the place you’re about to visit is any good.

“Am I allowed to ask you something?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You turn your head, and he keeps his gaze on the road before him. “Yeah, go for it.”

“How was the date?” You stare at him, and he pulls at a length of his hair. “You said that he was “odd” and I just- I thought you might have liked to talk about it.” You watch as he lets go and the piece bounces back into place. “I understand if you would rather not. I don’t want to pressure you or anything.”

Shrugging, you stretch your legs as far as you can. “He kept going on about how no one wants to date him because he’s ugly and how I’m so nice for giving him a chance. He kept putting himself down, and maybe if I was younger, I would have given him a chance to help his self-esteem or whatever, but now?” You sigh, and direct your attention to his hands that grip the steering wheel. “Now, I just don’t find all of that appealing in any way. Confidence is attractive, you know?”

“I can understand that,” he replies. “And you ended the date?”

“When I wouldn’t compliment him after his self-deprecation, he was getting flustered. And then he started going on about how I wasn’t all that either and I guess he wasn’t getting the response he wanted from me so he threw this fit and walked out.”

“What?” He turns to you, and you’re thankful for the red light he’s stopped at. “He did all that to you?”

“Average dating experience,” you muse. “Thank goodness he only ordered a beer and an appetizer.” He has this furrowed look in his eyes that scan over you, and you shrug, unable to look away from him. “It happens,” you reason.

“It shouldn’t happen to you,” he counters.

There’s a breath lodged in your throat. “Yeah, well-” you’re unable to give any other reason, and you let your words falter. “It is how it is, ya know?” With the way that he’s looking at you, you wish that the light would turn green. That he would look away from you, and maybe that he would stop making your heart beat so fast.

“Why did you go out with him?” He asks. The light turns green, and he’s still looking at you, and you’re still looking at him, unable to tear your gaze away from him.

How do you tell him that you went out because you think- you know- that you have a crush on him, and that with your job as a reporter and his as a scientist, you know that it won’t end well. It’ll be fun, but it won’t last. You should tell him that you were bored, that you needed something to get your mind off of him. That maybe, you hoped that what you feel towards the scientist isn’t anything more than a surface level crush.

“Johnathan,” you whisper, and he leans closer. You hold your breath, and losing all your resolve, the light turns yellow. You let the breath go. “The light changed.”

He looks away, and the car speeds off.

Your stomach twists itself, intestines wrapping around and contracting your organs and making you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I needed a distraction,” you tell him. The phone tells him to make a right in two hundred feet. “Thought going on a date might help with that.” The neon sign of the drive-in flashes, part of the sign is dimmed. “Only got me insults and less money.”

Pulling into an empty section, he puts the car into park. He turns to you. “Let me move my seat back so you can look at the menu.”

With slumped shoulders, you nod. You lean over, and can barely see the menu without having to go across him. Once, satisfied, you pull yourself back to your seat, and he takes a glance. Lowering down the window, he asks what it is that you want, and you tell him your order. He presses on the button, and repeats yours and his order.

His hands rest over his thighs, and you try to suppress a yawn.

“Why did you need a distraction?” He straightens his glasses with his index and middle finger.

You pause. “I- I had my mind preoccupied with other things. I thought getting out would bring me out of that type of mindset.”

“Did it help?”

You shake your head. “No, no it didn’t.” Pulling at the hem of your jacket, you pull with a stray fiber. “This is helping.” You can feel his gaze. “You’re helping, thanks for this.”

He calls your name, told in a low tone, each letter held together with an emotion that you can only wish for, and when you look at him, you can only stay quiet, and stare at him. His mouth parts, and the tip of his tongue peeks to wet his lips. You’re grateful for the jacket for hiding your goosebump pricked arms. Someone knocks on the window. It startles the both of you.

It’s the waiter, holding your tray of food. You pull out your wallet, but Johnathan has you beat. He lowers the window and hands over his card, and there’s an exchange between the two as you're handed the drinks and the bags that contain your orders. Words of gratitude are shared, and when the window is raised back into place, you wait as he searches through the bags handing you your own.

“I could have paid,” you tell him, pulling out your meal. “You’re the one who’s wasting gas on me.”

He shakes his head. “I offered. Nothing here is being wasted on you.”

“If you say so.” Your straw punctures through the hole of the lid, and when drops of your drink puddle upwards, you slurp, bringing your lips close to the lid, and taking in the sweet nectar. Once the two of you have settled, and once you’re sure the atmosphere of what was before is gone, you break the quiet eating. “How was work?”

“Do you want to know what I was doing before I picked you up?”

“You mean when you lied?”

He smiles and eats a fry. “Do you want to know?” Taking a sip of your own drink, you nod. “I was working on an experiment with a few other scientists. I had to step into another room to take your call.”

“Was it important?”

“Very much so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The other scientists are more than qualified to take the lead for the night. Any mistakes that might have been made can easily be fixed in the morning. And I doubt there are any mistakes to be made in the project.”

“Why’s that?”

He gives you a look. “It’s part of the reason why you’re so interested in Alchemax.”

He shrugs. “It was a late night. Those are beginning to be more common. Being one of the lead scientists isn’t easy, but to see my theories and work pay off is gratifying.” he looks at you. “Are you going to ask what it is that I'm working on?”

You take a sip of your drink. “If you want to tell me. I doubt I’d be able to keep up.”

“You said you read my papers on blackholes before?” nodding, he looks down on his own food. “It's something similar to that.” He twists a piece of hair around his index.”Off the record?”

You blink owlishly at him, and the words hit you, and the context hits you even harder. “Off the record,” you confirm, waving your hand to let him continue.

“So the bases of black holes and what I’m- or rather Fisk is interested in, is connected. There’s already been articles written about how if a hole is large enough-” you smile at the phrase- “and is rotating quickly enough, then it could possibly provide a way into the hole for explorers. Of course,” you can hear the excitement in his voice, and you can only hope that he puts things into layman’s terms for you, “all of this is theoretical.” He waves his hand in the air. “You’ve heard of string theory, correct?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “So, how reality is made up of imperceptible vibrating strings, those strings twist and fold- like rubber bands, ya know? So the theory-” You can only catch words that you’ve heard before quantum something, the last part of the word going by too fast for you to catch onto. Colliders and energy, something that has to be perfected and harnessed, excitement shining with the words, that for a moment, you see him, beaming and whole.

“I’m gonna be completely honest, Dr. Ohnn-”

“I told you to call me Johnathan,” he interjects.

“I know, I know. But after that I just- Dr. Ohnn gives you credit, you know. I just- It was so complex and I got some parts of it, and stuff. I knew you were smart- I mean, you have to be- but fuck. You’re fucking brillant,” you gasp out. You note that your drink has watered down when you take a sip. “Like incredibly so.”

He coughs weakly, and rubs his hand over his mouth, scratching where his fingers reach. He shakes his head. “It’s-” it comes out higher pitched than expected, and he clears his throat- “It’s nothing, really. It’s what I’ve studied and worked on. I-” he lets out a shaky breath- “Really, it’s nothing.”

“It's totally something,” you counter, leaning closer towards him. “Like yeah, you’re probably around other really smart people, but to people like me, that’s incredible. It sounds impossible. And you talk about it like it’s possible. I mean, come on, everyone loves the thought of alternate universes, but to try to connect-”

“If it’s all the same with you-” he turns towards you, eyes shifting unable to keep his focus on you, and under the fluorescent lights, you can see that he has freckles- “I hadn’t meant to go on a tangent.” He clears his throat. “I try to keep my work life and-” he looks at you- “and my um, my personal life separate.” Your disappointment is noticeable. “I really am glad that you found it interesting. Please don’t take offense to it.”

You’re unsure how to feel. On one hand, you want to keep praising him, to talk more about his work and you feel disheartened to have the conversation shut down. However, on the other hand, he considers you part of his personal life. You hope. No, you’re sure of it. You’re going to be sure of it. Though the meaning of what his personal life is, isn’t known, you’ll take it as a good thing.

“Fair enough,” you lift your shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t think I could have kept up with you.”

“I’m sure that you could have. I just-” his hand fiddles with the chest pocket on his lab coat- “you know.”

“You want to keep your work life and personal life separate,” you finish. Johnathan nods sheepishly. Your eyes find themselves at his chest. There’s three blank inky dots, one large, and the other two significantly smaller. The edges of the circle spread like thin tendrils. “How’d you get such a stain on your lab coat?” You point at your own chest where the stains would be.

“Hm?” He looks down, and stretches the fabric. Frowning at the stain, he drags a finger down. “A pen might have popped. I-” he falters- “Yeah, a pen.”

“Huh, okay.” You frown. “Are you comfortable wearing the coat? You can take it off, you know?”

He shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s like a second skin at this point.” He looks at you. “You could have taken yours off.”

“Second skin, I guess,” you say, mimicking his words. He rolls his eyes at the response, and you snort a laugh. The air conditioner is giving you chills despite your jacket. “I have an article due in two days.” Your nails bite into the styrofoam cup and the color of his eyes linger on the lid of your drink. “I’m thinking about writing about Spider-man.” He’s silent. “He always does well. He’s always swinging around and I have a few pictures saved on my SD card- for rainy days, you know.”

“You like Spider-man?” He asks, and you look out the windshield, seeing moths dance under the fluorescent lights.

“Who doesn’t,” you shrug. “He saves people and walks kids to their homes. He likes to visit neighborhood bodegas and he thanks people who help him. I’m sure writing an article about that would do great.”

“You think so?”

“You’d be surprised at how many people want to take a picture with the guy.” You pull at the straw, the squeaking sound making you grit your teeth. “I don’t blame them.”

He’s silent. “Are you ready to go home?”

You look at him, and nod. “Yeah, I think it’s late enough.” And with the words, you let out a yawn, hiding it behind the palm of your hand. “Thanks for this Johnathan. You didn’t have to pick me up and much less take me out, but you did, so thanks,” you end the statement weakly, still holding onto your drink.

“Anytime,” he responds. “I’m glad that I was able to help.”

You can’t handle the silence- especially if you still have a considerable amount of time left until you arrive back home, so you clear your throat and turn to face him. “You know, before we started to hang out, I thought you were really mean.”

“You did?” He actually sounds shocked, and that has you smiling.

“Mhm,” you hum with a grin. “You know, the type to slam doors in someone’s face and all.”

His mouth parts, and his own grin starts to form, sharp and knowing. “I only did that once.” He lifts his index finger for clarification. “And it was completely accidental.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“I was holding a stack of files, I couldn’t-” he tries to defend himself, and he feigns offense. “How did you even get into the building at that time?” He gives you a quick look and returns his gaze back to the road.

“Turns out confidence is key. If you walk in like you belong there, people are less likely to stop you,” you say truthfully.

“That’s trespassing,” he adds.

“What are you- a cop?” You give him a look and when he catches your eye, you stick your tongue out at him.

He narrows his eyes at you. “If I had known this before, I could have gotten you arrested.”

“Seriously?”

He nods. “Seriously. Might have even slammed another door in your face.” He bares his teeth in a grin, and it reaches his eyes, pushing upwards, making them squint.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You see, I knew you were mean.”

“Only to you.” Your mouth drops at his words, and you can’t hide the giddiness that makes your legs bounce. “I’m actually quite pleasant to be around with.”

You scoff a laugh, unable to hide your grin. “I can hardly believe that.”

“Wasn’t it you who thanked me for all of this?” He tries to counter.

“And clearly I was misguided in doing so,” you say with a hand over your heart, feigning hurt.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Ha, so we’re enemies now?” You stick your tongue out at the words. “The mad scientist versus the dashing reporter.”

“Other way around,” he says quickly. “I’m quite handsome by scientist standards.”

You look at him, and turning around, you smile. It’s softer than what it was moments ago, teasing and quips had sharpened it, and now fondness has sanded it down, and made you gentle with your tones.. “Yeah, of course you are.” The words come out warmer than expected, and before he can comment on it, and before the silence can wrap itself around the two of you, you start. “Still, I think I should take the compliment. I’m already having such a low night. A bad date and now being declared an enemy? Truly, this night cannot get any worse.”

“I’m sure it can,” he says with sickly sweet positivity that makes you roll your eyes.

“You’re just a ray of sunlight, aren’t you?”

“Like I said, I’m quite pleasant to be around with.” You hum at his words. “Which is why I should take the dashing part of the adjectives.”

“And what adjective would mine be? We both can’t be dashing.”

He’s smiling. “There are a few I can think of.”

“Like?” You lean towards him, and your heart thumps against your bones and flesh, and blood rushes through your body, burning the back of your neck and sending fire to burn at your face.

“Annoying.” Even with the lack of compliment that you wish to have gotten, hearing him play and fight with you, still makes you grow fond of him.

You gasp and smack his bicep. “Awful! You are completely awful!” He laughs. “And here I am allowing you to take the dashing adjective.”

“Kidding, kidding!” He says through a fit of laughter that rings through the car.

“Next time, I’ll just walk home.”

“You can get out right now.” You give him a look and he nods his head out the window. You’ve arrived. “You’re welcome for the ride.” He’s grinning at you, teeth bared and glee evident.

“I would’ve said thank you if not for the insult.” You click off your seatbelt. “But, I suppose you do deserve a thanks. So-” you turn to him- “thank you, Johnathan the dashing scientist.”

Your door is on the handle, and his smile slowly falls. He turns off the car, and you furrow your brows. “Give me a second.” He steps out of the car and goes around, your door opens and you smile. You don’t think anyone has ever opened the door for you. You’ve forever held the doors open for others, but no one has given you the same kindness in return.

He helps you out of the car, and he walks you to the steps of your home.

“I’d invite you up, but I have a mess. And an article to write.”

He shakes his head. “I understand.” He stares at you, and looks at your door. It’s like he’s bracing himself for something with the way that he sucks in a heavy breath. “How long do you think it’ll take you to write the article?”

You shrug. “Not that long. I could probably also do a Top Ten of something.” You wave your hand in the air, your brain too fried to think about anything else. “Something easy wouldn’t take too long.” You look at him, and raise your brows. “Why? What’s up?”

“I was thinking that we could get dinner. Together. If you want to, of course.”

Your eyes widen, and a cold gust of wind jolts you back to reality. “Together?” He nods and your mouth has gone dry. “Oh- Um, yeah. Yeah, dinner sounds good. Um-” you scratch at your neck- “at the diner? The one that we went to the other day?”

“No. I was thinking that we could go to the one that was near where I picked you up? It uh- It has flowers on the walls-” his index squiggles down the air- “the colorful ones.”

“The one on eighth avenue, right?” He nods. “That’s quite a choice, Johnathan.” You scoff a smile. “I uh- I’ve never been and I haven’t heard much about it, but um- you know-” you shift in your place- “I’m not really sure how pricey it is and I kinda gotta make rent this month, ya know.”

“You don’t have to worry about paying.” All oxygen escapes your lungs, and you’ve forgotten how to breathe. “I’m inviting you. I’ll be paying.”

You look him up and down. “You sure?”

“Of course.”

“Oh! Oh, okay. Yeah, okay. I’ll go. I’d love to.”

He smiles. “Good. I’m glad.” He stands in front of you and looks to the street, and looks back towards you. His hand lifts and brushes against the side of your face. Your stomach flips, and your heart skips. “I- I’ll make sure to tell you the details.” You might have imagined it, but you’re sure that he takes the slightest step towards you. You stand there, waiting until his hand pats at your shoulder. “Good night,” he says your name quietly, heavy with emotion, and you can only nod.

Once he’s at the bottom of the steps, do you find your voice. “Good night Johnathan!” He turns and you wave at him. He returns the gesture.

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