⤡ You understand Cecil better than you should, and he lets you closer than he ever meant to.
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AUTHORâs NOTE ⤠first post and first time writing a serious fanfic this is so nerve wracking. guys don't bully me ill cum. Apologies for any grammar mistakes, English isn't my first language!
Youâd been with the GDA for over a year now.
It wasnât something you sought out. Not really. But in this line of work, "choice" was a luxury youâd lost a long time ago. After the new Guardians of the Globe were selected, the higher-ups started combing through the wreckage for replacements, people with grit, the kind that couldnât be taught. You werenât flashy, didnât have the PR shine or the planet-breaking powers, but you defeated everyone else on the trails, and that was good enough for them. Hell, it was the best they could do with the current hero shortage.
Thatâs when they called you in. You werenât born with god-tier genetics or alien physiology, but you were surgical. Tactical. When things got messy, you didnât flinch, you adapted. Thatâs what made you useful. And thatâs all Cecil really needed.
Eventually, the missions started to change. Not the kind you could walk away from clean. Not just broken bones and city blocks leveled, but choices that stuck to your ribs. Decisions that werenât always right, just necessary. You did what was asked. Didnât complain. That was probably your first mistake.
The second? You started spending too much time in his office.
At first, it was routine, debriefs, reports, schedules. Work. But somewhere in between the thick stacks of classified intel and stale coffee from the communal office coffee maker, something shifted. You began noticing things. The patterns.
How he never really stopped.
Always doing something. Always moving. Like the second he let himself slow down, the weight of everything heâd done, everyone heâd lost, would catch up. How he stayed long past the buzz of closing hours, sitting at his desk with a cigarette dangling from his fingers like a lifeline. The cigarettes helped. Not for the nicotine, not really. They were placeholders. Something to do with his hands while he ran through contingency plans no one asked for and countermeasures no one wanted to see implemented. He smoked like he thought itâd burn the guilt out of his lungs.
Like maybe, just maybe, he could outpace the names heâd etched into his conscience for the sake of the greater good. And that was when you stopped seeing him as just a man giving orders.
That was when you started seeing the man trying to outrun his own.
And somehow, against every better instinct you had, you found yourself drawn to it. To him. Not because he was kind. He wasnât. Not openly. But because he kept carrying the weight like he didnât deserve to set it down.
And maybe.. you understood that.
Maybe thatâs why you started lingering. Maybe you just wanted to understand what was hiding beneath all that smoke and silence. You brought him coffee, not because he needed it, god knows the man runs on spite and caffeine in equal measure, but because it gave you a reason to see if he'd look at you longer than necessary.
He never said thank you. But somewhere along the way the cups stopped ending up in the trash.
And sometimes, when you were in the training room, youâd catch the flicker of surveillance on the edge of your vision, his eyes watching from the monitors, but never commenting. Once, during a late-night check-in, your fingers brushed as he handed you a file. He didnât move away.
He should have. But he didnât. Still, nothing happened. Not then. Not until tonight. Not until the silence between you stretched out long enough to feel like tension in the air, thin, crackling, and moments from catching flame.
Cecil's worn metal lighter flicks open with a soft snick before the flame gently kisses the end of his cigarette. He exhales slowly, watching the ember burn down in the dim light of his office. He tells himself heâs savoring the moment, not delaying it. He exhales slowly, watching the thin tendrils of smoke curl from his cigarette. The room is dim, bathed in the orange glow of his desk lamp, painting everything in soft gold and shadow. Youâre sitting across from him, posture relaxed, but your eyes are sharp. Like youâre waiting for him to make the next move.
He doesnât like that.
âYou always do that,â you say quietly, âWhen youâre about to say something you think I wonât like.â
Cecil exhales, smoke curling from his mouth in slow spirals. âYou always think you know what Iâm gonna say.â
âYouâre predictable.â
âYouâre a pain in the ass.â
You tilt your head and smile. Barely. But he sees it. Thereâs a flicker in your expression, half amusement, half challenge. And he knows that look. Knows what comes next. He takes another drag, buying himself time.
He shouldâve shut it down when you first started hanging around his office, lingering longer than necessary under the pretense of delivering reports. When youâd started bringing him coffeeâmuttering a dry,, âDon't worry, I only spit in it a little.â with a stupid smirkâand making offhanded comments about classical music like you actually listened to that shit outside of trying to impress him. When he caught himself watching you in the training room, instead of the monitors. He shouldâve stopped it then.
âJesus,â he mutters under his breath. âThis is a bad idea.â
âThen tell me to go.â
He looks at you then. Really looks.
Thereâs no fear in your eyes. No illusion, either. Just understanding. Thatâs what gets him. Youâre not some wide-eyed recruit. You know exactly what youâre walking into.
That should make it easier. It doesnât.
âThis ends bad,â he says flatly.
âMaybe,â you say. âBut it hasnât ended yet.â
His jaw tightens. He should put an end to this right now. Tell you to go back to training, to stop wasting your time. That heâs too old, too tired, too fucking busy to be entertaining whatever this is. But he doesnât. Because the truth is, itâs already too late.
Heâs always swiftly detached himself when things become too complicated or didnât fit his schedule. Why couldnât he do that here?
You reach for the Rubikâs cube on his desk, spinning it lazily, filling the silence he doesnât know how to break.
âYou always think too hard,â you murmur. âCece.â
His eyes cut to you, sharp and warning.
âCall me that again and Iâll have your ass scrubbing blood off city streets after the next Kaiju-level incident.â
You smirk. Not scared. Not even close.
âYou wonât.â
And thatâs the problem.
He leans back, cigarette balanced between his fingers, eyes narrowing just slightly. âYou know
this isnât smart.â
You donât flinch. âSince when has that stopped either of us?â
Thereâs something reckless in your voice, something that reminds him of a lit fuse burning down to its inevitable explosion.
This should be the part where he tells you no. Where he leans back, sighs through his nose, and lays it all out like itâs factâbecause it is. Where he reminds you of the age gap, the power imbalance, the years that separate you like a trench neither of you can climb out of without falling in. Where he tells you heâs seen too much, done worse, and that heâs got more blood on his hands than you have years on this earth. That he's the kind of man who ruins things just by getting too close. That whatever you think this is, this quiet pull, this thing you keep skirting around like it doesnât matter, itâs not going to last.
He should say it. You half expect him to.
But he doesnât.
But when you look at him like that, like you see past the scars and the cigarettes and the decades of bad decisions, he doesnât have the conviction to pull away.
You reach across the desk, plucking the cigarette from his lips before taking a slow drag, acting like youâve done it before. The ember glowing between your fingers.
Instantly, your lungs revolt. The smoke burns sharp and bitter as it claws its way down your throat, and you fight the urge to cough like a rookie.
Cecil watches you through half-lidded eyes, expression unreadable. âYou donât smoke,â he says, tone flat.
âDidnât come here for that,â you say, exhaling slowly. You hand it back. Fingers brushing. Deliberate.
He huffs, taking it back, but not before his gaze drops to your lips.
Jesus Christ.
This is a mistake.
A monumental, stupid, reckless mistake. And heâs going to make it anyway.
âYou really want this?â he asks, voice lower now, more resigned than questioning.
You donât even hesitate. âI wouldnât be here if I didnât.â
He lets out a long breath. Finishes the cigarette. Crushes it into the ashtray like maybe thatâll help him pretend this is still within his control.
Itâs not.
He exhales, flicking the cigarette into the ashtray, the ember snuffing out on impact.
Then he leans forward and reaches for you.
Seeing people say "there are only two genders. Male and female, biology says it" sounds like someone saying "There's only two ice cream flavors. chocolate and vanilla, nutrition says it."
Like, just cause you grew up only knowing what those two flavors are doesn't mean vanilla doesn't exist.
Some freak will always like pistachio and that's their journey
There are more ice cream flavors in a grocery store selection for one brand then there are for sustainable recycling options. If you consider Hagan Daas strawberry and cold stone strawberry different strawberries (they are) then it at least triples the selection.
If someone finds they don't really like the flavors at the grocery store then there's nothing stopping them from just making a new flavor to their liking, even if it ends up being similar to or exact the same as another flavor.
Sometimes people like sprinkles with there's, sometimes they don't, some jackasses think ice cream and gummy bears is a good idea, but the outward expression doesn't change the flavor of the ice cream, nor does referring to it as the wrong flavor.
Sometimes there are misprints at the factory and a chocolate can may actually be vanilla. It doesn't suddenly become vanilla because of what's on the packaging because inside the container is still chocolate ice cream. If you fed it to a kid allergic to chocolate he'd say "why are you trying to kill me?" Not "wow! Thanks for reminding this ice cream that it's vanilla!"
Using the what it was "made as" argument is anti-scientific as all ice cream starts as milk and starts not as vanilla or chocolate but as an icy sugar sludge. Some argue this is vanilla and therefore vanilla is the dominant flavor but vanilla requires adding sweetener and flavoring therefore just making it sugar sludge.
Ben and Jerry's will always find a way to overcomplicate it.
It all sounds stupid. And you can't say it's not the same with gender because guess what, gender is a construct. We made that shit up. You think you can explain the complexities of gender to a dog? No! The dog will chase it's own tail and demand a treat. Think you can explain it to a cat? No! He's too busy trying to murder me in my sleep. Gender is unscientific, eat the Ben and Jerry's abominations
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