You are a curse in the town. But as long as you stay within your purpose, there is no need to delve deeper into his forest.
Importance Before Reading:
Most character ages are over eighteen. The reader will age in the future chapters. Sally and BEN are written as minors.
English is not the author's first language.
2nd POV, uses [Y/N]
Contains violence and profanities!
━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━
Chapter 1: Senior Year.
You grimly stare at whatever concoction those idiotic people had made. There's a foul stench coming from locker when you came near it along with constant drips, and after inserting the combination to unlock the metal door a disgusting rot spills on to the floor. It didn't stain your shoes, but the snicker from a few rows away feels like it did. The mysterious substance is in a plastic bottle, the cap lodged useless one of the corners of your locker that left a trail of wetness, a clear loss from trying its best to contain the explosion.
You are aware this will happen. You and the other unfortunate souls in the school are always the main target of being mocked and humiliated—all because you don't 'fit' in the stereotypical standard of high school life. Hot and rich, charm over intelligence. Delusions instead of reality. You have seen and experienced it all since middle school. Just one more year and you'll be gone in this place.
But it seems the world favors them. Information spreads like wildfire in the town. And when they heard about divorce papers signing, the man of the house out of the picture then your mother passing away—you became something to sympathize and victimized further.
"Guess the apple doesn't fall far." Someone mutters, follow by quiet laughter.
You sigh, not from defeat but from annoyance. You reach inside of the locker to pull the oozing bottle from the neck, the liquid quickly damping your fingers. You didn't care at the moment; you won't be the only one who will be covered in this stuff. The smell grows stronger in the halls, now exposed that it makes someone's throat crawl out.
You turn to the snickering group and with a smile and throw the bottle.
The satisfying yelps echo, many heads whipping from where you stand. Their clothes—awfully bought with a high price—are now stained with the said solution, the stench clinging on to them like a lifeline. A shout rings out from the nearest teacher, followed by hurried stomps. And soon after you find yourself in an all-too-familiar office.
"[Y/N]." Mr. Hale starts, facing you with a stern yet tired expression across his desk. A finger taps against the polished hardwood while you sit comfortably as you wipe your hands with a tissue that he offered when you entered. You can tell Mr. Hale is doing his best to defy his patience. "Do you know how many time you were sent in here?"
You made no sound as the principal continues. "It's early October—and within this past two month all I received from is nothing but reports!" Mr. Hale opens the folder on his desk to skim through the fastened papers. "You weren't like this back then. You disrupted the hallway, damaged a property. This could've been handled maturely."
He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts and control his voice. He lowers his tone. "You've been through a lot, I understand. But harming other students is not an excuse for your grief."
The clock on the wall ticks. Every second the ends of Mr. Hale's lips contort to a frown as he waits for an answer. You lean further on the chair, making it creak under your weight. "I'm just returning the favor and proving them right."
"This is serious [Y/N]." His voice raises. "I could suspend—expel you. Permanent marks on your record."
"It's my last year, Mr. Hale." You retort, not in defense but rather factual. "I'm only making things even."
Mr. Hale presses his lips now in a thin line. He tries again, this time adding control. "You think that makes you safe?"
You pretend to think, even tilting your head a little for a dramatic display. "Well...considering those idiots are nothing but parasites and finally got what they deserved in a public space...Plus, if the student body finds out I was the one who got—let's say expelled—rather than them—not to mention using my parents to add more pity—"
"Then yes." A daring smile stretches across your features. You find it amusing that Mr. Hale is confused; here he thought all of this was caused by losing your parents and not the constant torment of others where he did nothing, to engross in the school's image and so-called charity from the rich families than dealing with the conditions of the helpless.
"Clean up the mess." Order Mr. Hale with a sharp glare as he stands from his seat to straighten his tie. "And you will stay out of trouble."
The chair legs scrape against the floor and interrupts the quiet room when you stand, no bid of goodbye or thanks as you reach for the door and turn the knob. The bell already rung when you were escorted to the office, so there's not a single student in sight in the hall that you're standing on.
You relish the silence. it's clear you won't be attending your morning class, taking the janitor's job momentarily to clean the spills before going on your day. But you don't mind—you can catch up to your lessons by simply resolving your excuse to your teachers. You use this opportunity as well to be alone for a moment. You make your way to the nearest janitorial closet to retrieve the mop bucket, luckily the closet has a wash sink. The cool water mixes with the detergent that you poured slowly fills the tub, once it's full you grab a couple of towels for your locker.
The divorce and funeral were expected to be fair—to you at least. In both of you parents' family line, there's been a tradition where a certain age of their child the members will leave, and if any sibling is present, they need to live with whichever parent remains. In short—the first born is destined to be alone.
It's the main reason why your school years are rough. Now that the tradition had happened, it added more oil to the fires, hoping to gnaw the blame on you. Long before the paperwork and black clothing, your parents were kind and patient enough to make you understand. Of course, you were frightened at first, a natural emotion during childhood. Then you grew to accept and endure it. You admit you yourself when you exchanged the last hugs and smiles to your father and sibling, the melancholic feeling will forever be shared.
The floors and your locker smells faintly of detergent now as you finish wringing the last towel out. You return the cleaning equipment back to the closet before rinsing your hands. The bell already rung twice by the time you reach the classroom. Through the narrow window in the door everyone is seated, either doing schoolwork or finding something to keep them entertain while waiting for break. You knock in rhythm before entering.
"[Y/N]? Where have you been?" The teacher—Ms. Davis—questions in raised eyebrows despite knowing the reason. Her gaze lingers more than a second when she sees the cuffs of your flannel damped.
"Office." You answer anyway, making a beeline to your desk. Ms. Davis watches in concern—she was the first one to send condolences to you, always been the one who tries in her power to protect the helpless students in the school. You and the others like her, never belittle your "place" in the hierarchy.
She resumes in her lecture after summarizing what you've missed during your absence. You ignore the hidden glances at your way—some weary, some feigning amusement, and those whose brimming you down like prey. A chair screeches somewhere near the back; someone utters their disgust under their breath—either about you or the faint smell that is still clinging on your sleeves despite the citrus detergent, sour and rotten. You never complain, never let them have the last laugh.
You tap your pen on the pages of your notebook, half of your attention drifts to the window. Across the football field, through the road leading out of the town, and over the chain fences lies the forest. The mayor turned some parts of it into a forest park years ago, now consider as the town's main attraction for both locals and tourists. Trails, campgrounds, guided tours all over the safe sections—always crowded when the right seasons came.
You lifted your gaze to the skies, just against the treeline. Among the greens stands one of the watchtowers, barely visible to the naked eye. It acts as an angel for the hikers, not wanting them to be lost in the woods—and yet their bulletin board is still overflowing with missing posters. The warning signs nailed beside the trails often gets ignored, wanting to explore the wilderness beyond the security. You've heard complaints, but the park never closes. And each news always reports an animal devouring the poor person.
Everybody stopped believing in that repetitive information. You likely suspect some of those missing people had the urge to become a self-proclaimed detective, to capture what or who is responsible for the disappearances.
Or they're just reckless in general.
A sudden kick hits the legs of your chair; it makes you jolt and grip your pen while the other holds the edge of your desk. The ones near your look at your way. Noticing this the perpetrator kicks the legs again that earned scattered snickers across the classroom.
You don't bother to turn around when your seat bumps forward. You can feel the dissatisfaction behind you, then a slight creak of their desk as they lean forward near your ear. The amusement in their whisper hidden poorly. "Careful, might snap and go feral again."
"If you have enough energy to cause a distraction, then perhaps you would like to participate in today's discussion." The laughter dies down fast when Ms. Davis pauses and glances your way, the students around you steer away while her eyes set to the student at your back. She stares a few seconds more before she resumes the lecture with a sigh.
We are really lucky to have her. Your grip around the pen tightens briefly to relax again. Your attention goes back to the window for a moment, beyond the the town limits of the woods.
The watchtower lights are on. And the sun is not in the horizon yet. Nobody reacts—too busy with their conversations or to the lecture and Ms. Davis writing across the board.
You stare at the distant tower, the familiar unease stirs through as you tap your pen now in haste.
The tower lights only turn on at night or during searches. And searches only happens when someone doesn't come back.
Team Fortress 2 - M/F - Suggestive - Sniper/Reader - 4k words
gnc female reader, alternate universe, period typical attitudes, pining, friends to lovers, insecurity, fluff
ao3 link
He’s the only person you’d consider a friend around here. You’re quite sure you aren’t his type, but that didn’t prevent your heart from aching.
How annoying.
The reader is aesthetically GNC and is described as having short hair. (And being shorter than Sniper, of course.) The details of the AU aren’t so important that they need to be explained for the story to make sense.
The horizon line is wavelike, a testament to the high temperature. The stark blue sky with barely a cloud in sight only served a reminder of just how exposed all was to the sun.
Your armpits stick to your sides, the dusty toned lilac fabric of your shirt clinging to your skin thanks to your body’s attempt at regulating its temperature with perspiration. The duffel bag you’ve been instructed to take into base digs into your shoulder. The heels of your feet dully ache with every step you take, your calves and ankles feel tight. You’ve been walking for a while.
Busy, you were almost always busy—there was almost always something to that needed to be done. Really, you had no idea how Miss Pauling did this all by herself before. Or, perhaps, you just weren’t cut out for this, a bitter voice inside your head suggests. You shake it off.
Mercifully, after this you would be able to retire for the day. It wouldn’t be long now. The thought of kicking off your damp clothes and flopping down onto your bed motivated you to keep going without rest.
As you continue on, an all too familiar van eventually comes into view, parked in one of its usual locations. The vehicle feels like it’s burning a hole into the side of your face as you walk by, and you can’t help but spare a glance at it—not particularly interested in it by itself, but rather the man who resided in it.
The marksman has been on your mind lately. You couldn’t determine if it was luck or misfortune that he just so happened to decide to park his van on your route to base today.
And your mind couldn’t help but wonder what the owner of said van was up to inside.
You wondered how he chose to spend his day of rest. You wondered if he slept in late, or woke up bright and early. You’ve seen him only a handful of times inside the base downing a mug of coffee, black as pitch. The thought of his van scented with strong coffee passes your mind, right before the thought of waking up to such a scent.
You ponder how his voice would sound, raspy and grumbling, upon first waking up—
Rapidly blinking to shake the thoughts out of your head, you keep going. It’s just the sound of your feet languidly hitting the dirt as the sun goes on with draining what little energy you have left. Until a new noise breaks the monotony.
Your hand snaps to the gun holstered at your hip and your head whips to the direction of the sound.
“G’day.”
Misfortune, you decide.
The truth was, you had actually been avoiding him lately. “H-hey—” your voice cracks from a dry throat, you clear it awkwardly before trying again. “Hey, Sniper,” you try to sound casual but you feel like a deer in headlights, and you felt like Sniper saw right through you.
If he did, he gives no indication. “Back from one of your assignments?” It is at this moment you slow your feet to a stop. There was no avoiding this conversation.
He’s leaning on the doorframe of the van, in a tank top and slacks, with simple brown loafers. The mercenaries got a day off today—except for you and Miss Pauling of course, who seemingly never got to rest. He looks like you caught him in the middle of doing just that—or rather, that paused his own rare moment of reprieve just to talk to you.
You shake the latter thought out of your head.
Sniper didn’t even do anything, no—it was entirely you. He was just as he always was, merely existing, and his mere existence was all it took for your emotions to spiral and slip out of your control.
You liked being around him. You liked his underbite and the weird smile he had with all the teeth. And his long limbs, the veins wrapping around his hands and forearms. His hands in general. The roughness that naturally sat in his voice. How far your neck had to crane up to meet those steely blue eyes often hidden behind tinted aviators—
At some point you realized you just liked Sniper.
Your neutral observations became admiration. Despite appearances, you’re tenderhearted—and in hindsight, it shouldn’t have surprised you that he’s taken up much of the space in said heart as of late. But you weren’t about to let your foolish heart make a mess of the only true friendship you had here.
“Yeah,” you reply a second off-beat. “Didn’t get a day off like you guys.”
He doesn’t answer you, instead he flicks his head down towards the duffel bag slung over your shoulder, “Looks heavy,” he murmurs, voice indifferent but his gaze anything but.
“…Oh!” You sputter, “It only looks like it,” you brush off with a strained chuckle. A rather obvious lie, but one you throw out impulsively, if only to attempt to stave off the inevitable.
Truthfully, the strap of the thing was pressing harshly into your shoulder with the weight of it, and that wasn’t even mentioning how your body was slightly tipped into the direction of where the bag hung, its mass threatening to pull you down with it.
He tilts his head forward towards you, “Yeah?” His voice is low, rough.
Goosebumps manage to prickle your skin in complete defiance of the heat, your stomach twists into fluttering knots. This was why you needed space away from him—not forever, definitely not, just enough time for you to snap out of it and act like a human being around him again—
“Let's have a look, then.” You just barely make out the utterance under his breath before he fully steps out, shutting the door of his camper behind him.
His gait is lazy, and it only serves to give your heart-rate time to ramp up. By the time he’s in front of you, your palms are clammy.
‘Get it together.’
Sniper stares down at you, eyes impassive and half-lidded yet gaze strangely intense. You feel like your feet are cemented to the ground. The sharpness of his stare mellows out with every blink until it dissipates entirely.
You feel like you’ve been caught with your hand in a cookie jar, for some reason.
He extends his—long, vascular—arm and bends his fingers in a ‘give it’ motion. It’s rather awkward giving it to him thanks to its weight, but you manage it.
Sniper doesn’t seem to have any issue with its mass at all, however. That fact gives you an odd fluttering sensation in your belly that you dutifully ignore.
His ease non withstanding, his brows pinch a little when he hoists it on his shoulder.
Sniper shoots you an askance look, “Only looks heavy?” He parrots, tone skeptical.
You feel your cheeks get a bit warm. “Well, y’know, I was carrying it fine—”
“Where’s this going?”
You blink up at him, momentarily surprised by the question. And almost immediately chastise yourself for the decision to make such direct eye-contact with him, as you feel the itching flare of heat coil around your neck and trail up your face, your heartbeat rabbit-kicks between your lungs.
‘Get it together.’
“Ah, no—” you clear your throat, scrambling to find your words. “Just taking it to base, in one of the storages.”
“Couldn’t they have just brought this in with the truck?” There were supply shipments every other week, sometimes longer—and in those times you or Miss Pauling would have to relay to the men the suggestion to be more conservative with supplies until then.
You sigh, “I asked myself the same thing.”
“Right," he shrugs it up against his shoulder, adjusting it to rest more comfortably. The motion makes the lean muscle in his collarbone and upper arm shift and flex accordingly, his choice of top doing little to stop yourself from staring. The instant the bag settles into place you flick your sights elsewhere in momentary panic.
“Let's get to it, then.”
You open your mouth, then clamp it shut.
Misfortune, indeed.
In hindsight, perhaps you were being just a little overdramatic.
It wasn’t like Sniper was the type of man who ever felt the need to fill silence with chatter, so the walk there was mostly uneventful. You found yourself stealing glances at him from your peripheral without even meaning to, and mentally chastising yourself each time you did so.
At least it seemed like Sniper didn’t notice. In no small part thanks to what appeared to be something else that was on his mind. With how his jaw set and his eyes narrowed at the horizon in front of him as if in deep thought.
Inside the base isn’t much cooler, but anything other than being in direct contact with the sunlight was preferable. You find that it is oddly quiet.
“Everyone up and left,” Sniper explains.
“Oh. How come you didn’t?” He had a mode of transportation, he could have spent his off day elsewhere more easily than everyone else, if he so desired.
He looks down at you for a moment, “Didn’t have anywhere else I wanted to be.”
The walk to the storage is just as uneventful, you had to beckon Sniper in the right direction occasionally—it was clear to you that he hasn’t spent much time inside the building, let alone this particular section of it.
You fumble a bit with the keys after fishing them out your pocket and push the door to one of the storages open. Even after working here for almost a year, you still couldn’t make sense of the layout of the place—nor the inconsistency between doors and room sizes.
It isn’t cramped by any means, but still rather small. There are boxes stacked up in all four corners, shelves fill the remaining space available.
“Uh, just put it anywhere, I guess,” you tell him with a light shrug, still unsure yourself.
Sniper plops it down on one of the shelves in the room, and as soon as he does you feel the looming feeling of awkwardness over the horizon. ‘I should get going now.’
“Thanks for helping me—and sorry for taking time away from your day off.”
“Eh, don’t mention it,” he replies with nonchalance and a shrug, he didn’t view doing this small favor for you as an inconvenience for him. You smile despite yourself.
“Alright, I won’t take any more time away from you—” you begin, preparing to say your goodbyes.
“Wait.” You stare at him, pinned in place just from his request.
Sniper says your name, “Tell me what I did wrong.”
You blink, then blink again, shocked into silence.
“What?” You eventually blurt out.
He shifts on his feet, exhaling heavily. A hand is ran over his forehead in an anxious gesture.
“Ya haven’t been around,” he mumbles, “And you’ve started leaving when I come in the room.”
Your heart feels like its lodged in your throat, “Oh, Sniper, that isn’t—”
“Yeah, it is,” Sniper interjects, his brows set low on his face, now. The sweat on your body isn’t just from the heat anymore, and it only adds to your discomfort.
“Just—” he starts.
“I didn’t—” you try.
You both close your mouths, and take a breath. Sniper is still, silent, and expectant.
You could not tell him the actual reason, you refused to jeopardize your friendship—which you held dearly. You didn’t want to overtly lie to him either, you felt like he was owed at least some honesty, especially considering it was appearing to be that your absence was felt by him.
“I…I was in my own head. I didn’t mean to—I really like spending time with you,” you ramble, growing increasingly frustrated with yourself due to your inability to clearly convey what you felt, and offer a satisfactory explanation.
Sniper’s weight gets shifted on his feet again, his expression fixed into that of stony neutrality. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but the looming question of ‘in your head about what’ was heavy enough to crush you with its mere suggestion.
Mercifully, forgivingly, Sniper asks no such thing.
Instead, he wets his lips with a single swipe of his tongue, looking off to the side. “The feeling’s mutual,” you hear him murmur.
For a moment there’s only the sound of your combined breathing, the silence in the air so dense that even a sound as soft as that felt loud.
“It’s why I…” He shifts his jaw for a moment, as if considering whether or not to continue with what he was about to say.
“I noticed it. That you were gone.” It takes longer than a second for you to process this.
He sighs, and with it goes the tension in his shoulders. He lifts up his arm and waves you to him, you step forward without thinking, just functioning off impulse.
Sniper pulls you into a single-armed hug. Your brain didn’t know what to comprehend at first; the way he was holding you, or the fact that he just admitted that he missedyou.
Him giving you a fond squeeze makes the cogs in your head finally start turning, and you give him a squeeze back. He releases you after this, and you have to make yourself tear away from him.
In that short moment you felt his body heat through his top, you pressed it down against his sun-warmed skin as he held you to him. You heard his heartbeat thumping underneath, his large hand resting against your back, the low and drawn out exhale that escaped him—relief.
When Sniper looks down at you, anticipation builds in your chest. “C’mon, I'll take you back.”
You spend the rest of the day wondering what he was going to say.
A week later, you’re no less plagued by your ever growing affection for the man.
While you were incredibly relieved that the previous matter was resolved, the issue of your emotions was still at large.
It wasn’t even an argument, just a misunderstanding, but something about it made it linger in your mind. After ruminating on it long enough, you concluded the reason for its prolonged presence in your thoughts was due to the simple fact that Sniper would not have had that conversation with you to begin with, had he not felt some kind of bond with you.
A close bond between friends, nothing more.
You stopped yourself from entertaining any further musing than that as you were quite sure you weren’t his type—if any man’s type, for that matter.
Despite social pressure and ridicule, you weren’t about to scrub yourself of the things that made you yourself. Not to mention that it would be counterproductive to do so in hopes of finding love—as whoever you entered a relationship with would be loving a façade. It would be an incredibly poor foundation to build any lasting relationship on.
Regardless, you found yourself pondering what kind of woman he would like. In your half-hearted musings none of the imaginary women you came up with resembled yourself.
The sky is a dark blue with red beginning to bleed over the horizon, the sun would be shining eventually.
You found yourself at the base again, marking another chore off of today’s to-do list—double-checking that the supply shipment was correct. That was even earlier that day, and you just now finished. You’ve been awake for some time. You swallow a yawn and decide to help yourself to a cup of coffee before more residents of the base begin waking up.
You didn’t feel too strongly about the other mercenaries—aside from Sniper, of course. You felt neutral around some and off-put by others. Preferring to keep to yourself was something you had in common with Sniper, though yours was borne more out of timidity than a general preference for solitude.
When you turn the corner to enter the kitchen, a silhouette is already darkening one of the tables. You instinctively steel yourself to trade pleasantries then get in and out as soon as possible—a shame, you were hoping to be able to enjoy coffee and the sunrise by yourself for a little while.
Then you realize who it is.
“Mornin’,” is all Sniper says to you, not even looking up from whatever magazine he was skimming through. You blink, your reply delayed due to surprise. You think you make out some nature photography on the pages he’s lazily flicking through.
In that case, you didn’t mind having company.
The sound of him turning the page is incredibly loud in the quiet of the earliest hours of morning, and only then do you manage to give him a sheepish ‘good morning’ in reply.
You've seen him in passing since the moment you had in the storage room, but haven't been able to have an actual conversation with him since. Not out of avoidance, it was just that neither of your schedules lined up.
His slouch hat is lying on the table to the right of him, a steaming mug of coffee in the hand he isn’t turning pages with. His aviators hooked on the collar of his shirt, and the drowsy narrowness of his eyes suggest that he needed the caffeine.
You try not to think on how simple this all was, because if you allowed your thoughts to remain there for too long it was easy for the coldness of the base to melt into something warmer, like a home.
You turn and swallow thickly to rid yourself of the lump in your throat. The room remains peaceful silence as you turn on the kettle and fix yourself a mug, Sniper's presence never fully escaping your attention. Once you’re done you make your way over to the table he was seated at, hoping that you didn’t look overtly shy while doing so.
You sit across from him. He doesn’t look up from what he’s reading. You feel relieved.
It was nice being around someone that didn’t expect constant conversation from you. That wasn’t to say you didn’t enjoy a good conversation or small-talk, but occasionally you didn’t have much to say or just wanted to enjoy a moment in quietness.
You don’t fight the heartrendingly sweet thoughts from coalescing this time. In the gentle silence shared between the two of you, punctuated only by the bare necessities—the sound of liquid being drank, paper moving against paper.
Your heart ached, but it was aching before, too. It ached a little less after you indulged yourself in such a daydream.
It’s been so long since a word had been spoken that when he does, you nearly flinch, lost in thought as you were.
“Getting a bit long there,” you make a questioning noise in your cup, still in the midst of drinking. “Your hair,” he clarifies with a nod in your direction.
Your eyes widen momentarily, you’re surprised he even noticed—let alone mentioned it. You unconsciously reach up to touch it.
“It is.”
Sniper hums in acknowledgement, a low, rumbling noise. You both return to drinking your respective beverages in peaceful silence.
Until Sniper speaks again only a few seconds later. “Growing it out, or just don’t have the time?”
“The time,” you’d be able to do that once you left the compound, but that wouldn’t be until the dead of night—assuming you weren’t overly exhausted and decided to actually cut your hair instead of tossing yourself onto your bed to sleep like the dead.
Sniper holds the page he was in the middle of turning, his thumb brushing over it as his brows lowered in thought. His mind is seemingly made up when he sets the nature magazine aside. “There’s some things I left behind in me room on base.”
“Y’could cut your hair here,” he offers. “If ya want,” he then adds on in a quiet mumble.
You didn’t think about it until now, but Sniper would have quarters just as the other mercenaries did, but the fact he never used them and elected to stay in his van made you forget.
You tilt your head at him, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”
“‘Course,” like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Not like I'm using ‘em.”
You didn’t even know where exactly his quarters were, and that only proved just how scarce Sniper made himself on base.
“Where...?”
“Eh. It'll be easier to show ya.” He could have just gave you directions, you think you both know that.
You find yourself staring at Sniper’s back while he leads you.
You both drank your coffee in tranquil quiet, and once you both were done he stood up with only a single nod to beckon you to follow.
Sniper never made any comment about your choice of style, now that you thought of it. Neither your preference for pants over skirts, nor your hair that was unusually short for a woman—a fact that other people seemingly felt the need to go out of their way to remind you.
It was safe to assume he didn’t have a negative opinion on the latter, at least. Considering he noticed it was getting longer and offered an opportunity for you to trim it back down instead of subtly nudging you to grow it out further.
You nearly run into him when he stops abruptly, and only then do you realize that you’ve made it to your destination. He thrusts open the door unceremoniously, and you trail in behind him.
The room is almost completely bare, a few small things here and there gave the faintest impression of who the room belonged to, but only if you were actively looking for them.
A stack of books about the wildlife surrounding the area, for example.
There’s a nightstand by the bed, and a small circular mirror on it. “Everything you need is in there,” he gestures to it flippantly.
You nod. Your eyes briefly scan the room for something to sit on and find a chair in one of the corners. Before you even take two steps in that direction Sniper is marching towards it and lifting it up to place it in front of the nightstand for you.
“Thanks,” you tell him, trying to temper the bashfulness in your voice.
He simply grunts in reply, like it wasn't an issue for him. It pretty much never was an issue for him when it came to helping you, whether big or small, you slowly realize.
Sniper hovers around the chair for a moment, his brows set low.
“I...” His voice trails off, his arms hang limply at his sides, fingers flex in a fidget. His mouth settles in a thin line, and you can tell that without some gentle nudging whatever it was that he was going to say would remain a mystery.
“Mhm?”
Sniper looks off to the side, away from you. He almost looks embarrassed. “I was gonna ask if...You wanted me to trim it for ya.”
Then his jaw goes rigid, his eyes narrowing seemingly at himself. “Not like you need me to or anything, forget it—”
Your heart pounds. “I would appreciate that, actually.”
His head whips to you, a look of genuine surprise flashing across his face before being steeled into a more neutral expression almost immediately after. There’s something that lingers in his eye, but you can’t discern it.
He steps a bit to the side and pats the back of the chair, “C’mon, then.”
Sniper has always been taller than you. He’s taller than a fair number of people. But right now with you sitting and he standing, you are consciously aware of it; your stomach feels like it’s fluttering.
The simplicity was what made your heart ache. It was effortless to imagine this as a normal occurrence, an unnoteworthy routine in lives that have been intertwined.
The butterflies in your stomach almost feel like nausea. It’s the sweetest wave of nausea you’ve ever felt.
You keep your gaze slanted down, the mere thought of making eye contact with him through the mirror was enough to pin your eyes in place. His hands were distant yet so close. The hairs on the back of your neck stood at attention, the room was too hot to use chill as an excuse.
Fortunately, Sniper was too focused on his task to pay any mind to your sudden timidity, nor your hands fiddling in your lap, or the way you avoided meeting his gaze even on accident.
In the moment it took too long, by the time it was over it ended too soon.
He’s still behind the chair when you lean forward to turn your head this way and that to observe his handiwork. You’ve always cut your hair yourself, so this was a rather novel experience for you in of itself.
“What’s the verdict?”
“Good,” you give him a beaming smile in the mirror.
“It’s a bit uneven here,” his fingers brush up the nape of your neck, and you nearly shiver.
Your voice is bordering on tight; “That’s fine, it isn’t perfect when I do it, either.”
He hums, and simply hand rests there, his thumb tracing the wisps of hair so soft and slow that the contact barely registered in your brain. The second you think he’ll move it, he doesn’t.
The moment feels more fragile than glass, yet just as cherished as porcelain. You feel like you can barely breathe, lest whatever just came over the room between you two dissipates and you are thrust back into the real world.
The fact neither of you move says something, you think. But reasonable doubt smothers the thought. Too sentimental, too romantic of an idea.
You hear Sniper exhale a quiet breath, then he suddenly runs his hand up to your scalp and messes with your hair. “Hey!” A laugh is shocked out of you, and you playfully bat his hands away.
Just like that, whatever that was vanishes as quickly as it came.
He chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “I reckon we have work to get to.” You hear his footsteps back away from the chair, allowing you the space to get up.
“It was nice forgetting about that for a few minutes,” you sigh, rubbing the back of your neck idly. You almost felt the phantom of his touch—
“Likewise,” and with that, Sniper is out the door.
You find yourself standing behind for a moment, a part of you still ruminating on what just happened—if anything. If you were just making a mountain out of a molehill.
But it wasn’t like you had all day to just sit around in your thoughts. You sigh exasperatedly, and head out the room yourself.
I apologize in advance if this is overly vague in some parts and rough around the edges in others, I just wanted to write something quickly without having to do a whole lot of thinking. ;;__;;
This kind of is a hyper-abbreviated version of an idea I had sitting in my mind for quite some time, but I just didn’t feel up to making anything long and/or detailed. But at the same time it was just sitting unfinished and I wanted to share the part I did complete. So this is might end up being more like a collection of moments with a loose thread holding it all together than one tight and cohesive narrative.
I’m not sure where exactly this is going, it’s not going to be long. Maybe one day I’ll come back to this idea and write something with more length, but I really just don’t have it in me at the moment… ;;
I purposefully kept the hair cutting vague to include various different hair textures.
I kind of didn’t know where else to go with this at a certain point, so I split it into 2 chapters it and tried to push through it anyway and finish this part. I think you can tell, it’s kind of disjointed. Maybe my attempt can still be appreciated by a few others regardless. (Sniper still deserves more reader inserts… U__U)
I don’t know when I’ll next update this since like I mentioned, I’m a bit stumped. (I have a few scenes planned out and whatnot but they’re still very rough and unfinished…)
…Well, despite all of that, I hope someone found this enjoyable to read. 😖 ‘Til next time!
summary: in which you get invited to dinner with herman and gladys, get to know more of the former and get wingmanned by the latter. also featuring: baby pictures, black metal, and a gratuitous amount of both you and herman being very awkward
(read part 1)
content / warnings: lighthearted, reader works in assistive care / as a home health aide and doesn't have superpowers, gladys (my name for wb's grandmother) does something that passes for being a wingman, reference to the song Myrmidon by Abbath
word count: 4.1 k
a/n: in the span of 2 weeks the first part has become one of my most popular posts and my most popular fic on ao3, which is bonkers!! thank you for liking this :)) 𓆜⋆˚࿔ here's a part 2!
i have no idea what to put for a part 2 in a header image so you get the same one again for now haha
(also, i have now finished dispatch, so no worries about spoilers anymore!)
You’ve never been more nervous in your life.
It’s been exactly one week after your last visit to Gladys’s household, where you made a very obvious show of realizing that you were interested in her grandson, and were promptly invited to dinner for — well, you don’t really know, exactly, other than the fact that Gladys had planned it, and nothing gets past her. You’re a little too early for your liking; you didn’t want to make a bad impression, but it’d be a bit of a faux pas to expect them to answer you ahead of schedule, so you spend a few minutes awkwardly fidgeting on the welcome mat caked with mud, a corny message (Cats Are In Charge Here!) emblazoned on the straw.
You’ve been here at least a dozen times already, but it feels so different this visit — not coming here as part of your job, but for a social event. A get-together. Not, you think, that you’re expecting to be getting anything from this at all — it was a completely normal invitation from completely normal people, and it makes sense that you’d eventually progress to visiting their house outside of work, especially with how well you know Gladys at this point.
But at the prospect of Herman being there, too — someone who you may have spent a fair amount of time thinking about in the past week ever since you saw him on the news…
Well. You're here already. You might as well throw yourself into it before you lose your nerve completely and run.
Taking a deep breath, you press the doorbell, the melodic chime horrifyingly announcing your arrival to the whole neighborhood, and then spend the next ten seconds listening to the sounds from the other side: a chorus of meows strumming up and feet hurrying across the tiled surface, accompanied by a clatter of pots and pans.
The door opens, and you open your mouth to greet Gladys, but you don’t do that because it’s Herman who opened it, obviously.
With the absence of the screen separating you from him, you can see him in full detail (4K widescreen, your brain helpfully supplies). Still tall, but hunched over, as if trying to make up for his height by giving himself neck pain. His hero costume is absent. He’s wearing what appears to be swim gear disguised as normal clothing: a light blue, long-sleeved swim shirt and dark blue swim trunks that are dripping water onto the porch, only his white gloves still remaining. Most notably, his goggles are gone, the dark tint of the plastic giving way to wide eyes as blue and beautiful as the ocean themselves.
During one train of thought you’d had in the past week, you’d half convinced yourself that your attraction had been a fleeting thing. Never mind the fact that you’d been thinking about his face from before; you know the TV adds glamour to everything.
But seeing him in person only confirms your attraction — cements it, drags you down into the ocean of his eyes where you are never to resurface. This was a horrible mistake.
Herman, of course, is stuttering a mile a minute, and it takes you a moment to remember that you should be listening and not gaping at him like a goldfish.
‘H-hello! Nice to meet you, I’m — well, you know who I — my name, but it’s nice to meet you, officially, anyway.’
Remembering yourself, you give him a smile back that you hope helps reassure both of you. ‘Nice to meet you officially, too! Thank you so much for inviting me over, Gladys has told me a lot about you.’
‘Oh, no p-problem, me — also.’ The lack of sense in that statement must hit him, because his cheeks flush red (isn't that cute?), and he coughs, stepping aside. ‘Well — come, welcome — in.’
This first social barrier overcome, you step into the house. It, too, is exactly the same as you last saw it, but you find yourself suddenly wanting to commit more of it to detail — you're not here for business anymore, you're here for pleasure.
In the evening, you can see just how much Herman’s presence affects the level of moisture in the air, the dehumidifier on the side table almost half-full, the plants wet and glistening, the cats’ fur sticking to their bodies as they mill around, slightly displeased. A large amount of steam is wafting from the kitchen, a pot about to bubble over on the stove; Herman lets out a keen noise of panic and runs ahead to stop it, leaving you to keep surveying the environment with only a little shame.
Gladys, comfortably seated at the dining table, raises her beaming face towards you. ‘Hello, dear! So glad you could join us tonight. Have a seat! Herm is making a wonderful soup.’
‘Thank you, Gladys.’ You take a seat to the left of her; the table, an antiquated piece of wood with a heavy vinyl tablecloth on it to waterproof it, is already set with bowls and cutlery. ‘And thank you as well for inviting me, it’s very kind of you. How are you feeling this week?’
‘Oh, fine, fine,’ she dismisses, waving it off. ‘And I should really be thanking you for accepting.’
Her voice drops lower, conspiratorial, as she leans towards you. ‘He’s been waiting to see you all week, you know. I’ve told him a lot about you, too.’
Oh. ‘Oh,’ you say, feeling suddenly frozen in place, trapped underneath her stare. ‘I, uh —‘
‘W-what’s that, Gamma?’ Herman yells from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of an excessive amount of water pouring out of a pot. ‘I ha — heard my name.’
‘Nothing, Herm,’ she sings back at him, the perfect picture of a sweet old lady, before turning to you and grinning, the large white squares of her dentures suddenly seeming devilish in the context of what she’s implying. What is she implying? How much has she told Herman? Does he know what she's doing? Did he ask her?
You stare back hard, trying to discern whatever she's got planned, but Gladys has a formidable poker face. (You remember the first time you’d played cards with her in the first place — innocent, she was not, and were you not playing for fun rather than money you would have lost all your life savings to her by now.)
Before you can pry any further, Herman ambles up to the table and sets a pot of split pea down in the middle — ‘w-watch — careful, it’s really hot, Gamma — and uh, you, too.’ Ladling some out into each bowl, he leaves and then comes back in two shifts with bread and, to your surprise, a towering edible fruit arrangement that you can’t help but goggle at a bit. Herm notices your staring and laughs awkwardly as he sits down.
‘I took — got it, not took, it was g-gave — given from work. From a — colleague. He has lots and lots of it.’
‘Guess we’re good on dessert, then,’ you attempt to joke. It’s not one particularly deserving of praise, but Herman chuckles awkwardly as he sits down, a stop-start, musical sound that shouldn't make you as happy as it did.
‘Yeah, hope you’re into — enjoy — it.’
‘Well, let’s eat!’ Gladys chirps, reaching for her soup, the two of you following suit. Blowing on a spoonful of the soup before putting it in your mouth, your eyes widen.
‘Wow, this is delicious.’ That’s not a lie. You had expected it to be at least slightly watery, given, well, his whole situation, but it’s a perfect consistency, slightly sweet and salty at the same time — much better than any canned soup you’ve ever had.
Herman flushes at your praise, ducking his head bashfully. ‘It’s pretty easy when you know h-how to make it. I have a l-lot of knowledge — experience, anyways.’
‘Well, my compliments to the chef,’ you joke again, and at this he laughs again, several drops of water landing on the table, and you want to hear that again for all of time.
Wow, you’re screwed.
——
The dinner continues fine, the three of you making normal conversation, or at least playing at it — you're mostly listening to the two of them talk. Herman’s accounts of what happens at work sound frankly insane, and like they’re desperately in need of more people in their HR department. But you can’t deny it’s entertaining, especially when he describes missions he’s been sent on.
He downplays his own actions a lot, but when he gets to something he was really proud of, he’s much more expressive, reenacting certain fights with wild gestures that send drops of water flying everywhere. You have no doubts about him being a good hero, and you’d be perfectly comfortable to listen to him stammer out his recollections all night.
The real trouble starts when he changes the topic.
‘Ah, s-so,’ Herman says as you’re taking a brochette of cantaloupe squares out of the edible arrangement, ‘do you — are you liking your work? Job? With old — elderly — people.’
It’s not often that you actually get questions about your job, so it takes a second for you to actually answer. ‘Oh, well — yeah, of course! They’re all really sweet.’
‘You’re just saying that because I’m sitting right here,’ Gladys remarks, waving her own half-eaten melon stick at you. ‘I’m sure I must drive you all sorts of crazy.’
‘No, really,’ you protest, ‘it’s great. The main reason I got into assistive care is for the people I’m, uh, assisting. You get to talk to a lot of people with interesting perspectives of the world.’
‘That’s code for ‘we’re old and we have opinions,’ Gladys cracks, and you chuckle, eating a piece of cantaloupe before you continue.
‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought about my job at length. It’s just something about — helping people, you know? Everyone needs help, and it makes me happy to do it. It’s hero work in its own way. Although I’m sure it’s nothing compared to actual hero work,’ you add, looking back at Herman. ‘What you guys do is really impressive.’
‘Oh, well, yeah, we both are. Im-impressive, I mean,’ Herman stammers, but he looks happy at what you’d said, smiling as he fidgets with his cloth napkin (wrings it out is more what you should say, twisting and untwisting it in his hands).
Gladys smiles too, but it’s too much like the one from earlier for you to feel at ease. She’s got her hands steepled; in the position she’s at, she can observe both of your faces. She’s laying some kind of trap here, but what? It’s a good thing she never decided to become a villain.
‘Impressive, yes,’ Gladys says, ‘although I do wish he had more time for friends. It’s been a long time since he had anyone over—‘ here, Herman chokes on a mouthful of water — ‘and I’ve been wondering when he’d start getting out there again!’ She shoots you a knowing look, before proclaiming, ‘Dating, even!’
The intention behind her statement hits you like a truck. You suddenly feel a great interest in spearing as much of the melon kebab as you can down your throat to avoid talking. Herman’s hands have begun the process of gluing themselves to his face in humiliation.
To save him further embarrassment, you try to come up with another topic once you recover, lest she begin mentioning children of all things. ‘Uh, so, Herman. Of the cats in your house, which are your favorites?’
He shoots you a grateful look through his fingers, and Gladys narrows her eyes. ‘I mean, can you really — I can’t really choose, but I like M-Mecha — Mecha Meow Prime, and Astral, and B-Blue —‘
Ever the opportunist, Gladys sees a spot in the conversation to steer it back towards her plan. ‘He likes all of the ones I let him name. Herm has been a fan of superheroes ever since he was small. Did you know he still sleeps in an old Phenomaman t-shirt? He’s had it since he was a teenager.’
Herman goes very, very still. A gleam appears in Gladys’s eyes. ‘I never showed you the baby pictures, did I? His parents and I made albums. Waterproofed, of course.’ She pushes herself off of the table with a grunt. ‘Come over to the couch and I’ll show you.’
Now. As much as you don’t want to encourage the further humiliation, seeing baby pictures is too good of an opportunity to pass up, and she knows it.
With the flimsy pretense of helping her out, you walk with her as she pulls out an album from a shelf and sit yourself down to the left of her on the couch. After a short moment of deliberation, you hear Herman push back his own chair and walk over; instead of coming around to the front, though, he climbs over the back of the couch, settling himself in on Gladys’s right side so that the elder woman is sandwiched between the two of you. It’s a little surprising, but you find yourself smiling at the sight, at how clearly both of them are used to it.
Gladys opens the album, pointing to various laminated pictures of Herman gracing the page and cooing over each one. ‘He’s so cute, isn’t he? My little tadpole.’
‘Gamma,’ Herman whines, sliding lower on the couch. ‘Th-that’s so embarrassing.’
‘Oh, hush, you,’ she scolds him, pushing the album further towards you. ‘They’re adorable. Aren’t they adorable?’
You find yourself fully grinning now; you can't help it. They really are adorable. Pictures of a little Herman in a (soaking wet) crib, at the beach (next to a half-destroyed sandcastle), him playing with a Mecha-Man figurine at Christmas with an extraordinarily well-watered pine sapling…
Gladys shows up in many of the pictures, too, often a reassuring presence next to him. It’s clear that despite Herman’s embarrassment, they both love each other, as he doesn’t protest further, leaning into her side and occasionally interjecting with little comments about the context of the photo, mostly to try and save face.
Briefly, you forget all about your own awkwardness for a while, and just enjoy looking through the album. Enough to let your guard down.
It’s then that Gladys strikes. With clearly practiced timing, she yawns loudly, a cartoonish sound that catches both your and Herman’s attention.
‘Well. I am all tuckered out for the evening, and so I think I’ll head to bed.’
Herman starts to rise off of the couch, uttering, ‘L-let me get you up there, Gamma,’ just as you're saying 'Would you like some help with —‘
‘No, no,’ she objects, already shuffling to the staircase, leaving a gap between the two of you on the couch. ‘I can get myself up there fine. I’m not that old, you know. You two have fun without me.’
With no purpose, you and Herman watch, frozen, as she hauls herself onto the stairlift. She adjusts herself, getting comfortable, and then looks directly at you.
‘Feel free to stay as long as you like.’
And then Gladys winks. Whether she’s doing it for your benefit or purely to torment you is uncertain.
With the press of a button, the stairlift begins ascending with a loud whirrrr — it's not fast, but your mind is so full of what what why why that you don't think to even ask what she wants the two of you to do. She maintains a dignified exit all the way up the stairs until she disappears from view, and you hear the door close; then, silence. Silence and the disgruntled meow of one of the eleven cats they have in their house.
And with that, you and Herman are left alone in the living room, sitting awkwardly on the couch like two teenagers.
‘So,’ you start, promptly realizing that that usually requires you to say something along with it and drawing a blank.
‘So,’ Herman echoes, looking just as lost for words as you are.
It’s too much, the embarrassment of the situation, and although Herman is on the verge of saying something himself it’s you who cracks first. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve probably been weird all night. I had a great time, but I —'
You swallow and screw your eyes shut. ‘I. I think your grandmother might be trying to set us up?’
On up, your voice cracks a high octave, unconvinced — Gladys is dearly beloved, after all, and you don’t want to slight the poor man any further by accusing his only living relative of matchmaking. But to your relief, when you crack open your eyes again, Herman is nodding in recognition.
‘No, it’s o-okay!’ he stutters. ‘I — sometimes she —‘
He scrubs a gloved hand over his face, coming away with a fresh layer of water, and flattens himself to the side of the couch. ‘She does stuff like, like that, when she gets worried about me and I, I get really, uh. Well, nervous, and wet — moist w-when nervous…’
‘Right,’ you say, feeling your own face get hot. Humid, you should say. ‘Yeah. I don’t — I can go — but I did really have a nice time tonight, so, thank you.’
Again, you’re struck by the desire to just run out of the door and never look back. You can’t afford to quit your job, but you don’t know how you’ll be able to handle going back to this house any time soon.
Herman fidgets awkwardly on the couch, digging his fingers into one of the towels. So awash are you with your own shame that you almost miss the next thing he says.
‘But we can — could try, m-maybe — going someplace else?’
Wait. Did you hear that correctly? You sit forward fast — probably too fast, given that he shrinks back into the couch a little — and stare at him. ‘You mean… you actually want to go out? On a date?’
'Y-yeah.' He glances around as if trying to find words that have escaped him this entire time. 'Or, at least a — if not a date, then a — friend hang. If you want to? You're really — super, really, nice. And I don’t have many other date — or, uh, maybe-friends in general outside of work, anyways, so…’
He uncurls himself from the couch slowly and extends his hand to you, like he wants to shake it — he actually does, you realize, not knowing what else to do.
‘Try another time, again. Doing — do-over? Our terms?’
You could cry both from how endearing it is, and from pure relief that this could actually go somewhere, and you take his hand, squeezing it lightly. ‘I’d like that a lot. Either dating or, uh, friend hanging, as you put it.’
He pulls back his hand and gives you a smile. ‘Yeah, I — would, much, too. A-any ideas?'
‘Oh, I don’t know. We could maybe see a movie?’ Remembering that the biggest box office hits have all been romantic comedies lately, you hastily clarify, ‘Any movie. I’m fine with basically any genre.’
At your suggestion, Herman’s eyes light up. ‘I th-think they’re actually showing an old biograp — documen — film about the Starlight Era s-superheroes. B-Brave Brigade? If you know them?’
‘Oh, yeah! That would be great.’
‘G-great!’
A moment of silence, the dehumidifiers whirring and the cats purring.
‘…What should we do tonight, though?’ you ask, feeling awkward all over again.
‘Uh.’ Herman brings his hand to the back of his neck. ‘I d-dunno. People don’t normally chill — hang out with me this long.’
‘Well, I can’t leave too early, or else we’ll probably disappoint your grandmother and she'll ask me about it when I come over next week.’ Belatedly, you remember some of his interests. ‘You like metal music, right? I’m always looking for new recommendations. Do you have any favorites?’
‘Um.’ He fidgets, likely trying to decide how much to reveal to you, before the temptation at introducing you to his music taste wins over. ‘D-do you know — Abbath?’
——
Hoplites assemble, don thy bronze
Grip aspes in phalanx of Myrmidon!!
Somehow, you’ve ended up rocking out to a black metal song, the sound blasting as loud as it can through the speakers of Herman’s phone, a man growling over heavily distorted guitar.
Herman looks like he’s having the time of his life. Aside from a somewhat awkward start — he’d spent the first minute tapping his foot along on the couch nervous smile on his face — he hasn’t stuttered once through the whole thing, and has only gotten more and more into it as the song rages on.
You’re dancing along, too. Why not? Far less of your elderly clients listen to heavy metal, and it’s been a long time since you let loose. The dance moves he’s pulling are exceedingly dorky, but it’s not like yours are any better. With Gladys being right upstairs, you briefly worry that you might be waking her up. But you know her well enough — she can sleep through anything if she puts her mind to it.
As the song winds into a guitar solo, you’re left panting and out of breath. Taking a step back and plopping yourself down on the couch to regain yourself, you’re left to watch Herman as he strikes a distinctly “metal”-ish pose, striking an imaginary electric guitar and red-faced with exertion instead of embarrassment, this time. His wet hair is flapping in and out of his face, flying out and then sticking itself back on. It’s really cute. What would it look like dry, you wonder? Fluffy, probably, and unused to the lack of wetness, sitting like a little nest on top of his head. He’d probably be able to pull off the goth makeup if they invent a permanent waterproof one.
But black and white pale in comparison to yellow and blue. Or red. Red is a wonderful color on him, you’ve decided.
He leans over and switches off the song once it finishes, clearing his throat. ‘Th-thanks for — listening to that. That was super — really nice.’
‘Of course! It was really fun.’ You look back at the table, which still has the dishes you’d eaten from on it. ‘Do you need help clearing up?’
‘Oh, no, I got — h-have it, I —' A mouthful of water gargles in his throat, and he spits it out onto the floor before flashing an awkward smile at you. ‘See?’
‘Ha, yeah, I do,’ you laugh, resolutely trying to ignore how even that is cute about him and there are some things you should examine about yourself later on. ‘Okay, I guess I should probably be heading out. Maybe we could exchange contact info? For arranging further details, obviously, I’m not trying to—‘
You cut yourself off, realizing that you are, indeed, asking for his number properly, and finish with, ‘— it would be practical, I mean.’
‘Y-yeah, sure!’ He holds out his phone to you, and you input your number before copying his into your own and walking towards the door.
Just as you’re about to step back outside, he stops you — when you look back at him, his eyes dart away for just a second before they look back. Ocean blues, just as devastatingly beautiful as before.
‘You can say — call — Herm, if you want. I should’ve told — said that, before.’
‘Herm.’ A cute sound, a lovely sound, as you try it out for yourself — the anxiety of ‘erm’ laced even through his nickname. ‘Okay, then, Herm. I’ll see you next week. Message me with the details, okay?’
‘S-see you next week!’ An echo of the phone call, just as cute as it was the first time you’d heard it. But this one has an additional note of hopefulness in it — a little note of want, if you're not mistaken. Whatever it is, you'll be thinking about it until you see him again.
With a last shy wave, Herm closes the door, and you’re left to stand on the doorstep — the house no longer seeming different to you, the murky darkness of Torrance's night sky far eclipsed by the buoyant giddiness you feel in your heart.
You make it all the way to your car before you begin smiling ear to ear like a maniac. Giggling like one, too. Like a love-struck fool, because you most certainly are, and there's no denying it now.
You’re really looking forward to next week.
——
FROM: Herm
Hey! I just wanted to confirm the detials: would 7:30 at the Calypso movie theater Wednesday be okay? I got good seats, right in the middle for maximum viewage, haha
FROM: You
hey! yeah, that all looks good, i’ll see you there!
FROM: Herm
Great!! It’s a date
FROM: Herm
Date as in movie date
FROM: Herm
Daet for the movie to start
FROM: Herm
not that I’m Not happy for it to not be a date
FROM: Herm
Well excited to see you!!
FROM: You
you too! see you then!
FROM: You
:)
FROM: Herm
8)
a/n: we shall see how many parts this ends up being. i'm thinking perhaps 5 (if i can keep up the motivation until then ^^;)
origamiaround
areudirty
snowghoul
prguitarman
romaincrisis
germansingergirl
