Halo effect
Part 2
Summary: A young hero with healing powers, YN is the lowest-ranked member of Payback and often used as the team’s public healer and a nobody. But when a PR crisis forces her into a joint interview with Soldier Boy, their unexpected dynamic wins over the public, leading Vought to push them to work together.
⚠️ Warnings⚠️ Multipart, 18+ in some parts, crusing, bullying, nothing to explicit yet.
After hearing all of what Soldier boy thought of her, she doesn’t wait, turns and runs. Back down the hall, past people who don’t notice her, or pretend not to, straight to her apartment inside the Vought building.
The door closes behind her a little too hard, and for a moment she just stands there, back pressed against it, breathing uneven. It never felt like home. Not really. Too polished. Too quiet. Too… artificial.
She misses the farm. The open air. The dirt under her nails. But she stays. She stays because of her parents. Because every paycheck, every opportunity, every lie she tells in front of a camera means money she can send back. Means the farm survives.
A knock pulls her out of it. Sharp. Confident.
She opens the door and Crimson Countess stands there, holding up a newspaper like a weapon. Front page. The picture. Her and Soldier Boy. His arm around her, her looking up at him, soft, almost admiring. It looks… intimate. Like something it’s not. If they only knew. Crimson tilts her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “Careful,” she says, voice sweet but sharp underneath. “People might start getting the wrong idea.”
She steps a little closer, lowering the paper just enough to really look at her. “Just so we’re clear—he would never go for a girl like you.” The words are meant to sting. She doesn’t rise to it. “Don’t worry,” she says quietly. “He’s not the man I want.” And that part isn’t a lie. Not even close.
Her mind flickers somewhere else entirely, to fields, to sunlight, to a boy with dirt on his hands and an easy smile. Clark. He helped her unload trucks in town, fixed her car when it wouldn’t start, stayed longer than he needed to just to talk. She loved him. Quietly. For years. And then she left. Joined Vought. And whatever they had… ended before it ever really began.
Crimson watches her for a second, like she’s trying to decide if she believes her. Then she smirks again. “Good,” she says. “Because you’re staying away from him this weekend. I need the spotlight. And we don’t want you there.” Her jaw tightens slightly. She nods anyway. “You are the back of after all.” The door closes, but the words don’t leave. Because she already knows—she’s going anyway.
Saturday comes faster than expected. The entire Payback team is invited to a charity event. Cameras, donors, attention. Exactly the kind of thing Vought loves.
And Clark, Clark said yes when she asked him to join her as her date. She hadn’t expected that. Not really. But when she sees him waiting, something in her chest softens immediately.
He looks… different. Taller, somehow. Broader. But still him. Still familiar. His blue eyes light up the second he sees her in her dress. “Damn,” he says, smiling wide. “The city did good to you.” She ducks her head slightly, a shy smile tugging at her lips.
“I still miss the country,” she admits. He laughs softly, "The countryside misses you too," and for a second, it feels easy again. Normal. Like nothing changed. They walk toward the car Vought arranged, side by side, close but not quite touching.
The moment they step onto the red carpet, everything shifts. Flashes. Voices. Movement. She braces for it. But it’s not what she expects. They turn... to her.
“Solace!” “Who’s that with you?” “Is he your boyfriend?” “Where did you meet?”
She blinks, caught off guard as cameras suddenly focus in, louder, more aggressive than she’s used to. Clark stiffens slightly beside her, clearly not used to any of this. Behind them, she can feel it before she sees it.
Soldier Boy and Crimson Countess turning, attention shifting. Soldier Boy moves first, stepping in with ease, one hand briefly guiding her forward, steering her away from the chaos like he’s done it a hundred times. Crimson watches, her expression sharp enough to cut. If looks could burn, she’d already be ash.
Inside, the party is loud, bright, suffocating in a different way. But Clark stays close. And when he asks her to dance, she says yes. He’s terrible, absolutely terrible.
Missing steps, laughing under his breath, stepping on her toes at least twice. But she laughs too, real laughter, the kind she hasn’t felt in a while. For a moment, she forgets where she is. Who she’s supposed to be. She’s just… her.
Until a hand lands on Clark’s shoulder. Heavy. Stopping him mid-step. Clark turns, confused, and she already knows who it is before she looks. Soldier Boy.
He doesn’t look at her first. He looks at Clark. Slow. Measuring. Then he offers his hand, firm, almost performative. “And you are?” He hesitates for half a second before shaking it. “Clark,” he says. “I—uh—we’ve known eachother since we were kids. We grew up together.”
There’s a pause. Then Soldier Boy smiles. Sharp. Controlled. “How cute,” Soldier Boy says, but it doesn’t sound like he means it. His grip lingers just a second too long before letting go, his eyes flicking briefly to her, then back to Clark, like he’s measuring something he doesn’t quite like.
Behind him, Crimson Countess is already calling his name, trying to pull his attention back, but he doesn’t move right away. Instead, his gaze drifts back—again—to them. It’s subtle. Easy to miss. But she notices. Countess doesn’t. She keeps talking, touching his arm, trying to draw him in, but he looks… bored. Uninterested. Like none of it matters. Like something else has his attention entirely.
Clark shifts slightly beside her, leaning in just enough so only she can hear him. “What was that about?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. She exhales softly, her smile fading into something more honest. “Vought,” she says quietly. “It’s not what it looks like.”
His brow furrows. “And you two?” he asks, nodding toward Soldier Boy. She almost laughs. “God, no,” she says, shaking her head. “We’re not… whatever they’re trying to sell. That whole perfect duo thing? It’s just PR.”
Clark raises an eyebrow slightly. “So what is it, then?” She hesitates, then shrugs lightly. “She needs attention,” she says, nodding subtly toward Crimson Countess. “From the world. From him. Doesn’t really matter which.” Her lips press together for a second before she adds, quieter, “And he…” She trails off, then lets out a small breath. “He’s just—he’s a fuckboy. Anything with boobs and two legs, he’s had it.”
Clark turns back to her with a raised eyebrow, something amused flickering in his eyes. “You included?” She lets out a real laugh at that, shaking her head quickly. “No—no, not me,” she says, still smiling. “I don’t want a man like him.” Clark’s expression shifts, softer now, a little more playful.
“So what do you want?” he asks, voice dipping just slightly. She looks at him, really looks at him, and for a second it’s easy again. Simple. “I don’t know,” she says, a small smile forming. “Normal. Tall, handsome… a gentleman.” She tilts her head slightly, teasing now. “You know… someone who helps a girl unload a truck or fixes her car when it breaks down.” Clark laughs, stepping a little closer. “Sounds like a pretty high standard.”
“Maybe,” she says softly. “Maybe not.” They keep talking. Keep laughing. The night slipping by easier than she expected, conversation flowing, touches lingering just a second longer each time. And still every now and then she feels it. That look. Across the room. Soldier Boy glancing their way, even when Crimson Countess is right beside him, trying, failing to keep his attention. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. More than she wants it to admit, being seen felt good.
By the end of the night, Clark is walking her out, both of them quieter now, the energy shifting into something softer, more real. The Vought chauffeur waits outside. “I had a really good time,” Clark says, a little more serious now. “Me too,” she admits. He hesitates, then leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. It lingers just enough to mean something.
Then he’s gone, heading toward the car that will take him home. She watches him for a second before turning toward the building, stepping inside, heels echoing softly against the polished floors. The elevator ride feels too quiet. Too fast. And when she reaches her floor, she knows something is off immediately.
He’s there. Soldier Boy, standing in front of her door like he’s been waiting. Her steps slow. “Be careful, sweetheart,” he says casually, like he didn’t just spend the entire night watching her. “He’s a gold digger.” She rolls her eyes, already moving past him toward her door. “What do you care?” she shoots back. “You’ve got all of America. And their moms on your tail.”
His hand grabs her arm before she can unlock the door. Too hard. She hisses softly at the pressure, her body tensing instantly but then it happens again. That feeling. That strange, aching warmth spreading through the pain, like something deeper is being touched instead of just her skin.
His grip falters. Just slightly. His expression shifts, confusion cutting through the usual arrogance. “What did you do to me?” he demands, pulling back just enough to look at her properly. “I—nothing,” she says too quickly, her heart racing now.
His eyes narrow. “How did you do that?” His voice is sharper now, more demanding. She shakes her head, stepping back, putting space between them. “I don’t know what you mean.” He studies her, suspicion clear in his gaze, like he’s trying to piece something together and coming up short. The silence stretches. Then, without another word, he lets go completely. Turns. And storms away.
--
That night, sleep doesn’t come easy. She lies in the dark, staring at the ceiling of her penthouse, the city lights casting faint shadows across the room, her mind replaying everything over and over again. Clark’s smile. The way he laughed. The warmth of his hand when he held hers, clumsy on the dance floor but real, honest. It settles somewhere soft in her chest, something safe she hasn’t felt in a long time. He’s good. She knows that much. And she meant it when she told him she wanted to see him again.
But then—
That other feeling creeps back in.
That strange, aching warmth that spread through the pain when Soldier Boy grabbed her arm. It wasn’t just the bruising force of his grip. It was something else. Something deeper. She shifts onto her side, pulling the blanket closer as her thoughts start to turn, trying to make sense of it the only way she knows how. Her power. It has to be her power. It always is. When she heals people, she feels them—fear, panic, pain. She knows how injuries sit in a body, how trauma lingers, even after the surface looks fine. But he doesn’t get hurt. He never has. She’s never had to heal him. Never even needed to touch him long enough to try. So what is she feeling?
Her brow furrows in the darkness.
Because it felt like pain. Not fresh. Not sharp. Something older. Heavier. Buried deep, like something that had been there for years, maybe longer. Something locked away so tightly it barely leaks through, and yet—every time she touches him, she catches it. Just a glimpse. Just enough to know it’s there.
Old wounds.
The thought settles uneasily in her chest.
From when he was a kid, maybe? Before all of this. Before Vought. Before he became… that. She doesn’t know. She has no idea. But his reaction, his expression when he pulled back tonight, that wasn’t nothing. That wasn’t anger alone. That was shock. Real, unfiltered shock. Like she touched something no one ever had before.
--
The movie becomes a fact faster than she can process it. Vought doesn’t ask, they decide, and suddenly she’s standing on a soundstage built to look like a small town somewhere in the 1940s, everything polished and artificial, nostalgia manufactured down to the last detail.
The concept is simple, safe. A family movie. She plays a farm girl who discovers her healing powers during World War II, a sweet, small-town girl with a gift meant to help the greater good. Soldier Boy finds her, of course. Recruits her. Brings her to the battlefield. He’s the hero, larger than life, leading the charge.
She’s the girl beside him, the one he protects, the one who looks at him like he’s something worth believing in. Not a love interest—Vought made that very clear. Too complicated. Too risky. Instead, she’s framed as something softer. Safer. A little sister figure. Someone he has to say it to. Over and over again. “You’re like the little sister I never had.” At least four times in the script. They made sure of it.
Today is the first day of production.
She sits just off set, script in her hands, quietly reading her lines, lips moving slightly as she tries to memorize the rhythm of words that don’t feel like hers. Around her, everything moves fast—crew members adjusting lights, directors calling out instructions, assistants running back and forth. And in the middle of it all, him.
Soldier Boy is already in costume, already in character, already taking up more space than anyone else on set. He delivers his lines with that same effortless authority he carries everywhere, voice booming, movements sharp, controlled, like he was made for this. And maybe he was. But it doesn’t take long before the interruptions start.
“No,” he cuts in, waving a hand dismissively. “That line’s shit. Fix it.” The director hesitates, tries to push back, but it doesn’t last. It never does. Within minutes, the script is adjusted. Again. It’s the tenth time today. Maybe more. He shifts things constantly, dialogue, tone, entire scenes, until they fit what he wants. More heroic. More centered around him. More Soldier Boy.
She watches from the sidelines, quiet, unnoticed, her fingers tightening slightly around the script. It’s strange, seeing him like this. Not in the field. Not in front of cameras for the public. But here—where everything is controlled, where everything is supposed to follow a plan—and still, he bends it around himself like it’s nothing.
Someone calls her name.
“Solace, you’re up next!”
Her head lifts, heart skipping just slightly as she stands, smoothing down her costume automatically. It’s different from her usual one—simpler, softer, designed to fit the era, but still unmistakably her. Or at least the version of her they want people to see.
She steps onto the set.
And immediately, she feels it. His attention. Soldier Boy glances at her, just briefly, like he’s checking something, measuring again, the same way he did that night. Then his expression shifts, settling back into that familiar, controlled confidence.
“Ready, sweetheart?” he asks, loud enough for the crew to hear. The nickname lands the same way it always does. Wrong.
But she nods anyway. “Ready.” The director claps his hands. “Alright! From the top—battlefield scene, take one!”
The world shifts.
Cameras roll.
And just like that—
They’re not themselves anymore.
He turns toward her, stepping into place, voice dropping into something steadier, warmer, the kind of tone meant to carry through theaters and settle into people’s chests. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, delivering the line like it matters. Like she matters. “This isn’t a place for a little girl like you.”
She knows her cue. Knows exactly what to say. But for a second— Just a second— She feels it again. That faint, locked-away thing beneath the surface. And it almost throws her off.
But she pushes it down.
Smiles softly, just like she’s supposed to.
And plays her part.
The entire script reduces her to something small. Fragile. The girl who needs saving. The girl who looks up at the hero like he’s everything. She almost rolls her eyes the first time Soldier Boy delivers the line—“ I care for you, you’re like the little sister I never had.”
He has to say it again. And again. And again. Every time it sounds forced, like even he doesn’t fully buy it. But he says it anyway, because that’s what Vought wants.
And every time he has to touch her, grab her arm, pull her back, steady her, a hesitation. Subtle. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But she feels it. Because she hesitates too. The moment skin meets skin, it’s there.
That same thing. That strange, aching pressure beneath the surface, like something locked away trying to push through. It drains them. Slowly, but steadily.
By the end of the day, she’s exhausted in a way she’s never felt before, her limbs heavy, her head pounding, like she’s been pulling pain out of people for hours without stopping. She just wants to sleep. Forget it. Pretend it isn’t happening.
The elevator ride is quiet.
Too quiet.
Just the two of them, standing on opposite sides, neither speaking, both pretending nothing is wrong. The doors open on her floor, four levels below his and she steps out, already reaching for her keys. He follows. That makes her pause.
She glances over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she says softly, “I think you’re on the wrong floor.” She turns back to her door, sliding the key in—but before she can turn it, his hand slams against the door beside her head. Hard. She freezes.
“What are you doing to me?” he demands, voice low, rough with something that sounds dangerously close to exhaustion. Her breath catches, panic rising fast. “I don’t know!” she shoots back, turning to face him, her voice louder than she intended, almost breaking. They’re too close. Again.
Close enough that she can see things she never noticed before—the faint freckles beneath his skin, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes aren’t as controlled as they usually are. “I don’t know,” she repeats, quieter now, shaking her head. “I’ve never had this before. It just when I touch you, I feel this… this thing. I can’t explain it.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. Just stands there, too close, like he’s waiting for something—an answer, maybe, that she doesn’t have. The elevator behind him dings.
“Y/N?”
Her head turns slightly, trying to look past him. Relief hits instantly.
But Soldier Boy doesn’t move right away. His gaze lingers on her for a second longer than it should, something unreadable passing through his expression before he finally straightens, stepping aside just enough.
“Clark?” she says, her voice softening immediately. “What are you doing here?”
Clark shifts slightly, holding up a small bouquet of flowers—simple, a little uneven, like they were picked by hand. From the farm. “I, uh,” he smiles, a little nervous now, “I thought we had a date.”
Right. Her chest tightens slightly. She forgot. After everything today, she forgot.
“But if this isn’t a good time—” he starts.
“No,” she cuts in quickly, shaking her head. “No, it’s perfect.” She gestures slightly toward Soldier Boy. “He was just leaving. Weren’t you?” She looks up at him, the question not really a question.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks at Clark. Slow. Measuring. The same look from earlier.
Then he steps back toward the elevator, pressing the button, his gaze flicking once more between them before settling on her. He points a finger at her, sharp, deliberate.
“We’re not done.”
The doors slide open. And he’s gone.
Clark watches the elevator for a second before looking back at her, something uncertain in his expression. “What was that about?” he asks quietly, almost like he’s not sure he wants the answer.
She exhales, the tension finally catching up with her.
“Rough day at work,” she says, offering a small, tired smile. “Do you mind if we just… stay in tonight?”
Clark’s expression softens immediately, that same easy warmth returning. “No,” he says gently. “Of course not.”
And just like that—
She steps into something that feels normal again.
Even if she knows it won’t last.
--
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