sappy ending massage || Christopher Smith/Peacemaker x Reader
synopsis: chris hurts his back, so you give him a massage to make him feel better. that's it, that's the plot.
word count: 2.9k
tags: hurt/comfort, angst, maybe fluff? if you squint?, set between seasons 1 & 2, mostly chris POV, chris is extremely self-deprecating and an unreliable narrator, language and themes are explicit, no smut but mentions of masturbation, reader is a metahuman but chris doesn't know that, chris needs a hug SO bad and he kinda gets it!, unresolved sexual tension, no use of y/n, reader isn't gendered
Christopher Smith is a tough guy. The toughest muscles of all the superheroes, if you ask him — and yeah, Superman is stronger than him, but Superman is also fucking cheating,so that doesn’t count. Anyone could be born an extraterrestrial, but it takes some real dedication to achieve that physique. Point was, Chris is a tough motherfucker, and a real fucking man.
That also means that when he hurts his back while lifting weights, there is no fucking way he can tell anyone. He doesn’t say no when Vigilante invites him to go do some crime fighting with him, puts on a brave face when Leota asks him for help helping her move in to her new place, and agrees to participate in a friendly spar with Harcourt. He only starts to limp when he’s sure no one else can see him.
He thinks that’s why you notice right away.
You show up at his dad’s place — fuck, his place, now — at 9 am on the dot on Friday, like you’ve done every week for the past three years. Auggie had hired you to do some housekeeping, a task he considered ‘a sissy’s job’ and beneath him, and Chris decided to wait until the contract ran out. Probably. He definitely didn’t enjoy having you walk through his house humming soft tunes, making him feel all domestic and shit.
You’re just so different from everyone in his life. You’re a civilian, for one, but there’s also something so much kinder about you. You’re just sweet to him. You listen, and you chat, and you tell him about insignificant shit, and for some reason he drinks it all up, because you— Because you—
Because you make him feel like a person.
Eagly screeches eagerly when you arrive. He remembers you from the years he spent in the garage, and also he knows you hide treat in your jacket’s pocket.
Chris isn’t sure why you keep doing that, since Eagly keeps tearing them open. He knows you stitch them back closed every time, though, and that Eagly loves tearing into things, so that’s a pretty huge fucking green flag in his book.
“I’ll let you do your thing,” he tells you as you start making your way around the house like you own it.
He notices your surprised glance. You’re used to Chris hovering behind you for everything you do, telling you stories that are supposed to impress you but are often just deeply sad, and making incredibly inappropriate jokes that you don’t think he knows are super questionable.
When he plops down on the couch, teeth tightly gritted to avoid grimacing with pain, you lean against the door frame, watching him quizzically.
“Did you hurt your back?” you ask, straight to the point.
He freezes. Shit. Had he limped? He might have limped. He hasn’t bothered to hide the pain in his house yet.
“Well, your back would hurt too if Guy-fucking-Gardner dropped you from the green-ass net he was carrying you in ‘cause he was trying to make you puke ‘cause he has a fucking fetish!”
You stare at him, unimpressed, and Eagly lets out a judgmental squawk. You glance at the bird for a second, before returning your attention to Chris, who’s totally not sweating about this. It’s not like it would be a big deal if you found out. You would just think that he’s total weakling who’s not worthy of kindness or attention or work and start treating him like the dumb fuck he is and tell the whole world that Peacemaker’s a little bitch and everyone would laugh at him and never want to talk to him again.
That’s fine. That’s totally fine.
“My back always hurts, Chris,” you say, “I work forty hour weeks doing physical labor. If I tried to lift one of those weights,” you point towards the corner of the room, “I’d end up in the hospital. Speaking of, think you could move them for me? I’m gonna need to vacuum over there.”
Chris swallows.
“Of course I can. What, think I can’t move my own weights? Ha, I could move five dozens of those all at the same time. I can lift a car, did you know that? I’ve lifted tons of cars before, actually!”
You nod patiently.
“Great, thank you.”
You’re not moving. Fuck. He’s going to have to do it with you watching. Locking his jaw tightly, he gets up far too slow. You don’t move a muscle. He rolls his shoulders as if to stretch, but has to stop when that movement sends a sharp stab through his spine.
“I’ll do it,” he says.
You smile. You’re so pretty when you smile. It makes your whole face look warm and welcoming and like you’re not looking at the lowest of the low but someone you might actually kinda not hate.
“Take your time.”
“Ha! I don’t need time. You won’t even notice me doing it because I’ll be going so fast.”
“Perfect.”
His stalling doesn’t seem to be working. Shit.
Now, he could pick up the weight while groaning with pain and grimacing and maybe crying a little bit, but he doesn’t want to do any of that while you’re watching. Instead, he squats, trying his best to keep his back upright, grips one singular 50 pounds weight with the tip of his fingers, and moves like a crab towards the closet where he usually keeps his workout gear.
“See?” he asks once he’s done. “I did that extra slow so you could see I’m really doing it. I’m gonna pick up the pace now. Maybe you can, like, start in the kitchen while I take care of that?”
You sigh, push yourself off the frame, and walk towards him.
“Alright, Chris. You can do it and you definitely did not injure your back and I fully believe you.”
He nods sharply.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“But I could give you a back massage to make you feel even better, if you’d like that. I’m not a professional or anything, but I’ve taken a bunch of classes on that.”
Chris pauses. Swallows. It says a lot about the pain he’s in that he’s just thinking about how nice it would be if that stopped, instead of his mind filling with images of nasty sex with you. It usually takes far less to get him hot and bothered. One time, you said ‘I should really make you my special pancake recipe one day’ and he had to go rub one off ‘cause that just sounded so nice.
“Wouldn’t that— Wouldn’t that be sexual harassment?” he asks.
You blink, and take a cautious step back. He has to fight the urge to grab your arm and bring you back to him. Fortunately, it’s not too hard, because even just thinking about doing that is painful.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Did I make you feel sexually harassed?”
“Me? Ha, no way. No, I meant, for you.”
You stare, tilting your head to the side as you study him.
“…would it be sexual harassment if you said yes to me offering you to give you a massage?”
“Well, yeah. ‘Cause you work for me and shit.”
“I offered, Chris.”
“Yeah, but I mean, there’s still a power dynamic here, right?” Leota had spent a lot of time talking to him about that stuff. He hadn’t been paying a ton of attention, but some stuff had stuck. “Like, y’know, I feel like it’d be gross if I was my dad in that situation.”
You look thoughtful for a second, then grimace.
“No offense, but I think I would have taken too much joy in your father being in pain to offer to help him in any way. If anything, I would have put stuff on a shelf he couldn’t reach.”
“Fair enough,” he admits. “So…”
“I mean, if you’re uncomfortable—”
“I’m not uncomfortable. Who said I was uncomfortable? You’re the one who’s uncomfortable.”
Shit. That might be true. Was he right? Were you just projecting, or whatever Economos called it?
“Okay, big guy,” you just say, smiling at him. You’ve gotten good at not letting him distract you with all the stuff he throws at you when he doesn’t know how to react. “How about you take off that shirt and lie down on your bed? I’ll be here in a second.”
It’s actually so sad that he doesn’t even have it himself to be rock hard right now. Man. Pain fucking sucks. Can’t even get turned on at stuff that should really really get him going.
He does just as you told him, lying perfectly still, head buried in his pillow. He does that exclusively to facilitate your job, and totally not because he’s in horrible pain.
A few minutes later, you rap gently against the door, and he grunts as a way of salutation.
“You okay?” you ask.
Your voice is so soft when you ask the question, and it almost makes him want to be sincere. To see if you’d rub his back and tell him sweet nothings if he told you how fucked up he really is. To see if your kindness is truly unconditional, or if you’re just waiting for the right time to kick him where he’s weak and sneer at him like everyone ends up doing.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice just a little hoarse. “You can get started. If you want to. ‘cause I don’t need you to do that at all.”
“Hmm,” you reply, just fully ignoring him. “Sorry, I don’t have any massage oil on me.”
“That’s fine,” he tries to shrug but decides against it. “Who needs that any—”
Your fingers trailing over his back cut him off. You followed up his spine all the way to the nape of his neck, and Chris didn’t dare to move an inch. Your hands were a little rough, calloused from your job. You wore gloves a lot of the time, but they weren’t always convenient, and that meant that you still had to be in contact with aggressive products a lot of the time.
Still, it feels like the gentlest touch he’s ever received, and it makes his eyes water. There’s a part of him that wants to get up and move away from you because he doesn’t deserve such kindness. The overwhelming part of him chooses not to move. Because he’s a coward and a selfish asshole.
“Okay,” you say, squeezing his trapezius and starting to make you way back down his body, this time using the heel of your hand instead of your fingers. “You’re super tense. I guess you get injured a lot because of your work, huh?”
He never thinks about that. No one does. Adrian shows a little solicitude, but other than that, it’s just normal to put his body on the line to protect peace and freedom. He’s never questioned it, not even once.
And now, you ask him this one question, your tone laced with genuine concern, and he feels himself unravel.
Yes, he gets injured a lot at work. Yes, it fucking hurts. Yes, he’d like someone to comfort him and tell him he’s doing a good job, for once.
“All part of the job, baby,” he croons instead. “Someone’s gotta do it, right?”
“And aren’t we lucky you’re doing it,” you chuckle.
He feels a pang of… something. In his chest. It’s nice, but it’s so warm it’s threatening to burn a hole through his heart.
“You ever gotten a massage?” you ask him, still touching his back to try and figure out what you need to focus on — the answer, so far, seems to be that he is just one big block of tension and you can’t even tell his muscles apart from touching him. They might have fused together for all you know.
“Like in a spa or something? Nah. That’s for pussies. No offense.”
You shake your head. You don’t really have it in you to get upset when he says shit like that, even if it would be a major red flag coming from anyone else. After all, you’ve met his dad. As far as you’re concerned, it’s a miracle that Chris could grow up around a man like him and still genuinely want to do good.
Okay, yes, this ‘good’ involved murdering a bunch of people, which you’re not super cool with, but he’d been at least trying to change his ways, and that has to count for something, right? He’s saved the world and shit.
“I did get a massage from a prostitute once,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “She put oil on her tits and used them on my back. I don’t think it did anything, though.”
You grimace at the image.
“Well, I’m not doing that.”
“Yeah, I– I didn’t think you would.”
He totally doesn’t sound disappointed.
“I’m gonna get started,” you warn him. “It might hurt a little bit, but warn me if it gets too painful, alright?”
“Ha. As if you could—”
You put both of your hands on the small of his back and push your thumbs into his skin on either sides of his spine to start massaging his lats, and he’s pretty sure the sound he lets out can only be described as an undignified moan.
After that, things get very, very hazy. On the one hand, you’re right that it hurts sometimes, when you press on a specific muscle that only agrees to relax itself kicking and screaming. On the other, the feeling he gets when the muscle does surrender and he can finally stop hurting is about as close to heaven as he thinks he’s ever felt. He’s floating through the bluest of blue skies, among the clouds, letting himself go wherever your hands take him.
You work in silence, kneading his back patiently. You work him until the painful knots dissolve under your skilled hands. On occasion, you have to use your elbow on him, because he’s so stiff you can barely can through to him. At first, he lets out pained groans, but these gradually quiet as you make your way up. His breathing evens, his chest rises and falls more freely. By the time you reach his trapezius, he’s gone completely limp. He doesn’t so much as stir when you get your fingers in his hair to massage his scalp, or when you use to fingers to rub his temples. He just lays there, still and slack-jawed.
You discover why a second later, when he starts to snore.
Moving on the other side of the bed, you discover him, indeed, blissfully asleep. The line on his forehead is almost gone for once, and though the corner of his mouth are downturned, making him look sad, he at least looks at peace. You don’t know if his methods are all that helpful in bringing peace to the planet, but you know for sure they haven’t brought any of that to him.
“Sleep tight, big guy,” you whisper, before grabbing his blanket and covering him with it. He’s earned it.
You close the door, walking out as quietly as you can, and find Eagly waiting for you.
Oh well, Chris is felt asleep. You can go for it.
You clear your throat, and let out a screech.
“You better not wake him up, dude.”
Eagly spreads his wings, screeching back.
“As if I would ever do anything to hurt him. You wouldn’t even have figured out anything if I hadn’t told you. You humans are so pathetically unobservant.”
You roll your eyes. This self-aggrandizing speech is so typical with bald eagles.
“So you won’t go in there even if you’re hungry? You promise.”
He looks visibly offended — don’t ask how a bald looks visibly offended. They just do.
“Me?? Of course not.”
He’s so obviously lying it’s your turn to get offended that he’d even think that would fly with you.
“I’m serious, let him sleep. He needs it.”
Eagly ignores you and waddles away, muttering under his breath. You take that as a ‘Yes, ma’am’, and exit the house as quietly as possible.
When Chris wakes up, it’s dark outside. He doesn’t even know how that could happen. You got there at nine, and he’d had a full night sleep — it’s not like him to take such a long nap, ‘cause, y’know, he ain’t a baby.
He sits up, groggy, mouth all dry and pasty. His back’s sore, but fuck, it’s night and day compared to how it was in the morning. He thinks back on the massage. Thinks about you pressing down on him, your hands all over his skin, how close to his ass you’d gotten, your warm breath over his neck, and— did he imagine it, or had you pulled on his hair a little bit when you’d gotten to his head? Fuck, just thinking about it, he—
Oh, fuck yeah. He’s rock hard. He is so back.
Well, he will be as soon as he’s jerked off, anyway. And he’mm try not to think about you, to not objectify you or whatever, but, uh, he’s not quite certain that’s gonna work out.
If he says your name when he comes, it’s just a coincidence for sure.
okay this feels good to get out of my system because when i tell you i've been obsessed with chris since i started watching peacemaker... there is a real lack of fics about him so i figured i'd add my humble stone to the edifice! i hope you all enjoyed this, please leave a comment to let me know your thougts. i truly feed from your interactions as a writer and i'd love to hear your feedback~ reblogs are greatly appreciated as well! thank you all for reading 💕
Plot: Reader finds out that he’s Vigilante, and safe to say it does not go over well.
Warning: Cursing, mention of death, weapons (and my shitting writing… also no resolve just straight up ANGST!)
Grasping at the raw, heavy, blue, and red helmet you couldn’t believe your eyes. Sucking in a staggered breath, you pushed forward into the depths of the hidden storage compartment carved into the back of his closet. Fumbling to fish your phone out of your pocket you click on the flashlight. The sight ahead of you is something out of your own darkest nightmares. It is so shocking in fact, and with the increasing sweat building on your palms your phone slips right out of your shaking hands and onto the floor with a clatter. Left in darkness again you suck in an intense breath. This isn’t real. There’s no way Adrian is… You honestly can’t even let the thought finish in your mind too shell shocked to even allow yourself to connect the dots. Your hands ball up around the plastic in your hands and suddenly your snapped back into reality, dropping down and grabbing ahold of your phone. Turning it to face your surrounding area you note what is around you. Two hooks hold up fragmented pieces of the suit, and a box is sitting on the floor already flung open. Maybe he’s a fan. You start to convince yourself. A super, super fan. Getting onto your knee's you peer into the black box with the light illuminating it and your worst fears are confirmed. Inside it sits various weapons, guns, knives, even a fucking grenade or two. You shake your head in disbelief pursing your lips as you find yourself standing on shaky legs. Reaching forward you grab the suit, the top half, and step backwards into the dim lighting of your bedroom. Balling it up in your hands it becomes apparent to you. He’s Vigilante. The thought starts to swirl in your head so viscously and fast that you start to get dizzy, eyes blinking rapidly and legs starting to buckle. This is real. This is so fucking real. You have no idea what to do in the moment heaving a breath and turning to face the doorway of your bedroom. The TV is loudly playing from the living room and due to the small set-up of his apartment you can see the top of his head on the sofa. You look up to the bed and the discarded laundry basket, a small pile of his clothes folded neatly and ready to be placed in his closet. You are lost in your thoughts until you hear him laugh loudly at the TV and jump back, flinching hard. You turn back again to the sofa. How has he not heard you? How hasn’t he noticed something was wrong? You’re overwhelmed with thoughts, until suddenly you’re brought back harshly to a deeply repressed memory. With your eyes widening you find your legs moving back to the black box, swiftly grabbing one of the guns. It’s heavier than you’d imagine, and it almost pulsates in your hands. Shaking your head, you place it back down and decide to turn when you hear the TV volume being lowered. Your heart starts to pick up as you set away from the closet. In a flurry of emotions, you find yourself weakly dragging your legs out of the room. In a fit of sudden rage and strength you lob the heavy helmet in front of you, directly towards the TV. It hits with a devastating crash shattering the TV screen as you rush to meet him at the side furthest away from him on the sofa. He starts to speak your name but instantly cuts himself off noticing what it was that caused the impact. His helmet. His mouth is suddenly insanely dry as he slowly drags his eyes to you. He starts to stand but you raise the balled-up costume in your hand.
“Tell me you’re not him.” Your voice is raw, shaky and above all else dripped in venom.
“I…” He starts to raise his hands almost like waving a white flag when you suddenly lash out, letting out a loud wail. You throw the costume at him, but with your limbs slowly weakening it lands on the coffee table.
His eyes are wide to concern, every emotion suddenly spilling to the forefront of his mind.
“Please, just…” You raise your hands, covering your forehead with the hand clad with a ring. You’re begging now. “Say it’s not true.” Your voice breaks and is not even below a whisper as you remove your hand and stare at the finger he once delicately placed there. A promise.
“You weren’t supposed to know.” Is all he can mumble out, ducking his eyes too ashamed to look at you anymore. The sheer and utter sorrow that covers your face is enough to be scarred into his memory for a lifetime.
You then curse stumbling away from him, almost in fear, bracing yourself against a wall when your feet catch.
He puts his head in his hands, running them across his face and under his glasses and curses loudly.
“You…” Your breath catches, as you raise a trembling finger to point at him. You see his head rise from his hands. You can’t even to begin to decipher the look that flashes in his eyes. “You killed her.”
His brows twitch and you hear a short drawing of his breath.
“Four years ago, in,” Your words are catching themself on your tongue which feels heavy with the admission. “The woods. We… we we’re just having fun. Her and I. She - she was so kind… funny. Made you feel like you’d been got. We would smoke together back in school. One night we went to the woods behind campus.. decided to take a scenic route - and smoked a bowl.” You’re panting now and feel wet droplets hit your shirt. “I went to pee.” You hear a bitter laugh leave your lips without your permission. “We were laughing about it and suddenly she stopped. Then I thought I heard something.. thought… and-and when I came back he was there.” You look at him. “I came back and you had a gun pointed at her.” You then stop, having to brace yourself again with the sheer and utter emotion hitting your body full force. It’s silent while you suck in a large breath lips trembling. “I didn’t…” You shake your head unable to meet his eyes, looking around his apartment with concern. “I couldn’t move. I was there, hiding, for hours.” Your eyes drag on the photo of the two of you framed that sits on a bookshelf. Even with watery eyes you can recall the fond memory, but now? It makes your stomach turn at the thought of it all. Then, your eyes snap towards his eyes once more. “I was terrified you’d come back and do the same to me.” You admit the last strings of your heart tugging, it finally shattering within your chest.
The sobs that heave out of your body are agonizing, mourning the loss of your closest friend along with the realization that you had loved the man who killed her.
synopsis: you find Peacemaker unconscious in his house after a bad hangover. you try your best to help him back on his feet.
word count: 2.4k
tags: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, hangover, mourning a family member, mourning an abuser, metahuman!reader, housekeeper!reader, set right after the first five minutes of season 2, minor season 2 spoilers, explicit language and themes but no smut or violence
prequel to this piece, but both can be read independently
There’s a noticeable pep in your step as you approach the Smith house — dare you say, a tiny little bit of giddiness. The snow crunches satisfyingly under your feet, and you hurry up to the door. Just a few months ago, you would have laughed in the face of anyone so much as suggesting that you could be happy coming to this place. Auggie Smith had been one of the worst human beings you had ever had the displeasure of meeting, and being made to clean his house once a week was something you legitimately dreaded. But the Peacemaker — that is, Chris — is something else entirely.
You ring the doorbell, listening for Eagly’s familiar greeting screech. It’s freezing out there, and you blow on your hands to try and get some warmth back into them. Chris should swing the door open any time now, and there’s a 50% chance he won’t be wearing pants. You wish he’d forego the shirt instead for once, but you would never say that out loud.
Except no one comes. You glance down at your phone, wondering if you got the time or the date wrong, but neither is true. You don’t have any missed calls or texts from Chris either, so you know he didn’t cancel your services.
You ring the doorbell a second time, and still nothing stirs in the house. It’s not like him. He’s had trouble hearing you on a couple occasions, but that was because he was blaring rock music so loud the walls were shaking, so you know that’s not what’s happening. You could just decide to turn around, except, well, you need the money — and also, maybe you’re a teeny tiny bit worried.
You decide to try the back door, which should be unlocked, if Chris is inside. He’s bragged to you that if anyone tries to come inside, they’re the ones that should be afraid. And, indeed, it opens without issue, so you cautiously let yourself inside.
“Chris?” you call out, and only silence answers you.
You curse, taking the time to take off your shoes when you realize you’ve been tracking dirty snow inside. You’re the one who’s gonna have to clean that up, dammit!
He’s not in his room, but you finally spot bare feet peeking out of the kitchen when you reach the living-room.
Great. He’s not wearing pants — again.
You give yourself a second to accept that, then make your way in there. Indeed, he’s lying face down on the kitchen floor, fast asleep, and very much wearing the usual white briefs that you’ve seen a little too much of for your taste. Eagly is protectively snuggled on his back, and looks up to glare at you.
The whole scene reeks of alcohol, and you’re not surprised to discover vomit in the sink.
Frankly, your first thought is ‘I’m not getting paid enough for this shit’ — which is true, by the way. You’re getting minimum wage for a job that leaves your hands raw and has every single one of your joints hurting. You could turn around right now and refuse to deal with this.
The thing is, you spent four years working for Auggie Smith. Four years coming in this house with a knot in your stomach. Four years knowing he’d spit his hatred at you any time he’d get the chance. Four years taking care of the pissed eagle he kept locked in his garage, an eagle who was, somehow, one the worst assholes you’d ever met, and who was still so protective of this particular human you knew he wouldn’t hesitate to tear your eyes out right now, despite everything you’d done for him.
You feel a strange sense of responsibility towards Chris, is the point. Chris who decided to let you keep working here until the end of your contract, Chris who looks at his murderous eagle like he’s one of the seven wonders, Chris who you’re pretty sure works out while you’re there because he thinks you find it impressive (he’s right), Chris who lied about crying over a picture of his father because ‘That guy was a piece of shit, he’s not worth crying over’.
“Move,” you tell the eagle with a sigh. “I’m gonna check on him.”
He squawks, offended, but then looks back at Chris with a hint of worry.
“I think it’s my fault,” he admits.
That is the one thing that still has you worried. Chris finding out you’re a metahuman, that is. You’re not technically doing anything illegal by being unregistered, but it’s frowned upon for sure, especially by the general public. Still, you don’t fucking want the government to stick its nose in your business. You’ve been approached, a billion years ago, for espionage shit — and not with a ‘please’, mind you, but with a ‘we’ll kill your pets until you do it’. It took you a long time before you were sure they were off your tails. You’re never going back.
“It looks like he’s gotten wasted,” you reply. The screeches that used to hurt your throat come easily to you now. You’re not sure if your vocal chords adapt or if you’re just imitating animal speech, but it’s worked for you so far. “Don’t think that’s on you, but you still gotta move.”
The eagle hesitates, but finally gets up and flies onto the counter, watching you from his vantage point.
“If you do anything suspicious, I’ll tear out your jugular,” he says. You roll your eyes, but you still try to be extra careful with Peacemaker. You do have a nasty scar on your hand from ignoring Eagly’s warning once, and you’d gotten lucky he couldn’t reach anywhere else.
Rolling Chris over is a pain in the ass. The man is all dead weight as the moment, and man does it show. He looks sad, you discover once you’re done — after an indecent amount of grunting and heaving. His eyes are puffy, his lips downturned, and his cheeks are still wet. Hesitantly, you press a hand to his forehead. He’s hot, but you’re not sure if it’s because you’re still cold yourself.
You resolve to get some ice and start preparing something he can drink, but just as you’re about to get up, Chris’ hand closes around your wrist. His grip is a vice you cannot hope to escape, and for a second, you think he’s mistaken you for a intruder. Except all he does is groan and keep it on his forehead. You freeze, hesitating for a few seconds. He stirs, but his eyes haven’t opened yet, and you don’t think he’s realized you’re here. Which, given that he’s a trained assassin, is a little worrying. It would be such a stupid way to die, getting murdered because you caught him off guard.
Gently, you bring the second hand to his cheek, and he lets out a contented sigh.
“Chris,” you finally find it in yourself to call out, keeping your voice soft. He frowns, moves his head to press his cheek into your palm. “Chris,” you repeat.
He opens his eyes slowly. It takes a while for his pupils to focus on you, and the second he does, he tries to get up, letting go of you. You place your free hand on his bicep to steady him — and with absolutely no ulterior motive in mind, of course.
His muscles are so hard under your fingers. You didn’t know even know it was possible for them to be that hard when they weren’t flexed.
“I got you, big guy,” you say.
Shit. You didn’t mean to say that. You’ve never called him that, and you don’t really have that type of relationship. You guys don’t have a relationship outside of employee-client, anyway. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to notice your slip-up, or doesn’t say anything.
He’s still trying to get up, but he’s unsteady on his legs. You grab his arm, trying to get him to lean on you. When he doesn’t do that, you at least guide him towards his couch.
“C’mon, you need to sit down.”
“Sitting down is for pussies,” he slurs, but he doesn’t resist when you push him down.
He doesn’t move in the time it gets you to get back in the kitchen, throw Eagly a slice of ham, grab an energy drink, and fill a glass of water. You bring them both to him, and drop an aspirin in the water.
“I don’t need that,” he says, trying and failing to give you a cocky grin. “I’m not scared of hangovers, hangovers are scared of me. I can tough it out like a man.”
“I’m going to clean the kitchen”, you tell him calmly. “These better be empty by the time I come back.”
He almost scoffs at you but there is something about how you glare at him that makes him stop. When Eagly flies and starts poking at the drink with an eerily similar look to yours, he decides not to chance it. The energetic drink he downs in second, and the aspirin isn’t far behind.
He sees you, moving around in the kitchen. You’re unusually quiet at first, but after a few minutes tick by, you start humming one of your habitual tunes. Chris leans back against the couch, his naked legs bumping against the coffee table. His eyes start to close on their own. The earlier vision of his father, up and alive in the hallway, feels like a bad dream now — he wishes he could explain it away like that so bad. At least now, with the sun reflecting on the snow outside and someone real and alive moving through the house, he can bury it down and finally get some real rest.
When he wakes up again, it’s to your hand on his knee, gently shaking him awake. It makes his dick react in a way that it’s just too early to interrogate.
“I’ve made you breakfast,” you say, pointing towards a with toast and fried eggs.
That is the single hottest thing anyone has ever said to him.
He really should be wearing pants right now.
You sit down next to him while he grabs the plate and maneuvers it in the appropriate way to hide his crotch. It doesn’t take him long to scarf it down, but he does keep the convenient plate in his lap afterwards. It’s going to take him a while to calm down.
“Are you okay?” you ask him. There’s a gentleness to your voice that he’s not used to. Adebayo, Vigilante, hell, even Harcourt, they all care, but they do it in their own, rough way most of the time. Half of it is not acknowledging that they care — except for Vig, but he does it in the most insane way known to man, so that doesn’t really count — and you’re just being… genuine. Honest. Direct. “Did something happen?”
He almost shrugs it off. It comes easy to him, especially because if he wanted to be honest, he’d have to explain the quantum chamber, and he’d sound insane doing that, and it just so happens that he kinda cares what you think about him. But something stops him. Something the two of you have in common, that he doesn’t share with anyone else.
You knew his dad. Long-term. You spent four hours a week in this house, every week, for the past four years.
That’s not nothing.
“My dad was a piece of shit,” he says at last, looking at you to check your reaction.
Your face is undecipherable.
“He was a bad person,” you agree.
“I think I miss him sometimes.”
He stares at you, looking for the emotions he’s sure it will elicit. He’s seen them on Harcourt’s face, plain and obvious, on Adrian’s, steeped in confusion, and on Adebayo’s, even if she was trying her hardest to be understanding. He’s looking for disgust, anger, mockery. You don’t show any of that.
“Did he ever do anything nice for you?” you ask.
That’s the last thing he expected. It leaves him speechless for a few seconds, and when he does find his voice again, it’s thick with emotion.
“He made my helmets,” he answers. “He– He thought I could do some good in the world.”
“See, that’s the thing,” you say, trying to be gentle. You almost reach to grab his hand, but you catch yourself at the last moment. You don’t— You don’t know if it’s right, for you to do that. Chris is vulnerable right now. You don’t want to push him. “It’s easy to hate someone that you only know for the horrible, evil shit that he’s done. And don’t get me wrong, I think that the world instantly became a better place when he was no longer in it, and that whoever did it did us all a fucking favor.”
You do know who did it, because Eagly can’t shut up, but you’re not supposed to, so you don’t want to let it show.
“But you’re the one person who doesn’t just know the bad. You had some good with him, and now you’re never going to get it again.”
You don’t say that that seems like a reasonable price to pay to live in a world without Auggie Smith in it. You mean it, but you don’t tell him.
“It’s fine if you feel— complicated about him.”
Chris— doesn’t know if he believes that. He doesn’t know if it’s right for him to wish his dad had been a different man, to struggle to accept all that he really was. But it does feel nice to hear you saying this, to have you being kind to him, and that’s gotta count for something.
“Thanks,” he says, and his voice cracks.
He’s quick to look away, sniffing loudly. Not ‘cause he’s crying. He definitely has a sudden allergy attack — the well-known December allergies, of course.
You put your hand on his shoulder and squeeze it once. Chris almost puts his hand over yours, to keep it there a little longer, but it wouldn’t feel right. He already doesn’t think he has the right to be upset over this, what right would he have to accept your comfort?
Yet you offer it to him, and he doesn’t move away from it either. For as long as he needs, you sit there, your hand on his shoulder, giving him the human touch and the warmth he so desperately needs.
He’s quick to shake it off, and the next time you come over, neither of you speak of this moment. But maybe, from that moment on, he lets his shoulders relax a little more when you’re around.
prequel to this piece
hopefully the work speaks for itself, but if there is any doubt, i want to clarify that this is intended as exploring the complicated grief that comes with mourning someone who was a horrible person and an abuser, and not as sympathetic towards Auggie in any way whatsoever. anyway, this is more purely angsty than what i've written for the fandom so far, so i hope you've enjoyed it! next piece will be adrian x reader and i'm probably going to alternate between writing for him and for chris for the foreseeable future 😊 i would really appreciate to know your thoughts on my take on chris in particular, i was going for the more vulnerable side of him and i'd love to know how you think i handled that. comments and reblogs in general are really appreciated in general too, not just on that subject! thank you all for reading 💕
