just saw another writer on here say their fics were ‘heavily inspired’ by c.ai…so let me be clear
using c.ai does not make you better or any different than other ai users. using c.ai is just as bad as using any other sort of ai. you cannot be anti generative ai and still use c.ai.
as a writer who has had their work stolen and put through c.ai multiple times, it’s very weird to be using a platform that basically encourages theft to ‘heavily inspire’ your writing
this blog is free from all uses of AI—and I cannot believe this needs to be clarified—but that includes c.ai. i have never and will never use ai to come up with, inspire or god forbid, actually write for me.
there are no ethical uses of generative ai. ai and ai users are not welcome on my page.
Summary: Headcanons on dating Johnny Storm
a/n: thanks for the science fact, James Webb Discovery
🩵| He's still flirty far after you get into the relationship, like it doesn't even die down. Over the top gasps when you show him your date night outfits, good morning / good night texts, and showering you with compliments purely because he thinks you're beautiful. One moment that stuck in your memory was when you were pre-shower, wearing stained pajamas, and a silly animal skincare mask, only to turn around and find him looking at you like you were the sun itself
🩵| One time, after he went on a space trip, he had managed to annoy convince Reed to let him name a constellation they had found. He named it after you, not even something that resembled your name or a nickname, your full name. He was so giddy to tell you about it. The first night after they got back and finalized the name, he flew up into the sky and made a smoke circle around it and wrote 'for my favorite girl'
🩵| You two absolutely have favorite looks of each other
His is when you're wearing his clothes instead of your own, specifically when it's the morning after one of his fancy parties and you're in one of the few button-up shirts he owned and shorts. It gives him butterflies
Yours is when he's in his casual clothes, in one of his ridiculously tight t-shirts and baggy grey sweatpants, it just does something, you know
🩵| Science rambles, all the time. He'll be pacing around your room or lying upside down on your shared bed, going on and on about how Cosmic Background Radiation is the faint glow of radiation that permeates the entire universe, a remnant from the explosive birth of the universe over 13.8 billion years ago. You would sit cross legged in his desk chair and nod along
🩵| You're his voice of reason/advice person. Almost every day, you can 100% guarantee that he'll call you with a question like, 'How many eggs get added to a soufflé again?' or 'I forgot, what sort of animal is a Koala?' And you always manage to have an answer, no matter how ridiculous of an inquiry it was
🩵| He loves to get you random little gifts, 'I saw this and thought of you' type of stuff. He would often return with a new pillow in a colour you like or a figurine of characters off of shows you enjoy. You couldn't count on all your fingers how many times he brought home 'just because' bouquets of your favorite flowers.
🩵| On your 3-year anniversary, he got you a beautiful locket necklace with a picture of the two of you inside. It was from one of your first dates, you had gone on a beach picnic. It had the two of you, sitting on a blanket, facing away from the camera. The sunset in front of you was pink and yellow and orange galore. When he gave it to you, he told you to close your eyes and he wrapped it around your neck, connecting it at the back
🩵| Whenever the Fantastic 4 are invited to bring a plus one to a fancy event, he'll always take you along. He enjoys seeing you all dressed up and will show you off, not in the 'haha she's just here for me to brag about' sense, but in the 'my girlfriend is so gorgeous, look at her!' sense. If he ever has to thank people in a speech, your first in line, asked about his latest accomplishment, something he's done for you, greatest achievement, managing to date you
🩵| If you ever get tired when walking around the city, he will pick you up bridal style and carry or fly you home. It doesn't matter how much you complain or state that you would be fine (which was clearly a lie). One thing about Johnny is that embarrassment isn't a word in his vocabulary, especially when it involves you
🩵| Sometimes, after a long night of superheroing, you have to drag him out of bed because he still has stuff to do. He'll just groan and grab you by your waist, pulling you back down to bed and trapping you there, not that you really mind. Next thing he knows, you're rolling over off the edge of the bed, taking him with you
dex getting turned on when you set your broken nose back in place.
dex’s eyes burning into you. trailing down from your broken nose, to the blood that trickled down to your lips, to your blood stained teeth. dex swallowing his saliva as he wonders how your blood would taste as it lingered on your tongue.
the three times johnny storm got rejected and the one time he didn't
The first time Johnny Storm asked you out, you had been working at the Baxter Building for exactly twenty-three days.
Not that Johnny knew that.
Or cared.
The exact number only mattered because Ben had started counting.
Apparently there was a betting pool now.
You discovered this later.
Much later.
After Johnny had already become the single greatest inconvenience in your professional life.
The afternoon itself had started normally enough.
The main laboratory was alive with its usual rhythm — the low hum of machinery, holographic displays casting blue light across the walls, Reed muttering equations under his breath while completely ignoring the sandwich sitting untouched beside him.
You occupied one of the workstations near the center of the room, reviewing data collected from a recent space survey. Several holograms floated above the desk in front of you, columns of numbers shifting as you reorganized them.
The work was tedious.
Which was exactly why you liked it.
Nobody bothered you when you were working.
Well...
Almost nobody.
You had become so focused that you failed to notice Johnny enter the lab.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because Johnny Storm had the uncanny ability to detect when he was being ignored.
You became aware of him only when a shadow fell across your desk.
Then came the smell of smoke.
Not actual smoke.
Just warmth.
Like standing too close to a fireplace.
You didn't bother looking up.
"Hello, Johnny."
There was a pause.
A surprised one.
"You knew it was me?"
You continued typing.
"Nobody else announces their arrival like a burnt marshmallow."
From somewhere across the room, Ben barked out a laugh.
Johnny ignored him.
You could practically hear the grin stretching across his face.
"That was funny."
"It wasn't a joke."
"It was a little funny."
"No."
"See, that's your problem."
"My problem?"
"You're denying yourself joy."
Finally, you looked up.
Johnny was leaning against the edge of your workstation, arms crossed over his chest.
And unfortunately—
Very unfortunately—
He looked good.
Everybody knew Johnny looked good.
It wasn't exactly breaking news.
The problem was that he knew it too.
The confidence practically radiated off him.
The easy smile.
The bright eyes.
The infuriating certainty that the world belonged to him.
You had met men like him before.
Men who thought charm could unlock any door.
Men who believed persistence was romantic.
Men who expected eventual success.
Johnny Storm simply happened to be the most attractive version of that problem.
You looked back down at your screen.
The conversation was over as far as you were concerned.
Unfortunately, Johnny disagreed.
"So."
You sighed.
"So?"
"So."
His grin widened.
"Wanna get dinner with me?"
The laboratory fell silent.
Not immediately.
Not dramatically.
But one by one, the conversations died.
You noticed Sue stop walking.
Ben stopped pretending to work altogether.
Even Reed glanced away from the monitor in front of him.
Waiting.
For what?
You had no idea.
The answer was obvious.
You looked up at Johnny.
At the confidence in his expression.
At the certainty.
The expectation.
Then you smiled politely.
"No."
Silence.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Like his brain needed an extra moment to process the information.
"...No?"
"No."
"Just no?"
You nodded.
"That's usually how no works."
Ben immediately doubled over laughing.
The sound echoed through the entire laboratory.
Johnny pointed at him without taking his eyes off you.
"Stay out of this."
"I literally can't," Ben wheezed. "This is the funniest thing I've seen all week."
Johnny looked genuinely offended.
Which somehow made the situation even funnier.
You gathered a few files from your desk and stood.
The conversation had reached its natural conclusion.
At least for you.
Johnny, however, looked like a man experiencing a minor existential crisis.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
You considered it.
"A second."
"A second?"
"A generous estimate."
This time Sue laughed.
Actually laughed.
Johnny turned toward her.
"Sue."
She raised both hands immediately.
"I'm not helping you."
"You could've helped me."
"You asked her out before learning her middle name."
"I know her middle name."
"No, you don't."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Professionally.
The exact smile that had terrified investors, government officials, and one NASA director.
Then you walked away.
Leaving Johnny standing in the middle of the laboratory.
Staring after you.
For the first time in a very long time—
Completely speechless.
The second time Johnny Storm asked you out, he had a plan.
Now, in Johnny's defense, this was already more effort than he usually put into anything.
Johnny Storm was many things.
Confident.
Impulsive.
Charming.
Occasionally heroic.
Frequently annoying.
Planning ahead, however, was not one of his stronger qualities.
Which was precisely why Sue became suspicious the moment she saw him ironing a shirt.
Not wearing one.
Ironing one.
Actually ironing one.
With concentration.
Like a man preparing for war.
"Johnny."
He looked up.
"What?"
Sue stared.
Then pointed at the iron.
"What is that?"
Johnny frowned.
"...An iron?"
"No. I know what it is."
"Then why'd you ask?"
Sue narrowed her eyes.
Something was wrong.
She could feel it.
"Why are you using it?"
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
"No reason."
"Oh, God."
Johnny groaned.
"Can you stop acting like I'm planning a crime?"
"You only iron shirts when you're planning a crime."
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"Last time you ironed a shirt you tried to race a fighter jet."
"That was one time."
"Johnny."
"Two times."
Sue sighed.
Deeply.
The kind of sigh that only came from being related to Johnny Storm.
Then she noticed the shirt.
Black.
The nice black one.
The one he only wore when he was trying to impress somebody.
And suddenly everything made sense.
"Oh."
Johnny immediately knew.
"Don't."
"Oh, my God."
"Don't."
"You're asking her out again."
"I wasn't hiding it."
"You ironed a shirt."
"That's not hiding it."
"That's announcing it."
Johnny pointed accusingly.
"You're supposed to support me."
Sue laughed so hard she had to sit down.
The annual Future Foundation charity gala occupied three entire floors of a Manhattan hotel.
Scientists.
Investors.
Politicians.
Reporters.
The usual crowd.
The sort of event Reed attended because he had to.
The sort of event Sue attended because she was good at it.
The sort of event Ben attended because there was free food.
And the sort of event Johnny attended because cameras existed.
By the time the evening officially began, the ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns.
Music drifted through the room.
Champagne flowed freely.
People laughed.
Networked.
Discussed science and funding and the future of humanity.
Johnny spent exactly thirty-seven minutes pretending to listen before his attention wandered.
Not intentionally.
It just happened.
Because then he saw you.
And every coherent thought immediately left his body.
Across the room, you stood beside a group of researchers from MIT.
One hand wrapped around a champagne glass.
The other gesturing as you spoke.
The soft gold lighting caught the side of your face.
Your dress wasn't even particularly flashy.
It wasn't the most expensive gown in the room.
Or the most dramatic.
Or the most attention-grabbing.
Yet somehow—
Johnny couldn't look away.
It annoyed him.
Deeply.
Because this kept happening.
Every time.
He'd see you.
And suddenly nothing else felt nearly as interesting.
"Uh oh."
Johnny didn't even have to turn around.
Ben.
Obviously.
"What?"
"The look."
Johnny frowned.
"What look?"
"The one where you forget how blinking works."
Johnny finally turned.
Ben was eating shrimp.
A concerning amount of shrimp.
"You sound obsessed."
Ben nearly choked.
"ME?"
"You."
"Brother."
Ben pointed his shrimp at him.
"You've been staring at that poor girl for five straight minutes."
Johnny rolled his eyes.
Then looked back across the room.
You were laughing now.
Something one of the researchers had said.
The sound didn't reach him through the crowd.
But he could see it.
The smile.
The way your shoulders relaxed.
The way your head tilted back slightly.
And suddenly—
The ballroom seemed a little brighter.
A little warmer.
A little easier to breathe in.
Johnny froze.
"...oh."
Ben saw the realization happen in real time.
"Oh, no."
"What?"
"You got it bad."
Johnny immediately scoffed.
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"You ironed a shirt."
"STOP BRINGING UP THE SHIRT."
The problem with you was that you never made anything easy.
If you had disliked him, this would've been simple.
If you'd been rude, dismissive, cruel—
Simple.
Easy.
Understandable.
Instead, you were always nice.
Warm.
Funny.
Patient.
You smiled when he talked.
You laughed at some of his jokes.
You remembered things he told you.
You cared when he got hurt on missions.
You checked in after long nights.
You brought him coffee when he forgot to sleep.
And somehow—
Somehow—
You still wouldn't go out with him.
It was maddening.
Completely maddening.
Because Johnny knew when someone disliked him.
You didn't.
Which meant the issue wasn't him.
At least...
Probably not.
Hopefully not.
Maybe.
Actually he wasn't sure anymore.
Which was somehow worse.
He found you nearly an hour later standing near one of the balconies overlooking Manhattan.
The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass.
Thousands of lights scattered across the darkness.
The skyline glowing against the night.
For a moment he just watched you.
Not in a creepy way.
Probably.
Okay.
Maybe slightly.
But in his defense, you looked beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that made people stop mid-sentence.
The kind of beautiful that made entire rooms feel quieter.
The kind of beautiful Johnny was rapidly discovering could be extremely dangerous to his health.
You sensed him before he spoke.
Without turning around, you lifted your champagne glass.
"Hello, Storm."
Johnny grinned.
There it was.
Storm.
Always Storm.
Never Johnny.
Never anything softer.
Just Storm.
Like he was some persistent weather condition.
"You knew it'd be me."
"I heard the ego approaching."
Johnny pressed a hand over his heart.
"Wounded."
"You'll survive."
"I might not."
You finally looked at him.
Amusement flickering behind your eyes.
And there it was again.
That feeling.
That awful, wonderful feeling.
The one that had become increasingly difficult to ignore.
Johnny leaned against the railing.
Trying very hard to appear casual.
Trying very hard to ignore the fact that his pulse had suddenly sped up.
"Dinner."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"No."
"I haven't even finished the sentence."
"You don't need to."
"Come on."
"No."
"One date."
"No."
"One drink."
"No."
"Coffee."
"No."
Johnny stared.
The smile on your face grew.
Tiny.
Barely visible.
But definitely there.
And suddenly he realized something.
You were enjoying this.
Not the asking.
The teasing.
The back and forth.
The challenge.
The fact that Johnny Storm kept trying.
The realization made him grin.
"You think this is funny."
"A little."
"A little?"
"A moderate amount."
Johnny laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because somehow that answer felt exactly like you.
Then he looked at you.
Really looked.
The city lights reflecting in your eyes.
The breeze catching your hair.
The amused expression you'd never show reporters.
And before he could stop himself—
Before his brain could catch up—
He asked quietly,
"Why not?"
For the first time that evening, you paused.
Not because you were considering it.
He could tell you weren't.
But because the question surprised you.
Johnny wasn't usually serious.
Not with this.
Not with you.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then your smile softened.
Just slightly.
Enough that he almost missed it.
"Because you're asking."
Johnny groaned immediately.
"Oh, that's evil."
A laugh escaped you.
Warm.
Genuine.
The kind he rarely got to hear.
And somehow—
Somehow—
It felt worth the rejection.
Which was probably the most concerning part of all.
Because as you turned and started walking back toward the ballroom, Johnny found himself watching you leave.
Again.
Not upset.
Not discouraged.
Not frustrated.
Just...
Wanting to follow.
And that realization hit him like a freight train.
Because somewhere between the first rejection and the second—
This had stopped being a game.
And Johnny Storm, much to his horror, was starting to think he might actually like you. REALLY like you. Which was a disaster.
An absolute, five-alarm, Baxter-Building-level disaster.
iii.
The third time Johnny Storm asked you out, he made the mistake of believing he was making progress.
In his defense, there was evidence.
Actual evidence.
Not much.
But enough.
You laughed at his jokes more often now.
Not all of them.
That would have been ridiculous.
But enough that Johnny started keeping track.
You no longer immediately walked away whenever he approached.
You voluntarily sat next to him during meetings.
Once, you had even fallen asleep in the common room with your head resting against his shoulder after a thirty-hour work session.
Granted, you'd been unconscious.
And yes, Ben still brought it up every chance he got.
But still.
The point stood.
Progress.
Tiny.
Microscopic.
Embarrassingly insignificant progress.
But progress nonetheless.
Which was how Johnny found himself wandering into the lab at two in the morning feeling oddly optimistic.
The Baxter Building was quiet.
For once.
Most of Manhattan slept beyond the massive windows.
The city lights glittered against the darkness while the lab itself remained illuminated by computer screens and floating holograms.
Reed had finally been forced to go home by Sue.
Ben had disappeared hours ago.
Even H.E.R.B.I.E. seemed quieter than usual.
The only person still awake besides Johnny was you.
Of course.
Because apparently sleep was optional for scientists.
You sat alone at one of the workstations, knees tucked beneath you in your chair while several files floated across a holographic display.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten beside your laptop.
You looked exhausted.
Your hair wasn't done.
Your glasses had slipped down your nose.
One sleeve of your sweater covered most of your hand.
And somehow—
Somehow—
Johnny thought you looked prettier than every supermodel he'd ever met.
It was honestly becoming a problem.
A serious one.
A medical condition, probably.
"You know."
Your voice broke through the silence before he'd even spoken.
Johnny smiled immediately.
"You know what?"
Without looking up from your screen, you replied,
"If you're standing there staring at me, you could at least say hello."
Busted.
Johnny walked further into the room.
"I wasn't staring."
You finally glanced up.
The look on your face said liar.
"No?"
"No."
"You've been standing there for at least thirty seconds."
Johnny dropped into the chair across from you.
"Okay, maybe a little."
"A little."
"A moderate amount."
That earned him a laugh.
A real one.
Not polite.
Not professional.
A genuine laugh.
And suddenly Johnny felt absurdly pleased with himself.
Which was dangerous.
Because whenever Johnny Storm felt confident, terrible things usually happened.
Like now.
You returned your attention to the files in front of you.
The room settled into comfortable silence.
Comfortable.
The word itself surprised Johnny.
A year ago, silence would've driven him insane.
Now?
Now he didn't mind it.
Not with you.
He watched the glow of holograms reflect against your face.
The way you absentmindedly tapped your fingers against the desk while reading.
The little crease between your eyebrows whenever something annoyed you.
The tiny details he'd somehow memorized without realizing.
The realization should have terrified him.
Instead—
"Hey."
You didn't look up.
"Mhm?"
Johnny grinned.
"Wanna go out with me?"
The answer came instantly.
"No."
Johnny groaned.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
"Long enough."
"You're impossible."
This time you looked up.
The corners of your mouth twitching.
Amusement dancing in your eyes.
And suddenly Johnny had a horrible feeling.
The kind that only appeared right before disaster.
You were planning something.
He could tell.
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
Studying him.
Far too innocent.
Far too calm.
Dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
Johnny narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
You smiled.
Slowly.
"Oh, nothing."
That smile.
That smile had never meant anything good.
Johnny pointed at you.
"See? That's exactly the smile."
"What smile?"
"The one that means you're about to emotionally damage me."
Your laugh echoed through the quiet laboratory.
And for one brief, beautiful moment, Johnny forgot he was supposed to be suspicious.
A fatal mistake.
Because then you spoke.
Casually.
Like you weren't about to commit a crime.
"I don't date blondes."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Complete.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"...what?"
You looked completely serious.
Terrifyingly serious.
"I don't date blondes."
Johnny stared.
Then stared harder.
Then looked around the room as if waiting for somebody to jump out and explain the joke.
Nobody appeared.
Because there was nobody else there.
Just you.
Trying very hard not to laugh.
And him.
Experiencing psychological warfare.
"I'm sorry."
Johnny held up a hand.
"No."
He pointed at his hair.
"My hair?"
You nodded.
"Your hair."
"My hair is the problem."
"Unfortunately."
Johnny sat there.
Speechless.
Actually speechless.
Which almost never happened.
Then he leaned forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was handling unstable explosives.
"Your reason."
"Mhm."
"For rejecting me."
"Mhm."
"Is because I'm blond."
"Correct."
Johnny stared.
You stared back.
Neither of you moving.
Neither of you blinking.
And then—
The tiniest smile appeared.
Right at the corner of your mouth.
Johnny immediately pointed.
"THERE."
You burst out laughing.
Immediately.
Completely.
The sound filled the laboratory.
And suddenly Johnny understood.
"Oh, you're evil."
Your shoulders shook.
"You should hear yourself."
"You rejected me because of my hair."
"It was funny."
"It wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"It was deeply hurtful."
That only made you laugh harder.
Johnny slumped back in his chair.
Hand over his heart.
Absolutely devastated.
Or pretending to be.
Mostly pretending.
Maybe.
The problem was—
The problem was that he couldn't even be upset.
Because you were laughing.
Really laughing.
The kind that made your eyes crinkle.
The kind that made your entire face light up.
And God help him—
Johnny would probably let you reject him a hundred more times if it meant seeing that look again.
The realization hit hard.
Hard enough that for a moment he forgot to joke.
Forgot to flirt.
Forgot to play the part everyone expected from Johnny Storm.
Instead, he just watched you.
Quietly.
And something shifted.
Small.
Almost imperceptible.
But real.
Because suddenly it wasn't about winning anymore.
It wasn't about proving he could get a date.
It wasn't about the challenge.
The chase.
The game.
It was you.
Just you.
Sitting across from him at two in the morning.
Laughing at your own terrible joke.
Looking happier than you'd looked all week.
And for the first time, Johnny realized he would be perfectly happy sitting here forever.
Not because he thought you'd eventually say yes.
Not because he expected anything in return.
But because he liked being around you.
Way more than he probably should.
Way more than was safe.
Way more than a man was supposed to like someone who had just rejected him because he was blond.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Eventually, your laughter faded.
The room settling once more.
And before either of you could say anything—
The lab doors slid open.
Ben walked in carrying three sandwiches.
Took one look at Johnny.
One look at you.
And immediately knew.
"Oh, she rejected you again."
Johnny sighed.
Deeply.
Painfully.
"Because I'm blond."
Ben stopped walking.
"...what?"
"Because I'm blond."
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Ben doubled over.
The sandwiches hit the floor.
And his laughter echoed through the entire Baxter Building.
Johnny seriously considered setting something on fire. Probably Ben.
You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you reached for your laptop.
"You're both ridiculous."
"She says after rejecting me because of my hair."
"Which was funny."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
Ben nearly dropped another sandwich laughing.
You ignored both of them.
With the ease of someone who had spent far too much time around the Fantastic Four, you began shutting down the holograms floating above your workstation. One by one, the glowing screens disappeared until the laboratory finally returned to its usual dim lighting.
The clock in the corner of the room read 3:07 a.m.
A fact that suddenly made your entire body feel exhausted.
You closed your laptop.
Gathered your notes.
Finished the last sip of your coffee.
Then stood.
Johnny immediately frowned.
"Where are you going?"
You blinked.
"...Home?"
"It's three in the morning."
"Exactly."
"You can't just leave at three in the morning."
You stared at him.
Johnny stared right back.
As if this was a completely reasonable concern.
As if he hadn't personally watched you leave the building at worse hours.
"Johnny."
"What?"
"I have to be back here at nine."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
Johnny stood up.
Looking genuinely offended.
Like the answer should've been obvious.
"I can't let a lady go outside by herself at three in the morning."
The silence that followed lasted exactly two seconds.
Then your expression changed.
Not amused.
Not teasing.
Just...
Confused.
"Outside?"
"Yeah."
"Johnny."
"What?"
You adjusted the strap of your bag.
Still staring at him.
"I'm not leaving the building."
He blinked.
"What?"
"Sue gave me one of the guest rooms."
Another blink.
"...What?"
You pointed vaguely toward the elevators.
"Two floors down."
The realization hit him all at once.
The room.
The guest room.
The one Sue had offered months ago after one too many late nights.
The one literally inside the Baxter Building.
The one Johnny somehow forgot existed.
"Oh."
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Far too sweetly.
"Goodnight, Storm."
Then you turned.
Walked toward the door.
And left.
Just like that.
The laboratory doors slid shut behind you.
Silence.
Johnny stood there.
Motionless.
Staring at the empty doorway.
Ben watched him for a moment.
Then another.
Then—
"...You forgot she lives here."
Johnny pointed aggressively toward the elevator.
"She doesn't live here."
"Close enough."
"Not helping."
Ben snorted.
Johnny dragged a hand down his face.
Then sighed.
Long.
Deep.
Dramatic.
The sigh of a man experiencing true suffering.
Finally, he muttered,
"I'll dye it."
Ben frowned.
"What?"
Johnny looked completely serious.
"If that's the problem, I'll dye it."
For a second, Ben simply stared at him.
Trying to determine whether this was a joke.
Unfortunately—
It wasn't.
Johnny was genuinely considering it.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I'll go brunette."
Ben folded in half.
Actually folded.
The laughter that erupted from him was so violent he had to grab the nearest desk for support.
Tears immediately sprang to his eyes.
"Oh my God."
Johnny looked offended.
"What?"
"You've got it BAD."
"I do not."
"YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT CHANGING YOUR HAIR."
"It's called commitment."
"It's called being down catastrophic."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And unfortunately for him, he couldn't come up with a single argument.
Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice was already wondering whether he'd look good as a brunette.
i. By the time Johnny Storm asked you out for what would eventually be the successful attempt, he had completely given up on succeeding.
Not in a depressing way.
Not in a woe is me, nobody loves me way.
Just...
Realistically.
The same way a man stops expecting to win the lottery.
Or stops expecting Reed to remember where he left his keys.
Or stops expecting Ben to stop bringing up the blonde incident.
Some things simply weren't going to happen.
And apparently one of those things was you agreeing to go on a date with him.
So Johnny adjusted.
Mostly.
Kind of.
Not really.
The flirting never stopped.
That was impossible.
Breathing was less natural to Johnny Storm than flirting with you.
But somewhere along the way, the asking had changed.
It wasn't a challenge anymore.
Wasn't a game.
Wasn't even hope, really.
It had become routine.
Comfortable.
A running joke that belonged solely to the two of you.
A question.
A rejection.
A laugh.
Then life continued.
Simple.
Predictable.
Safe.
Which was exactly why it hit him like a truck.
The afternoon itself had been unremarkable.
The Baxter Building buzzed with its usual energy.
Researchers moving through the halls.
H.E.R.B.I.E. rolling around somewhere in the distance.
Reed locked inside a laboratory with three whiteboards and no awareness of time.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Johnny found you exactly where he expected.
At your desk.
Surrounded by files.
Halfway through organizing an absurd amount of research data because apparently nobody else in the building knew how to label things correctly.
Sunlight poured through the enormous windows.
Golden and warm.
Painting the laboratory in shades of amber.
You sat with your sleeves pushed up and your hair pulled back, entirely focused on your work.
Johnny smiled before he even realized he was doing it.
The sight had become familiar.
Comforting.
Like coming home.
Which was—
Nope.
Not thinking about that.
Absolutely not.
He dropped into the chair beside your desk.
You didn't look up immediately.
Just hummed in acknowledgment.
The sound alone somehow made him grin wider.
"Hey."
"Mhm."
"Wanna go out with me Friday?"
There it was.
The usual question.
The routine.
The joke.
Johnny reached for a pen on your desk while waiting for the inevitable rejection.
Maybe you'd say no because he was blonde again.
Maybe you'd tell him he talked too much.
Maybe you'd invent another ridiculous excuse.
Honestly, he was looking forward to hearing it.
Then—
"Okay."
Johnny grabbed the pen.
Then froze.
The room suddenly felt very quiet.
Very.
Very quiet.
Slowly, he blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Surely he had imagined that.
Because there was no way—
No possible way—
He looked up.
You were still sorting files.
Calm.
Composed.
Entirely unbothered.
Like you hadn't just detonated a bomb inside his ribcage.
"...What?"
You slid another folder into place.
"Friday works."
Johnny stared.
The pen slipped from his fingers.
Hit the floor.
Neither of you moved.
For one horrifying second, Johnny became convinced he was hallucinating.
Maybe Reed had accidentally released toxic fumes.
Maybe he'd finally lost his mind.
Maybe Ben had hit him with a truck.
Any explanation seemed more likely than what had just happened.
"You..."
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
Mortifying.
"You said yes."
You finally looked up.
And there it was.
A smile.
Not the polite one.
Not the professional one.
Not the one you gave reporters or investors or strangers.
the three times johnny storm got rejected and the one time he didn't
The first time Johnny Storm asked you out, you had been working at the Baxter Building for exactly twenty-three days.
Not that Johnny knew that.
Or cared.
The exact number only mattered because Ben had started counting.
Apparently there was a betting pool now.
You discovered this later.
Much later.
After Johnny had already become the single greatest inconvenience in your professional life.
The afternoon itself had started normally enough.
The main laboratory was alive with its usual rhythm — the low hum of machinery, holographic displays casting blue light across the walls, Reed muttering equations under his breath while completely ignoring the sandwich sitting untouched beside him.
You occupied one of the workstations near the center of the room, reviewing data collected from a recent space survey. Several holograms floated above the desk in front of you, columns of numbers shifting as you reorganized them.
The work was tedious.
Which was exactly why you liked it.
Nobody bothered you when you were working.
Well...
Almost nobody.
You had become so focused that you failed to notice Johnny enter the lab.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because Johnny Storm had the uncanny ability to detect when he was being ignored.
You became aware of him only when a shadow fell across your desk.
Then came the smell of smoke.
Not actual smoke.
Just warmth.
Like standing too close to a fireplace.
You didn't bother looking up.
"Hello, Johnny."
There was a pause.
A surprised one.
"You knew it was me?"
You continued typing.
"Nobody else announces their arrival like a burnt marshmallow."
From somewhere across the room, Ben barked out a laugh.
Johnny ignored him.
You could practically hear the grin stretching across his face.
"That was funny."
"It wasn't a joke."
"It was a little funny."
"No."
"See, that's your problem."
"My problem?"
"You're denying yourself joy."
Finally, you looked up.
Johnny was leaning against the edge of your workstation, arms crossed over his chest.
And unfortunately—
Very unfortunately—
He looked good.
Everybody knew Johnny looked good.
It wasn't exactly breaking news.
The problem was that he knew it too.
The confidence practically radiated off him.
The easy smile.
The bright eyes.
The infuriating certainty that the world belonged to him.
You had met men like him before.
Men who thought charm could unlock any door.
Men who believed persistence was romantic.
Men who expected eventual success.
Johnny Storm simply happened to be the most attractive version of that problem.
You looked back down at your screen.
The conversation was over as far as you were concerned.
Unfortunately, Johnny disagreed.
"So."
You sighed.
"So?"
"So."
His grin widened.
"Wanna get dinner with me?"
The laboratory fell silent.
Not immediately.
Not dramatically.
But one by one, the conversations died.
You noticed Sue stop walking.
Ben stopped pretending to work altogether.
Even Reed glanced away from the monitor in front of him.
Waiting.
For what?
You had no idea.
The answer was obvious.
You looked up at Johnny.
At the confidence in his expression.
At the certainty.
The expectation.
Then you smiled politely.
"No."
Silence.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Like his brain needed an extra moment to process the information.
"...No?"
"No."
"Just no?"
You nodded.
"That's usually how no works."
Ben immediately doubled over laughing.
The sound echoed through the entire laboratory.
Johnny pointed at him without taking his eyes off you.
"Stay out of this."
"I literally can't," Ben wheezed. "This is the funniest thing I've seen all week."
Johnny looked genuinely offended.
Which somehow made the situation even funnier.
You gathered a few files from your desk and stood.
The conversation had reached its natural conclusion.
At least for you.
Johnny, however, looked like a man experiencing a minor existential crisis.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
You considered it.
"A second."
"A second?"
"A generous estimate."
This time Sue laughed.
Actually laughed.
Johnny turned toward her.
"Sue."
She raised both hands immediately.
"I'm not helping you."
"You could've helped me."
"You asked her out before learning her middle name."
"I know her middle name."
"No, you don't."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Professionally.
The exact smile that had terrified investors, government officials, and one NASA director.
Then you walked away.
Leaving Johnny standing in the middle of the laboratory.
Staring after you.
For the first time in a very long time—
Completely speechless.
The second time Johnny Storm asked you out, he had a plan.
Now, in Johnny's defense, this was already more effort than he usually put into anything.
Johnny Storm was many things.
Confident.
Impulsive.
Charming.
Occasionally heroic.
Frequently annoying.
Planning ahead, however, was not one of his stronger qualities.
Which was precisely why Sue became suspicious the moment she saw him ironing a shirt.
Not wearing one.
Ironing one.
Actually ironing one.
With concentration.
Like a man preparing for war.
"Johnny."
He looked up.
"What?"
Sue stared.
Then pointed at the iron.
"What is that?"
Johnny frowned.
"...An iron?"
"No. I know what it is."
"Then why'd you ask?"
Sue narrowed her eyes.
Something was wrong.
She could feel it.
"Why are you using it?"
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
"No reason."
"Oh, God."
Johnny groaned.
"Can you stop acting like I'm planning a crime?"
"You only iron shirts when you're planning a crime."
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"Last time you ironed a shirt you tried to race a fighter jet."
"That was one time."
"Johnny."
"Two times."
Sue sighed.
Deeply.
The kind of sigh that only came from being related to Johnny Storm.
Then she noticed the shirt.
Black.
The nice black one.
The one he only wore when he was trying to impress somebody.
And suddenly everything made sense.
"Oh."
Johnny immediately knew.
"Don't."
"Oh, my God."
"Don't."
"You're asking her out again."
"I wasn't hiding it."
"You ironed a shirt."
"That's not hiding it."
"That's announcing it."
Johnny pointed accusingly.
"You're supposed to support me."
Sue laughed so hard she had to sit down.
The annual Future Foundation charity gala occupied three entire floors of a Manhattan hotel.
Scientists.
Investors.
Politicians.
Reporters.
The usual crowd.
The sort of event Reed attended because he had to.
The sort of event Sue attended because she was good at it.
The sort of event Ben attended because there was free food.
And the sort of event Johnny attended because cameras existed.
By the time the evening officially began, the ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns.
Music drifted through the room.
Champagne flowed freely.
People laughed.
Networked.
Discussed science and funding and the future of humanity.
Johnny spent exactly thirty-seven minutes pretending to listen before his attention wandered.
Not intentionally.
It just happened.
Because then he saw you.
And every coherent thought immediately left his body.
Across the room, you stood beside a group of researchers from MIT.
One hand wrapped around a champagne glass.
The other gesturing as you spoke.
The soft gold lighting caught the side of your face.
Your dress wasn't even particularly flashy.
It wasn't the most expensive gown in the room.
Or the most dramatic.
Or the most attention-grabbing.
Yet somehow—
Johnny couldn't look away.
It annoyed him.
Deeply.
Because this kept happening.
Every time.
He'd see you.
And suddenly nothing else felt nearly as interesting.
"Uh oh."
Johnny didn't even have to turn around.
Ben.
Obviously.
"What?"
"The look."
Johnny frowned.
"What look?"
"The one where you forget how blinking works."
Johnny finally turned.
Ben was eating shrimp.
A concerning amount of shrimp.
"You sound obsessed."
Ben nearly choked.
"ME?"
"You."
"Brother."
Ben pointed his shrimp at him.
"You've been staring at that poor girl for five straight minutes."
Johnny rolled his eyes.
Then looked back across the room.
You were laughing now.
Something one of the researchers had said.
The sound didn't reach him through the crowd.
But he could see it.
The smile.
The way your shoulders relaxed.
The way your head tilted back slightly.
And suddenly—
The ballroom seemed a little brighter.
A little warmer.
A little easier to breathe in.
Johnny froze.
"...oh."
Ben saw the realization happen in real time.
"Oh, no."
"What?"
"You got it bad."
Johnny immediately scoffed.
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"You ironed a shirt."
"STOP BRINGING UP THE SHIRT."
The problem with you was that you never made anything easy.
If you had disliked him, this would've been simple.
If you'd been rude, dismissive, cruel—
Simple.
Easy.
Understandable.
Instead, you were always nice.
Warm.
Funny.
Patient.
You smiled when he talked.
You laughed at some of his jokes.
You remembered things he told you.
You cared when he got hurt on missions.
You checked in after long nights.
You brought him coffee when he forgot to sleep.
And somehow—
Somehow—
You still wouldn't go out with him.
It was maddening.
Completely maddening.
Because Johnny knew when someone disliked him.
You didn't.
Which meant the issue wasn't him.
At least...
Probably not.
Hopefully not.
Maybe.
Actually he wasn't sure anymore.
Which was somehow worse.
He found you nearly an hour later standing near one of the balconies overlooking Manhattan.
The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass.
Thousands of lights scattered across the darkness.
The skyline glowing against the night.
For a moment he just watched you.
Not in a creepy way.
Probably.
Okay.
Maybe slightly.
But in his defense, you looked beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that made people stop mid-sentence.
The kind of beautiful that made entire rooms feel quieter.
The kind of beautiful Johnny was rapidly discovering could be extremely dangerous to his health.
You sensed him before he spoke.
Without turning around, you lifted your champagne glass.
"Hello, Storm."
Johnny grinned.
There it was.
Storm.
Always Storm.
Never Johnny.
Never anything softer.
Just Storm.
Like he was some persistent weather condition.
"You knew it'd be me."
"I heard the ego approaching."
Johnny pressed a hand over his heart.
"Wounded."
"You'll survive."
"I might not."
You finally looked at him.
Amusement flickering behind your eyes.
And there it was again.
That feeling.
That awful, wonderful feeling.
The one that had become increasingly difficult to ignore.
Johnny leaned against the railing.
Trying very hard to appear casual.
Trying very hard to ignore the fact that his pulse had suddenly sped up.
"Dinner."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"No."
"I haven't even finished the sentence."
"You don't need to."
"Come on."
"No."
"One date."
"No."
"One drink."
"No."
"Coffee."
"No."
Johnny stared.
The smile on your face grew.
Tiny.
Barely visible.
But definitely there.
And suddenly he realized something.
You were enjoying this.
Not the asking.
The teasing.
The back and forth.
The challenge.
The fact that Johnny Storm kept trying.
The realization made him grin.
"You think this is funny."
"A little."
"A little?"
"A moderate amount."
Johnny laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because somehow that answer felt exactly like you.
Then he looked at you.
Really looked.
The city lights reflecting in your eyes.
The breeze catching your hair.
The amused expression you'd never show reporters.
And before he could stop himself—
Before his brain could catch up—
He asked quietly,
"Why not?"
For the first time that evening, you paused.
Not because you were considering it.
He could tell you weren't.
But because the question surprised you.
Johnny wasn't usually serious.
Not with this.
Not with you.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then your smile softened.
Just slightly.
Enough that he almost missed it.
"Because you're asking."
Johnny groaned immediately.
"Oh, that's evil."
A laugh escaped you.
Warm.
Genuine.
The kind he rarely got to hear.
And somehow—
Somehow—
It felt worth the rejection.
Which was probably the most concerning part of all.
Because as you turned and started walking back toward the ballroom, Johnny found himself watching you leave.
Again.
Not upset.
Not discouraged.
Not frustrated.
Just...
Wanting to follow.
And that realization hit him like a freight train.
Because somewhere between the first rejection and the second—
This had stopped being a game.
And Johnny Storm, much to his horror, was starting to think he might actually like you. REALLY like you. Which was a disaster.
An absolute, five-alarm, Baxter-Building-level disaster.
iii.
The third time Johnny Storm asked you out, he made the mistake of believing he was making progress.
In his defense, there was evidence.
Actual evidence.
Not much.
But enough.
You laughed at his jokes more often now.
Not all of them.
That would have been ridiculous.
But enough that Johnny started keeping track.
You no longer immediately walked away whenever he approached.
You voluntarily sat next to him during meetings.
Once, you had even fallen asleep in the common room with your head resting against his shoulder after a thirty-hour work session.
Granted, you'd been unconscious.
And yes, Ben still brought it up every chance he got.
But still.
The point stood.
Progress.
Tiny.
Microscopic.
Embarrassingly insignificant progress.
But progress nonetheless.
Which was how Johnny found himself wandering into the lab at two in the morning feeling oddly optimistic.
The Baxter Building was quiet.
For once.
Most of Manhattan slept beyond the massive windows.
The city lights glittered against the darkness while the lab itself remained illuminated by computer screens and floating holograms.
Reed had finally been forced to go home by Sue.
Ben had disappeared hours ago.
Even H.E.R.B.I.E. seemed quieter than usual.
The only person still awake besides Johnny was you.
Of course.
Because apparently sleep was optional for scientists.
You sat alone at one of the workstations, knees tucked beneath you in your chair while several files floated across a holographic display.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten beside your laptop.
You looked exhausted.
Your hair wasn't done.
Your glasses had slipped down your nose.
One sleeve of your sweater covered most of your hand.
And somehow—
Somehow—
Johnny thought you looked prettier than every supermodel he'd ever met.
It was honestly becoming a problem.
A serious one.
A medical condition, probably.
"You know."
Your voice broke through the silence before he'd even spoken.
Johnny smiled immediately.
"You know what?"
Without looking up from your screen, you replied,
"If you're standing there staring at me, you could at least say hello."
Busted.
Johnny walked further into the room.
"I wasn't staring."
You finally glanced up.
The look on your face said liar.
"No?"
"No."
"You've been standing there for at least thirty seconds."
Johnny dropped into the chair across from you.
"Okay, maybe a little."
"A little."
"A moderate amount."
That earned him a laugh.
A real one.
Not polite.
Not professional.
A genuine laugh.
And suddenly Johnny felt absurdly pleased with himself.
Which was dangerous.
Because whenever Johnny Storm felt confident, terrible things usually happened.
Like now.
You returned your attention to the files in front of you.
The room settled into comfortable silence.
Comfortable.
The word itself surprised Johnny.
A year ago, silence would've driven him insane.
Now?
Now he didn't mind it.
Not with you.
He watched the glow of holograms reflect against your face.
The way you absentmindedly tapped your fingers against the desk while reading.
The little crease between your eyebrows whenever something annoyed you.
The tiny details he'd somehow memorized without realizing.
The realization should have terrified him.
Instead—
"Hey."
You didn't look up.
"Mhm?"
Johnny grinned.
"Wanna go out with me?"
The answer came instantly.
"No."
Johnny groaned.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
"Long enough."
"You're impossible."
This time you looked up.
The corners of your mouth twitching.
Amusement dancing in your eyes.
And suddenly Johnny had a horrible feeling.
The kind that only appeared right before disaster.
You were planning something.
He could tell.
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
Studying him.
Far too innocent.
Far too calm.
Dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
Johnny narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
You smiled.
Slowly.
"Oh, nothing."
That smile.
That smile had never meant anything good.
Johnny pointed at you.
"See? That's exactly the smile."
"What smile?"
"The one that means you're about to emotionally damage me."
Your laugh echoed through the quiet laboratory.
And for one brief, beautiful moment, Johnny forgot he was supposed to be suspicious.
A fatal mistake.
Because then you spoke.
Casually.
Like you weren't about to commit a crime.
"I don't date blondes."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Complete.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"...what?"
You looked completely serious.
Terrifyingly serious.
"I don't date blondes."
Johnny stared.
Then stared harder.
Then looked around the room as if waiting for somebody to jump out and explain the joke.
Nobody appeared.
Because there was nobody else there.
Just you.
Trying very hard not to laugh.
And him.
Experiencing psychological warfare.
"I'm sorry."
Johnny held up a hand.
"No."
He pointed at his hair.
"My hair?"
You nodded.
"Your hair."
"My hair is the problem."
"Unfortunately."
Johnny sat there.
Speechless.
Actually speechless.
Which almost never happened.
Then he leaned forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was handling unstable explosives.
"Your reason."
"Mhm."
"For rejecting me."
"Mhm."
"Is because I'm blond."
"Correct."
Johnny stared.
You stared back.
Neither of you moving.
Neither of you blinking.
And then—
The tiniest smile appeared.
Right at the corner of your mouth.
Johnny immediately pointed.
"THERE."
You burst out laughing.
Immediately.
Completely.
The sound filled the laboratory.
And suddenly Johnny understood.
"Oh, you're evil."
Your shoulders shook.
"You should hear yourself."
"You rejected me because of my hair."
"It was funny."
"It wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"It was deeply hurtful."
That only made you laugh harder.
Johnny slumped back in his chair.
Hand over his heart.
Absolutely devastated.
Or pretending to be.
Mostly pretending.
Maybe.
The problem was—
The problem was that he couldn't even be upset.
Because you were laughing.
Really laughing.
The kind that made your eyes crinkle.
The kind that made your entire face light up.
And God help him—
Johnny would probably let you reject him a hundred more times if it meant seeing that look again.
The realization hit hard.
Hard enough that for a moment he forgot to joke.
Forgot to flirt.
Forgot to play the part everyone expected from Johnny Storm.
Instead, he just watched you.
Quietly.
And something shifted.
Small.
Almost imperceptible.
But real.
Because suddenly it wasn't about winning anymore.
It wasn't about proving he could get a date.
It wasn't about the challenge.
The chase.
The game.
It was you.
Just you.
Sitting across from him at two in the morning.
Laughing at your own terrible joke.
Looking happier than you'd looked all week.
And for the first time, Johnny realized he would be perfectly happy sitting here forever.
Not because he thought you'd eventually say yes.
Not because he expected anything in return.
But because he liked being around you.
Way more than he probably should.
Way more than was safe.
Way more than a man was supposed to like someone who had just rejected him because he was blond.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Eventually, your laughter faded.
The room settling once more.
And before either of you could say anything—
The lab doors slid open.
Ben walked in carrying three sandwiches.
Took one look at Johnny.
One look at you.
And immediately knew.
"Oh, she rejected you again."
Johnny sighed.
Deeply.
Painfully.
"Because I'm blond."
Ben stopped walking.
"...what?"
"Because I'm blond."
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Ben doubled over.
The sandwiches hit the floor.
And his laughter echoed through the entire Baxter Building.
Johnny seriously considered setting something on fire. Probably Ben.
You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you reached for your laptop.
"You're both ridiculous."
"She says after rejecting me because of my hair."
"Which was funny."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
Ben nearly dropped another sandwich laughing.
You ignored both of them.
With the ease of someone who had spent far too much time around the Fantastic Four, you began shutting down the holograms floating above your workstation. One by one, the glowing screens disappeared until the laboratory finally returned to its usual dim lighting.
The clock in the corner of the room read 3:07 a.m.
A fact that suddenly made your entire body feel exhausted.
You closed your laptop.
Gathered your notes.
Finished the last sip of your coffee.
Then stood.
Johnny immediately frowned.
"Where are you going?"
You blinked.
"...Home?"
"It's three in the morning."
"Exactly."
"You can't just leave at three in the morning."
You stared at him.
Johnny stared right back.
As if this was a completely reasonable concern.
As if he hadn't personally watched you leave the building at worse hours.
"Johnny."
"What?"
"I have to be back here at nine."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
Johnny stood up.
Looking genuinely offended.
Like the answer should've been obvious.
"I can't let a lady go outside by herself at three in the morning."
The silence that followed lasted exactly two seconds.
Then your expression changed.
Not amused.
Not teasing.
Just...
Confused.
"Outside?"
"Yeah."
"Johnny."
"What?"
You adjusted the strap of your bag.
Still staring at him.
"I'm not leaving the building."
He blinked.
"What?"
"Sue gave me one of the guest rooms."
Another blink.
"...What?"
You pointed vaguely toward the elevators.
"Two floors down."
The realization hit him all at once.
The room.
The guest room.
The one Sue had offered months ago after one too many late nights.
The one literally inside the Baxter Building.
The one Johnny somehow forgot existed.
"Oh."
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Far too sweetly.
"Goodnight, Storm."
Then you turned.
Walked toward the door.
And left.
Just like that.
The laboratory doors slid shut behind you.
Silence.
Johnny stood there.
Motionless.
Staring at the empty doorway.
Ben watched him for a moment.
Then another.
Then—
"...You forgot she lives here."
Johnny pointed aggressively toward the elevator.
"She doesn't live here."
"Close enough."
"Not helping."
Ben snorted.
Johnny dragged a hand down his face.
Then sighed.
Long.
Deep.
Dramatic.
The sigh of a man experiencing true suffering.
Finally, he muttered,
"I'll dye it."
Ben frowned.
"What?"
Johnny looked completely serious.
"If that's the problem, I'll dye it."
For a second, Ben simply stared at him.
Trying to determine whether this was a joke.
Unfortunately—
It wasn't.
Johnny was genuinely considering it.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I'll go brunette."
Ben folded in half.
Actually folded.
The laughter that erupted from him was so violent he had to grab the nearest desk for support.
Tears immediately sprang to his eyes.
"Oh my God."
Johnny looked offended.
"What?"
"You've got it BAD."
"I do not."
"YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT CHANGING YOUR HAIR."
"It's called commitment."
"It's called being down catastrophic."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And unfortunately for him, he couldn't come up with a single argument.
Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice was already wondering whether he'd look good as a brunette.
i. By the time Johnny Storm asked you out for what would eventually be the successful attempt, he had completely given up on succeeding.
Not in a depressing way.
Not in a woe is me, nobody loves me way.
Just...
Realistically.
The same way a man stops expecting to win the lottery.
Or stops expecting Reed to remember where he left his keys.
Or stops expecting Ben to stop bringing up the blonde incident.
Some things simply weren't going to happen.
And apparently one of those things was you agreeing to go on a date with him.
So Johnny adjusted.
Mostly.
Kind of.
Not really.
The flirting never stopped.
That was impossible.
Breathing was less natural to Johnny Storm than flirting with you.
But somewhere along the way, the asking had changed.
It wasn't a challenge anymore.
Wasn't a game.
Wasn't even hope, really.
It had become routine.
Comfortable.
A running joke that belonged solely to the two of you.
A question.
A rejection.
A laugh.
Then life continued.
Simple.
Predictable.
Safe.
Which was exactly why it hit him like a truck.
The afternoon itself had been unremarkable.
The Baxter Building buzzed with its usual energy.
Researchers moving through the halls.
H.E.R.B.I.E. rolling around somewhere in the distance.
Reed locked inside a laboratory with three whiteboards and no awareness of time.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Johnny found you exactly where he expected.
At your desk.
Surrounded by files.
Halfway through organizing an absurd amount of research data because apparently nobody else in the building knew how to label things correctly.
Sunlight poured through the enormous windows.
Golden and warm.
Painting the laboratory in shades of amber.
You sat with your sleeves pushed up and your hair pulled back, entirely focused on your work.
Johnny smiled before he even realized he was doing it.
The sight had become familiar.
Comforting.
Like coming home.
Which was—
Nope.
Not thinking about that.
Absolutely not.
He dropped into the chair beside your desk.
You didn't look up immediately.
Just hummed in acknowledgment.
The sound alone somehow made him grin wider.
"Hey."
"Mhm."
"Wanna go out with me Friday?"
There it was.
The usual question.
The routine.
The joke.
Johnny reached for a pen on your desk while waiting for the inevitable rejection.
Maybe you'd say no because he was blonde again.
Maybe you'd tell him he talked too much.
Maybe you'd invent another ridiculous excuse.
Honestly, he was looking forward to hearing it.
Then—
"Okay."
Johnny grabbed the pen.
Then froze.
The room suddenly felt very quiet.
Very.
Very quiet.
Slowly, he blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Surely he had imagined that.
Because there was no way—
No possible way—
He looked up.
You were still sorting files.
Calm.
Composed.
Entirely unbothered.
Like you hadn't just detonated a bomb inside his ribcage.
"...What?"
You slid another folder into place.
"Friday works."
Johnny stared.
The pen slipped from his fingers.
Hit the floor.
Neither of you moved.
For one horrifying second, Johnny became convinced he was hallucinating.
Maybe Reed had accidentally released toxic fumes.
Maybe he'd finally lost his mind.
Maybe Ben had hit him with a truck.
Any explanation seemed more likely than what had just happened.
"You..."
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
Mortifying.
"You said yes."
You finally looked up.
And there it was.
A smile.
Not the polite one.
Not the professional one.
Not the one you gave reporters or investors or strangers.
the three times johnny storm got rejected and the one time he didn't
The first time Johnny Storm asked you out, you had been working at the Baxter Building for exactly twenty-three days.
Not that Johnny knew that.
Or cared.
The exact number only mattered because Ben had started counting.
Apparently there was a betting pool now.
You discovered this later.
Much later.
After Johnny had already become the single greatest inconvenience in your professional life.
The afternoon itself had started normally enough.
The main laboratory was alive with its usual rhythm — the low hum of machinery, holographic displays casting blue light across the walls, Reed muttering equations under his breath while completely ignoring the sandwich sitting untouched beside him.
You occupied one of the workstations near the center of the room, reviewing data collected from a recent space survey. Several holograms floated above the desk in front of you, columns of numbers shifting as you reorganized them.
The work was tedious.
Which was exactly why you liked it.
Nobody bothered you when you were working.
Well...
Almost nobody.
You had become so focused that you failed to notice Johnny enter the lab.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because Johnny Storm had the uncanny ability to detect when he was being ignored.
You became aware of him only when a shadow fell across your desk.
Then came the smell of smoke.
Not actual smoke.
Just warmth.
Like standing too close to a fireplace.
You didn't bother looking up.
"Hello, Johnny."
There was a pause.
A surprised one.
"You knew it was me?"
You continued typing.
"Nobody else announces their arrival like a burnt marshmallow."
From somewhere across the room, Ben barked out a laugh.
Johnny ignored him.
You could practically hear the grin stretching across his face.
"That was funny."
"It wasn't a joke."
"It was a little funny."
"No."
"See, that's your problem."
"My problem?"
"You're denying yourself joy."
Finally, you looked up.
Johnny was leaning against the edge of your workstation, arms crossed over his chest.
And unfortunately—
Very unfortunately—
He looked good.
Everybody knew Johnny looked good.
It wasn't exactly breaking news.
The problem was that he knew it too.
The confidence practically radiated off him.
The easy smile.
The bright eyes.
The infuriating certainty that the world belonged to him.
You had met men like him before.
Men who thought charm could unlock any door.
Men who believed persistence was romantic.
Men who expected eventual success.
Johnny Storm simply happened to be the most attractive version of that problem.
You looked back down at your screen.
The conversation was over as far as you were concerned.
Unfortunately, Johnny disagreed.
"So."
You sighed.
"So?"
"So."
His grin widened.
"Wanna get dinner with me?"
The laboratory fell silent.
Not immediately.
Not dramatically.
But one by one, the conversations died.
You noticed Sue stop walking.
Ben stopped pretending to work altogether.
Even Reed glanced away from the monitor in front of him.
Waiting.
For what?
You had no idea.
The answer was obvious.
You looked up at Johnny.
At the confidence in his expression.
At the certainty.
The expectation.
Then you smiled politely.
"No."
Silence.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Like his brain needed an extra moment to process the information.
"...No?"
"No."
"Just no?"
You nodded.
"That's usually how no works."
Ben immediately doubled over laughing.
The sound echoed through the entire laboratory.
Johnny pointed at him without taking his eyes off you.
"Stay out of this."
"I literally can't," Ben wheezed. "This is the funniest thing I've seen all week."
Johnny looked genuinely offended.
Which somehow made the situation even funnier.
You gathered a few files from your desk and stood.
The conversation had reached its natural conclusion.
At least for you.
Johnny, however, looked like a man experiencing a minor existential crisis.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
You considered it.
"A second."
"A second?"
"A generous estimate."
This time Sue laughed.
Actually laughed.
Johnny turned toward her.
"Sue."
She raised both hands immediately.
"I'm not helping you."
"You could've helped me."
"You asked her out before learning her middle name."
"I know her middle name."
"No, you don't."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Professionally.
The exact smile that had terrified investors, government officials, and one NASA director.
Then you walked away.
Leaving Johnny standing in the middle of the laboratory.
Staring after you.
For the first time in a very long time—
Completely speechless.
The second time Johnny Storm asked you out, he had a plan.
Now, in Johnny's defense, this was already more effort than he usually put into anything.
Johnny Storm was many things.
Confident.
Impulsive.
Charming.
Occasionally heroic.
Frequently annoying.
Planning ahead, however, was not one of his stronger qualities.
Which was precisely why Sue became suspicious the moment she saw him ironing a shirt.
Not wearing one.
Ironing one.
Actually ironing one.
With concentration.
Like a man preparing for war.
"Johnny."
He looked up.
"What?"
Sue stared.
Then pointed at the iron.
"What is that?"
Johnny frowned.
"...An iron?"
"No. I know what it is."
"Then why'd you ask?"
Sue narrowed her eyes.
Something was wrong.
She could feel it.
"Why are you using it?"
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
"No reason."
"Oh, God."
Johnny groaned.
"Can you stop acting like I'm planning a crime?"
"You only iron shirts when you're planning a crime."
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"Last time you ironed a shirt you tried to race a fighter jet."
"That was one time."
"Johnny."
"Two times."
Sue sighed.
Deeply.
The kind of sigh that only came from being related to Johnny Storm.
Then she noticed the shirt.
Black.
The nice black one.
The one he only wore when he was trying to impress somebody.
And suddenly everything made sense.
"Oh."
Johnny immediately knew.
"Don't."
"Oh, my God."
"Don't."
"You're asking her out again."
"I wasn't hiding it."
"You ironed a shirt."
"That's not hiding it."
"That's announcing it."
Johnny pointed accusingly.
"You're supposed to support me."
Sue laughed so hard she had to sit down.
The annual Future Foundation charity gala occupied three entire floors of a Manhattan hotel.
Scientists.
Investors.
Politicians.
Reporters.
The usual crowd.
The sort of event Reed attended because he had to.
The sort of event Sue attended because she was good at it.
The sort of event Ben attended because there was free food.
And the sort of event Johnny attended because cameras existed.
By the time the evening officially began, the ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns.
Music drifted through the room.
Champagne flowed freely.
People laughed.
Networked.
Discussed science and funding and the future of humanity.
Johnny spent exactly thirty-seven minutes pretending to listen before his attention wandered.
Not intentionally.
It just happened.
Because then he saw you.
And every coherent thought immediately left his body.
Across the room, you stood beside a group of researchers from MIT.
One hand wrapped around a champagne glass.
The other gesturing as you spoke.
The soft gold lighting caught the side of your face.
Your dress wasn't even particularly flashy.
It wasn't the most expensive gown in the room.
Or the most dramatic.
Or the most attention-grabbing.
Yet somehow—
Johnny couldn't look away.
It annoyed him.
Deeply.
Because this kept happening.
Every time.
He'd see you.
And suddenly nothing else felt nearly as interesting.
"Uh oh."
Johnny didn't even have to turn around.
Ben.
Obviously.
"What?"
"The look."
Johnny frowned.
"What look?"
"The one where you forget how blinking works."
Johnny finally turned.
Ben was eating shrimp.
A concerning amount of shrimp.
"You sound obsessed."
Ben nearly choked.
"ME?"
"You."
"Brother."
Ben pointed his shrimp at him.
"You've been staring at that poor girl for five straight minutes."
Johnny rolled his eyes.
Then looked back across the room.
You were laughing now.
Something one of the researchers had said.
The sound didn't reach him through the crowd.
But he could see it.
The smile.
The way your shoulders relaxed.
The way your head tilted back slightly.
And suddenly—
The ballroom seemed a little brighter.
A little warmer.
A little easier to breathe in.
Johnny froze.
"...oh."
Ben saw the realization happen in real time.
"Oh, no."
"What?"
"You got it bad."
Johnny immediately scoffed.
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"You ironed a shirt."
"STOP BRINGING UP THE SHIRT."
The problem with you was that you never made anything easy.
If you had disliked him, this would've been simple.
If you'd been rude, dismissive, cruel—
Simple.
Easy.
Understandable.
Instead, you were always nice.
Warm.
Funny.
Patient.
You smiled when he talked.
You laughed at some of his jokes.
You remembered things he told you.
You cared when he got hurt on missions.
You checked in after long nights.
You brought him coffee when he forgot to sleep.
And somehow—
Somehow—
You still wouldn't go out with him.
It was maddening.
Completely maddening.
Because Johnny knew when someone disliked him.
You didn't.
Which meant the issue wasn't him.
At least...
Probably not.
Hopefully not.
Maybe.
Actually he wasn't sure anymore.
Which was somehow worse.
He found you nearly an hour later standing near one of the balconies overlooking Manhattan.
The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass.
Thousands of lights scattered across the darkness.
The skyline glowing against the night.
For a moment he just watched you.
Not in a creepy way.
Probably.
Okay.
Maybe slightly.
But in his defense, you looked beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that made people stop mid-sentence.
The kind of beautiful that made entire rooms feel quieter.
The kind of beautiful Johnny was rapidly discovering could be extremely dangerous to his health.
You sensed him before he spoke.
Without turning around, you lifted your champagne glass.
"Hello, Storm."
Johnny grinned.
There it was.
Storm.
Always Storm.
Never Johnny.
Never anything softer.
Just Storm.
Like he was some persistent weather condition.
"You knew it'd be me."
"I heard the ego approaching."
Johnny pressed a hand over his heart.
"Wounded."
"You'll survive."
"I might not."
You finally looked at him.
Amusement flickering behind your eyes.
And there it was again.
That feeling.
That awful, wonderful feeling.
The one that had become increasingly difficult to ignore.
Johnny leaned against the railing.
Trying very hard to appear casual.
Trying very hard to ignore the fact that his pulse had suddenly sped up.
"Dinner."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"No."
"I haven't even finished the sentence."
"You don't need to."
"Come on."
"No."
"One date."
"No."
"One drink."
"No."
"Coffee."
"No."
Johnny stared.
The smile on your face grew.
Tiny.
Barely visible.
But definitely there.
And suddenly he realized something.
You were enjoying this.
Not the asking.
The teasing.
The back and forth.
The challenge.
The fact that Johnny Storm kept trying.
The realization made him grin.
"You think this is funny."
"A little."
"A little?"
"A moderate amount."
Johnny laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because somehow that answer felt exactly like you.
Then he looked at you.
Really looked.
The city lights reflecting in your eyes.
The breeze catching your hair.
The amused expression you'd never show reporters.
And before he could stop himself—
Before his brain could catch up—
He asked quietly,
"Why not?"
For the first time that evening, you paused.
Not because you were considering it.
He could tell you weren't.
But because the question surprised you.
Johnny wasn't usually serious.
Not with this.
Not with you.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then your smile softened.
Just slightly.
Enough that he almost missed it.
"Because you're asking."
Johnny groaned immediately.
"Oh, that's evil."
A laugh escaped you.
Warm.
Genuine.
The kind he rarely got to hear.
And somehow—
Somehow—
It felt worth the rejection.
Which was probably the most concerning part of all.
Because as you turned and started walking back toward the ballroom, Johnny found himself watching you leave.
Again.
Not upset.
Not discouraged.
Not frustrated.
Just...
Wanting to follow.
And that realization hit him like a freight train.
Because somewhere between the first rejection and the second—
This had stopped being a game.
And Johnny Storm, much to his horror, was starting to think he might actually like you. REALLY like you. Which was a disaster.
An absolute, five-alarm, Baxter-Building-level disaster.
iii.
The third time Johnny Storm asked you out, he made the mistake of believing he was making progress.
In his defense, there was evidence.
Actual evidence.
Not much.
But enough.
You laughed at his jokes more often now.
Not all of them.
That would have been ridiculous.
But enough that Johnny started keeping track.
You no longer immediately walked away whenever he approached.
You voluntarily sat next to him during meetings.
Once, you had even fallen asleep in the common room with your head resting against his shoulder after a thirty-hour work session.
Granted, you'd been unconscious.
And yes, Ben still brought it up every chance he got.
But still.
The point stood.
Progress.
Tiny.
Microscopic.
Embarrassingly insignificant progress.
But progress nonetheless.
Which was how Johnny found himself wandering into the lab at two in the morning feeling oddly optimistic.
The Baxter Building was quiet.
For once.
Most of Manhattan slept beyond the massive windows.
The city lights glittered against the darkness while the lab itself remained illuminated by computer screens and floating holograms.
Reed had finally been forced to go home by Sue.
Ben had disappeared hours ago.
Even H.E.R.B.I.E. seemed quieter than usual.
The only person still awake besides Johnny was you.
Of course.
Because apparently sleep was optional for scientists.
You sat alone at one of the workstations, knees tucked beneath you in your chair while several files floated across a holographic display.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten beside your laptop.
You looked exhausted.
Your hair wasn't done.
Your glasses had slipped down your nose.
One sleeve of your sweater covered most of your hand.
And somehow—
Somehow—
Johnny thought you looked prettier than every supermodel he'd ever met.
It was honestly becoming a problem.
A serious one.
A medical condition, probably.
"You know."
Your voice broke through the silence before he'd even spoken.
Johnny smiled immediately.
"You know what?"
Without looking up from your screen, you replied,
"If you're standing there staring at me, you could at least say hello."
Busted.
Johnny walked further into the room.
"I wasn't staring."
You finally glanced up.
The look on your face said liar.
"No?"
"No."
"You've been standing there for at least thirty seconds."
Johnny dropped into the chair across from you.
"Okay, maybe a little."
"A little."
"A moderate amount."
That earned him a laugh.
A real one.
Not polite.
Not professional.
A genuine laugh.
And suddenly Johnny felt absurdly pleased with himself.
Which was dangerous.
Because whenever Johnny Storm felt confident, terrible things usually happened.
Like now.
You returned your attention to the files in front of you.
The room settled into comfortable silence.
Comfortable.
The word itself surprised Johnny.
A year ago, silence would've driven him insane.
Now?
Now he didn't mind it.
Not with you.
He watched the glow of holograms reflect against your face.
The way you absentmindedly tapped your fingers against the desk while reading.
The little crease between your eyebrows whenever something annoyed you.
The tiny details he'd somehow memorized without realizing.
The realization should have terrified him.
Instead—
"Hey."
You didn't look up.
"Mhm?"
Johnny grinned.
"Wanna go out with me?"
The answer came instantly.
"No."
Johnny groaned.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
"Long enough."
"You're impossible."
This time you looked up.
The corners of your mouth twitching.
Amusement dancing in your eyes.
And suddenly Johnny had a horrible feeling.
The kind that only appeared right before disaster.
You were planning something.
He could tell.
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
Studying him.
Far too innocent.
Far too calm.
Dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
Johnny narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
You smiled.
Slowly.
"Oh, nothing."
That smile.
That smile had never meant anything good.
Johnny pointed at you.
"See? That's exactly the smile."
"What smile?"
"The one that means you're about to emotionally damage me."
Your laugh echoed through the quiet laboratory.
And for one brief, beautiful moment, Johnny forgot he was supposed to be suspicious.
A fatal mistake.
Because then you spoke.
Casually.
Like you weren't about to commit a crime.
"I don't date blondes."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Complete.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"...what?"
You looked completely serious.
Terrifyingly serious.
"I don't date blondes."
Johnny stared.
Then stared harder.
Then looked around the room as if waiting for somebody to jump out and explain the joke.
Nobody appeared.
Because there was nobody else there.
Just you.
Trying very hard not to laugh.
And him.
Experiencing psychological warfare.
"I'm sorry."
Johnny held up a hand.
"No."
He pointed at his hair.
"My hair?"
You nodded.
"Your hair."
"My hair is the problem."
"Unfortunately."
Johnny sat there.
Speechless.
Actually speechless.
Which almost never happened.
Then he leaned forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was handling unstable explosives.
"Your reason."
"Mhm."
"For rejecting me."
"Mhm."
"Is because I'm blond."
"Correct."
Johnny stared.
You stared back.
Neither of you moving.
Neither of you blinking.
And then—
The tiniest smile appeared.
Right at the corner of your mouth.
Johnny immediately pointed.
"THERE."
You burst out laughing.
Immediately.
Completely.
The sound filled the laboratory.
And suddenly Johnny understood.
"Oh, you're evil."
Your shoulders shook.
"You should hear yourself."
"You rejected me because of my hair."
"It was funny."
"It wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"It was deeply hurtful."
That only made you laugh harder.
Johnny slumped back in his chair.
Hand over his heart.
Absolutely devastated.
Or pretending to be.
Mostly pretending.
Maybe.
The problem was—
The problem was that he couldn't even be upset.
Because you were laughing.
Really laughing.
The kind that made your eyes crinkle.
The kind that made your entire face light up.
And God help him—
Johnny would probably let you reject him a hundred more times if it meant seeing that look again.
The realization hit hard.
Hard enough that for a moment he forgot to joke.
Forgot to flirt.
Forgot to play the part everyone expected from Johnny Storm.
Instead, he just watched you.
Quietly.
And something shifted.
Small.
Almost imperceptible.
But real.
Because suddenly it wasn't about winning anymore.
It wasn't about proving he could get a date.
It wasn't about the challenge.
The chase.
The game.
It was you.
Just you.
Sitting across from him at two in the morning.
Laughing at your own terrible joke.
Looking happier than you'd looked all week.
And for the first time, Johnny realized he would be perfectly happy sitting here forever.
Not because he thought you'd eventually say yes.
Not because he expected anything in return.
But because he liked being around you.
Way more than he probably should.
Way more than was safe.
Way more than a man was supposed to like someone who had just rejected him because he was blond.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Eventually, your laughter faded.
The room settling once more.
And before either of you could say anything—
The lab doors slid open.
Ben walked in carrying three sandwiches.
Took one look at Johnny.
One look at you.
And immediately knew.
"Oh, she rejected you again."
Johnny sighed.
Deeply.
Painfully.
"Because I'm blond."
Ben stopped walking.
"...what?"
"Because I'm blond."
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Ben doubled over.
The sandwiches hit the floor.
And his laughter echoed through the entire Baxter Building.
Johnny seriously considered setting something on fire. Probably Ben.
You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you reached for your laptop.
"You're both ridiculous."
"She says after rejecting me because of my hair."
"Which was funny."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
Ben nearly dropped another sandwich laughing.
You ignored both of them.
With the ease of someone who had spent far too much time around the Fantastic Four, you began shutting down the holograms floating above your workstation. One by one, the glowing screens disappeared until the laboratory finally returned to its usual dim lighting.
The clock in the corner of the room read 3:07 a.m.
A fact that suddenly made your entire body feel exhausted.
You closed your laptop.
Gathered your notes.
Finished the last sip of your coffee.
Then stood.
Johnny immediately frowned.
"Where are you going?"
You blinked.
"...Home?"
"It's three in the morning."
"Exactly."
"You can't just leave at three in the morning."
You stared at him.
Johnny stared right back.
As if this was a completely reasonable concern.
As if he hadn't personally watched you leave the building at worse hours.
"Johnny."
"What?"
"I have to be back here at nine."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
Johnny stood up.
Looking genuinely offended.
Like the answer should've been obvious.
"I can't let a lady go outside by herself at three in the morning."
The silence that followed lasted exactly two seconds.
Then your expression changed.
Not amused.
Not teasing.
Just...
Confused.
"Outside?"
"Yeah."
"Johnny."
"What?"
You adjusted the strap of your bag.
Still staring at him.
"I'm not leaving the building."
He blinked.
"What?"
"Sue gave me one of the guest rooms."
Another blink.
"...What?"
You pointed vaguely toward the elevators.
"Two floors down."
The realization hit him all at once.
The room.
The guest room.
The one Sue had offered months ago after one too many late nights.
The one literally inside the Baxter Building.
The one Johnny somehow forgot existed.
"Oh."
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Far too sweetly.
"Goodnight, Storm."
Then you turned.
Walked toward the door.
And left.
Just like that.
The laboratory doors slid shut behind you.
Silence.
Johnny stood there.
Motionless.
Staring at the empty doorway.
Ben watched him for a moment.
Then another.
Then—
"...You forgot she lives here."
Johnny pointed aggressively toward the elevator.
"She doesn't live here."
"Close enough."
"Not helping."
Ben snorted.
Johnny dragged a hand down his face.
Then sighed.
Long.
Deep.
Dramatic.
The sigh of a man experiencing true suffering.
Finally, he muttered,
"I'll dye it."
Ben frowned.
"What?"
Johnny looked completely serious.
"If that's the problem, I'll dye it."
For a second, Ben simply stared at him.
Trying to determine whether this was a joke.
Unfortunately—
It wasn't.
Johnny was genuinely considering it.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I'll go brunette."
Ben folded in half.
Actually folded.
The laughter that erupted from him was so violent he had to grab the nearest desk for support.
Tears immediately sprang to his eyes.
"Oh my God."
Johnny looked offended.
"What?"
"You've got it BAD."
"I do not."
"YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT CHANGING YOUR HAIR."
"It's called commitment."
"It's called being down catastrophic."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And unfortunately for him, he couldn't come up with a single argument.
Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice was already wondering whether he'd look good as a brunette.
i. By the time Johnny Storm asked you out for what would eventually be the successful attempt, he had completely given up on succeeding.
Not in a depressing way.
Not in a woe is me, nobody loves me way.
Just...
Realistically.
The same way a man stops expecting to win the lottery.
Or stops expecting Reed to remember where he left his keys.
Or stops expecting Ben to stop bringing up the blonde incident.
Some things simply weren't going to happen.
And apparently one of those things was you agreeing to go on a date with him.
So Johnny adjusted.
Mostly.
Kind of.
Not really.
The flirting never stopped.
That was impossible.
Breathing was less natural to Johnny Storm than flirting with you.
But somewhere along the way, the asking had changed.
It wasn't a challenge anymore.
Wasn't a game.
Wasn't even hope, really.
It had become routine.
Comfortable.
A running joke that belonged solely to the two of you.
A question.
A rejection.
A laugh.
Then life continued.
Simple.
Predictable.
Safe.
Which was exactly why it hit him like a truck.
The afternoon itself had been unremarkable.
The Baxter Building buzzed with its usual energy.
Researchers moving through the halls.
H.E.R.B.I.E. rolling around somewhere in the distance.
Reed locked inside a laboratory with three whiteboards and no awareness of time.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Johnny found you exactly where he expected.
At your desk.
Surrounded by files.
Halfway through organizing an absurd amount of research data because apparently nobody else in the building knew how to label things correctly.
Sunlight poured through the enormous windows.
Golden and warm.
Painting the laboratory in shades of amber.
You sat with your sleeves pushed up and your hair pulled back, entirely focused on your work.
Johnny smiled before he even realized he was doing it.
The sight had become familiar.
Comforting.
Like coming home.
Which was—
Nope.
Not thinking about that.
Absolutely not.
He dropped into the chair beside your desk.
You didn't look up immediately.
Just hummed in acknowledgment.
The sound alone somehow made him grin wider.
"Hey."
"Mhm."
"Wanna go out with me Friday?"
There it was.
The usual question.
The routine.
The joke.
Johnny reached for a pen on your desk while waiting for the inevitable rejection.
Maybe you'd say no because he was blonde again.
Maybe you'd tell him he talked too much.
Maybe you'd invent another ridiculous excuse.
Honestly, he was looking forward to hearing it.
Then—
"Okay."
Johnny grabbed the pen.
Then froze.
The room suddenly felt very quiet.
Very.
Very quiet.
Slowly, he blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Surely he had imagined that.
Because there was no way—
No possible way—
He looked up.
You were still sorting files.
Calm.
Composed.
Entirely unbothered.
Like you hadn't just detonated a bomb inside his ribcage.
"...What?"
You slid another folder into place.
"Friday works."
Johnny stared.
The pen slipped from his fingers.
Hit the floor.
Neither of you moved.
For one horrifying second, Johnny became convinced he was hallucinating.
Maybe Reed had accidentally released toxic fumes.
Maybe he'd finally lost his mind.
Maybe Ben had hit him with a truck.
Any explanation seemed more likely than what had just happened.
"You..."
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
Mortifying.
"You said yes."
You finally looked up.
And there it was.
A smile.
Not the polite one.
Not the professional one.
Not the one you gave reporters or investors or strangers.
the three times johnny storm got rejected and the one time he didn't
The first time Johnny Storm asked you out, you had been working at the Baxter Building for exactly twenty-three days.
Not that Johnny knew that.
Or cared.
The exact number only mattered because Ben had started counting.
Apparently there was a betting pool now.
You discovered this later.
Much later.
After Johnny had already become the single greatest inconvenience in your professional life.
The afternoon itself had started normally enough.
The main laboratory was alive with its usual rhythm — the low hum of machinery, holographic displays casting blue light across the walls, Reed muttering equations under his breath while completely ignoring the sandwich sitting untouched beside him.
You occupied one of the workstations near the center of the room, reviewing data collected from a recent space survey. Several holograms floated above the desk in front of you, columns of numbers shifting as you reorganized them.
The work was tedious.
Which was exactly why you liked it.
Nobody bothered you when you were working.
Well...
Almost nobody.
You had become so focused that you failed to notice Johnny enter the lab.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because Johnny Storm had the uncanny ability to detect when he was being ignored.
You became aware of him only when a shadow fell across your desk.
Then came the smell of smoke.
Not actual smoke.
Just warmth.
Like standing too close to a fireplace.
You didn't bother looking up.
"Hello, Johnny."
There was a pause.
A surprised one.
"You knew it was me?"
You continued typing.
"Nobody else announces their arrival like a burnt marshmallow."
From somewhere across the room, Ben barked out a laugh.
Johnny ignored him.
You could practically hear the grin stretching across his face.
"That was funny."
"It wasn't a joke."
"It was a little funny."
"No."
"See, that's your problem."
"My problem?"
"You're denying yourself joy."
Finally, you looked up.
Johnny was leaning against the edge of your workstation, arms crossed over his chest.
And unfortunately—
Very unfortunately—
He looked good.
Everybody knew Johnny looked good.
It wasn't exactly breaking news.
The problem was that he knew it too.
The confidence practically radiated off him.
The easy smile.
The bright eyes.
The infuriating certainty that the world belonged to him.
You had met men like him before.
Men who thought charm could unlock any door.
Men who believed persistence was romantic.
Men who expected eventual success.
Johnny Storm simply happened to be the most attractive version of that problem.
You looked back down at your screen.
The conversation was over as far as you were concerned.
Unfortunately, Johnny disagreed.
"So."
You sighed.
"So?"
"So."
His grin widened.
"Wanna get dinner with me?"
The laboratory fell silent.
Not immediately.
Not dramatically.
But one by one, the conversations died.
You noticed Sue stop walking.
Ben stopped pretending to work altogether.
Even Reed glanced away from the monitor in front of him.
Waiting.
For what?
You had no idea.
The answer was obvious.
You looked up at Johnny.
At the confidence in his expression.
At the certainty.
The expectation.
Then you smiled politely.
"No."
Silence.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Like his brain needed an extra moment to process the information.
"...No?"
"No."
"Just no?"
You nodded.
"That's usually how no works."
Ben immediately doubled over laughing.
The sound echoed through the entire laboratory.
Johnny pointed at him without taking his eyes off you.
"Stay out of this."
"I literally can't," Ben wheezed. "This is the funniest thing I've seen all week."
Johnny looked genuinely offended.
Which somehow made the situation even funnier.
You gathered a few files from your desk and stood.
The conversation had reached its natural conclusion.
At least for you.
Johnny, however, looked like a man experiencing a minor existential crisis.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
You considered it.
"A second."
"A second?"
"A generous estimate."
This time Sue laughed.
Actually laughed.
Johnny turned toward her.
"Sue."
She raised both hands immediately.
"I'm not helping you."
"You could've helped me."
"You asked her out before learning her middle name."
"I know her middle name."
"No, you don't."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Professionally.
The exact smile that had terrified investors, government officials, and one NASA director.
Then you walked away.
Leaving Johnny standing in the middle of the laboratory.
Staring after you.
For the first time in a very long time—
Completely speechless.
The second time Johnny Storm asked you out, he had a plan.
Now, in Johnny's defense, this was already more effort than he usually put into anything.
Johnny Storm was many things.
Confident.
Impulsive.
Charming.
Occasionally heroic.
Frequently annoying.
Planning ahead, however, was not one of his stronger qualities.
Which was precisely why Sue became suspicious the moment she saw him ironing a shirt.
Not wearing one.
Ironing one.
Actually ironing one.
With concentration.
Like a man preparing for war.
"Johnny."
He looked up.
"What?"
Sue stared.
Then pointed at the iron.
"What is that?"
Johnny frowned.
"...An iron?"
"No. I know what it is."
"Then why'd you ask?"
Sue narrowed her eyes.
Something was wrong.
She could feel it.
"Why are you using it?"
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
"No reason."
"Oh, God."
Johnny groaned.
"Can you stop acting like I'm planning a crime?"
"You only iron shirts when you're planning a crime."
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"Last time you ironed a shirt you tried to race a fighter jet."
"That was one time."
"Johnny."
"Two times."
Sue sighed.
Deeply.
The kind of sigh that only came from being related to Johnny Storm.
Then she noticed the shirt.
Black.
The nice black one.
The one he only wore when he was trying to impress somebody.
And suddenly everything made sense.
"Oh."
Johnny immediately knew.
"Don't."
"Oh, my God."
"Don't."
"You're asking her out again."
"I wasn't hiding it."
"You ironed a shirt."
"That's not hiding it."
"That's announcing it."
Johnny pointed accusingly.
"You're supposed to support me."
Sue laughed so hard she had to sit down.
The annual Future Foundation charity gala occupied three entire floors of a Manhattan hotel.
Scientists.
Investors.
Politicians.
Reporters.
The usual crowd.
The sort of event Reed attended because he had to.
The sort of event Sue attended because she was good at it.
The sort of event Ben attended because there was free food.
And the sort of event Johnny attended because cameras existed.
By the time the evening officially began, the ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns.
Music drifted through the room.
Champagne flowed freely.
People laughed.
Networked.
Discussed science and funding and the future of humanity.
Johnny spent exactly thirty-seven minutes pretending to listen before his attention wandered.
Not intentionally.
It just happened.
Because then he saw you.
And every coherent thought immediately left his body.
Across the room, you stood beside a group of researchers from MIT.
One hand wrapped around a champagne glass.
The other gesturing as you spoke.
The soft gold lighting caught the side of your face.
Your dress wasn't even particularly flashy.
It wasn't the most expensive gown in the room.
Or the most dramatic.
Or the most attention-grabbing.
Yet somehow—
Johnny couldn't look away.
It annoyed him.
Deeply.
Because this kept happening.
Every time.
He'd see you.
And suddenly nothing else felt nearly as interesting.
"Uh oh."
Johnny didn't even have to turn around.
Ben.
Obviously.
"What?"
"The look."
Johnny frowned.
"What look?"
"The one where you forget how blinking works."
Johnny finally turned.
Ben was eating shrimp.
A concerning amount of shrimp.
"You sound obsessed."
Ben nearly choked.
"ME?"
"You."
"Brother."
Ben pointed his shrimp at him.
"You've been staring at that poor girl for five straight minutes."
Johnny rolled his eyes.
Then looked back across the room.
You were laughing now.
Something one of the researchers had said.
The sound didn't reach him through the crowd.
But he could see it.
The smile.
The way your shoulders relaxed.
The way your head tilted back slightly.
And suddenly—
The ballroom seemed a little brighter.
A little warmer.
A little easier to breathe in.
Johnny froze.
"...oh."
Ben saw the realization happen in real time.
"Oh, no."
"What?"
"You got it bad."
Johnny immediately scoffed.
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"You ironed a shirt."
"STOP BRINGING UP THE SHIRT."
The problem with you was that you never made anything easy.
If you had disliked him, this would've been simple.
If you'd been rude, dismissive, cruel—
Simple.
Easy.
Understandable.
Instead, you were always nice.
Warm.
Funny.
Patient.
You smiled when he talked.
You laughed at some of his jokes.
You remembered things he told you.
You cared when he got hurt on missions.
You checked in after long nights.
You brought him coffee when he forgot to sleep.
And somehow—
Somehow—
You still wouldn't go out with him.
It was maddening.
Completely maddening.
Because Johnny knew when someone disliked him.
You didn't.
Which meant the issue wasn't him.
At least...
Probably not.
Hopefully not.
Maybe.
Actually he wasn't sure anymore.
Which was somehow worse.
He found you nearly an hour later standing near one of the balconies overlooking Manhattan.
The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass.
Thousands of lights scattered across the darkness.
The skyline glowing against the night.
For a moment he just watched you.
Not in a creepy way.
Probably.
Okay.
Maybe slightly.
But in his defense, you looked beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that made people stop mid-sentence.
The kind of beautiful that made entire rooms feel quieter.
The kind of beautiful Johnny was rapidly discovering could be extremely dangerous to his health.
You sensed him before he spoke.
Without turning around, you lifted your champagne glass.
"Hello, Storm."
Johnny grinned.
There it was.
Storm.
Always Storm.
Never Johnny.
Never anything softer.
Just Storm.
Like he was some persistent weather condition.
"You knew it'd be me."
"I heard the ego approaching."
Johnny pressed a hand over his heart.
"Wounded."
"You'll survive."
"I might not."
You finally looked at him.
Amusement flickering behind your eyes.
And there it was again.
That feeling.
That awful, wonderful feeling.
The one that had become increasingly difficult to ignore.
Johnny leaned against the railing.
Trying very hard to appear casual.
Trying very hard to ignore the fact that his pulse had suddenly sped up.
"Dinner."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"No."
"I haven't even finished the sentence."
"You don't need to."
"Come on."
"No."
"One date."
"No."
"One drink."
"No."
"Coffee."
"No."
Johnny stared.
The smile on your face grew.
Tiny.
Barely visible.
But definitely there.
And suddenly he realized something.
You were enjoying this.
Not the asking.
The teasing.
The back and forth.
The challenge.
The fact that Johnny Storm kept trying.
The realization made him grin.
"You think this is funny."
"A little."
"A little?"
"A moderate amount."
Johnny laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because somehow that answer felt exactly like you.
Then he looked at you.
Really looked.
The city lights reflecting in your eyes.
The breeze catching your hair.
The amused expression you'd never show reporters.
And before he could stop himself—
Before his brain could catch up—
He asked quietly,
"Why not?"
For the first time that evening, you paused.
Not because you were considering it.
He could tell you weren't.
But because the question surprised you.
Johnny wasn't usually serious.
Not with this.
Not with you.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then your smile softened.
Just slightly.
Enough that he almost missed it.
"Because you're asking."
Johnny groaned immediately.
"Oh, that's evil."
A laugh escaped you.
Warm.
Genuine.
The kind he rarely got to hear.
And somehow—
Somehow—
It felt worth the rejection.
Which was probably the most concerning part of all.
Because as you turned and started walking back toward the ballroom, Johnny found himself watching you leave.
Again.
Not upset.
Not discouraged.
Not frustrated.
Just...
Wanting to follow.
And that realization hit him like a freight train.
Because somewhere between the first rejection and the second—
This had stopped being a game.
And Johnny Storm, much to his horror, was starting to think he might actually like you. REALLY like you. Which was a disaster.
An absolute, five-alarm, Baxter-Building-level disaster.
iii.
The third time Johnny Storm asked you out, he made the mistake of believing he was making progress.
In his defense, there was evidence.
Actual evidence.
Not much.
But enough.
You laughed at his jokes more often now.
Not all of them.
That would have been ridiculous.
But enough that Johnny started keeping track.
You no longer immediately walked away whenever he approached.
You voluntarily sat next to him during meetings.
Once, you had even fallen asleep in the common room with your head resting against his shoulder after a thirty-hour work session.
Granted, you'd been unconscious.
And yes, Ben still brought it up every chance he got.
But still.
The point stood.
Progress.
Tiny.
Microscopic.
Embarrassingly insignificant progress.
But progress nonetheless.
Which was how Johnny found himself wandering into the lab at two in the morning feeling oddly optimistic.
The Baxter Building was quiet.
For once.
Most of Manhattan slept beyond the massive windows.
The city lights glittered against the darkness while the lab itself remained illuminated by computer screens and floating holograms.
Reed had finally been forced to go home by Sue.
Ben had disappeared hours ago.
Even H.E.R.B.I.E. seemed quieter than usual.
The only person still awake besides Johnny was you.
Of course.
Because apparently sleep was optional for scientists.
You sat alone at one of the workstations, knees tucked beneath you in your chair while several files floated across a holographic display.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten beside your laptop.
You looked exhausted.
Your hair wasn't done.
Your glasses had slipped down your nose.
One sleeve of your sweater covered most of your hand.
And somehow—
Somehow—
Johnny thought you looked prettier than every supermodel he'd ever met.
It was honestly becoming a problem.
A serious one.
A medical condition, probably.
"You know."
Your voice broke through the silence before he'd even spoken.
Johnny smiled immediately.
"You know what?"
Without looking up from your screen, you replied,
"If you're standing there staring at me, you could at least say hello."
Busted.
Johnny walked further into the room.
"I wasn't staring."
You finally glanced up.
The look on your face said liar.
"No?"
"No."
"You've been standing there for at least thirty seconds."
Johnny dropped into the chair across from you.
"Okay, maybe a little."
"A little."
"A moderate amount."
That earned him a laugh.
A real one.
Not polite.
Not professional.
A genuine laugh.
And suddenly Johnny felt absurdly pleased with himself.
Which was dangerous.
Because whenever Johnny Storm felt confident, terrible things usually happened.
Like now.
You returned your attention to the files in front of you.
The room settled into comfortable silence.
Comfortable.
The word itself surprised Johnny.
A year ago, silence would've driven him insane.
Now?
Now he didn't mind it.
Not with you.
He watched the glow of holograms reflect against your face.
The way you absentmindedly tapped your fingers against the desk while reading.
The little crease between your eyebrows whenever something annoyed you.
The tiny details he'd somehow memorized without realizing.
The realization should have terrified him.
Instead—
"Hey."
You didn't look up.
"Mhm?"
Johnny grinned.
"Wanna go out with me?"
The answer came instantly.
"No."
Johnny groaned.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
"Long enough."
"You're impossible."
This time you looked up.
The corners of your mouth twitching.
Amusement dancing in your eyes.
And suddenly Johnny had a horrible feeling.
The kind that only appeared right before disaster.
You were planning something.
He could tell.
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
Studying him.
Far too innocent.
Far too calm.
Dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
Johnny narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
You smiled.
Slowly.
"Oh, nothing."
That smile.
That smile had never meant anything good.
Johnny pointed at you.
"See? That's exactly the smile."
"What smile?"
"The one that means you're about to emotionally damage me."
Your laugh echoed through the quiet laboratory.
And for one brief, beautiful moment, Johnny forgot he was supposed to be suspicious.
A fatal mistake.
Because then you spoke.
Casually.
Like you weren't about to commit a crime.
"I don't date blondes."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Complete.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"...what?"
You looked completely serious.
Terrifyingly serious.
"I don't date blondes."
Johnny stared.
Then stared harder.
Then looked around the room as if waiting for somebody to jump out and explain the joke.
Nobody appeared.
Because there was nobody else there.
Just you.
Trying very hard not to laugh.
And him.
Experiencing psychological warfare.
"I'm sorry."
Johnny held up a hand.
"No."
He pointed at his hair.
"My hair?"
You nodded.
"Your hair."
"My hair is the problem."
"Unfortunately."
Johnny sat there.
Speechless.
Actually speechless.
Which almost never happened.
Then he leaned forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was handling unstable explosives.
"Your reason."
"Mhm."
"For rejecting me."
"Mhm."
"Is because I'm blond."
"Correct."
Johnny stared.
You stared back.
Neither of you moving.
Neither of you blinking.
And then—
The tiniest smile appeared.
Right at the corner of your mouth.
Johnny immediately pointed.
"THERE."
You burst out laughing.
Immediately.
Completely.
The sound filled the laboratory.
And suddenly Johnny understood.
"Oh, you're evil."
Your shoulders shook.
"You should hear yourself."
"You rejected me because of my hair."
"It was funny."
"It wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"It was deeply hurtful."
That only made you laugh harder.
Johnny slumped back in his chair.
Hand over his heart.
Absolutely devastated.
Or pretending to be.
Mostly pretending.
Maybe.
The problem was—
The problem was that he couldn't even be upset.
Because you were laughing.
Really laughing.
The kind that made your eyes crinkle.
The kind that made your entire face light up.
And God help him—
Johnny would probably let you reject him a hundred more times if it meant seeing that look again.
The realization hit hard.
Hard enough that for a moment he forgot to joke.
Forgot to flirt.
Forgot to play the part everyone expected from Johnny Storm.
Instead, he just watched you.
Quietly.
And something shifted.
Small.
Almost imperceptible.
But real.
Because suddenly it wasn't about winning anymore.
It wasn't about proving he could get a date.
It wasn't about the challenge.
The chase.
The game.
It was you.
Just you.
Sitting across from him at two in the morning.
Laughing at your own terrible joke.
Looking happier than you'd looked all week.
And for the first time, Johnny realized he would be perfectly happy sitting here forever.
Not because he thought you'd eventually say yes.
Not because he expected anything in return.
But because he liked being around you.
Way more than he probably should.
Way more than was safe.
Way more than a man was supposed to like someone who had just rejected him because he was blond.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Eventually, your laughter faded.
The room settling once more.
And before either of you could say anything—
The lab doors slid open.
Ben walked in carrying three sandwiches.
Took one look at Johnny.
One look at you.
And immediately knew.
"Oh, she rejected you again."
Johnny sighed.
Deeply.
Painfully.
"Because I'm blond."
Ben stopped walking.
"...what?"
"Because I'm blond."
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Ben doubled over.
The sandwiches hit the floor.
And his laughter echoed through the entire Baxter Building.
Johnny seriously considered setting something on fire. Probably Ben.
You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you reached for your laptop.
"You're both ridiculous."
"She says after rejecting me because of my hair."
"Which was funny."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
Ben nearly dropped another sandwich laughing.
You ignored both of them.
With the ease of someone who had spent far too much time around the Fantastic Four, you began shutting down the holograms floating above your workstation. One by one, the glowing screens disappeared until the laboratory finally returned to its usual dim lighting.
The clock in the corner of the room read 3:07 a.m.
A fact that suddenly made your entire body feel exhausted.
You closed your laptop.
Gathered your notes.
Finished the last sip of your coffee.
Then stood.
Johnny immediately frowned.
"Where are you going?"
You blinked.
"...Home?"
"It's three in the morning."
"Exactly."
"You can't just leave at three in the morning."
You stared at him.
Johnny stared right back.
As if this was a completely reasonable concern.
As if he hadn't personally watched you leave the building at worse hours.
"Johnny."
"What?"
"I have to be back here at nine."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
Johnny stood up.
Looking genuinely offended.
Like the answer should've been obvious.
"I can't let a lady go outside by herself at three in the morning."
The silence that followed lasted exactly two seconds.
Then your expression changed.
Not amused.
Not teasing.
Just...
Confused.
"Outside?"
"Yeah."
"Johnny."
"What?"
You adjusted the strap of your bag.
Still staring at him.
"I'm not leaving the building."
He blinked.
"What?"
"Sue gave me one of the guest rooms."
Another blink.
"...What?"
You pointed vaguely toward the elevators.
"Two floors down."
The realization hit him all at once.
The room.
The guest room.
The one Sue had offered months ago after one too many late nights.
The one literally inside the Baxter Building.
The one Johnny somehow forgot existed.
"Oh."
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Far too sweetly.
"Goodnight, Storm."
Then you turned.
Walked toward the door.
And left.
Just like that.
The laboratory doors slid shut behind you.
Silence.
Johnny stood there.
Motionless.
Staring at the empty doorway.
Ben watched him for a moment.
Then another.
Then—
"...You forgot she lives here."
Johnny pointed aggressively toward the elevator.
"She doesn't live here."
"Close enough."
"Not helping."
Ben snorted.
Johnny dragged a hand down his face.
Then sighed.
Long.
Deep.
Dramatic.
The sigh of a man experiencing true suffering.
Finally, he muttered,
"I'll dye it."
Ben frowned.
"What?"
Johnny looked completely serious.
"If that's the problem, I'll dye it."
For a second, Ben simply stared at him.
Trying to determine whether this was a joke.
Unfortunately—
It wasn't.
Johnny was genuinely considering it.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I'll go brunette."
Ben folded in half.
Actually folded.
The laughter that erupted from him was so violent he had to grab the nearest desk for support.
Tears immediately sprang to his eyes.
"Oh my God."
Johnny looked offended.
"What?"
"You've got it BAD."
"I do not."
"YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT CHANGING YOUR HAIR."
"It's called commitment."
"It's called being down catastrophic."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And unfortunately for him, he couldn't come up with a single argument.
Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice was already wondering whether he'd look good as a brunette.
i. By the time Johnny Storm asked you out for what would eventually be the successful attempt, he had completely given up on succeeding.
Not in a depressing way.
Not in a woe is me, nobody loves me way.
Just...
Realistically.
The same way a man stops expecting to win the lottery.
Or stops expecting Reed to remember where he left his keys.
Or stops expecting Ben to stop bringing up the blonde incident.
Some things simply weren't going to happen.
And apparently one of those things was you agreeing to go on a date with him.
So Johnny adjusted.
Mostly.
Kind of.
Not really.
The flirting never stopped.
That was impossible.
Breathing was less natural to Johnny Storm than flirting with you.
But somewhere along the way, the asking had changed.
It wasn't a challenge anymore.
Wasn't a game.
Wasn't even hope, really.
It had become routine.
Comfortable.
A running joke that belonged solely to the two of you.
A question.
A rejection.
A laugh.
Then life continued.
Simple.
Predictable.
Safe.
Which was exactly why it hit him like a truck.
The afternoon itself had been unremarkable.
The Baxter Building buzzed with its usual energy.
Researchers moving through the halls.
H.E.R.B.I.E. rolling around somewhere in the distance.
Reed locked inside a laboratory with three whiteboards and no awareness of time.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Johnny found you exactly where he expected.
At your desk.
Surrounded by files.
Halfway through organizing an absurd amount of research data because apparently nobody else in the building knew how to label things correctly.
Sunlight poured through the enormous windows.
Golden and warm.
Painting the laboratory in shades of amber.
You sat with your sleeves pushed up and your hair pulled back, entirely focused on your work.
Johnny smiled before he even realized he was doing it.
The sight had become familiar.
Comforting.
Like coming home.
Which was—
Nope.
Not thinking about that.
Absolutely not.
He dropped into the chair beside your desk.
You didn't look up immediately.
Just hummed in acknowledgment.
The sound alone somehow made him grin wider.
"Hey."
"Mhm."
"Wanna go out with me Friday?"
There it was.
The usual question.
The routine.
The joke.
Johnny reached for a pen on your desk while waiting for the inevitable rejection.
Maybe you'd say no because he was blonde again.
Maybe you'd tell him he talked too much.
Maybe you'd invent another ridiculous excuse.
Honestly, he was looking forward to hearing it.
Then—
"Okay."
Johnny grabbed the pen.
Then froze.
The room suddenly felt very quiet.
Very.
Very quiet.
Slowly, he blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Surely he had imagined that.
Because there was no way—
No possible way—
He looked up.
You were still sorting files.
Calm.
Composed.
Entirely unbothered.
Like you hadn't just detonated a bomb inside his ribcage.
"...What?"
You slid another folder into place.
"Friday works."
Johnny stared.
The pen slipped from his fingers.
Hit the floor.
Neither of you moved.
For one horrifying second, Johnny became convinced he was hallucinating.
Maybe Reed had accidentally released toxic fumes.
Maybe he'd finally lost his mind.
Maybe Ben had hit him with a truck.
Any explanation seemed more likely than what had just happened.
"You..."
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
Mortifying.
"You said yes."
You finally looked up.
And there it was.
A smile.
Not the polite one.
Not the professional one.
Not the one you gave reporters or investors or strangers.
the three times johnny storm got rejected and the one time he didn't
The first time Johnny Storm asked you out, you had been working at the Baxter Building for exactly twenty-three days.
Not that Johnny knew that.
Or cared.
The exact number only mattered because Ben had started counting.
Apparently there was a betting pool now.
You discovered this later.
Much later.
After Johnny had already become the single greatest inconvenience in your professional life.
The afternoon itself had started normally enough.
The main laboratory was alive with its usual rhythm — the low hum of machinery, holographic displays casting blue light across the walls, Reed muttering equations under his breath while completely ignoring the sandwich sitting untouched beside him.
You occupied one of the workstations near the center of the room, reviewing data collected from a recent space survey. Several holograms floated above the desk in front of you, columns of numbers shifting as you reorganized them.
The work was tedious.
Which was exactly why you liked it.
Nobody bothered you when you were working.
Well...
Almost nobody.
You had become so focused that you failed to notice Johnny enter the lab.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because Johnny Storm had the uncanny ability to detect when he was being ignored.
You became aware of him only when a shadow fell across your desk.
Then came the smell of smoke.
Not actual smoke.
Just warmth.
Like standing too close to a fireplace.
You didn't bother looking up.
"Hello, Johnny."
There was a pause.
A surprised one.
"You knew it was me?"
You continued typing.
"Nobody else announces their arrival like a burnt marshmallow."
From somewhere across the room, Ben barked out a laugh.
Johnny ignored him.
You could practically hear the grin stretching across his face.
"That was funny."
"It wasn't a joke."
"It was a little funny."
"No."
"See, that's your problem."
"My problem?"
"You're denying yourself joy."
Finally, you looked up.
Johnny was leaning against the edge of your workstation, arms crossed over his chest.
And unfortunately—
Very unfortunately—
He looked good.
Everybody knew Johnny looked good.
It wasn't exactly breaking news.
The problem was that he knew it too.
The confidence practically radiated off him.
The easy smile.
The bright eyes.
The infuriating certainty that the world belonged to him.
You had met men like him before.
Men who thought charm could unlock any door.
Men who believed persistence was romantic.
Men who expected eventual success.
Johnny Storm simply happened to be the most attractive version of that problem.
You looked back down at your screen.
The conversation was over as far as you were concerned.
Unfortunately, Johnny disagreed.
"So."
You sighed.
"So?"
"So."
His grin widened.
"Wanna get dinner with me?"
The laboratory fell silent.
Not immediately.
Not dramatically.
But one by one, the conversations died.
You noticed Sue stop walking.
Ben stopped pretending to work altogether.
Even Reed glanced away from the monitor in front of him.
Waiting.
For what?
You had no idea.
The answer was obvious.
You looked up at Johnny.
At the confidence in his expression.
At the certainty.
The expectation.
Then you smiled politely.
"No."
Silence.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Like his brain needed an extra moment to process the information.
"...No?"
"No."
"Just no?"
You nodded.
"That's usually how no works."
Ben immediately doubled over laughing.
The sound echoed through the entire laboratory.
Johnny pointed at him without taking his eyes off you.
"Stay out of this."
"I literally can't," Ben wheezed. "This is the funniest thing I've seen all week."
Johnny looked genuinely offended.
Which somehow made the situation even funnier.
You gathered a few files from your desk and stood.
The conversation had reached its natural conclusion.
At least for you.
Johnny, however, looked like a man experiencing a minor existential crisis.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
You considered it.
"A second."
"A second?"
"A generous estimate."
This time Sue laughed.
Actually laughed.
Johnny turned toward her.
"Sue."
She raised both hands immediately.
"I'm not helping you."
"You could've helped me."
"You asked her out before learning her middle name."
"I know her middle name."
"No, you don't."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Professionally.
The exact smile that had terrified investors, government officials, and one NASA director.
Then you walked away.
Leaving Johnny standing in the middle of the laboratory.
Staring after you.
For the first time in a very long time—
Completely speechless.
The second time Johnny Storm asked you out, he had a plan.
Now, in Johnny's defense, this was already more effort than he usually put into anything.
Johnny Storm was many things.
Confident.
Impulsive.
Charming.
Occasionally heroic.
Frequently annoying.
Planning ahead, however, was not one of his stronger qualities.
Which was precisely why Sue became suspicious the moment she saw him ironing a shirt.
Not wearing one.
Ironing one.
Actually ironing one.
With concentration.
Like a man preparing for war.
"Johnny."
He looked up.
"What?"
Sue stared.
Then pointed at the iron.
"What is that?"
Johnny frowned.
"...An iron?"
"No. I know what it is."
"Then why'd you ask?"
Sue narrowed her eyes.
Something was wrong.
She could feel it.
"Why are you using it?"
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
"No reason."
"Oh, God."
Johnny groaned.
"Can you stop acting like I'm planning a crime?"
"You only iron shirts when you're planning a crime."
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"Last time you ironed a shirt you tried to race a fighter jet."
"That was one time."
"Johnny."
"Two times."
Sue sighed.
Deeply.
The kind of sigh that only came from being related to Johnny Storm.
Then she noticed the shirt.
Black.
The nice black one.
The one he only wore when he was trying to impress somebody.
And suddenly everything made sense.
"Oh."
Johnny immediately knew.
"Don't."
"Oh, my God."
"Don't."
"You're asking her out again."
"I wasn't hiding it."
"You ironed a shirt."
"That's not hiding it."
"That's announcing it."
Johnny pointed accusingly.
"You're supposed to support me."
Sue laughed so hard she had to sit down.
The annual Future Foundation charity gala occupied three entire floors of a Manhattan hotel.
Scientists.
Investors.
Politicians.
Reporters.
The usual crowd.
The sort of event Reed attended because he had to.
The sort of event Sue attended because she was good at it.
The sort of event Ben attended because there was free food.
And the sort of event Johnny attended because cameras existed.
By the time the evening officially began, the ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns.
Music drifted through the room.
Champagne flowed freely.
People laughed.
Networked.
Discussed science and funding and the future of humanity.
Johnny spent exactly thirty-seven minutes pretending to listen before his attention wandered.
Not intentionally.
It just happened.
Because then he saw you.
And every coherent thought immediately left his body.
Across the room, you stood beside a group of researchers from MIT.
One hand wrapped around a champagne glass.
The other gesturing as you spoke.
The soft gold lighting caught the side of your face.
Your dress wasn't even particularly flashy.
It wasn't the most expensive gown in the room.
Or the most dramatic.
Or the most attention-grabbing.
Yet somehow—
Johnny couldn't look away.
It annoyed him.
Deeply.
Because this kept happening.
Every time.
He'd see you.
And suddenly nothing else felt nearly as interesting.
"Uh oh."
Johnny didn't even have to turn around.
Ben.
Obviously.
"What?"
"The look."
Johnny frowned.
"What look?"
"The one where you forget how blinking works."
Johnny finally turned.
Ben was eating shrimp.
A concerning amount of shrimp.
"You sound obsessed."
Ben nearly choked.
"ME?"
"You."
"Brother."
Ben pointed his shrimp at him.
"You've been staring at that poor girl for five straight minutes."
Johnny rolled his eyes.
Then looked back across the room.
You were laughing now.
Something one of the researchers had said.
The sound didn't reach him through the crowd.
But he could see it.
The smile.
The way your shoulders relaxed.
The way your head tilted back slightly.
And suddenly—
The ballroom seemed a little brighter.
A little warmer.
A little easier to breathe in.
Johnny froze.
"...oh."
Ben saw the realization happen in real time.
"Oh, no."
"What?"
"You got it bad."
Johnny immediately scoffed.
"I do not."
"Johnny."
"I don't."
"You ironed a shirt."
"STOP BRINGING UP THE SHIRT."
The problem with you was that you never made anything easy.
If you had disliked him, this would've been simple.
If you'd been rude, dismissive, cruel—
Simple.
Easy.
Understandable.
Instead, you were always nice.
Warm.
Funny.
Patient.
You smiled when he talked.
You laughed at some of his jokes.
You remembered things he told you.
You cared when he got hurt on missions.
You checked in after long nights.
You brought him coffee when he forgot to sleep.
And somehow—
Somehow—
You still wouldn't go out with him.
It was maddening.
Completely maddening.
Because Johnny knew when someone disliked him.
You didn't.
Which meant the issue wasn't him.
At least...
Probably not.
Hopefully not.
Maybe.
Actually he wasn't sure anymore.
Which was somehow worse.
He found you nearly an hour later standing near one of the balconies overlooking Manhattan.
The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass.
Thousands of lights scattered across the darkness.
The skyline glowing against the night.
For a moment he just watched you.
Not in a creepy way.
Probably.
Okay.
Maybe slightly.
But in his defense, you looked beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that made people stop mid-sentence.
The kind of beautiful that made entire rooms feel quieter.
The kind of beautiful Johnny was rapidly discovering could be extremely dangerous to his health.
You sensed him before he spoke.
Without turning around, you lifted your champagne glass.
"Hello, Storm."
Johnny grinned.
There it was.
Storm.
Always Storm.
Never Johnny.
Never anything softer.
Just Storm.
Like he was some persistent weather condition.
"You knew it'd be me."
"I heard the ego approaching."
Johnny pressed a hand over his heart.
"Wounded."
"You'll survive."
"I might not."
You finally looked at him.
Amusement flickering behind your eyes.
And there it was again.
That feeling.
That awful, wonderful feeling.
The one that had become increasingly difficult to ignore.
Johnny leaned against the railing.
Trying very hard to appear casual.
Trying very hard to ignore the fact that his pulse had suddenly sped up.
"Dinner."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"No."
"I haven't even finished the sentence."
"You don't need to."
"Come on."
"No."
"One date."
"No."
"One drink."
"No."
"Coffee."
"No."
Johnny stared.
The smile on your face grew.
Tiny.
Barely visible.
But definitely there.
And suddenly he realized something.
You were enjoying this.
Not the asking.
The teasing.
The back and forth.
The challenge.
The fact that Johnny Storm kept trying.
The realization made him grin.
"You think this is funny."
"A little."
"A little?"
"A moderate amount."
Johnny laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because somehow that answer felt exactly like you.
Then he looked at you.
Really looked.
The city lights reflecting in your eyes.
The breeze catching your hair.
The amused expression you'd never show reporters.
And before he could stop himself—
Before his brain could catch up—
He asked quietly,
"Why not?"
For the first time that evening, you paused.
Not because you were considering it.
He could tell you weren't.
But because the question surprised you.
Johnny wasn't usually serious.
Not with this.
Not with you.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then your smile softened.
Just slightly.
Enough that he almost missed it.
"Because you're asking."
Johnny groaned immediately.
"Oh, that's evil."
A laugh escaped you.
Warm.
Genuine.
The kind he rarely got to hear.
And somehow—
Somehow—
It felt worth the rejection.
Which was probably the most concerning part of all.
Because as you turned and started walking back toward the ballroom, Johnny found himself watching you leave.
Again.
Not upset.
Not discouraged.
Not frustrated.
Just...
Wanting to follow.
And that realization hit him like a freight train.
Because somewhere between the first rejection and the second—
This had stopped being a game.
And Johnny Storm, much to his horror, was starting to think he might actually like you. REALLY like you. Which was a disaster.
An absolute, five-alarm, Baxter-Building-level disaster.
iii.
The third time Johnny Storm asked you out, he made the mistake of believing he was making progress.
In his defense, there was evidence.
Actual evidence.
Not much.
But enough.
You laughed at his jokes more often now.
Not all of them.
That would have been ridiculous.
But enough that Johnny started keeping track.
You no longer immediately walked away whenever he approached.
You voluntarily sat next to him during meetings.
Once, you had even fallen asleep in the common room with your head resting against his shoulder after a thirty-hour work session.
Granted, you'd been unconscious.
And yes, Ben still brought it up every chance he got.
But still.
The point stood.
Progress.
Tiny.
Microscopic.
Embarrassingly insignificant progress.
But progress nonetheless.
Which was how Johnny found himself wandering into the lab at two in the morning feeling oddly optimistic.
The Baxter Building was quiet.
For once.
Most of Manhattan slept beyond the massive windows.
The city lights glittered against the darkness while the lab itself remained illuminated by computer screens and floating holograms.
Reed had finally been forced to go home by Sue.
Ben had disappeared hours ago.
Even H.E.R.B.I.E. seemed quieter than usual.
The only person still awake besides Johnny was you.
Of course.
Because apparently sleep was optional for scientists.
You sat alone at one of the workstations, knees tucked beneath you in your chair while several files floated across a holographic display.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten beside your laptop.
You looked exhausted.
Your hair wasn't done.
Your glasses had slipped down your nose.
One sleeve of your sweater covered most of your hand.
And somehow—
Somehow—
Johnny thought you looked prettier than every supermodel he'd ever met.
It was honestly becoming a problem.
A serious one.
A medical condition, probably.
"You know."
Your voice broke through the silence before he'd even spoken.
Johnny smiled immediately.
"You know what?"
Without looking up from your screen, you replied,
"If you're standing there staring at me, you could at least say hello."
Busted.
Johnny walked further into the room.
"I wasn't staring."
You finally glanced up.
The look on your face said liar.
"No?"
"No."
"You've been standing there for at least thirty seconds."
Johnny dropped into the chair across from you.
"Okay, maybe a little."
"A little."
"A moderate amount."
That earned him a laugh.
A real one.
Not polite.
Not professional.
A genuine laugh.
And suddenly Johnny felt absurdly pleased with himself.
Which was dangerous.
Because whenever Johnny Storm felt confident, terrible things usually happened.
Like now.
You returned your attention to the files in front of you.
The room settled into comfortable silence.
Comfortable.
The word itself surprised Johnny.
A year ago, silence would've driven him insane.
Now?
Now he didn't mind it.
Not with you.
He watched the glow of holograms reflect against your face.
The way you absentmindedly tapped your fingers against the desk while reading.
The little crease between your eyebrows whenever something annoyed you.
The tiny details he'd somehow memorized without realizing.
The realization should have terrified him.
Instead—
"Hey."
You didn't look up.
"Mhm?"
Johnny grinned.
"Wanna go out with me?"
The answer came instantly.
"No."
Johnny groaned.
"You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"For how long?"
"Long enough."
"You're impossible."
This time you looked up.
The corners of your mouth twitching.
Amusement dancing in your eyes.
And suddenly Johnny had a horrible feeling.
The kind that only appeared right before disaster.
You were planning something.
He could tell.
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
Studying him.
Far too innocent.
Far too calm.
Dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
Johnny narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
You smiled.
Slowly.
"Oh, nothing."
That smile.
That smile had never meant anything good.
Johnny pointed at you.
"See? That's exactly the smile."
"What smile?"
"The one that means you're about to emotionally damage me."
Your laugh echoed through the quiet laboratory.
And for one brief, beautiful moment, Johnny forgot he was supposed to be suspicious.
A fatal mistake.
Because then you spoke.
Casually.
Like you weren't about to commit a crime.
"I don't date blondes."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Complete.
Johnny blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"...what?"
You looked completely serious.
Terrifyingly serious.
"I don't date blondes."
Johnny stared.
Then stared harder.
Then looked around the room as if waiting for somebody to jump out and explain the joke.
Nobody appeared.
Because there was nobody else there.
Just you.
Trying very hard not to laugh.
And him.
Experiencing psychological warfare.
"I'm sorry."
Johnny held up a hand.
"No."
He pointed at his hair.
"My hair?"
You nodded.
"Your hair."
"My hair is the problem."
"Unfortunately."
Johnny sat there.
Speechless.
Actually speechless.
Which almost never happened.
Then he leaned forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was handling unstable explosives.
"Your reason."
"Mhm."
"For rejecting me."
"Mhm."
"Is because I'm blond."
"Correct."
Johnny stared.
You stared back.
Neither of you moving.
Neither of you blinking.
And then—
The tiniest smile appeared.
Right at the corner of your mouth.
Johnny immediately pointed.
"THERE."
You burst out laughing.
Immediately.
Completely.
The sound filled the laboratory.
And suddenly Johnny understood.
"Oh, you're evil."
Your shoulders shook.
"You should hear yourself."
"You rejected me because of my hair."
"It was funny."
"It wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"It was deeply hurtful."
That only made you laugh harder.
Johnny slumped back in his chair.
Hand over his heart.
Absolutely devastated.
Or pretending to be.
Mostly pretending.
Maybe.
The problem was—
The problem was that he couldn't even be upset.
Because you were laughing.
Really laughing.
The kind that made your eyes crinkle.
The kind that made your entire face light up.
And God help him—
Johnny would probably let you reject him a hundred more times if it meant seeing that look again.
The realization hit hard.
Hard enough that for a moment he forgot to joke.
Forgot to flirt.
Forgot to play the part everyone expected from Johnny Storm.
Instead, he just watched you.
Quietly.
And something shifted.
Small.
Almost imperceptible.
But real.
Because suddenly it wasn't about winning anymore.
It wasn't about proving he could get a date.
It wasn't about the challenge.
The chase.
The game.
It was you.
Just you.
Sitting across from him at two in the morning.
Laughing at your own terrible joke.
Looking happier than you'd looked all week.
And for the first time, Johnny realized he would be perfectly happy sitting here forever.
Not because he thought you'd eventually say yes.
Not because he expected anything in return.
But because he liked being around you.
Way more than he probably should.
Way more than was safe.
Way more than a man was supposed to like someone who had just rejected him because he was blond.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Eventually, your laughter faded.
The room settling once more.
And before either of you could say anything—
The lab doors slid open.
Ben walked in carrying three sandwiches.
Took one look at Johnny.
One look at you.
And immediately knew.
"Oh, she rejected you again."
Johnny sighed.
Deeply.
Painfully.
"Because I'm blond."
Ben stopped walking.
"...what?"
"Because I'm blond."
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Ben doubled over.
The sandwiches hit the floor.
And his laughter echoed through the entire Baxter Building.
Johnny seriously considered setting something on fire. Probably Ben.
You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you reached for your laptop.
"You're both ridiculous."
"She says after rejecting me because of my hair."
"Which was funny."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
Ben nearly dropped another sandwich laughing.
You ignored both of them.
With the ease of someone who had spent far too much time around the Fantastic Four, you began shutting down the holograms floating above your workstation. One by one, the glowing screens disappeared until the laboratory finally returned to its usual dim lighting.
The clock in the corner of the room read 3:07 a.m.
A fact that suddenly made your entire body feel exhausted.
You closed your laptop.
Gathered your notes.
Finished the last sip of your coffee.
Then stood.
Johnny immediately frowned.
"Where are you going?"
You blinked.
"...Home?"
"It's three in the morning."
"Exactly."
"You can't just leave at three in the morning."
You stared at him.
Johnny stared right back.
As if this was a completely reasonable concern.
As if he hadn't personally watched you leave the building at worse hours.
"Johnny."
"What?"
"I have to be back here at nine."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
Johnny stood up.
Looking genuinely offended.
Like the answer should've been obvious.
"I can't let a lady go outside by herself at three in the morning."
The silence that followed lasted exactly two seconds.
Then your expression changed.
Not amused.
Not teasing.
Just...
Confused.
"Outside?"
"Yeah."
"Johnny."
"What?"
You adjusted the strap of your bag.
Still staring at him.
"I'm not leaving the building."
He blinked.
"What?"
"Sue gave me one of the guest rooms."
Another blink.
"...What?"
You pointed vaguely toward the elevators.
"Two floors down."
The realization hit him all at once.
The room.
The guest room.
The one Sue had offered months ago after one too many late nights.
The one literally inside the Baxter Building.
The one Johnny somehow forgot existed.
"Oh."
You smiled.
Sweetly.
Far too sweetly.
"Goodnight, Storm."
Then you turned.
Walked toward the door.
And left.
Just like that.
The laboratory doors slid shut behind you.
Silence.
Johnny stood there.
Motionless.
Staring at the empty doorway.
Ben watched him for a moment.
Then another.
Then—
"...You forgot she lives here."
Johnny pointed aggressively toward the elevator.
"She doesn't live here."
"Close enough."
"Not helping."
Ben snorted.
Johnny dragged a hand down his face.
Then sighed.
Long.
Deep.
Dramatic.
The sigh of a man experiencing true suffering.
Finally, he muttered,
"I'll dye it."
Ben frowned.
"What?"
Johnny looked completely serious.
"If that's the problem, I'll dye it."
For a second, Ben simply stared at him.
Trying to determine whether this was a joke.
Unfortunately—
It wasn't.
Johnny was genuinely considering it.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I am."
"Johnny."
"I'll go brunette."
Ben folded in half.
Actually folded.
The laughter that erupted from him was so violent he had to grab the nearest desk for support.
Tears immediately sprang to his eyes.
"Oh my God."
Johnny looked offended.
"What?"
"You've got it BAD."
"I do not."
"YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT CHANGING YOUR HAIR."
"It's called commitment."
"It's called being down catastrophic."
Johnny opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And unfortunately for him, he couldn't come up with a single argument.
Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice was already wondering whether he'd look good as a brunette.
i. By the time Johnny Storm asked you out for what would eventually be the successful attempt, he had completely given up on succeeding.
Not in a depressing way.
Not in a woe is me, nobody loves me way.
Just...
Realistically.
The same way a man stops expecting to win the lottery.
Or stops expecting Reed to remember where he left his keys.
Or stops expecting Ben to stop bringing up the blonde incident.
Some things simply weren't going to happen.
And apparently one of those things was you agreeing to go on a date with him.
So Johnny adjusted.
Mostly.
Kind of.
Not really.
The flirting never stopped.
That was impossible.
Breathing was less natural to Johnny Storm than flirting with you.
But somewhere along the way, the asking had changed.
It wasn't a challenge anymore.
Wasn't a game.
Wasn't even hope, really.
It had become routine.
Comfortable.
A running joke that belonged solely to the two of you.
A question.
A rejection.
A laugh.
Then life continued.
Simple.
Predictable.
Safe.
Which was exactly why it hit him like a truck.
The afternoon itself had been unremarkable.
The Baxter Building buzzed with its usual energy.
Researchers moving through the halls.
H.E.R.B.I.E. rolling around somewhere in the distance.
Reed locked inside a laboratory with three whiteboards and no awareness of time.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Johnny found you exactly where he expected.
At your desk.
Surrounded by files.
Halfway through organizing an absurd amount of research data because apparently nobody else in the building knew how to label things correctly.
Sunlight poured through the enormous windows.
Golden and warm.
Painting the laboratory in shades of amber.
You sat with your sleeves pushed up and your hair pulled back, entirely focused on your work.
Johnny smiled before he even realized he was doing it.
The sight had become familiar.
Comforting.
Like coming home.
Which was—
Nope.
Not thinking about that.
Absolutely not.
He dropped into the chair beside your desk.
You didn't look up immediately.
Just hummed in acknowledgment.
The sound alone somehow made him grin wider.
"Hey."
"Mhm."
"Wanna go out with me Friday?"
There it was.
The usual question.
The routine.
The joke.
Johnny reached for a pen on your desk while waiting for the inevitable rejection.
Maybe you'd say no because he was blonde again.
Maybe you'd tell him he talked too much.
Maybe you'd invent another ridiculous excuse.
Honestly, he was looking forward to hearing it.
Then—
"Okay."
Johnny grabbed the pen.
Then froze.
The room suddenly felt very quiet.
Very.
Very quiet.
Slowly, he blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Surely he had imagined that.
Because there was no way—
No possible way—
He looked up.
You were still sorting files.
Calm.
Composed.
Entirely unbothered.
Like you hadn't just detonated a bomb inside his ribcage.
"...What?"
You slid another folder into place.
"Friday works."
Johnny stared.
The pen slipped from his fingers.
Hit the floor.
Neither of you moved.
For one horrifying second, Johnny became convinced he was hallucinating.
Maybe Reed had accidentally released toxic fumes.
Maybe he'd finally lost his mind.
Maybe Ben had hit him with a truck.
Any explanation seemed more likely than what had just happened.
"You..."
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
Mortifying.
"You said yes."
You finally looked up.
And there it was.
A smile.
Not the polite one.
Not the professional one.
Not the one you gave reporters or investors or strangers.
Summary : Meeting Dex for the first time in two years doesn’t go as planned.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x new avenger! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : violence, injury, gun use, self-inflicted injury, Dex licks your blood, grief, reader used to be a good friend of Matt, Karen, and Foggy. Dex is obsessed with you, codependency, suggestive content, sex is heavily implied, freak4freak, dex in handcuffs, bondage is mentioned, emotional manipulation-ish?, both reader and Dex desperately need therapists. Food. Overall just angsty. Set in DDBA season 2 episode 6 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 8.1k.
Notes : would you look at that? Another freak4freak. The fic is inspired by the song Supervillain by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. Enjoy!
Your phone rang.
To you, it was just noise. It was loud, but it didn’t even startle you. It was nothing compared to Bucky giving orders in your comms, or John talking about extraction windows and airspace and things that feel important.
When you realised it wasn’t just white noise, it dawned on you: Your phone wasn’t supposed to ring.
It didn’t anymore. Not for real people.
Everything you do now was encrypted, filtered, approved, routed through people with clearance levels that didn’t include personal calls.
So when it rang, you ignored it.
You kept moving, eyes forward, hand steady on whatever weapon they’ve put in your grip this week— Val had sourced an experimental firearm, similar to a 9mm, modified to house adamantium bullets. She gave it to you and told you to get used to it, to practice assembling and disassembling it. So yeah, you’ve been doing that for the past thirty minutes in the tower’s common room.
Your phone rang again. You ignored it again.
Ava said your name. You answered automatically. She asked what you were having for dinner. You said you’ve already had dinner; Yelena accidentally ordered too much Chinese takeout.
It rang again in the middle of disassembly.
That pissed you off. You were trying to get a sub-10 second time, but that just frayed your focus.
You turned the sound off on your phone and didn’t even bother to check who was calling. It was probably Bob, asking you if you were up for a game of Catan. Or maybe Alexei, calling to ask whether or not his request to get a (highly illegal) Soviet missile launcher from the Smithsonian has been approved.
The answer would most likely be no.
Focus. Focus.
You looked at the tool, the mat, and the stopwatch.
You turned it on again.
One. Left thumb hit the magazine release, falling into your palm. Two. Right hand pulled the slide back, checking the empty chamber—clear. Three. Let the slide fly forward. Four. Grip the rear of the slide, pulling back just a millimeter while you index finger and thumb push down the takedown lever simultaneously.
Five. The slide slid off into your hand.
Six. Recoil spring pulled out. Seven. Barrel slid out.
Disassembled. Five seconds down.
You didn't even pause to breathe.
Eight. Barrel back into the slide. Nine. Recoil spring snapped into place. Ten. Realign the slide with the frame rails, sliding it back on. Eleven. Rack the slide once. Twelve. Pull the trigger to lock it in. Click.
Thirteen. Magazine back in.
You stopped the timer. 9.2 seconds.
You set the tool back down on the mat and looked at the timer.
Perfect. Some bastard’s gonna get fucked up by getting adamantium between their eyes.
Breathing the moment, your phone vibrated again.
You pulled it out, already irritated. Who could it be? Mel? Charles? The fucking president? The secretary general? If they wanted an answer, it better be one of them.
Unknown number.
You stared at it. Huh. Weird.
Your thumb hovered, debating if you should decline it.
You answered instead.
“Hello?” You said it flatly, professionally.
For a second, nothing answered you.
“Hi.”
Everything stopped.
Suddenly you weren’t where you are anymore.
You were back in a cramped office with bad coffee.
You were at a bar with Foggy, laughing too loud.
You were at a funeral trying not to look at anyone, trying to get the fucking hell out of here—
You stopped breathing.
“Matt?” you said, and it came out quieter than you meant it to.
There was a pause on the other end, like he wasn’t sure you’d say his name at all. Maybe he wasn’t even expecting you to recognise his voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”
You swallowed, throat feeling tight for no reason you want to examine.
You didn’t ask how he got this number. You didn’t ask why now. You didn’t ask anything.
Because he wouldn’t call you after two years of silence unless something had gone very, very wrong.
Matt exhaled softly.
“I—” he started, then stopped. You could hear him recalibrating the way he always did when things mattered too much to get wrong.
“You’re… okay?” He asked, finally.
It’s such a Matt question.
Careful, yet loaded with everything he wasn’t saying. And out of everyone you knew, you weren’t going to let him do his lawyer thing on you.
You almost laughed.
“Yeah,” you said automatically. “I’m fine.”
The lie came easy, but he didn't call you out on it. You almost forgot he couldn’t tell if you’re lying through the phone.
Another bout of silence stretched, and you felt it settle between you.
Something’s wrong.
You swallowed. “What happened?” you asked. You were tired of small talk.
For a long, unbearable second, you thought he might hang up. Like maybe hearing your voice again made him reconsider. Like maybe he didn’t actually want you here, or needed you for whatever he thought he needed you for.
You wouldn’t have blamed him. Not after everything that happened.
But it was you he was talking to.
Sure, you had talents that made you suited to the vigilante life more than most, but you were more than just another fist in the streets of New York— you were both Matt and Karen’s friend.
You had been Foggy’s friend too.
And for whatever reason, all those years ago, you had gotten attached to him.
Benjamin Poindexter.
Matt still didn’t understand it. He wasn’t sure he ever would.
It didn’t make sense. You didn’t just wake up one day and decide to fall for a man like that.
But you saw something in him. Something broken you recognized. Something that reflected back pieces of yourself you didn’t talk about. You saw someone worth saving.
Matt called it a coping mechanism. Said you needed to believe people like Dex could be saved, because otherwise… What did that say about the rest of them?
Karen thought it was your pattern. Your history with men who needed help, who gave you just enough to keep you trying. She said you were always one for the “I can fix him” trope.
Foggy…
Foggy had just shrugged, and said it was love. He never attempted to condone it, but he understood it. He said sometimes love had no rhyme or reason. He trusted you enough to not question your decision to keep visiting, day in and day out, making sure he was okay.
He was right.
You just… couldn’t help it.
Still, even Matt couldn’t help but have teeny tiny growing resentment for you because of it.
After all, the last time you met, and the real conversation you had was at Foggy’s funeral. And even then, it was only a few clipped sentences. You had gone from trusting Matt and Karen with your life to being distant overnight. You changed, just as Foggy’s death had changed every single one of you.
You weren’t even at the trial. You went even at the sentencing.
It had made sense— the man you loved had killed one of your closest friends.
There wasn’t a guidebook for surviving something like that.
After that, you were just… gone.
He knew you had been doing black ops for a little under six years now, one day mission at a time for a mysterious woman you called “Val.” After Foggy died, you had thrown yourself at the job. You’ve disappeared for months to another continent until you had no time to even text a simple “how are you?” to any of them. Perhaps, you had needed all the distraction you could get.
And Matt and Karen weren’t the only ones who felt the impact of what you left behind. You had gone from visiting Dex at least three times a week at the mental institution, to not even once visiting him in prison. Matt didn’t know why, but he could… assume.
Then, one day, Karen had turned on the TV to the announcement of the New Avengers. She had joked that they had gotten the greatest hits of earth’s mightiest heroes’ rogue gallery, from the Winter Soldier to Ghost… until the camera panned to you. Even Matt flinched when they said your name.
You were part of this now. Whatever this was. You were monitoring space and shooting off in jets. You defeated a void of a monster, and he didn’t even know how.
But if you weren’t gone before, you were definitely gone now. Avenger-level gone: Classified missions, neutralising world-ending events, things he only heard about in pieces, if he heard anything at all.
Your world had gotten bigger than New York. Your problems had gotten bigger, too.
Anyway.
“We have him.” Matt said simply, bad phone signal slightly distorting his words.
Oh.
The world dropped out from under you.
There was only one person that could mean. Your grip tightened around the phone so hard it almost hurt.
“Dex?” you whispered.
The nothingness you were met with was answer enough.
You closed your eyes. For a second, everything you’d buried— the blood, Foggy, the way you couldn’t even look at Dex without feeling like you were going to come apart— came rushing back so fast it made you dizzy.
“He’s alive,” Matt said quickly, as if he heard it in your breathing. “And he’s hurt.”
Alive.
You didn’t know what to do with that word.
You knew he was out there somewhere, but hadn’t built a version of the world where he was tangible.
You’d built one where he was gone, or locked away, or not your problem anymore. This dragged everything back into reach.
“I don’t know who else to call,” Matt added.
And there it was.
He didn’t call for forgiveness. Or reconciliation. It was simply a necessity.
You pressed your thumb harder into the side of the phone, grounding yourself in the pressure.
“We haven’t spoken in two years,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant it to. You said it almost as a reminder. To him, or to yourself? You weren’t sure.
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “I know.”
There was an exhaustion in his voice. It was worn down.
“I—” you started.
I’m sorry. That was what you meant to say. You needed to choke it out. The words sat right there, overdue by two years. “I’m—”
“No.” Matt cut you off immediately. “I don’t—” he stopped, then tried again. “Don’t.”
You went quiet.
“Just… don’t,” he said, gentler now but no less certain. “I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t this.”
He was right. This wasn’t the moment for apologies. Not after everything. Not when the only reason he was even speaking to you was because he had no other choice.
You swallowed hard, forcing the word back down.
“Okay,” you said. It felt like swallowing glass.
“You were the only one…,” Matt started, and there was something strained in it now, “…we’ve ever known to talk him down.”
You closed your eyes again, just for a second.
“Can you come?” He asked like he didn’t know if he still had the right. “Karen just… she can’t watch him. I…” he trailed off, not knowing what to say or how to say it. “I’m out of options.”
You didn’t answer right away.
Because this was the line you’d drawn. The one that kept you moving forward without looking back.
If you crossed it… you might as well drown yourself in your sorrow now.
What the hell.
“Send me the address.”
—
You found the building quickly.
There were no complications, just a straight line from the coordinates Matt sent you to a door that looked like nothing in an unassuming building.
You stood in the hallway outside it longer than you should have.
You should’ve known it was a safehouse from the dim lighting and faint hum of electricity.
And yet, behind that door…
You swallowed.
He was there.
Close enough that if you reached out and opened the door, you’d see him.
Your hand hovered near the handle, but didn’t touch it as footsteps approached from the other end of the hall.
“You’re early.”
You turned, and there he was.
Matt Murdock, no, Daredevil.
The suit surprised you first. Stark red under the chipped black paint, the mask unchanged. He held himself ever so slightly differently than before. A bit more… uptight, believe it or not.
You hadn’t seen him up close in years.
Not since…
Foggy at the bar, knocking his shoulder into yours, slurring slightly, insisting he was not drunk while ordering another round anyway. “C’mon, you’re the worst liar I know—”
You managed to blink, dragging yourself back.
“Good to see you, too” you shot back automatically, the words slipping into place like muscle memory. “Is it just us?”
He didn’t react.
“Karen needs time,” he said, straight to it.
Right.
You let out a breath, glancing at the door beside you, before looking away again. “Let me guess, she wants to kill him?” you asked, a dry, almost disbelieving edge creeping in. “Is that it?”
A short, humorless laugh left him. “Is this funny to you?”
Matt had spent years learning the shape of you without sight— your voice, your breath, the rhythm of your pulse when you lied and when you didn’t. He knew what you’d become long before tonight. You killed. Not recklessly, not blindly, but when the line you drew in your own head said there wasn’t another way.
He hated that line, argued against it. He pushed against it until it put a strain on your friendship. And still, he’d learned to live with it.
Not comfortably. But he trusted your judgment, even when it made his stomach turn, even when it sounded like everything he stood against.
Rebuilding with you, though? Going back to what you all were, what you were to him, a good friend— that was something else entirely. That, he didn’t know how to do.
You shook your head, folding your arms loosely. “I forgot how preachy you can be, Murdock.”
“Yeah, well.”
Your eyes drifted back to the door without meaning to. Your mouth, however, found a safer topic to latch on to: Karen.
“She’s a ticking time bomb, Matt,” you sighed. “She always has been.”
“Would you rather she kill him, then?”
That pulled your attention back to him.
“It’s not his fault,” you said abruptly. You forced yourself to breathe, slower this time. “It’s not his fault,” you repeated. Your eyes dropped, unfocused. “Foggy…”
His name caught in your throat like it didn’t belong in the air. You pressed your lips together, trying again.
“Foggy didn’t just—” you stopped, teeth tightening hard.
You could see him, leaning over your shoulder, complaining about paperwork, stealing fries off your plate like you wouldn’t notice. Sitting between you and Matt and Karen, always talking, always there…
“He didn’t… ,” you said, voice rough now, thinner than you wanted it to be. “He didn’t deserve to… to die. He shouldn’t have died.”
The hallway felt smaller. Even Matt flinched.
“But that’s not on Dex,” you continued, resolute. “It’s my fault. I could’ve prevented this.”
You barely heard yourself say it.
But Matt did.
“What?” he said immediately, like he thought he misheard you. He started listening for irregularities in your heart beat and found none. So yes, you were telling the truth. At least you thought you were.
“It’s something I’d rather not unpack with you,” you said, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t clawing at your ribs.
“C’mon,” you said, nodding toward the door even as your chest tightened. “We didn’t come here to chat, right?”
—
The door opened, and there he was.
Dex was on a narrow cot, wrists cuffed on either side, bruises dark and blooming across his face and throat, breathing shallow like even that took effort.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt.
And your brain, traitor that it was, dragged you into the memory of the last time you had a saw him.
The visitor room of the mental institution had always been too bright for your liking.
It was clean and controlled. It looked like it was designed to remind you that nothing in it was normal, no matter how hard you tried to pretend otherwise.
But you’d gotten used to it because of him.
Dex was already there when you walked in that day. He sat straight-backed at the table, hands folded too neatly, like he’d been waiting long enough to start counting seconds.
And the second he saw you, his entire nervous system lit up like fairy light behind his eyes.“You’re late.”
You huffed out a laugh, already walking toward him. “Relax,” you said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his temple, like you always did. “It’s been, what? A day since I last saw you. You can handle five minutes of me being held up in security.”
“It’s not enough,” he said immediately. His eyes tracked you still, even if the movement was a bit slower from the meds.
You paused, just for a second, pulling back enough to look at him properly. “You see me every other day.”
“I know,” his eyes stayed on you, finger tapping the table. “It’s still not enough.”
You swallowed it down, forcing a lighter tone as you dropped into the seat across from him.
“Wow,” you said, reaching into your bag. “And here I thought I was doing something nice.”
That got his attention. “What?”
You pulled it out with a small flourish, holding it up between you. “Don’t you ever say I don’t bring you anything good.”
His eyes locked onto it instantly. “is that…?”
“Banana flavoured marshmallows,” you confirmed, a little smug.
There it was, a smile.
“You remembered,” he said. You had a mission in South Korea five months ago— you were barely there for a day, but you managed to grab one of those for Dex at the airport. You remembered how much he liked it, so you had managed to source an importer. It took a while, but there were very few things you wouldn’t do for him.
“Of course I did,” you replied.
You slid the bag across the table toward him, your fingers brushing his. He opened the plastic and picked one up carefully, turning it between his fingers like he was committing it to memory before taking a bite.
You watched him, watched how his shoulders relaxed.
Just like that, all the effort was worth it.
“You okay?” you asked after a moment, your voice lowered now.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the table, on the half-eaten marshmallow in his hand.
“Better when you’re here,” he said finally.
You looked away for a second, like that might make his words easier to stomach. You leaned forward and put your hands on his. “Yeah?”
“I think about it,” His eyes lifted back to yours, steady, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “When you leave.”
“What do you think about?” You tilted your head.
“When you’ll be back,” he said. “How long it’s going to take.”
He said it carefully. It’s as if he didn’t want to push too far but couldn’t help saying it anyway.
“I’ll always come back,” you reassured him.
That mattered. You saw it in the way his focus sharpened, in the way he leaned just slightly forward like he was holding onto the words. He readjusted his hand and squeezed your palm.
You sat with him that day and talked about nothing and everything. Let your knee bump his under the table like it was normal, like you weren’t separated by a bureaucratic line you so desperately want to tear down.
And when the visiting hours finally ended, you didn’t want to leave.
You never did. You would give anything to listen to him talk for more than a few hours at a time. You would give anything to coax another laugh, another smile from him.
“You’re going to be back soon?” he asked as you stood up, showing the smallest crack in the certainty he tried to keep around himself.
You smiled at him. “Soon.”
You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was brief, but it still made his day.
When you pulled back, he nodded. “Soon,” he repeated under his breath.
You nodded. ‘Soon’ was good. ‘Soon’ was non-specific.
Because little did he know, you’d already agreed to a seven-day mission. Val had barely given you a choice.
You’d never been gone that long before.
Usually, missions were two days. Three days, max. And even those ones were few and far between. And then you’d come straight back to him, no matter how exhausted you were, no matter what you had to wade through to get there.
But you decided he didn’t need to know about this… extension.
You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That he’d be fine. That telling him that you would be gone three times as long as you usually do would only make him spiral, make him worry, make him count every hour in a way that would hurt more than help.
So you kept it to yourself.
On the sixth day of the mission, Foggy was dead.
You snapped yourself out of it.
Because now you were here, standing in front of a man you haven’t seen in more than two years.
Dex didn’t move at first.
For one horrible second, you thought he was still out, chest rising too shallow under the dim light, like whatever it took to bring him in had hollowed him out and left the shell behind.
Then when he realised someone else was in the room, his head turned slowly, and then… his eyes found you.
Oh.
For a second, he stared at you like you weren’t real. Like this was a hallucination his brain had made up to cope with his injuries. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.
“Y-you…” his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, throat working like it hurt. “You came back.”
What he had in his voice wasn’t relief. It wasn’t even hope. It was disbelief so raw it sounded like it might collapse in on itself.
Of course this was how he reacted.
Because he had waited, back in the institution he was assigned to. He waited for every sound in the corridor. Every footstep that wasn’t yours. Every door that didn’t open.
On the fourth day, he started asking the facility staff over and over, until the answers became rehearsed, clipped and annoyed. They said you were “busy,” “not scheduled,” or “unavailable.”
Still, he waited.
On the fifth day, a staff member told him he had a visitor.
And for the first time in while, he lit up.
It had to be you, right?
He sat up too fast, eyes fixed on the door before it even opened, already bracing for the moment you’d step through and make the last five days feel like a misunderstanding he could recover from.
The door opened and… it wasn’t you.
It was Vanessa Fisk.
The light in him shut off instantly.
As he sat down, he had a hollow, sinking realization that he might’ve wrong to expect you at all.
Maybe you had gotten sick of visiting him. Of not being able to touch him as much as you wanted, of not being able to hold him as much as you wanted. After all, why would you settle for a broken man when you could have a free man?
Behind you, Matt went completely still, listening, measuring, probably hearing the way Dex’s heart was starting to race, the way his breathing kept catching like it didn’t know how to settle.
“You came back,” he said again, gentler now, like he was afraid saying it too loud would make you disappear. His eyes dragged over your face, searching frantically. “I thought… I thought you wouldn’t. I thought you—”
“I know, ” you said, but it came out thinner than you meant, as if the words had to fight their way out.
Your voice alone was enough to undo him further.
His breath hitched again, like your voice made it real in a way his eyes alone couldn’t.
“You’re here,” he repeated, and now there was something fragile in it. “You actually… y-you came back.”
He tried to push himself up, instinct overriding his senses, the cuffs snapping tight with a harsh metallic sound that made his whole body jolt. It didn’t stop him immediately. He strained against them anyway as he got on his knees, like he could get to you if he just tried hard enough.
“I-I…” his voice came faster now, stumbling over itself. “I thought you left, I thought—”
“Dex…”
“You said soon,” he cut you off, the words rushing out like he’d been holding them in for two years too long. “You said you’d be back soon.”
Your stomach dropped.
His eyes were shiny now. Not crying yet, but right there on the edge of it.
“You didn’t come,” he said. “I waited. I kept…I thought maybe you got held up, I thought maybe—”
His breath stuttered, like the memory of it was catching up to him all over again.
“And then you didn’t,” he finished, voice thinning.
Behind you, Matt shifted slightly.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Matt said, directed at you, but Dex flinched anyway, like any sound that wasn’t yours was an intrusion.
His gaze snapped onto you, almost panicked now, like he thought he might take you away again.
“You’re here now,” he said quickly, like he could rewrite the past by insisting on the present. “You came back.”
The words were breaking apart as he said them. He needed them to be true.
Your chest ached so bad it felt like it might cave in.
“Leave us alone.” It came out rougher than you meant.
“He’s not stable,” Matt said again, more firmly this time.
He was right. You could hear it in every fracture, every broken piece.
But Dex was still looking at you like you were the only thing holding him together, barely.
“Matt,” you said, and your voice almost gave out on his name. “Please.”
You knew he had somewhere to be anyway. Why was he even here, with you? Did he just now realise that this might be a bad idea? That you ever had one true weakness, and that it was him? Did he just now realise that if he left, he might just come back later tonight to an empty room?
Dex didn’t move now. Didn’t even try to fight the cuffs again.
“You came back,” he whispered like a prayer.
Behind you, Matt exhaled reluctantly. “You don’t know what state he’s in.”
“I do,” you said, and he had no idea. You knew him better than anyone in the world, so Matt insisting on playing chaperone was only irritating you. “Please.”
You heard him sigh.
The door opened, then closed.
Just like that, he was gone, footsteps disappearing down the hall.
It was just you and Dex now.
Dex let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, except it fractured halfway through.
You had no buffer. No witnesses.
You stepped forward without meaning to. “What did you do?”
You knew, of course. You’ve seen the news. You just wanted to hear him say it, you needed him to know what he thought he did and why he thought he did it.
“I fixed it,” he said immediately, a little too quickly. “You don’t have to… I fixed it.”
“What did you do?” you asked again.
Against all odds, Dex looked pleased. “I balanced it.”
“No,” you let out a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding, “you didn’t.”
“I did,” he insisted, words starting to tumble now. “I took something from you, so I took something from him, it’s even now, it’s—”
“Dex.”
“I killed your friend, I killed Foggy,” he said flatly. “So Vanessa had to die.”
Oh. So that was what this was about.
It might not make sense to you, but you could see now, how it would make sense to him. How it would twist the cords in his mind and pretend to untangle it.
“I balanced the scales,” he said again, faster now, unraveling, beads of sweat travelling down his temple, to his neck, to his bare chest as the restraints rattled. “You don’t have to hate me anymore, it’s equal, it’s fixed, you can love me now, I can die knowing you love me—”
“What?” you snapped, putting a hand on your face. “You want to die? What the fuck does you that have to do with anything you’ve done?”
“My job here is done.” he shot back, agitation spiking. “You’re just not seeing it yet, but you will, you always do—”
“Stop.”
He didn’t.
“I did it for you,” he pushed on, voice rising, cracking, desperate. “So you’d come back, so you would forgive me, and once you do, I can finally—”
“Stop talking,” you put your hands through your hair, exasperated.
“You’re here now, see? It worked, it—”
“Shut up, Dex!”
He froze for half a second, but the silence didn’t last long. He snapped right back into his spiral, this time worse.
“I fixed it,” he insisted, louder now, breath coming fast, shoulders jerking against the restraints. “You don’t get it, I had to make it even or you’d never come back before I go, you’d never—”
Fuck.
Fuck’s sake.
Did you really have to do this?
You grabbed your concealed gun from under your shirt and raised it into his view.
His eyes snapped to it instantly. “What are you—”
You pressed the barrel under your chin.
“Hey!” He pulled on his restraints. If there weren’t dents in the metal before, there were definitely now.
You stared at his angelic hazel eyes as you clicked the safety off.
Dex broke. “No!”
He surged forward, the cuffs yanking him back hard with a metallic crack. The cot screeched against the floor as he thrashed, sanity tearing loose under his skin.
“No, no, no! Don’t do that—don’t…”
Metal slammed, his whole body jerking, twisting, fighting restraints that didn’t give.
“Please,” he choked out, voice breaking apart as he pulled on the cuffs as if he could rip through them, wrists straining, breath turning wild. “You don’t… p-put it down! put it down right now—”
“Dex…”
“NO!” he barked, frantic, eyes locked on the gun like it was the only thing in existence. “Not you, not you, not you…”
You sighed, resting your finger on the trigger. You could pull at any second now.
“Dex!”
He didn’t stop.
“I fixed it for you,” he was spiraling now, words slurring into each other desperately. “I made it right, I made it equal, you’re here now so it worked, just put it down, j-just—”
“Goddammit, Dex!” You shouted, and it echoed through the room.
He finally stopped, and you finally spoke a language he understood: that the only way to get him to listen was to threaten to hurt you.
“Shut up and fucking listen!” you snapped, voice shaking with an emotion hotter than anger, “or you’re going to have to fish an adamantium bullet out of my cold dead body until your fingers are smeared with my liquified brain, you understand?”
All you got from him now was silence.
It worked.
His chest was still heaving, eyes wide. They were glued to you, on the gun, on your finger, on the very real, very immediate possibility of losing you again.
So you stepped closer.
The gun stayed where it was, pressing even further into your skin. The rest of you gave in, closing the distance inch by inch until you were standing right in front of him, close enough to feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
Dex didn’t retreat.
He was still there on his knees on the cot, shoulders drawn.
His eyes tracked you like you were the only fixed point in a collapsing world.
You raised your free hand slowly and reached out slowly, giving him time to flinch, to recoil…
He didn’t.
Your hand found his face, cupping it carefully, thumb brushing over the scar carved into his cheek. He hadn’t had it the last time you saw him.
You had assumed that Matt had given it to him at Josie’s on the night that Foggy died.
That scar was a reminder of what he had done. And he had to carry it everywhere.
You exhaled, your touch softening without thinking, tracing it again like you could map the moment it happened, like you could undo it just by understanding its shape.
Dex made a whiny sound. It was small, broken, as if it sat between a breath and a moan. His eyes fluttered for half a second, leaning into your touch before he could stop himself.
You studied him. It had been a while since he was this close to you.
He was… pretty.
You’d always thought so. Not in a conventional way, or a safe way. It was almost unnatural, the kind of beauty that wasn’t meant to comfort, but to unsettle. It was the kind of beauty you imagine ancient gods to possess: radiant and terrible all at the same.
Your thumb moved from the scar to his mouth. You pressed lightly against his lower lip, testing.
He parted for you immediately. He didn’t even have to think about it. It was pure instinct.
His breath hitched as your thumb slid past his lip, resting against the warmth of his tongue.
Fuck, he missed this.
His tongue moved, brushing against your thumb in a slow, searching motion, as his eyes rolled back slightly to the back of his skull.
It was trust, desire, and recognition all the same.
You didn’t pull away.
Instead, you pressed down slightly, feeling the way his breath faltered around it, the way his body went still again, utterly focused on you and what you were allowing. What you weren’t taking away.
After a moment, you drew your thumb back out, slow enough that he followed the motion without meaning to, lips parting just slightly before he caught himself.
You didn’t give him time to think about it.
Your thumb brushed across his lower lip again, smearing the moisture of his spit there, grounding him in a physical sensation.
“Nothing…” you choked, then tried again. “Nothing you do will balance the scales,” you finally managed to rasp out.
His breathing hitched again.
“Foggy’s death…” you paused, forcing the words through the tightness in your throat, “…was my fault.”
For a second, he just looked at you. For once, he was the one trying to make sense of your beliefs and judgement..
“No,” he murmured against your skin. “It’s not.”
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull your hand away. Your thumb stayed near his cheek, your palm still cradling his jaw, holding him there even as your fingers tightened slightly.
“It is,” you said firmly.
His head shook faintly against your hand, rejecting it. It’s as if he physically couldn’t let it settle.
“But you hated me for it,” he said, voice thinner now, searching your face for confirmation, for a fact he could anchor himself to.
“No.” You shook your head immediately, your grip on his face tightening without meaning to. “No, no, sweetheart. I never hated you.”
What?
“But you didn’t come back,” he said, a swell of tears spilling down his cheek. You caught it and wiped it away. “You didn’t go to the trial. You didn’t go to the sentencing. And you… you don’t visit anymore.”
It fucking hurt to see him this was.
“I didn’t go,” you said slowly, each word dragged up from the pit of your stomach, “because I couldn’t look at you… and see what I made you do.”
His brow furrowed immediately, confused.
“I should’ve told you,” you cut in, your voice tightening now, the words starting to spill faster. “About the mission. I should’ve told you I’d be gone that long. I should’ve—”
Your hand trembled against his face, but you didn’t stop.
“I didn’t think, I didn’t know… I didn’t know Vanessa would know I was gone,” you continued, choking on your words, “I didn’t know she’d take advantage of that. That she’d come to you when I wasn’t there to talk you down—”
“No.” Dex shook his head harder now, the movement pressing into your palm. “That’s not—”
He couldn’t even finish it, because he believed there was no version of this where you were the one at fault. Not in his mind. How could you possibly do anything wrong?
“You’re not—” his voice hitched, desperate now, like he was trying to put a puzzle piece of the truth into place, “you’re not responsible for that. You didn’t make me do anything. I—”
“What did Vanessa tell you?” you interrupted suddenly.
He blinked. “What?”
“What did she say would happen,” you pressed, your thumb brushing his cheek again without thinking, “if you helped her?”
Dex hesitated for a second. “She said… I could be free.”
Your chest tightened.
“That I wouldn’t have to be…” he swallowed, eyes flickering down for half a second before finding you again, “…half a man for you anymore.”
Fuck.
“Dex,” your hand tightened on his face again, your other still holding the gun in place beneath your chin, the barrel pressing harder now as your jaw shifted with every word. “Don’t you see?”
“No.”
“If I hadn’t gone on that mission,” you pushed on, faster, louder, the words tumbling over each other, “if I was there, I would’ve talked you out of it. I always do.”
Your fingers trembled against his skin, but you didn’t let go.
“I would’ve stopped you,” you said, convinced with terrifying certainty. “I would’ve stopped your fucking rampage, I wouldn’t have even let you get that far! I….”
The barrel pressed harder into your skin as your mouth moved, your grip tightening around the gun without realizing it.
“Don’t you see?” you repeated, voice cracked. “It’s my fault.”
Dex’s eyes snapped to the gun.
He hadn’t stopped watching it, but now he saw it. The way your finger trembled on the trigger. He saw the way it pressed deeper every time you spoke, every time you believed what you were saying a little more.
“No,” he said.
Dex’s breathing turned uneven again, but not the same as before. Not frantic in the way it had been when you walked in.
“No,” he said again, louder this time, his body tensing against the restraints as far as they’d allow. His eyes flicked between your face and the gun, tracking every movement of your hand. “You don’t get to—” his voice strained, tightening with every word, “you don’t get to say that and then—”
His breath hitched when your finger shifted slightly.
“—and then do that,” he finished, voice breaking at the edges now.
Because now, he could see the way you were starting to believe you deserved it. “Put it down. Please.”
But you didn’t hear him.
“Balance, huh?” you whispered, almost taunting.
Your thumb drifted back to his scar beneath your palm, tracing the line of it again, like you were committing it to memory in a different way now.
If you believed that you were as responsible for Foggy's death as he was, and you did, shouldn’t you have something to remember it by, too? Something you had to carry everywhere, too?
Dex’s breath hitched.
“You want balance, Dex?” you asked, genlter this time, but you sounded off.
His head shook immediately, frantically pressing his face into your hand like he could stop you just by being close enough.
“Not like this,” he said, voice tightening. “No.”
“You want it so bad,” you went on, almost like you weren’t hearing him anymore, your attention flicking between his face and the gun still pressed beneath your chin. “You killed Vanessa to make it even, right?”
“No. No, that’s not—”
You tilted your head slightly, considering him, your grip on the gun shifting. “Then let’s make it even.”
The resolution in your voice made his entire body go rigid.
“Please,” he said again, panic breaking through. “No, don’t—”
You adjusted your wrist, quickly angling the barrel. It was not directly under your chin anymore, titled it forty-five degrees.
“Stop,” he choked out, pulling hard against the restraints, metal biting into his wrists. “Stop, baby, please. Please…”
You were tired of this. Tired of him thinking he deserved it when you knew for a fact you were the deciding factor in why Foggy had died…
So you pulled the trigger.
The sound boomed through the room, deafening in the confined space. You stumbled back, hand pulled away from his face, as your grip on the gun faltered. It clattered to the other side of the room
For a split second, you didn’t move.
Then you felt the pain.
It was white-hot and blinding, tearing across your cheek as the adamantium round grazed your skin instead of ending your life.
Dex flinched.
Your hand shot up, fingers brushing the wound.
You stared at the blood on your fingertips like it was exactly what you wanted.
Then you laughed.
It came out wrong. It was a little too high, like one of those cute little giggles that he adored so much.
You could already feel the vertical cut on your cheek, matching the horizontal one on his face.
You were his mirror drawn in flesh.
It was unwise, you knew, especially because it wasn’t just any weapon. It was experimental, and even you weren’t fully briefed on it. Adamantium rounds weren’t meant to graze skin. They were meant to pierce, to hold, to do things that conventional physics couldn’t. It was meant to kill supersoldiers. It was meant to cut through thick alien skin. You had no idea what they would do to living tissue at a superficial angle.
But right now, you didn’t give a shit.
You pressed your hand back to his face anyway, smearing blood across his cheek with the same gentleness as before.
“Balance, Dex,” you said again, voice shaking now but still smiling.
You lowered yourself onto the cot, the thin frame creaking under your weight, your balance still slightly off, but you didn’t care. The room still rang faintly in your ears, your thoughts moving too fast, too sharp, like they were skipping steps.
Dex moved closer the second he could reach.
He pressed his forehead to yours like he needed to make sure you were real. His eyes snapped to your cheek again, to the blood that hadn’t stopped, a thin line still slipping down your skin.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, tighter.
You let out a breath that almost turned into a chuckle.
“I know,” you said, a little too brightly. “It’s fine. It’s…” you shook your head faintly, like you were trying to catch up with your own thoughts, “… it’s good.”
He frowned, but didn’t argue.
Instead, he leaned in. His breath touched your cheek ghosting over the blood like he was measuring where to start.
And then he licked you.
The tip of his tongue brushed lightly against your skin, just at the edge of the blood. He was testing, making sure you wouldn’t pull away.
You didn’t.
Why would you? You liked it. Even when it stung a little.
“It’s okay,” you said, relaxing your head back a little, letting Dex clean up the red from the start of the wound, all the way to the liquid that had made its way down. “We’re okay.”
Dex leaned in closer, lapping up nearer to the wound. He didn’t rush it, like he was trying to clean you without hurting you further.
Your head tilted slightly, giving him more space without thinking.
“We both paid,” you said suddenly, almost thoughtful. “See? That’s what you wanted, right?”
He shifted closer, his breath catching faintly between each pass, his focus narrowing completely to the cut, to the blood still lingering there. His tongue moved slower, tracing near the edge of the wound but never pressing into it.
His hand shifted as much as the restraints allowed, fingers brushing against your arm, then settling there. He was holding you in place, or maybe holding himself steady.
He licked the stream down your neck, and you gave him a breathy, angelic moan of pleasure that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight down his spine.
“It matches,” you whispered, like it was a revelation. “We match.”
As much as he hated seeing your scar, he couldn’t help but smile a little.
“You’re not supposed to get hurt,” he mumbled against your jaw, teeth red now.
You let out a breathy laugh.
“Too late,” you said.
What had been slow, deliberate licks turned lighter and shorter. It became less about cleaning, more about touch. His lips brushed your skin in their place, tentative at first.
A pressed a soft kiss near the edge of the wound. Then another just beneath it. Then again, closer to your jawline.
These kisses came unevenly in scattered, small, points of contact, like he was trying to map you back into his memory. Each one lingered a fraction longer than the mass, his restraint slipping away.
You didn’t stop him.
Your breathing had slowed, but your head still felt light, your thoughts still running a million miles an hour.
He just kept pressing those small, almost reverent kisses along your cheek, your neck, your temple, your face until they edged closer to your mouth.
There, he hesitated.
He was close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips, like he remembered exactly what this was, exactly what it meant, and didn’t trust himself to take it without permission.
So you were the one who closed the gap.
You pressed your lips against his. Your hands came up fast, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him in like you needed to prove he was still human.
He made a small, broken sound against your mouth as he kissed you back.
Fuck, your lips.
For him, it hit all at once.
You were as warm, as soft, as sweet as when he first kissed you all those years ago. You had remained unchanged, like no time had passed at all. It was just as he remembered, just as consuming, just as euphoric. It was as if everything else in the world disappeared the second you touched him.
It was like breathing after drowning.
His whole body reacted to it, straining forward, instinctively chasing more as his hands pulled hard against the restraints with a sharp metallic clink. He tried to close the distance further, like the cuffs were an insult now. It was just another unbearable barrier between him and what he’d been missing for two years.
The kiss deepened quickly as you tightened your grip at the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as much as pushing yourself flush against his bare chest.
more, closer, don’t stop, he thought.
The restraints rattled again, louder this time.
He was breathing harder now, frustrated, his hands flexing uselessly against the metal as he tried to reach you properly, to touch you the way he wanted to.
The sound was loud enough to grab your attention that time.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were blown wide, locked onto you, his whole body pulled tight with restraint in more ways than one.
You glanced toward the other side of the room. It was a pair of keys hanging by the door. It most likely belonged to the handcuffs.
“If I let you go…” you said, looking back at him. You trailed your hand down his stomach, settling on the waistband of his pants “…will you behave?”
“Yes,” he said immediately, breathlessly, desperately. “Yes, please. I’ll…” his voice hitched, then he rushed out, “I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
You could tell he pathetically meant it, too
He just wanted to touch you. He needed to.
His eyes flicked back to your lips like he couldn’t help it, like he was already half gone again just from the memory of it.
So you made a choice.
A very you kind of choice.
Let’s just say…. you had no idea what you were going to say to Matt when he came back.
You had no idea how you were going to explain why you were the one chained to the bed (you very much asked for it), wrists pulled taut, skin flushed and marked in ways that you liked. You had no idea how you were going to explain why your breathing was still uneven as Dex sat free at your side, patching up a bullet graze wound on your cheek with the kind of focus that felt indecent after what you’d just let him do to you.
So yeah.
It’s safe to say that you made up.
-end.
extra note: I cannot stress this enough, the song this fic was inspired by is so Dex x reader coded. I strongly suggest reading this while listening to the song.
You figured it would be sweet if Johnny were to wear a matching engagement band on his finger. It might not keep the hoard of screaming admirers away but it would be a way to be with him on the more life-threatening missions.
Apparently, Johnny didn’t think it was necessary. His ill-timed response was in the vicinity of his family who disagreed. Sue had mentioned that Reed wore a ring as soon as he proposed.
“Johnny Storm has a public image to maintain.” Your fiancée said.
It was a fact. He wasn’t wrong but it stung. Upset, you decided to cool-off and avoid Johnny for the week instead of escalating into an argument.
Ben noticed the cold-shoulder a few days in and reminded you of an important fact. “Johnny loves you more than you know. He’s just an idiot sometimes. Trust me, I would know.”
Later that evening, HERBIE found you in the labs with a message in the form of a letter. Only three words scribbled on it.
I summon thee.
With a small sigh, you turned to the little robot helper. “Where is he?” With a happy beep, the little team member wheeled away with you in tow. You followed him through the building until HERBIE stopped in the hallway of the Human Torch. Typical.
Thanking HERBIE, you continued the rest of the walk to Johnny’s room and knocked on the door.
“I was summoned.” You announced. Arms crossed, you leaned against the doorframe and watched as Johnny turned.
“I need your opinion on something. I’ve gotten myself into a high-risk situation and I think it will result in a casualty.” He said, beckoning you inside with a tilt of his head.
You were still upset with him but you would never let an argument (or lack of) intervene with saving lives. Pushing off the doorframe, you crossed the threshold and walked over to him.
“Have you spoken to Reed, or Sue for that matter?”
Johnny let out a humourless laugh. “I did, actually. Just stand right there.” He requested, planting you just beside the large bedroom window overlooking the city.
You watched as he stood a few steps away. He was acting more odd than the day that he proposed - and Johnny had set the bar that day.
Finally stilling all movement, Johnny pressed his lips together, a sheepish smile on his face as he raised his left arm. There, twinkling in the room light was a silver bracelet. Specifically, an engagement bracelet - one that he said was silly to wear because ‘he had a public image’.
Johnny lowered his voice as your jaw dropped. “It’s not coming off from this point onwards.” He explained. “Reed actually reinforced the metal to withstand my flames.”
Eyes fixed on the metal band, your hand darted out to check that this wasn’t a hologram. You touched it for all of two-seconds before Johnny gently grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him.
“I was obsessed with you from the start.” Johnny confessed and leaned forward to bump his nose against yours. “Still am. The days of Johnny Storm being a bachelor is over.”
You let out a small sigh. It was relief to hear him say it out loud. “You’re my everything, Johnny.” You whispered, feeling him tip his head lower. There was a smile on his lips when he pressed a kiss into your neck, the soft impact making you laugh.
“What made you change your mind?” You couldn’t help but ask.
In response, Johnny squeezed you tighter. “Reed made me log medical incident records two days ago and I came across one of yours - the day you almost died in my arms.” He said softly, as if recalling a nightmare. It spoke for itself and you didn’t need a play-by-play after living it. Clearing your throat, you attempted to lighten the mood instead of dwelling on the past.
“You know, I figured that you’d be more of a ring-guy.” You mused in his arms.
The diversion worked because Johnny groaned lightly. “That was my first choice but apparently some jerk from Latveria bought up at the whole supply of the metal.”
Something tickled at your back of your mind at the mention of that but you pushed it to the side.
Right now, all you wanted was Johnny.
You looked up at him and kissed his jaw, noting the exhaustion in his eyes. “It’s been a long day. You should get some sleep.”
Johnny nodded. “I agree. Except…” he picked you up before you could protest. “I sleep better with you.”
You couldn’t help it as another laugh bubbled out. “Actual sleep or fun sleep?”
Johnny walked deeper into the room. “Why spoil a good mystery.” He teased.
~ More imagines here ~
A/n: I promise this started short and then conspired against me.
