Work Text:
You know you could be called a coward. Have been called a coward. As a child, your list of fears was endless; spiders, alien abduction, Tom and Jake who liked to use you as a punching bag at school, that blue fuzzy stuff that grows on cheese when it sits in the fridge for too long, getting caught by the government and thrown in jail for hacking federal documents, and - the biggest one of all - the ocean.
You saw a therapist for the latter and then you bought Jack’s boat.
So, they could call you a coward- but you’re not afraid to take action to try and face your fears.
Which is why post the Not Fun Type of Handcuffs White-haired Man Debacle of 2012, you head to the boxing ring.
You start to learn your own body. You’ve always considered your mind to be a great asset but you’ve never given your body credit for much beyond its ability to consume endless desserty Starbucks drinks without gaining a pound and, let’s face it, the ability to give truly excellent handjobs. You’ve run from sport, you’ve run from physical violence, and from any sort of sweat that doesn’t end with an orgasm. But your body’s ability to knock back a chin with an uppercut, to bring someone to their knees with a smartly place jab to the left-
That’s new.
That’s powerful.
Emily approves.
You can see it in her eyes when she finds you in the ring. Your heart lurches and the adrenaline that was just starting to wear off from the fight kickstarts all over again.
Somehow you knew you’d see her again. Always had one eye out, like she was just over your shoulder, just around the corner of the hallway. You’d made a point of slipping out on the balcony at parties, pulling over on the side of the highway, creating moments of opportunity where she could show up if she so chose. You felt a little like Commissioner Gordon and his silly Batsignal- sending out the signing and waiting for her to show up and disappear all over again. (Your bodyguard had given you strange looks as you giggled your way through the movie.)
So. You always knew she’d pop up. But why here? Why now? You’re torn between pride and bashfulness as her eyes rove over you, like a girl getting picked up at a bar for the first time.
She calls and of course you come.
---
You don’t know how long this roommates situation is going to last so you’re determined to enjoy it while it does. But when Em wakes you up at the crack of dawn, you can’t help but let out a groan. “Can’t doom and destruction wait until I’m out of my REM cycle? Even the Avengers have to sleep sometimes.”
“It’s for your own good, Nolan,” she says.
That’s when you notice her attire. Spandex. Nikes. Hair tied back into a ponytail.
You groan again and flop back against your pillow. She grins down at you like a shark. “Come on, get up. We’re going for a run.” She whips back the blanket before you can protest further and you spare a tiny second to thank any sort of higher power that you didn’t chose to sleep in the nude last night. She makes a face at your Star Wars boxers and turns out of the room without another word, expecting you to follow.
She lets you have your pick of oceanside or road run. You pick the road. Although you’ve gotten much better about it, you have enough on your plate without dealing with the ocean right now. Besides, sand gets everywhere.
So, you’re off on the road. Em keeps pace beside you even though you know she could go faster and it’s an unexpected courtesy. She keeps silent and the roads are mostly empty at this hour of the morning. Once you wipe the sleepies out of your eyes and get over the initial pains, it’s more pleasant that you thought it could be. A light wind whips through your hair and it’s early enough that the sun isn’t burning you yet.
Side-by-side, evenly paced. You’re both slim and lean and blonde with the seamless sort of highlights good money can buy. But she’s mastered her body, turned it into a tool. Can play the good girl, turn invisible, be a fucking ninja if need be.
Your cousin once called you a willow tree, then laughed.
As you continue down the road, the thoughts fade into white noise. The salt-filled air mingles with passing car exhaust. A couple of seagulls caw and follow you down the road, their cries blending with the pound of feet against pavement.
Finally, the ocean’s back in sight and the end is near.
You do better than expected. The lessons in the ring have paid off in other ways.
Still, when you get back to the house, you’re ready for a smoothie, and to curl back up into bed with your laptop.
She permits you the smoothie.
When she tells you where you’re going next, your eyes bug out slightly. “Seriously, Ems? The shooting range? Because that went so well for us last time.”
Last time was post-Tyler. Last time was with Daniel Grayson. Last time you couldn’t even keep your eyes open as you pulled the trigger.
“Well, you actually have some muscles now,” she says. “Maybe the recoil won’t kill you so much.”
Your stomach drops somewhere beneath your fledgling abs.
“Baby steps,” you say, lilting and she takes it as the acquiescence it is.
She drives you to the range herself.
It’s still early - just opened - and there’s no one there but the two of you. No one she need to play dumb for. She fires off an opening round directly into the skull of the dummy.
Boom, headshot, you think, and swallow a snort of nervous laughter.
She is determined to teach you and she never gets impatient, just keeps giving you instructions and repositioning your arm. In a way, you’re flattered that she’s spending so much time on you.
Finally, with a quirk of her eyebrow, she comes around back of you and assumes the cliche-body adjustment position. Your back against her front. Her arms around your own, hands moving your into position, sliding against the cool metal of the gun. You wonder if she can feel your erratic heartbeat.
“Why Ms. Thorne,” you say, voice nearly cracking, “You’re trying to seduce me.”
“I can’t be your Mrs. Robinson, Nolan. You’re older than I am.” Her voice is steely as always, but you can smell her from this close up and she smells like gunsmoke and sweat.
Her head tucks into your shoulder and she acts as your sight, lining you up perfectly. “Pull the trigger,” she whispers.
You do.
Bullseye.
The recoil presses you back against her firmly. “There’s hope for you yet, Nolan,” she says, still into your ear.
She sounds satisfied. You have to see the look on her face, so you spin around but don’t back away.
“I’m your grasshopper, Obi-wan,” you say. Her eyes dip down to your shorts, like she’s remembering your sleepwear and your cheeks heat, hoping she can’t see your burgeoning hard-on.
She tilts her head back as she considers you. “Nolan Ross, mine to mold. I suppose I could do worse.”
Then she smiles at you, a real, proper smile, and you can’t help it anymore. You lean in and kiss her.
She tastes as sweet as her nature belies and you savor the taste.
She wraps an arm around you and you push in closer until you feel a cold ring of metal press against the back of your neck and freeze, wide-eyed. The gun. You completely forgot about it.
“Careful Nolan,” she says. Her voice is the caress that you thought her hands would bring out. “Always stay on guard when dealing with dangerous elements.”
You can’t tell if she’s talking about herself or about the gun. You suspect that’s the way she likes it.
“Easy, Ems,” you say, pulling out your best coy smirk. You don’t know how to play this.
She pulls away from you and fires one last shot directly into the dummy’s heart.
“We’re done here, for now,” she says. “Let’s go back to mine.”
You don’t know what’s coming next, but you already know it’ll involve a whole new appreciation for the physical form.