Work Text:
You turn the radio off with a free hand when you hear the Gang thundering back into the Hall. Well, when you hear Guy. His voice could grate on your nerves even through the shut lab doors. It’s taking all of you to keep your hand steady as it solders the delicate machinery of the disassembled T-Sphere in front of you.
You were supposed to go home hours ago, but just hadn’t felt the need. You told yourself that you just had a lot of work to do, so it was easier to sleep here, on the pull-out couch your boss designed for you. In reality, the lab felt more comfortable than your dingy apartment ever has been.
From the corner you set up in the back, couch by the bay window overlooking Metropolis, you had everything. Bookshelf filled with any book you want, your own desk and tinkering table, mini-fridge with your iced coffees and that horrible caffeinated-algae glop your boss drank. Hell, he had even fixed up your busted radio from college, adding a module that expanded the frequency pick-up. Now, you can listen to any station in the world, all from the comfortable sterile Terrific Lab.
It all sure lives up the name. In fact, the only bad part is when the Justice Gang’s missions end, and you can tell Guy is on your bosses heels; through the lobby, up the stairs, down the hall, right to-
The door bangs open and you jump, welding pen going flying behind you. You curse under your breath as you look at the drops of metal littering half of your components, and rip off your welding mask to scowl at the intrusion.
Mr. Terrific meets your gaze with an eye-roll as he walks in without ceremony, wiping away a drop of blood from a scratch above his eye. He pulls his gloves off slowly and roughly, throwing them at the hamper by the door without looking. There’s more gashes on his jaw and near the collar of his leather jacket, but he barely seems to notice as he stops just short of his desk chair. He jabs a thumb behind his shoulder at Guy, who looks barely worse for wear.
“Is he still talking?” His voice is perfectly even. That’s how you know he’s pissed.
You’re pissed too. Mr. Terrific doesn’t get scratched up unless something goes wrong. And what’s the probability that it was his fault?
Not very damn high.
He drops in his desk chair, leather creaking, and types out his password with piston presses that almost crack the keyboard. All the while, Guy keeps shouting about whatever, voice echoing around the room. You try to ignore him as you gather the medkit, but it’s hard to tune it all out. Especially when you see blood dripping down on the clean floor from Terrific.
“All I’m saying is that could have gone so much smoother than it did. And for what? Popularity? Are the police here so inept they have to call in the Justice Gang-”
“We’re not the Justice Gang.” Terrific says as you pull your chair up next to him, opening up the medkit with a sterile hiss. The smell of antiseptic fills the room as you snap your medical gloves on.
“We are, but that’s not up for discussion. What is up for discussion, is why we just spent hours hunting down some shithead petty thieves that the cops could have found with a magnifying glass!” Guy cries out, pacing by the door and gripping his head between his clean palms.
“Look over here.” You murmur under your breath, Terrific glancing to you, with your hands clean and workspace ready. You’re not going to leave him alone either.
He sighs, closing his eyes once before turning and facing you, leaning back in his chair. He looks tired. You don’t blame him. Guy wasn’t wrong on how long the mission took. They had said it would be a short mission, mainly just for the 6 o’clock news, but it was easily 4:00 a.m. by the time they came back in. Hawkgirl didn’t even sound like she came in the building. You’re almost jealous of her.
“We should be better than them. Be able to find them before they even get their grubby hands on the jewels-” Guy starts up again, and you’re not sure whether the wince on Terrific’s face comes from the alcohol wiping his neck wound clean, or Guy’s grating voice.
“They stole cash.” He mutters, mainly just to you, and you smirk a little as you gently peel off his disintegrating mask and setting it back in the nanite pool on his desk.
The T dissolves on contact, assimilating into the mass, ready to reform at a moment’s notice. For now, you just see Terrific’s face, brushed over with his own blood and a bruise forming at his temple. As you press the antiseptic pad to the gash above his brow, he winches fully this time, hand clenching on his knee.
“Sorry.” You murmur, cleaning it quickly.
He hums a note, fingers brushing your elbow, telling you to slow down without a word. It’s an easy directive to follow.
It was easy to tune out Guy when you were this close. But he always finds a way to be known.
“Y’know, I thought you were a lab assistant, not a nurse.” Guy barks, arms crossed as he stands in front of the door like a brick wall. You shrug a shoulder, cutting a nanothread bandage to match the cut.
“I don’t see you cleaning him up.” You glare at the man, who glares back.
“He’s a god-damn super genius. I don’t think he needs someone patching him up.”
“And you don’t need to talk as loudly as you do, and yet...”
Terrific huffs, shoulders settling slightly in his chair as you carefully bandage him. Guy scowls, directing his ire at Terrific’s rod-straight back.
“Funny. She’s funny. You hire her after seeing her one-woman show? Love it. There should be a sign on the door; Smart-Ass Comedy Club.”
“Think I could charge entry?” Terrific muses, and you nod.
“I’ll take a 50/50 cut.” You smile, and he nods back slowly, rubbing his chin.
“Hmm. Maybe. I’ll think on it.”
Guy groans, rubbing his face quickly with two hands as he starts pacing the room again.
“For two people who aren’t dating, y’all are the most annoying couple I have ever met.” He says through gritted teeth.
“For someone with a chronic concussion, you sure do talk a lot.” You say, flicking your eyes to meet his as he looks over his shoulder to glare at you again.
“I’m just saying. You’re always in here, waiting to patch him up, or organizing his files, or tinkering with his shit.” He nods to the dismantled T-Sphere on your workbench. Terrific glances at it and lifts a brow at you, and you grimace.
“I was trying to expand the sensor range. I ruined a few of the components when he barged in.” You jerk your head towards Guy, and Terrific sighs.
“I’ll get some more.” He mutters, glancing over at the Sphere again. “You really disassembled that yourself?”
The question makes your heart flutter. All you can do is nod to avoid looking him in the eye when he glances back at you. He hums a little, under his breath, as if to just himself.
“Hello?! She’s messing with your damn orbs! This is not casual behaviour!” Guy almost shouts, and Terrific turns away from you to look at him. He jerks his head to the door.
“Get out, Guy.” His words are even and low, if clipped at the ends.
“What? No. We have to go over the mission.”
“Go yell at Hawk.”
“No. She’ll yell at me.” Guy crosses his arms again, and Terrific turns his chair fully towards him. He backs up a step, back against the door.
“I will make you wish she was yelling at your sorry ass.”
The air stills, both men staring at each other as if the other will disappear if they waited long enough. Guy grows impatient, setting his jaw and hissing at you through gritted teeth.
“You’re just in denial. Both of you. With your little game of shay raids-”
“Charades.” You pipe up from the back, and Guy scowls.
“Whatever! What-fucking-ever! Y’all are made for each other anyway.” Guy storms out of the room, slamming the door after him. Terrific sighs, turning back towards you.
“Are we done here? I have to see how bad you massacred my sphere.” He mutters, and you roll your eyes.
“I didn’t destroy it. Just... burned a few parts.” You shrug, steady hands moving as you slip into the familiar rhythm of wiping and bandaging the scrapes and bruises that refuse to stay hidden. “All done. Next time, try to use the spheres, not your face, mkay?”
You peel off your gloves, the sterile snap loud in the quiet lab. He’s already turning back to his screen, diving headfirst into whatever research obsession he’s wrapped up in. The medkit cleans up fast, but you hesitate, caught between routine and something softer pulling at your chest.
It’s late. Too late, really. But it wouldn’t feel right to leave now. Not without that familiar presence, that quiet habit you’ve claimed as your own. His missions and Guy’s endless complaints wear on him, but you know the weight doesn’t stop there.
You’re tired too.
His injuries barely cut deep, but they tug at something fragile inside you; a sudden fear of how mortal he is. How even heroes can bleed. How this lab, his sanctuary, can feel so hollow without him.
The fleeting glances. The whispered words, half-heard over microscopes. The casual brushes of shoulders as he fiddles with chips smaller than a fingernail. These moments stitch themselves into your days, the quiet pulse you look forward to.
A man you’re happy to see. Every day.
“Michael?” Your voice is soft.
“Yes.”
“Can we play some chess? If you’re too tired, it’s okay.” You offer the chance, breathless, as if daring him to say no.
His shoulders drop, a small smile touching his lips—the barest flicker, but for your heart, it shines like a beacon. You smile back, warm and wide. For a heartbeat, you swear he leans in, closing the space between you, filling it with the clean scent of soap and shea.
There’s something about these quiet hours. When his voice lowers, when the hum of the lab feels like a heartbeat, and you work in sync, like your thoughts are the same.
You never say the words out loud, but sometimes you think them.
You want more.
More of this.
More of him.
Not just his brilliance, his trust, or his permission to stay.
Just… him.
“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmurs, voice rough but steady.
You lean in, arms wrapping under his, pulling his chest just a moment closer before you pull away, rushing to the chessboard like a kid with a secret.
From across the room, he watches you, the tension Guy left behind slipping away like smoke. His shoulders ease, fingers rubbing the armrest with quiet thoughtfulness.
It’s easier for Michael to breathe when you’re near.
Easier to think.
Easier to feel.
Though he’d never admit it.
Not quite yet.
But every time you catch him looking at you, pen poised and eyes bright, it almost slips out of his mouth.
For now, his heart will have to keep its own steady rhythm. Though, not a day goes by that he doesn’t want to hear yours.