Sep 18, 2015 8:08 PM: Pasha arrives at the Champions Initiative headquarters — a highly secure, high-tech facility busier than a super-max prison — on assignment from S.H.I.E.L.D. The grounds are alive with activity: trucks come and go, agents move with purpose, and maintenance crews work the lawns. Dressed in his SHIELD uniform, Pasha stands tense and reflective, awaiting a reunion with Dr. Adam Brashear, the Blue Marvel, who now serves as the senior advisor to the Champions. The wind stirs, echoing the weight of their shared past and the uncertain future ahead.
DATE
Sep 18, 2015 8:08 PM
CLIME
wi-cloudy
TEMP
72 °
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SCENESET
AFTERNOON;midKnight
walls of the Champions compound with a hum that underscored the pulse of the day. It was the kind of breeze that reminded people to stand tall, to stay alert — not just because of the chill it carried, but because of the weight of the place.
The sky above held a patchwork of scattered clouds, moving steadily across a blue dome brushed faintly with haze. The sun filtered through in soft, golden bursts, illuminating the wide expanse of the facility's perimeter. It was 72 degrees by the last internal readout, warm but not balmy, a steady contrast to the chill in the wind.
Beneath that sky, the Champions Initiative base unfolded like a well-oiled machine — sprawling and quiet, but never still. Towering walls of reinforced alloy steel and layered vibranium composites ringed the entire complex, standing sentinel with a presence more formidable than any super-max prison. Cameras tracked every angle. Drones circled in lazy loops overhead, quiet and distant, but always watching. Even the silence seemed regulated.
Within the walls, the grounds were a picture of organized precision. Trailer trucks rumbled in and out through the southern gate, escorted by discreet SHIELD transport units, their movements logged and timed down to the second. Near the east barracks, a pair of tractors traced wide circles across the lawns, guided by operators in black SHIELD fatigues. The low, steady whine of engines added a steady rhythm to the background noise. Around the main quad, personnel strode with intent, some in civilian attire, others in variant uniforms denoting rank or role — their footsteps forming an unspoken cadence of coordination.
In this well-guarded nexus of tomorrow’s defenders, Pasha stood at the edge of the quad, freshly assigned, yet seasoned by battles most wouldn’t speak of.
He cut a subtle figure — composed, but tense. His standard SHIELD uniform blended practicality with edge: black jeans tucked into sturdy boots, a dark navy Woolly Pully sweater hugged his lean frame, its thick knit textured and lined with black nylon epaulets at the shoulders and matching elbow patches. A pen pocket sat neatly over his chest, right beneath the embroidered SHIELD emblem — small but unmistakable.
There was a tension to his stance, though he tried to mask it. Shoulders squared, eyes forward — but every so often, his fingers twitched at his sides, betraying the low thrum of nerves underneath. Pasha was used to being deployed, used to danger, used to keeping things locked down. But today wasn't about action — not yet. Today was about something else.
Memories. Legacy. And the man he’d once known, now a living monument walking among gods.
Pasha exhaled slowly, watching as another group of cadets jogged past on a training run. His eyes tracked them for a beat, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He’d been assigned to the Champions Initiative just hours ago. And now he was waiting for the man who would decide where he fit into this new structure — if at all.
Dr. Adam Brashear.
The Blue Marvel.
The man who once shouldered more weight than the country that created him.
Pasha’s posture didn’t shift, but inside, he felt the ground stir beneath his boots. Whatever came next would be built on what they’d shared — and what they’d lost.
And just like that, the wind returned, tugging lightly at his sweater and rushing through the quad once more — as if reminding him that time, like history, always moved forward.
midKnight:: Pasha walked with the kind of pace that suggested purpose but left room for gravity — the kind of deliberate stride meant for someone worth waiting for. His boots crunched softly against the paved path that curved around the training field, shoulders squared beneath the wool-knit weight of his SHIELD uniform. He knew Adam would match his pace without needing to be told — that was just how it had always been between them. Quiet understanding, no wasted motion.
The wind tugged at the hem of his sweater and flared the cuffs of his jeans as he glanced sideways, not needing to check if Adam had fallen in step. He could feel it.
“I still think about that mission a few months back,” Pasha said with a faint smile that touched only one side of his mouth. “You should’ve seen your face when they called me in. ‘Your SHIELD liaison,’ they said. And there I was. Like a bad penny.”
He chuckled under his breath, eyes scanning the rows of compound buildings as if replaying it on some internal reel.
“Those pepto-bismol colored simuloids still haunt me, though. Ugh.” He winced theatrically. “You’re lucky I didn’t bill you for the stomachache. I’ve seen horror shows with better palettes.”
Another laugh, soft this time. Lighter. It was a joke, but there was comfort in it — the kind that only came with shared danger and deeper trust.
“I asked for this assignment, you know,” Pasha added after a beat. “After I heard you’d been tapped to oversee the Champions program. Figured if someone was gonna try to guide the next generation, it might as well be someone who’s been through the fire and come out diamond-hard.”
He tilted his head slightly, voice quieter now — earnest beneath the sarcasm.
“You’re gonna do great things here, Adam. I can feel it. And the kids…” A grin pulled wider this time. “Man, the moment they figure out just how powerful you actually are? It’s gonna blow their minds clean out the back of their skulls.”
Pasha paused, his pace slowing a little more. "Is so good seeing you again. Is amazing you have not changed in what.. 40 years. You were so bold the, you took my breath the moment I first saw you... You know, meeting you caused me to totally compromised my mission. Thankfully Sterns was there and shift blame on him and his freaking head. My superiors were not pleased but they accept was there fault sending in second asset and not letting me know. Beurocrats and the there paperwork, am I right?"
He let that hang for a moment, the breeze swirling between them, tugging at the distant calls of trainees and the mechanical hum of life around the facility.
This was only the beginning. But it already felt right.
Blue Marvel:: "I cannot be held responsible for the color palette of the opposition, I am not Edna Mode," Adam said with an amused smile. He wasn't sure if the costumed era was a byproduct of the four-color comics or simply the uniforms of the modern era. He had once read that the costumes they wore were a symbol, a sort of shorthand for others to remember them by. Captain America certainly was to remind people of what America wanted to believe it was, rather than the government behind them.
Turning serious, he said. "Sometimes I wonder if the younger generations want to hear from the older ones, they think we ruined the world, even if we were only reaxcting to the world that had been left to us, still if they are willing to listen, then I will do my best to help them avoid the pitfalls, and maybe help them to realize the world they hope to achieve."
rID: 17r1-p281 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha let out a low, warm laugh, the kind that came from deep in his chest and was meant only for the man walking beside him. “You are so annoyin’ly noble,” he said, giving Adam a sidelong glance, eyes narrowed with amusement and something far more tender beneath it. “Still tryna decide if that’s a virtue… or just very pretty character flaw.”
He folded his arms across his chest as they walked, shoulders relaxing with each step, the wind tugging at the edges of his uniform. Around them, the compound buzzed with distant motion — trucks unloading, agents moving in practiced formations, distant murmurs of commands over radios. But here, between the two of them, the world moved slower.
“You talk like it your fault,” he said after a pause, voice quieter, deeper. “It not. Never was. Was them. The government. Too afraid to see you right. Too proud to say it out loud — that a Black man could carry all that power… all that grace… and not use it to crush them.”
Pasha exhaled through his nose, head tilting slightly, his voice growing softer.
“You believed they actin’ for the greater good. You gave them that faith. But no, it was fear. Fear of you. ’Cause you stronger than Hulk, even when sleepin’. You always been.”
He went quiet for a beat, gaze drifting ahead. But his mind wandered somewhere else entirely — a memory, uninvited but welcome. He didn’t fight it.
He remembered waking up once, long before dawn, the sky still thick and black behind the windowpanes. And there Adam had been — standing in the kitchen, bathed in the pale blue light of an open fridge. Broad shoulders and silver temples, chest bare beneath sleep pants. The quiet curve of his back, the strength that just was, unperformed. Pasha hadn’t moved, hadn’t even breathed. Just laid there and watched, heart full of something he hadn’t had words for then — maybe still didn’t now.
He look magnificent, Pasha thought. Still does, I bet. Still got that light on him…
He swallowed the thought before it could deepen into longing, tucking it behind the half-smile now curling at the edge of his lips.
“I liked wakin’ up next to you,” he murmured aloud. “You don’t move when you sleep. Like whole damn world could burn and you still wait until sunrise. Was… peaceful. Mornings with you.”
His English faltered further, looser now — not sloppy, but raw. Honest.
“I don’t be this version of me for many people,” he admitted, a little shrug with one shoulder. “You one of the few. Maybe only.”
They walked a while longer in silence, the rhythm of their steps unforced. The wind pulled gently at the back of his neck. Then, finally, he spoke again, voice low but sure:
“They might not know it yet. Might not wanna say it out loud yet. But when they walk with you… they walk with greatness.”
And he meant it. Every word.
Blue Marvel:: "Stronger than the Hulk," Adam chuckled, "Maybe if he had just woken up from a nice nap, and a cup of chamomile tea." He imagined that his friend Banner might be easier to deal with by playing Enya than engaging in a punch-up. Then again, what the Hulk displayed was less a display of physical strength than destructive strength. He doesn't deadlift. But he and the jolly green one had the same ability sd Bruce Lee had to convey immeasurable amounts of potential energy in an instant. "You know, you never mention the support you give from the shadows, more often than not, what you learn and do outside of the eyes of others makes all the difference."
He was referring to more than just Pasha's role as Midnight, but as he said, much of what he knew of the man was known only to him. The private moments were the best of all, but most of the finest memories he had involved Pasha and himself, not the grand moments attributed to Blue Marvel.
He looked around at the compound. This place was ideal for training the next generation, too often, the young had no idea what their limits were, and so harnessing their powers inside a city would be the height of foolishness.
"I don't think I would be who I am without you beside me, I would never want to become someone you did not admire," He said honestly, turning to face Pasha. "I like what those beautiful eyes see in me, more because it reminds me of what I love about you."
rID: 17r2-p285 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: “Stronger than the Hulk?” Pasha laughed under his breath, voice silk-laced with mischief. “Darling, Banner’s built like a professor. You’ve seen him. Even when he’s not green, he’s two lab coats and a nervous smile. Meanwhile, you—” His eyes dragged slowly across Adam’s form, appreciating it openly. “—walk around like strength sculpted itself into a man and then got generous with the beauty.”
He leaned closer, voice quieter, but warmer. “You could take him. Not just because you’re stronger, but because you’re... centered. That balance between restraint and power? It makes you terrifying when you need to be—and beautiful all the time.”
Pasha exhaled, then placed a hand lightly against Adam’s arm. “You say you wouldn’t be who you are without me—but I think you would. You have that kind of heart. That impossible will. Me?” He shrugged slightly, a small smile playing at the edge of his lips. “If I hadn’t met you, I’d still be deep in the Winter Garden. Still living in the shadows. Still pretending control was the same as purpose.”
His voice softened further. “But then I met you. We met. We flirt. We fight some. You go gentle on me and let me go. And I reflect on that. I reflect on you. And I know how much I like you.. and for all the things I was then, the one thing I was not was worthy of you. And I reflect that, I realize I want to be worthy. I want to be worthy of you Adam. You give me not just something to believe in... you made me want to be worthy of it. You’re why I stepped out of the dark—not because I needed saving, but because I saw what it looked like to stand in the light and still carry the weight with dignity.”
Pasha tilted his head, that flirt back on his lips. “And yes, Adam Brashear, you can always count on me. My loyalty, my knives, my dirty tricks—I am firmly in your corner. If I didn’t believe in anything else, I’d still believe in you.”
Then, just as the moment seemed to settle, he smirked with that same wicked gleam.
“And honestly... anyone who’s ever seen you standing in the kitchen, eating ice cream at 2 a.m., naked and glorious under the refrigerator light? That’s the kind of miracle that makes a man rethink his entire moral compass.”
Blue Marvel:: Adam thought about it. He could handle the Hulk for the simple reason that even at the best of times, rage controlled the behemoth. Direct confrontation was a waste of time, he would have treated him like a matador would a bull. Redirecting him over and over until the Hulk made a mistake that could be used to restrain him. Normally, he didn't like to plot out conflicts with friends, but Banner wasn't always a friend in his right mind.
"I think we both freed each other," he said at the mention of the Winter Garden. "Despite all my power, my intelligence, I went along to get along. That's not free either." He caught Pasha in a loose embrace -it was always loose at first, he would never bind him, not even in passion. "We are good for each other."
He tried to imagine himself in the light of the refrigerator door, but only saw Pasha there. "There is something about that light of the refrigerator in a darkened kitchen, I think it is every man's fantasy about the man he loves because that is where I place you, not me."
rID: 17r3-p296 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha walked just half a step behind Adam, where he could watch him without being obvious. The training grounds sprawled around them—dusted in gold where the sun hit steel and concrete—but Pasha’s attention never wandered far. Even as his boots crunched over gravel, even as the wind tugged lightly at his coat, his eyes—when not directly on Adam—followed the man in mirrored glass, in shadow, in the subtle movements of how others looked toward Adam when they thought Pasha wasn’t looking; Pasha was always appraising situation of those he did not trust who sadly were far to many and far to often.
His silence stretched for a moment. Not because he had nothing to say—but because he had everything to say, and he had to choose the words carefully. There were always ears at Champions HQ, and not every Pasha said was for them, and not all of them listening were benign.
Eventually, he smiled—tight-lipped but warm—as if answering something Adam hadn’t voiced aloud. “You overthink,” he said softly, tone fond rather than critical. “I like the way your face looks when you do that. So serious. Like you are rewriting physics by blinking. I could watch you for hours doing nothing—thinking. Even without bouncy pecs.” A teasing pause. “Though I admit, those help.”
He paused, then added "Wha? Some people count sheep. I count bounces." Pasha said with a self-amused smile.
He reached out casually, brushing the back of his gloved fingers along Adam’s arm before clasping his own hands behind his back, schoolboy-like—except for the razor-blade awareness that always bled off him like mist. Even in daylight, Pasha moved like a secret.
“You say we freed each other,” he continued, glancing sideways at Adam. “Of course we do. I make cocoa. You make me stop killing diplomats. This is balance.” The smile cracked into a quick, private grin, and then disappeared again.
Unlike most of those who regretted the Red Room, Pasha did not regret his kills before of the red on any person's ledger, he cared because of what Adam believed, which was that he could be better -- And of late, he had been.
He stopped walking briefly, letting his eyes scan the yard in a well-practiced sweep—habit, reflex, instinct. Then, more quietly: “You think you are humble. But sometimes I think it is not that. I think you let the world hit you too much. You do not bend, but you absorb. It’s a strange kind of suffering, that quiet dignity.” His voice dipped, edged with something sharp and tender. “You let them hit you because you believe you can take it. But you shouldn’t have to. You are magnificent, Adam. And it offends me to see magnificence treated like utility.”
"And it annoys be for I would hop up on your back for piggy-back ride in second, but I fear the impressive weight you shoulder everyday. Is not fair. You should have right to play time too. fuck them I say."
Pasha’s hand reached out again, slower this time, and curled loosely around Adam’s wrist—just for a second, just enough to ground the moment. “I love that you are noble. I love that you are better. But sometimes I want the world to know it too. You could crush it. You don’t. That is power.”
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as if frustrated by feelings he couldn’t uncurl fully in public. “The Hulk?” he scoffed. “Kick him in chest before he turns. Or as he turns. Right timing, right angle—you launch him like missile. He becomes hulk-cycle, orbiting deep space until his rage makes small sun. Or crush trachea. No breath, no grow. Or my favorite—tranq the Banner, burn the body, bury the bones.” His tone was light, but not flippant. It was the kind of quiet analysis that came from a lifetime of surgical violence. “I have contingency for everyone, lyubov. Everyone but you.”
"You are never contingency. You are my wellspring."
Then he leaned into Adam’s side, brushing just enough to fold under the loose curl of Adam’s arm again. It was instinctive, almost catlike—the way he allowed himself to nestle there, weightless and entirely present. “I like it here,” he said softly, chest rising with the kind of breath a man didn’t know he’d been holding. “You make me feel safe. Even from myself.”
There was a pause, warm and sad and deep.
“About the fridge light?” He let a small chuckle escape. “You are sweet. But no. The blue on your skin—it’s not just light. It’s you. Cold light is eternal. Is beautiful. I grew up loving cold. It keeps secrets. Preserves moments. That pale glow... it is Blue Marvel, and I—” His voice caught for a fraction of a second. “—I want you to live forever. I want to keep you. Because I do not want to be alone again. I do not want to go back to the man I was without you.”
He didn’t say “I love you.” But it was in his every breath, every silence, every glance.
And just like that, his tone flicked back to sly again—mask up, warmth still radiating beneath. “Anyway,” he muttered, gently adjusting Adam’s sleeve like it mattered, “we keep walking or someone starts wondering why you are glowing and I am smiling like cat who swallowed missile codes.”
Blue Marvel:: Adam didn't want to think about the Hulk; if he needed to deal with him permanently, he could. The problem was that Banner was a good man, and sometimes the Hulk wasn't so bad. He didn't particularly want to admit that he formed contingencies for dangerous people who were seemingly indestructible, but might have to be dealt with permanently rather than pretty haikus.
"You know, I am getting better at work-life balance, it also helps to know I am not alone." He said. He briefly caught Pasha in a loose embrace. "And while you are the center of my world, I mean the others, not people in trick costumes like Goliath and Wasp, I mean true peers. It is nice to be able to say, 'Have you talked to so in so, I am in Aruba."
He stole a kiss. "You don't have to worry, I am not going anywhere for a very long time, although we do need to get back inside. Those young people are looking for guidance, even if some of them act like they know it all already."
rID: 17r4-p307 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha leaned into the kiss like it was breath itself—brief as it was, it pulled more from him than he let on. When Adam pulled back, Pasha lingered a moment longer, eyes half-lidded, the corners of his mouth curved in quiet protest.
"You know," he murmured, voice as low as a prayer and just as pointed, "for a man so tall, so impossibly strong, you really do not steal enough kisses."
There was mischief in his gaze now, but beneath it—something hungrier, older. Something aching. Pasha stepped closer, fingers catching at Adam’s collar like they might anchor him there forever.
"What is the point of being built like the living end if you don’t enjoy it at least a little?" he asked, his smirk more intimate than wicked. "I enjoy it. So should you. And if you won't enjoy it then I should get to enjoy it a little more right?"
A beat passed, and he tilted his head just slightly, brushing his cheek to Adam’s shoulder before speaking again, softer now, drawn from somewhere deep beneath his ribs.
"We can go back inside in a minute. They haven’t blown anything up yet." He glanced sideways, just enough to catch Adam’s eye. “We always rush. Missions, recoveries, new beginnings. Years lost to survival. I do not want to waste more time pretending that kisses are distractions. They're not.”
His hand rested briefly at Adam’s chest, over the slow thrum of his heart, like a man committing a rhythm to memory.
“We have too little time over too many decades. I would like not to repeat mistakes. So just for now… stay. Steal one more. Or five. Or I start tallying again.” His grin widened, warm and sly. “One bounce. Two bounce…”
Pasha's laughter was quiet, but real. And though his body still held that same coiled stillness, his soul in that moment—was entirely at peace.
His silence stretched for a moment. Not because he had nothing to say—but because he had everything to say, and he had to choose the words carefully. There were always ears at Champions HQ, and not every Pasha said was for them, and not all of them listening were benign.
Eventually, he smiled—tight-lipped but warm—as if answering something Adam hadn’t voiced aloud. “You overthink,” he said softly, tone fond rather than critical. “I like the way your face looks when you do that. So serious. Like you are rewriting physics by blinking. I could watch you for hours doing nothing—thinking. Even without bouncy pecs.” A teasing pause. “Though I admit, those help.”
He paused, then added "Wha? Some people count sheep. I count bounces." Pasha said with a self-amused smile.
He reached out casually, brushing the back of his gloved fingers along Adam’s arm before clasping his own hands behind his back, schoolboy-like—except for the razor-blade awareness that always bled off him like mist. Even in daylight, Pasha moved like a secret.
“You say we freed each other,” he continued, glancing sideways at Adam. “Of course we do. I make cocoa. You make me stop killing diplomats. This is balance.” The smile cracked into a quick, private grin, and then disappeared again.
Unlike most of those who regretted the Red Room, Pasha did not regret his kills before of the red on any person's ledger, he cared because of what Adam believed, which was that he could be better -- And of late, he had been.
He stopped walking briefly, letting his eyes scan the yard in a well-practiced sweep—habit, reflex, instinct. Then, more quietly: “You think you are humble. But sometimes I think it is not that. I think you let the world hit you too much. You do not bend, but you absorb. It’s a strange kind of suffering, that quiet dignity.” His voice dipped, edged with something sharp and tender. “You let them hit you because you believe you can take it. But you shouldn’t have to. You are magnificent, Adam. And it offends me to see magnificence treated like utility.”
"And it annoys be for I would hop up on your back for piggy-back ride in second, but I fear the impressive weight you shoulder everyday. Is not fair. You should have right to play time too. fuck them I say."
Pasha’s hand reached out again, slower this time, and curled loosely around Adam’s wrist—just for a second, just enough to ground the moment. “I love that you are noble. I love that you are better. But sometimes I want the world to know it too. You could crush it. You don’t. That is power.”
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as if frustrated by feelings he couldn’t uncurl fully in public. “The Hulk?” he scoffed. “Kick him in chest before he turns. Or as he turns. Right timing, right angle—you launch him like missile. He becomes hulk-cycle, orbiting deep space until his rage makes small sun. Or crush trachea. No breath, no grow. Or my favorite—tranq the Banner, burn the body, bury the bones.” His tone was light, but not flippant. It was the kind of quiet analysis that came from a lifetime of surgical violence. “I have contingency for everyone, lyubov. Everyone but you.”
"You are never contingency. You are my wellspring."
Then he leaned into Adam’s side, brushing just enough to fold under the loose curl of Adam’s arm again. It was instinctive, almost catlike—the way he allowed himself to nestle there, weightless and entirely present. “I like it here,” he said softly, chest rising with the kind of breath a man didn’t know he’d been holding. “You make me feel safe. Even from myself.”
There was a pause, warm and sad and deep.
“About the fridge light?” He let a small chuckle escape. “You are sweet. But no. The blue on your skin—it’s not just light. It’s you. Cold light is eternal. Is beautiful. I grew up loving cold. It keeps secrets. Preserves moments. That pale glow... it is Blue Marvel, and I—” His voice caught for a fraction of a second. “—I want you to live forever. I want to keep you. Because I do not want to be alone again. I do not want to go back to the man I was without you.”
He didn’t say “I love you.” But it was in his every breath, every silence, every glance.
And just like that, his tone flicked back to sly again—mask up, warmth still radiating beneath. “Anyway,” he muttered, gently adjusting Adam’s sleeve like it mattered, “we keep walking or someone starts wondering why you are glowing and I am smiling like cat who swallowed missile codes.”
Blue Marvel:: "I love you," Adam admitted easily. It was a simple truth. He accepted Pasha as he was, as demanding alterations to be suitable was not love; it was conditional acceptance. Did he have to come to terms with what a Red Room operative was, of course? He had no reason to know anything about them before they had met? As for the assassinations, he supposed a paragon of justice should have a dedicated stance, but America had snipers and the CIA that carried out questionable activities, pretending that they didn't was just hypocritical.
He stole another kiss, although was it stolen if it was expected?
"We do have to make up for the long gaps, I promise, short of some cosmic trouble, make and an act of kidnapping, I will not be responsible for any unreasonable gaps in time. Just because we have what looks like extended lives doesn't mean we shouldn't treat all of it as precious.
rID: 17r5-p315 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha’s brows arched, not with surprise but with satisfaction, like a man whose hypothesis had just been confirmed.
“Of course you do,” he said breezily, his voice all velvet with teeth. “I am very loveable. I will have you know, back when I was still ‘Asset in Field #27, aka Eternal Child’ for Winter Guardian—3.2 out of every four people I put to "sleep" proposed to me first. One tried twice. In different languages.” He tilted his head innocently. “I was flattered. And a little confused. They were unconscious.. but also possessed so there is that withstanding yes?. But still, point stands. I am very loveable.”
He paused a moment to smile a questionable smile.
He leaned a little closer, almost conspiratorial. “I got an A+ in Being Loveable I will be having you know. Yes, it is a real class. Very elite. I was guest lecturer. I can twist a cherry stem with tongue - You name knot, I can tie it. No Lie. Maybe little lie. Still, I can tie knot if you ever want to find out. Five times. Got standing ovation. And chair also thrown at me. Both count.”
There was a mischievous glint in his eye now. “Is it arrogant if it’s true? Hmm? Because I am loveable. Just like you are very—very—sexy. With the jawline. The muscles. The stoicism. The brain that solves problems like you’re politely rearranging galaxies. I mean… you’re the whole bag of chips, yes? Do they still be saying that?” He waved a hand like clearing a blackboard. “Doesn’t matter. I say it now. You are snack. No—banquet. And I have excellent taste (at night you are the whole banquet).”
Before Adam could fully reply, Pasha tilted up on the balls of his feet, stealing a kiss—not quick, not teasing. One of those deliberate, soul-deep ones that stopped clocks. That said this is mine in every breath.
“You do not get to ‘steal’ kisses,” he murmured near Adam’s mouth afterward, lips brushing. “You own them. And I expect you to act like it. Take your time. Just because you can lift mountains doesn’t mean you must rush like avalanche.” He leaned in again. “Let the world wait.”
Then, deadpan: “We’ll call that my midterm exam. You should see the finals.” He smirked.
Pasha didn’t step away—instead, he shifted under the loose arc of Adam’s arm like he belonged there (because he did), resting his palm lightly against the curve of Adam’s side and then letting it trail downward just a touch, respectful but strategic. His thumb made a slow, thoughtful circle as if pondering where best to distract a demigod mid-briefing.
“We are technically on the clock,” he whispered, glancing briefly at the buildings around them. “But I will risk a strongly worded memo if it means I get to make your engine hum before lunch. Consider it... morale management.”
Then, as if nothing had happened, he straightened with soldierly grace, still nestled close but upright. “You said no more long gaps. Good. I will hold you to that, Adam Brashear. And you know I will. I keep very thorough score. As they say among my graduating class, we keep ledgers.” He winked. “You should be worried.”
And then, softer, with a private look just for Adam:
“But I am also yours. So you should feel very smug instead and know there is no page I would not burn for you Mister Smoudlering-Eyes.”
He bumped their shoulders lightly. “Now go on—glow brighter. I want the children to think I make you shine.”
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