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It’s only about nine thirty pm when there’s a particularly violent crash of thunder followed by a blinding flash of lightning and then total darkness as the power in your apartment cuts out. And judging by the muffled but prolific swearing coming through the thin walls between you and your neighbour, the power is out for the entire building. Sighing heavily, you reach for your phone torch and find your way to the cupboard your mum had insisted you keep well stocked ‘for emergencies’ where you kept backup torches, lots of tinned food, several decks of cards and some poker chips. You’ve barely gotten the torches set up in strategic positions around your apartment when there’s a knock at the door, and when you get there, it’s your neighbour, Peter. He’s holding a bottle of Jack Daniels and looking sheepish as you arch an eyebrow and wait for an explanation.
“Can I hang out with you till the power comes back? I’m not-” he pauses, scratching self-consciously at the back of his neck before continuing, “I’m not overly fond of the dark, so could I maybe-? I brought this as an offering of gratitude,” He holds the bottle out to you hopefully and you shrug. You’ve never really spent a whole lot of time with him before, but he’s come bearing gifts and he seems like pretty decent company and it’s not like you were looking forwards to spending the night alone in the dark with limited laptop charge.
“Sure, come in. Careful of the torches,” you say, taking the offered bottle and set it down on a coffee table before heading to the refrigerator. “We can watch How I Met Your Mother until my laptop runs out of battery and eat my ice cream so it doesn’t have a chance to melt.”
If you had known that Peter was both a lightweight and somewhat less than gifted in the hand eye coordination department before figuring out a way to pass the time, you would have known better than to mix drinking, ice cream and low lighting. It takes all of about three episodes before he’s tipsy enough to accidentally tip half his bowl of ice cream all down your shirt.
“Shit,” you groan in resignation, setting your own bowl of ice cream on the coffee table. The alcohol in your system is making everything feel very unimportant, but you can feel your shirt starting to stick to your skin where the ice cream was spilled so you haul yourself up from the couch, walking towards your room to change. Absentmindedly, you reach for the hem of your shirt as you approach your bedroom door, starting to pull it up and over your head. There’s a loud thump from behind you that reminds you, somewhat belatedly, that Peter is still in the apartment.
“Hey (Y/N), are you an astronaut? Because your body is out of this world,” Peter calls from his position on the couch. You lean round the door and glare at him, strategically angling yourself so that only your head is visible.
“Don’t watch me change, connard,” you retort before disappearing back into your room and rummaging around in the dark for a new shirt.
“I’m-I just google translated-did you just call me a dickbag…in French?” He asks after a brief silence. You yank a shirt out of a drawer and pull it over your head, throwing the dirty one into a corner of your room and rolling your eyes in amusement at the indignation in Peter’s voice.
“Close enough,” you quip, re-emerging and scooping your laptop up off the coffee table to check the battery. It’s about two percent away from dying so you reluctantly shut it down. You glance over at Peter, about to ask him if he has any ideas about how to pass the time when the mischievous grin he’s wearing makes you pause.
“No really, you’re smokin. If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple.” There’s a momentary silence as he awaits your reaction expectantly and you don’t quite manage to hold back your eyeroll as you reach for the bottle of Jack again. “Or maybe you’re a magician, because abraca-damn.”
“Peter, these are terrible. Please stop.”
“But I gotta know. Are you god? Because you’re the answer to all my prayers,” He asks, giggling and you groan.
“Are you just gonna keep doing this for the rest of the night,” you ask, and he just shrugs.
“I mean, I wasn’t but now that you mention it, If I had to rate you from one to ten I would rate you a nine, because I think I’m the one you’ve been missing,” he quips and you throw a pillow at him in response. “Okay fine, fine you’re a ten, I was lying.”
“You’re a terrible liar with worse pickup lines but I can beat that. Some guy at a bar once came up to me and said ‘what’s your favourite silverware? Because I like to spoon’ so if you can beat that, then I’ll be impressed,” you retort, taking another sip of the alcohol. Peter gives you a grin and chuckles.
“Is that a challenge? Because I’ll take that challenge,” he asks and you laugh.
“Y’know what? Why not. Yeah, this is a challenge. Whoever comes up with the worst pickup line wins something from the loser. Winner’s choice,” You say, holding out your hand for the two of you to shake on the agreement. Peter takes your hand with a smirk.
“If you were a chicken, you’d be impeccable,” he quips and you stifle a giggle.
“You look great and all, but you know what would look really good on you? Me,” you counter, passing the bottle back to him.
“Hey baby, wanna sit on my lap and we’ll talk about the first thing that pops up?”
“Is your name google? Because you’re everything I’m searching for.”
The pickup lines vary from the absurd to the obscene, and between the two of you, there are significantly more of them than you though were possible to come up with.
“Okay, okay, okay. Are you ready? Cause I’m about to win this entire thing. Fucking brace yourself,” Peter announces, already laughing even as he sets up the pickup line. You take another gulp from the now significantly depleted bottle on the couch between the two of you.
“Bring it on, Maximoff.”
“Are you my appendix? Because you’re giving me a funny feeling that’d I’d like to take you out.” Peter is all but doubled over, wheezing with laughter as he finishes the joke and it’s so awful that it actually takes you a couple seconds for it to sink in before you’re laughing too.
“Jesus that was fucking awful. I concede. You win. Pick your reward. Not even my Netflix password is off limits,” you chuckle, holding your hands out in a sign of defeat, the alcohol in your veins registering as a pleasant buzz at the back of your mind.
“I was,” he starts, flushing bright red and not quite meeting your gaze. “I was thinking more like a date,” he continues, you let out a short laugh, not immediately registering what he meant.
“Dude, that’s not even a bad pickup line, and besides you’ve already won-oh. Oh, wait you were serious about-oh,” You slowly trail off as you realise what he meant, studying him thoughtfully. You’re not at all opposed to the idea of going on a date with him, in fact, it’s a fairly appealing suggestion. It takes you a couple seconds to pick up on the fact that Peter’s still talking.
“I mean, you don’t have to-it was a dumb idea, I’m sorry-I shouldn’t have-I’ll take your Netflix password instead-” he’s babbling nervously, and you make a split second decision, reaching out to grab the front of his shirt and hauling him in to press his lips to yours to cut him off. He tastes like chocolate ice cream and Jack Daniels as you shift closer to him on the couch. He pulls back after a couple of seconds, eyes wide with surprise. “I’m-wow-I’m sorry, are you sure?” he whispers almost nervously and you don’t even think about it, you just pull him in to kiss him again, one of your hands carding through his hair as you pull him in closer. Peter’s reaction is immediate, his arms going around your waist and hauling you into his lap as his lips move insistently against yours. His fingers are digging into your hips as one of your arms hooks around his neck, pressing him into the back of the couch. His teeth graze tentatively over your lower lip, making your grip on his hair tighten reflexively, and Peter lets out a startled gasp against your mouth that makes you giggle. Pulling away, you start to press kisses down along his jaw and neck as one of his hands starts to drift idly up and down your spine and then suddenly he laughs, making you pull back and look at him curiously.
“What?” you ask and he gives you a smug grin, reaching up to tuck a stray piece of hair away from your face.
“It may have been a terrible pickup line, but it worked on you, apparently.”