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Chapter Text

Reed had never figured out why putting on a suit felt like preparing for combat. There were no equations involved, no machinery to calibrate, yet somehow a tie could make him more tense than a launch sequence. He stood in front of his mirror, adjusting the knot for the fourth time, trying to remember if godfathers were supposed to look comforting or just not alarming.

Morgan Stark was the closest thing he had to a niece. Tony had declared—very publicly, very loudly—that Reed was destined to be her godfather “because every genius baby needs a genius backup plan.” Reed suspected Pepper had approved the decision to make sure Tony didn't pick someone like Deadpool.

Social gatherings weren’t his battlefield of choice. Reed could face congressional briefings and high-level negotiations with international space agencies, but a room full of people holding champagne flutes? That was psychological turbulence.

He checked his reflection again, buttoned his jacket, then unbuttoned it because it looked too formal, then buttoned it again because unbuttoned felt like he’d forgotten something.

Ben would be outside any minute, and Ben was annoyingly punctual.

Right on cue, there was a solid knock on his apartment door—three short raps, the kind that sounded like they came from someone who’d punched through walls in his youth and still could. Reed opened it to find Ben Grimm standing there in a dark suit that somehow still made him look like he’d just left a boxing ring. He had the posture of someone who didn’t care if people stared—probably because they already did.

“You look like you’re about to give a eulogy for a satellite,” Ben said, eyeing him.

Reed blinked. “This is my neutral face.”

“That’s what worries me.”

They took the elevator down and stepped outside to where Ben had parked—of course—a vintage car he’d restored himself. It looked like something that had been in a war and won.

Riding with Ben was one of the few times Reed could relax in silence. They didn’t always need to talk. Their history filled in the blanks: meeting at Empire State University, Reed a prodigy with too much brain and not enough sleep, Ben a football scholarship kid with a wicked sense of humor and a willingness to throw hands for people he cared about. Somehow it worked. Reed offered logic; Ben offered loyalty. They’d never questioned it.

He’d met Tony and Vision years later at a tech symposium in Geneva—an event he’d only agreed to attend because someone promised the keynote would be mathematically tolerable. Tony had made a snide comment during a panel on artificial intelligence, Reed had corrected him, and Vision—who was still consulting for Stark Industries then—joined in like a referee who’d written his own rulebook. What began as a three-way argument about AI autonomy and predictive cognition somehow turned into a four-hour debate that outlasted the conference itself. They ended up in a 24-hour café eating terrible sandwiches and picking apart ethics, algorithms, and Tony’s inability to whisper. By morning, Tony had decided they were friends, Vision had quietly agreed, and Reed hadn’t found a compelling reason to object.

Traffic wasn’t bad, and Stark Tower grew in the skyline like an idea with an ego. The building always made Reed think of Tony: too tall, too shiny, and definitely visible from space.

“You ready for this circus?” Ben asked.

“I’m prepared to stand in a corner and nod when spoken to,” Reed said.

“So no different than most of your conferences.”

They arrived at the private entrance, and the moment they stepped inside, Reed was hit with the low hum of social energy—laughter, cameras, the clink of glass. Pepper always picked elegant venues, and Tony always added something impractical and expensive, like drone waiters or mood lighting programmed to respond to applause.

The christening was on one of the upper floors, and when the elevator opened, Reed immediately spotted Vision near the windows. The man stood like someone had built him from scratch using ethics textbooks and excellent posture.

“Richards,” Vision greeted him with a polite nod. “I see formality has not diminished your structural symmetry.”

“That’s his way of sayin’ you clean up nice,” Ben translated.

Before Reed could respond, a voice came from behind them—smooth, amused, barely trying to stay humble.

“Tell me someone’s recording this. Reed Richards in a suit and not hiding behind a lab coat? Historic moment.”

Tony Stark approached with the easy confidence of a man who could walk into his own wedding late and still get applause. He clapped Reed on the shoulder like he was resetting his spine.

“You’re late,” Tony said, even though they weren’t.

“You told me to arrive whenever,” Reed pointed out.

“And you believed me?” Tony looked personally offended. “Godfather rule number one: don’t trust me with scheduling.”

Vision stepped in. “Technically, you attempted scheduling through interpretive metaphor, which is historically unreliable.”

“That’s why I keep him around,” Tony said. “Moral GPS.”

They drifted into a quieter corner of the room—Reed’s preferred habitat. Ben posted himself nearby like the world’s most intimidating coat rack.

Tony, somehow balancing a drink and ego seamlessly, asked, “So. Our big space adventure. Still on schedule to launch in six weeks?”

Reed nodded. “Final systems checks start next month. Ben’s simulations passed every flight test.”

“Except the one where the coffee machine malfunctioned,” Ben said. “Worst-case scenario.”

“We’re collaborating with three agencies and half your legal team,” Reed added dryly, “so I’d say we’re on track.”

Before Tony could start a monologue about branding the mission, another voice joined the circle.

“Are we talking space dreams or coffee disasters?”

Johnny Storm slid into their group with a grin that could power half the tower. He wore his internship badge like an accessory and looked far too confident for someone who still burnt toast.

“Storm junior,” Tony said. “Shouldn’t you be pretending to revise schematics you don’t understand?”

Johnny pointed finger guns at him. “I understand plenty.”

He and Ben exchanged a handshake that looked more like an arm-wrestling warm-up.

Johnny turned to Reed. “Hey, Professor. You still planning to let me do my internship hours in zero-G once you're up there?”

“Absolutely not,” Reed said.

“That’s not a no,” Johnny smirked.

They talked a bit more about the mission—fuel capacity, structural tests, crew readiness. Johnny tried to look serious while Vision accidentally used the phrase “martian expansion ethics,” and Tony made a joke about Reed adopting a moon.

Reed had almost relaxed when he noticed Pepper approaching. She navigated a room the way Reed navigated equations—with intent and quiet efficiency. But she wasn’t alone.

Walking beside her was someone Reed had no trouble recognizing, whether in a conference room, a policy symposium, or—apparently—an elegant christening.

Sue Storm.

Johnny spotted her first. “Hey! Look who Pepper dragged in.”

Sue smiled at her brother, and Reed felt something in his chest rearrange itself. She wore a dark green dress—elegant, not loud—and carried herself like she’d already read the room, categorized the risks, and forgiven most of them.

Pepper joined their small circle and placed a hand on Sue’s arm. “Johnny, stop stealing conversation oxygen. Let me do the introductions.”

She turned to Reed. “Reed Richards—Morgan’s other godparent—this is Susan Storm. Morgan’s godmother.”

Reed already knew that. He’d known since Tony jokingly mentioned it months ago, and he’d done an embarrassingly poor job of pretending it was fine.

Sue offered her hand, composed and warm. “Nice to meet you—formally, anyway.”

For a split second, Reed forgot if he’d spoken to her out loud before. He had seen her at panels, policy briefings, once at a Stark fundraiser where she’d dismantled a senator’s argument with a smile and a glass of champagne.

He took her hand, steadying his voice. “Good to see you, Susan.”

“Sue,” she corrected gently.

Johnny elbowed her. “Told you he’d be here. He’s Stark’s favorite lab rat.”

Sue’s eyes flickered with amusement—and then something thoughtful. Reed couldn’t tell if she remembered him beyond passing familiarity… or if she remembered who else he worked with.

Victor.

Even the thought of Doom’s name caused a subtle shift in Reed’s shoulders. Not enough to notice—but enough to feel.

Pepper, blissfully unaware or intentionally smooth, continued, “Sue will be joining the mission as our political and civilian affairs liaison. She’s been instrumental in negotiations.”

Sue added, “And possibly the only reason three governments didn't strangle each other over docking rights.”

Reed managed a smile. “That sounds accurate.”

Her voice had that quality he remembered—calm but cutting, soft but direct. When she looked at you, it didn’t feel like attention. It felt like evaluation in the kindest possible form.

And God help him, she was stunning in a way that didn’t announce itself. She just existed, and the room made space.

Before the silence could grow awkward, Pepper excused herself, dragging Tony with her to deal with some photographer situation. Ben pretended to examine the hors d'oeuvres table. Johnny wandered off to intercept a waiter like he was hunting prey.

That left Reed and Sue—standing just far enough from the crowd to talk.

She tilted her head. “So you’re the other godparent.”

Reed nodded. “Depends who you ask. Tony tried to assign the role to a hologram first.”

“And yet he picked you,” she said. “That says something.”

“I’d argue against it, but I don’t want to incriminate myself.”

Sue smiled again—small, sincere, a little curious. “I’ve heard about your work. The mission… it’s ambitious.”

“Some people call it that,” Reed said. “Others call it reckless.”

“And what do you call it?”

He paused. “Necessary.”

She held his gaze a moment longer than polite conversation required. “I get that.”

They talked briefly—her background in policy, her quiet fascination with space, why she agreed to work with Stark Industries for this project. She asked him one or two questions that didn’t feel surface-level. Reed answered without thinking too hard, which was a miracle in itself.

For a moment, he forgot about Doom entirely. And then he remembered—and wished he hadn’t.

Reed wasn’t easily distracted, but talking to Sue had a strange calming effect—like someone had taken the static in his head and tuned it to a clearer frequency.

He was mid-sentence about the spacecraft’s civilian module when a passing thought flickered through him: Had Victor already spoken to her about the mission? He didn’t want to think about it, but Doom had a way of existing in people’s histories like a shadow you didn’t invite.

Sue didn’t seem rattled by anything. If she was thinking about her past with Victor, she buried it well. Her expression was open, focused, engaged in a way that made Reed forget they were surrounded by two dozen billionaires and three drones carrying champagne.

Johnny reappeared out of nowhere, swiping a mini tart off a tray like he’d been born in a tux. He bumped his shoulder lightly against Sue’s.

“You bothering him yet?” Johnny asked, grinning.

“Hardly,” Sue said. “He’s surprisingly easy to talk to.”

Johnny looked offended. “That is not the feedback I gave her about you.”

“Then you’re losing your touch,” Reed said.

Johnny scoffed. “Please. My touch is legendary.”

Ben ambled back over with a glass of something amber and judgmental. “Yeah, legendary like food poisoning.”

Johnny pointed at him. “See, this is why nobody invites you to fun things.”

“Pepper invited me,” Ben said. “Your sister threatened me.”

“That tracks,” Johnny shrugged.

Vision drifted back to their group with the effortless grace of someone who glided instead of walked. “Pepper wishes to begin the ceremony shortly. Tony was attempting to modify the lighting in the nursery to simulate the Horsehead Nebula. She has convinced him that this is unnecessary.”

“That sounds like Pepper saving us all,” Sue said.

Reed watched her, still half-listening, half-observing. She had a composed kind of presence—an ease that wasn’t loud, but made people root themselves around her without realizing it.

Tony and Pepper reappeared, Pepper carrying Morgan with practiced balance, Tony holding a tiny bonnet like it was made of plutonium.

Pepper shot him a look. “It’s fabric, Tony. Not a detonator.”

“You say that,” Tony muttered, “but last time I put something on a baby, it projected holograms.”

They gathered near the front where the officiant stood. Reed and Sue were pulled forward—literally in Sue’s case, Tony guiding her by the elbow with dramatic flair.

“You two,” he said to them, “stand here and pretend you’re emotionally stable for photos.”

Sue leaned toward Reed just enough for him to hear her quietly say, “He’s not wrong. This is a favor, not a task.”

Reed’s voice was dry. “I’m already regretting not wearing body armor.”

The godparent vows were a mix of heartfelt tradition and Stark improvisation. Reed managed not to look like he was computing orbital velocity the entire time. Sue held Morgan briefly while Pepper adjusted something, and Reed watched with an involuntary fascination. She held the baby with careful confidence—not stiff, not overly precious, just… natural.

When it was his turn, Morgan grasped his finger in that uncoordinated but decisive way babies do, and the entire room made a cooing noise he pretended not to hear.

Pictures happened. Too many.

Tony pretended to cry. Pepper pretended not to kick him.

When the formalities ended and people dispersed toward food and drinks, the smaller circles of conversation reformed. Reed found himself back in familiar company—Ben, Vision, and Tony, debating something that involved fuel budgets and baby-proofing a launch deck.

Johnny drifted in and out, charming servers and stealing cheese. Reed suspected he was legally banned from shame.

Sue rejoined them after speaking with Pepper and a handful of guests from the State Department. When she stepped back into their circle, the conversation shifted almost subconsciously to make space.

Tony gestured loosely with his drink. “Sue here is going to make sure we don’t start an interplanetary incident by accident.”

“That’s generous,” she said. “I’m mostly there to make sure your diplomatic memos use correct grammar.”

Ben snorted. “She’s got her work cut out for her then.”

Reed looked at her briefly. “You’re really joining the mission team?”

Her eyes flicked to him. “Pepper asked, and I said yes. I’ve been in enough rooms with heads of state to know how badly they behave when left unsupervised. Space might be easier.”

“And you want to go up there?” he asked.

Sue considered her answer before giving it. “Want is one word for it. I’d call it overdue.”

Johnny leaned in. “She used to sit on the roof when we were kids and make up constellations.”

Sue shot him a look. “You used to try to skateboard off the same roof, so maybe don’t share childhood stories.”

Tony gestured between Sue and Reed. “You two should talk spacecraft specs sometime. But do it somewhere I can’t hear the words ‘stress fractures’ or ‘modular hull integrity.’”

“I wouldn’t subject you to that,” Sue said.

Reed gave Tony a faint look. “You’d survive.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “But I’d complain.”

Vision turned to Sue with polite interest. “Given your background, will your focus lie in diplomatic integration or crisis management during transit?”

Sue didn’t miss a beat. “Both, ideally. If anything goes wrong up there, it won’t be because of silence. Or ego.”

That made Tony glance briefly at Reed, then at himself, as if silently tallying their deficiencies.

Reed couldn’t help it—her voice, her certainty—it pulled his attention every time she spoke. Nothing about her tone was performative; she didn’t posture, didn’t try to sound impressive. She just was.

Someone passed them glasses of champagne. Reed declined his. Sue accepted hers and didn’t drink it.

For a moment, the music and the chatter dipped low enough that their part of the room felt almost separate from the rest.

Reed glanced at her again, then away. “Have we ever actually spoken before today?”

Sue looked at him thoughtfully. “Once. Briefly. At a Stark climate initiative dinner two years ago. You were arguing with a senator about funding for exoplanet research. I told you afterward he’d pretend to change his vote.”

Reed blinked. “He did.”

“I know,” she said lightly. “Politicians don’t change their mind. They change the presentation.”

“You remember that?” Reed asked before he could help himself.

“I make a habit of remembering people who are inconvenient in useful ways.”

Her tone was light. The compliment sat in it like a small, steady weight.

Reed was about to respond when he saw it—a flash of movement near the far end of the room. Dark suit. Familiar height. Polished arrogance.

Victor von Doom.

Even from a distance, the name felt like static in his blood. Reed saw Sue notice him a second later—her posture made the slightest shift. Controlled. Neutral. But there.

She looked away deliberately, back to Reed, as though nothing in her field of vision had changed.

Reed didn’t mention Victor. He wouldn’t—not here, not now. But something in him filed it away like a variable that had just reentered the equation.

Sue set her untouched champagne on a nearby tray. “I should check in with Pepper before the press photos start.”

Reed nodded. “Of course.”

She didn’t leave immediately. For a heartbeat, she stayed there—close enough for her perfume to register, subtle and clean, nothing excessive.

Then she gave him one more small, composed smile. “I’ll see you around, Reed.”

He watched her walk away—not in a daze, but with the alertness of someone memorizing a trajectory.

Johnny appeared at his elbow with uncanny timing. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not,” Reed said.

“You so are.”

Ben folded his arms. “Aw, look at him. Little genius got a crush.”

Tony wandered back into earshot just in time to smirk. “Careful, Richards. Emotions don’t come with instruction manuals.”

Reed ignored them, or pretended to. His gaze drifted once more to where Sue was talking with Pepper.

Some things you planned for with equations.
Some things you didn’t.

Chapter Text

Sue had long ago decided that most high-profile events were just anxiety with catering. Stark gatherings, however, were a category of their own—equal parts spectacle, ego management, and discreet diplomacy. People didn’t just mingle here; they positioned themselves like satellites trying to catch the right orbit.

She’d gotten very good at looking effortless in a room like this. Years of practice: state dinners, policy summits, fundraising galas where half the guests smiled with their teeth and not their eyes. You learned to read rooms before you learned to enjoy them.

She hadn't always belonged in places like this. Glenville felt like a lifetime ago—small-town expectations and quiet grief packaged as normalcy. Their mother’s death had shattered things quietly, like glass under a towel. Their father had been brilliant, respected, and then undone by heartbreak and guilt. The night he’d gone to prison, Sue was seventeen. Nobody asked if she was ready to be in charge—she just was.

Johnny was still a kid then. Restless, bright, always reaching for something too high or too hot. She became mother, sister, referee, and legal guardian while pretending adulthood didn’t feel like theft. Responsibility shaped her before ambition did.

College in California hadn’t been an escape so much as a redirection. Political science, policy, advisory committees—one opportunity built on another until she found herself in rooms where people listened and sometimes hated that they had to. She spoke well, negotiated better, and learned that influence was often quieter than authority.

Then Victor happened.

He was brilliant, intense, and the kind of man who admired potential as long as it didn’t compete with his own. At first, he had made her feel chosen. Later, he made her feel tired. He talked about Reed Richards more than he talked about her—always through clenched teeth, always with that precise irritation reserved for someone you can’t surpass. Reed was a name that floated constantly through their arguments, uninvited and unprovoked.

He’s overrated, Victor would mutter.
He’s not better than me.
He got lucky.
He was given things I had to fight for.
You’d understand if you actually saw him work.

Sometimes Sue thought Reed was the third person in their relationship. Always present, never spoken to, only spoken at. She hadn't met Reed then, only imagined him through Victor’s resentment—this ghost of competition he couldn’t exorcise. She used to wonder what kind of man could live rent-free in Victor von Doom’s pride.

Apparently, the kind of man who looked better in a suit than she expected.

She'd seen Reed a handful of times at briefings and events before today—always at a distance, always occupied by work or conversation. She knew his reputation: genius without theatrics, the rare scientist Tony actually listened to. Quiet, dry-humored, more aware than he pretended to be. And painfully unaware of how much attention he drew when he wasn't trying.

She hadn’t expected him to look… like that. A little too handsome to be accidental. Sharp around the edges without being severe. There was something compelling in the way he stood—comfortable with silence and slightly detached from the noise, like he had better things to think about but was trying to be polite about it.

Mustache, glasses, and good bone structure were unfair when combined.

She’d held his gaze during their introduction longer than necessary, partly because she wanted to see if he’d fidget. He hadn’t. His voice had been steady, his handshake warm, and his eyes—God, those eyes—carried the kind of intelligence that made you wonder what thoughts you’d interrupt by speaking.

If he remembered her from those brief intersections before, he didn’t show it. If he recognized Victor in her history, he was gracious enough not to let it show.

Now, twenty minutes later, he was no longer in the room.

She scanned the clusters of guests—Tony near the bar showing off Morgan’s new booties like they were advanced weaponry, Pepper intercepting some overly curious donor, Ben and Vision in quiet conversation, Johnny flirting with someone who was probably taken.

But Reed? Gone. She wasn’t sure why she noticed.

She was making her way toward the quieter end of the mezzanine when the air shifted behind her—too familiar, too controlled.

“Susan.”

Victor’s voice hadn’t changed. Still smooth, deliberate, shaped by ego and restraint. She didn’t turn.

She pretended not to hear and stepped seamlessly into another path—straight toward Wanda Maximoff, who was arranging macarons onto a plate with the seriousness of a surgeon.

Sue slid beside her. “Please tell me those are emotional support pastries.”

Wanda didn’t look up, just handed her one. “You only show up with that tone when a man you regret dating is within six feet.”

“Five,” Sue muttered.

“Ah,” Wanda said, glancing briefly over Sue’s shoulder. “The doom in your past tense.”

Sue didn’t risk turning around. “He’s trying to talk to me.”

“And you’re talking to me instead,” Wanda said approvingly. “Good choice. I’m prettier.”

Sue almost smiled. “If he corners me, I might throw myself off the balcony.”

“I’d shove him instead,” Wanda said. “Less paperwork.”

Johnny passed by then with a drink in each hand and zero awareness. Sue stepped farther into Wanda’s orbit, using conversation as a shield. Victor lingered five feet away, waiting for an opening. She didn’t give him one.

After a few more polite exchanges and a strategic migration toward the dessert table, she slipped out of the main hall entirely. The noise dulled as she moved down one of the quieter corridors leading to the private access floors.

She wasn’t hiding. She was avoiding unnecessary conflict in high heels.

Eventually, she ducked into the stairwell that led to the roof terrace—one of the few places in Stark Tower not equipped with Tony’s idea of surveillance disguised as décor.

The door clicked open to cool night air and silence.

And Reed.

He was leaning against the short glass barrier near the edge, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, looking like someone who’d stepped outside to breathe and forgot to return.

He didn’t notice her at first.

Which gave her a moment to take him in without interruption.

Not dramatic, not posed—just standing there in the wash of city light, quietly existing like he didn’t realize anyone might be watching. Ridiculous, she thought, how someone could look that composed just by doing nothing. The mustache, the glasses, the height, the broadness of his shoulders—there was a kind of unintentional gravity about him. Nerdy edges, yes, but wrapped in something far more dangerous: restraint.

Great, she thought dryly. Even his silence has posture.

He didn’t notice her until she stepped closer, the soft click of her heel against the stone catching his attention. Reed turned, not startled—just aware, like he’d already heard her approach a second before he reacted.

“Sue.” His voice was low, calm. He said her name like it belonged in the quiet.

“Escaping?” she asked, folding her arms lightly.

“A tactical retreat,” he said. “Too many conversations starting with ‘you know what you should do,’ and none of them ending with plausible deniability.”

She huffed a laugh and moved to stand beside him, leaving a polite distance. The city stretched below them—lights, motion, and the faint hum of traffic. From up here, the party noise sounded muted, less like a crowd and more like background interference.

“I figured you’d gone home,” she said.

“I considered it,” Reed admitted. “But Tony would send a drone with a guilt message.”

She leaned her elbows on the glass ledge. “He would. And it would probably have confetti.”

There was a comfortable pause—not awkward, not searching. Sue was used to filling silence for other people, but Reed didn’t need that. He treated it like part of the conversation rather than an absence.

She glanced sideways at him. “You always disappear from parties?”

“Not always,” he said. “Just when I’m done pretending I know how to socialize.”

“That’s fair,” she said. “Some rooms take more energy to survive than others.”

His eyes flicked to her, curious—not prying, just noticing. She wasn’t sure if he could tell she hadn’t slipped out only to breathe.

The wind pushed lightly across the terrace, and the temperature dipped. She ignored the shiver out of habit. He didn’t.

“You’re cold,” he said simply.

She opened her mouth to deny it, but Reed was already shrugging out of his suit jacket. He held it out, not dramatic, just… offering.

“You don’t have to—” she started.

“I know,” he said. “But you’re still cold.”

She hesitated—only because accepting kindness wasn’t something she was often given the luxury to do. Then she took the jacket, the fabric still warm from his body heat. It fit around her shoulders a little too well.

“Thank you,” she said, quieter than intended.

He looked back out at the skyline like he didn’t want her to feel watched. “The training starts tomorrow. Stark’s facility in Nevada.”

“I know.” She drew the jacket closer, more to occupy her hands than for warmth. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re assigned to the civilian and policy wing,” Reed said. “But you’re part of the mission crew now. You’ll join us for the simulations.”

She nodded. “I’ve read the schedule.”

“There’s a flight test midweek. Mostly for systems checks, but they’ll want all personnel familiar with the environment.” He paused, his tone measured. “If you’re uneasy about any of it, you can talk to me. Before then, I mean.”

Uneasy was one word for it. Not about space—space was the easy part. Victor was the problem she couldn’t file away. He would be there. He always found his way into the spaces she couldn’t avoid.

Reed must have read something in her silence. He didn’t ask. Instead, he shifted subjects the way considerate people did—by circling the discomfort rather than spotlighting it.

“We’ve been running quality control for months,” he said. “Redundancy systems, atmospheric modeling, fail-safes. Ben’s logged over 200 hours in the simulator. The structural tests exceeded margin. We’re not improvising.”

She looked at him then—really looked. He wasn’t rambling. He was trying to make her feel safer the only way he knew how: by naming the variables he could control.

It worked.

A small smile touched her mouth. “You always do that?”

“What?”

“Reassure people by listing flight statistics.”

He looked mildly embarrassed. “Only when necessary.”

The wind caught her hair and shifted it across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, still wrapped in his jacket. “It’s thoughtful. In a Reed Richards kind of way.”

Silence again—but warmer now.

Below them, the city glittered. Somewhere inside, music had shifted into something slower. The night had thinned out without them noticing.

She checked the time on her phone. “I should go. If I wait too long, Wanda will assume I’ve killed someone.”

“She’d help hide the body,” Reed said.

Sue smiled. “Exactly.”

He didn’t move toward the door until she did. As she handed the jacket back, he shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said. “You’re colder downstairs.”

She held his gaze for a moment. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

They walked back to the elevator, not touching, not rushed, but aligned in a way that felt… deliberate. The hallway lights were lower now, the murmur of voices fading into the kind of quiet that only came at the end of long nights.

At the elevator, she paused. “Goodnight, Reed.”

He nodded once. “See you in the morning.”

As the doors closed between them, she exhaled slowly.

Tomorrow, she’d have to face Victor. Johnny. Stark’s training compound. Politics in a pressurized cabin. The expectations that came with her name.

But tonight, on a rooftop she hadn’t meant to find, she’d discovered something she hadn’t expected:

Reed Richards might be the first person in years who could make her feel safe without trying to control her.

And that was more dangerous than anything waiting in outer space.

Chapter Text

Reed was awake before his alarm.

He usually was on days that required travel, coordination, or emotional bandwidth. Training day checked all three. The Nevada airstrip Stark Industries converted into a launch prep facility sat two time zones and several miles of desert away from anything resembling comfort, which was probably Tony's idea of romance.

He dressed on autopilot—wore black, packed light, triple-checked documents he already had memorized. His mind ran through the checklist for the week: simulations, crew drills, neutral buoyancy tests, psychological evaluations, civilian flight protocols. He could’ve recited the schedule in his sleep.

What he hadn’t accounted for was the memory of last night lingering in the quiet.

The rooftop.
The wind.
The way Sue had stood beside him without treating the silence like something to fix.

And the jacket.
Still gone.

She’d said she’d return it today. He told himself it didn’t matter if she did.

Ben was waiting outside his building in the same beat-up car he’d driven to the christening. Reed climbed in, appreciating the lack of conversation. Ben sipped coffee and drove like speed limits were polite advice.

“You look like you slept four hours and argued with a spreadsheet,” Ben said eventually.

“I slept six,” Reed corrected.

“And the spreadsheet?”

“Was cooperative.”

Ben gave a grunt that translated to: liar, but I’ll allow it.

They reached the private airstrip Stark designated for transport. Tony had sent a jet—of course he had—and Reed’s name was on the flight manifest whether he approved it or not. Vision was already onboard, reading something that looked like philosophy disguised as policy. Ben promptly fell asleep before takeoff.

Reed spent the flight reviewing the crew structure. Victor would be there. Unfortunately. Two science leads was one too many when one of those scientists treated collaboration like a duel.

Sue would be there too. He tried not to think about whether she’d avoided Victor at the christening, or whether she'd noticed he’d left the room before she had.

And Johnny Storm—thankfully not part of the crew.

Or so Reed thought.

The Nevada sun was half-risen when they landed. The facility sat against pale mountains and flat sand, the kind of landscape that made you feel like noise had to work harder to exist out here.

They stepped off the plane, Reed already thinking about their first briefing, when someone shouted across the tarmac:

“Rise and grind, science squad!”

Reed stopped walking.

There was Johnny Storm, in a Stark Industries flight-qualified uniform, sunglasses on, hair perfect like mornings didn’t apply to him.

Reed blinked once. Then again. “No.”

Johnny grinned like a sunrise. “Yes.”

Tony appeared behind him, hands in his pockets, cheerful and unapologetic. “Surprise! Our boy’s officially cleared as auxiliary crew. Aerospace program sponsorship. Full sign-off. Very patriotic.”

Reed stared. “You put Johnny on the flight team?”

“Technically, he put himself on the flight team,” Tony said. “I just provided funding, influence, legal shielding, a forged signature or two—minor details.”

Ben scrubbed a hand down his face. “Please tell me this is a bit. A prank. A TikTok.”

Johnny held up his official badge. “Temporary assignment. Aerospace support and secondary ops. I’m basically the charming one who doesn’t break stuff.”

“You break everything,” Reed said.

“With flair,” Johnny corrected.

Vision, without looking up from his tablet, said, “I believe Mr. Stark added him to reduce the likelihood of Victor causing irreparable harm to morale.”

“Also I like chaos with hair gel,” Tony added.

Reed pinched the bridge of his nose. “Johnny has zero spaceflight hours.”

“And that’s why we’re training,” Tony said brightly.

Before Reed could reply, a new voice cut in.

“Well. Isn’t this festive.”

Victor von Doom strode toward them like the sun rose because he permitted it. His coat billowed slightly in the desert breeze—of course it did. His expression suggested he had descended onto inferior soil.

“Richards,” he said. Not a greeting. More like a diagnosis. “I wasn’t aware Stark was running admissions through nepotism now.”

Johnny saluted him with a coffee cup he’d definitely stolen. “Good morning to you too, Count Choke-hold.”

Ben muttered something about holding his breath underwater to survive this week. Reed didn’t rise to Victor’s bait. He never did. That was why it worked.

Reed turned away first—because someone had to act like an adult—and headed for the main hangar. Inside waited the mission brief, simulation staff, and the slow-burn headache of keeping five egos from detonating in zero pressure.

He had expected tension. He had expected conflict. He had even expected Tony to make at least one insane staffing decision.

He had not expected to be right about all of it before breakfast.

And Sue hadn't even arrived yet.

The Stark Nevada facility was equal parts military efficiency and billionaire vanity. Glass walls, reinforced titanium labs, simulation pods lined up like sleeping beasts. Reed had memorized the layout weeks ago, but walking it with his current team felt like introducing fire to oxygen.

They gathered in the operations hub for the formal briefing. Reed did a quick headcount.

Ben. Present. Already regretting everything.

Johnny. Present. Already eating something that definitely belonged to someone else.

Victor. Present. Already irritated that oxygen was being shared.

But no Sue.

He wasn’t looking for her.

He just… noticed she wasn’t there.

Tony was mid-monologue about “heroic innovation and media rights” when the doors slid open.

Sue walked in.

And she was wearing his jacket.

Not draped over her arm. Not folded and returned. Wearing it—sleeves pushed slightly up her forearms, collar turned down neatly, like it belonged there.

Reed didn’t react, except his brain short-circuited briefly and rebooted with fewer available words.

Johnny, unfortunately, did react. “Hey! You stole Stretch’s coat.”

Sue didn’t bother looking at him. “I borrowed it. And I’m returning it today.”

Reed’s mouth said nothing. His pulse said several things.

Victor’s eyes flicked from Sue to the jacket to Reed, and something in his jaw tightened. Wonderful.

Tony clapped his hands like this was a brunch reveal. “Okay, now that the fashion subplot is established, let’s get to business. Richards, lead the nerd parade.”

Reed stepped forward, grateful for something with rules.

“The next 72 hours are segmented into five rotations,” he said, pulling up the mission training layout on the wall display. “Sim pods, atmospheric drills, engine failure protocols, suit acclimation, and pressurized cabin procedures. Assignments are already divided by role.”

Johnny raised a hand. “Do I get a cool flight suit?”

“No,” Reed said.

Ben threw him a protein bar like it was condolences.

Victor folded his arms. “I assume my position hasn’t been altered to accommodate the… internship program.”

Reed ignored the dig. “You’ll oversee systems verification for the second rotation. Ben will run piloting drills. I’ll monitor flight mechanics and contingencies. Sue will lead civilian protocol integration and mission policy compliance.”

Victor’s attention cut sharply to Sue. “You have no spaceflight background.”

Sue didn’t blink. “You have no social skills. We all manage deficits.”

Johnny choked on his protein bar. Ben didn’t bother hiding a grin. Vision, from the back of the room, quietly said, “Point awarded.”

Victor’s glare moved to Reed, as if Sue’s defiance was somehow his influence. Reed met his look evenly and moved on.

“Johnny,” Reed continued, “you’re assigned to assist Ben for the first two rotations. You’ll observe piloting procedures, suit testing, and emergency response–”

“Translation,” Johnny cut in, “I get to sit in the co-pilot seat and touch things.”

“No,” Reed said again.

Tony sipped his coffee from the sidelines. “Actually, yes. I signed the clearance this morning. Secondary hands-on familiarization builds muscle memory.”

Victor let out a short laugh full of contempt. “This is a circus.”

Reed didn’t rise to that either. “Simulation rooms open in fifteen minutes. Suit techs are waiting. Try not to set anything on fire.”

Everyone dispersed into motion. Some with discipline. Some with ego. Some with snacks.

Sue lingered near him as the others filtered out—Johnny trailing Ben, Victor already texting someone presumably unlikable, Tony talking to Vision about liability contracts.

She waited until there was no one within three feet of them. Then she slipped the jacket off and folded it once, precisely.

“I believe this belongs to you,” she said.

He took it, fingers brushing fabric still carrying a trace of her perfume—something subtle, clean, not floral.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You lent it,” she replied. “Not everyone remembers when someone does something kind without agenda.”

He didn’t know what to do with that. Luckily, she didn’t wait for a reply.

Instead, she nodded once at his shirt sleeves now visible without the jacket. Her gaze flickered—barely there—then she shifted back to professionalism.

“I’m heading to the policy calibration briefing. Meet us in Sim Pod Three after you’re done wrangling everyone?”

“I’ll be there,” he said.

She turned to leave, then paused. “Reed?”

He looked up.

“If Victor becomes a problem this week,” she said, voice even but threaded with history, “don’t manage him for my sake. I’ve handled him before.”

Reed held her gaze, level and calm. “He’s not the variable I’m worried about.”

Her brow lifted—just slightly. “Then who is?”

On cue, somewhere down the hall, Johnny shouted: “BEN, IF I PUSH THIS BUTTON WILL IT BLOW UP OR MAKE COFFEE?”

Ben’s answering roar suggested both were possible.

Sue exhaled, somewhere between amusement and resignation. “Fair.”

She walked away, and Reed was left with his jacket in hand and the growing certainty that outer space might be the sanest location on his schedule.

Ten minutes later, as he watched his team walk toward the simulation pods—Ben already pinching the bridge of his nose, Johnny finger-gunning at technicians, Victor glaring at existence, and Sue walking dead-center like gravity listened to her—Reed realized two things:

One: this mission had just become exponentially more complicated.

And two: the silence of space would be a vacation compared to keeping this team alive on the ground.

Chapter Text

By the end of the first week, Sue had started timing her days by exhaustion rather than the clock.

Training at Stark’s Nevada facility was a strange hybrid of brilliance and brutality—twelve-hour days of simulations, debriefs, and equipment trials stitched together with caffeine and sarcasm. The desert air made everything sharper, sunlight bouncing off titanium walls and the sound of machinery humming like the pulse of a mechanical heart.

It would’ve been tolerable if not for Victor.

He had a way of making every shared space feel smaller. Always standing too close, always inserting himself into her orbit under the pretense of “collaboration.” He didn’t raise his voice—Victor von Doom didn’t need to—but his words carried weight, like every syllable was designed to remind her of who used to have the upper hand.

Sue had perfected the art of polite indifference. She’d nod through his comments, redirect the topic, and excuse herself with the kind of diplomatic precision that made senators flinch. But lately, it had started to wear her thin. Every sentence from him felt like sandpaper against her nerves.

Her reprieve—her anchor, even if she’d never say it out loud—was Reed.

She found excuses to ask him questions: about shuttle protocols, gravitational simulations, environmental stabilizers. Half of them she already knew the answers to. The other half she could’ve looked up herself. But there was something quietly grounding about the way he explained things. Reed never patronized, never hurried. He had a way of making complicated systems sound like poetry—steady, practical poetry.

Sometimes she’d find him in the main lab, sleeves rolled up, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, focused enough to make the rest of the world fall silent. He’d glance up, surprised but never annoyed, and she’d pretend she’d just happened to stop by.

“You have questions again?” he’d ask, faint amusement in his voice.

“Always,” she’d reply, and he’d just nod—like curiosity was something sacred.

The others had noticed, of course. Ben teased Reed about his “new shadow.” Johnny teased her about her “study crush.” Vision, diplomatic as always, just offered knowing smiles. Tony made a few unsubtle jokes about “interdepartmental chemistry” that she ignored.

But the truth was simpler. Reed was easy to be around.

In a world full of noise, he was calm.
In a room full of egos, he listened.
And when Victor lingered too close, Reed was the gravity she could slip toward—quietly, naturally, without explanation.

She’d caught Victor noticing once—his gaze flicking between her and Reed during a debriefing. The small twist of his mouth told her everything. He didn’t like losing attention, and he hated losing control.

Still, he tried.

He’d show up beside her during drills, offering advice she didn’t ask for. He’d make veiled remarks about her “distracted focus.” He’d remind her—casually, cruelly—that she used to prefer ambition.

By the seventh day, Sue had perfected the rhythm: avoid Victor, find Reed, breathe.

Until that afternoon, when Victor decided rhythm wasn’t enough.

Victor cornered her near the simulation bay.

She’d just finished reviewing the next rotation checklist when he appeared beside her, like a shadow that refused to detach. His voice was low, civil in tone, but heavy with ownership.

“You’ve been very busy this week,” he said, arms folded. “Always training, always… preoccupied.”

“I’m part of a team, Victor,” Sue said evenly. “That’s what training looks like.”

He smiled without warmth. “I’m not blind, Susan. I see how you orbit Richards now. Asking questions, lingering after sessions, looking to him for answers.”

She met his eyes calmly, but her pulse ticked faster. “I look to people who know what they’re doing.”

His jaw tightened. “You used to look to me.”

“Then you should’ve been worth looking at.”

For a split second, the polished charm slipped. His expression flickered into something raw, meaner than his voice. “He’s not what you think he is,” Victor said. “He hides behind equations because he’s afraid of people. He’s weak.”

Sue stepped forward, closing the distance just enough to make him still. “Then maybe I’m tired of strong men who mistake cruelty for strength.”

That landed. She could see it in the way his eyes flashed. But before he could retort, another voice cut through the tension—loud, easy, and blessedly unfiltered.

“Yo, Doom!”

Johnny’s tone was pure warning under the grin. He sauntered up from the hallway, helmet tucked under one arm, looking infuriatingly casual. “You bothering my sister again?”

Victor turned his head slowly, disdain flickering across his features. “Your sister is capable of speaking for herself.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, stepping between them. “But I’m capable of telling you to back off.”

“Stay out of this, Storm.”

“Funny,” Johnny said, “that’s exactly what you should’ve told your ego.”

Ben’s voice echoed distantly from the other room: “Johnny, don’t start a fight I have to finish!”

Victor glared, his composure cracking just enough to show the temper beneath. “You’re a child.”

Johnny smiled sweetly. “And you’re a grown man harassing someone who’s clearly not interested. Guess which one of us looks worse?”

Victor’s nostrils flared. Sue saw the shift—the calculation, the restraint. He turned away sharply, muttering something under his breath, and stalked off.

Johnny watched him go, shaking his head. “Guy’s lucky I’m in a good mood. You okay?”

Sue exhaled, tension leaving her shoulders like air from a valve. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did.” Johnny’s grin softened. “I know you can handle yourself, Sue. Doesn’t mean I like watching someone forget that.”

Her irritation melted into affection. She touched his arm. “Thanks, little brother.”

He winked. “Anytime, boss.”

Later that afternoon, the simulation chamber lights dimmed to a soft blue. The zero-gravity drills were next.

Suspended harnesses, magnetic platforms, control rings—it was meant to mimic the movement of orbit, to teach balance and coordination in an environment that refused both.

Sue had no problem with equations or control panels. Physics she could handle. Grace under motionless pressure? Not so much.

She clipped into the rig, and within seconds, her equilibrium betrayed her. She drifted sideways, weightless, arms flailing slightly as the motion spun her slow but steady.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath, trying to orient herself. “This is fine. Totally dignified.”

“Need assistance?”

Reed’s voice came from somewhere below, calm as gravity itself. She looked down—or what passed for down—and found him floating effortlessly in the same rig, adjusting her trajectory with a few controlled shifts of his own.

Her hair floated around her face, strands catching the dim light. He reached for her wrist—steady, gentle—then guided her hand to the stabilizer bar.

“Relax your core,” he said softly. “Don’t fight the motion. Let it even out.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, trying not to collide into him.

He smiled faintly. “I’ve been doing this since Tuesday.”

She laughed—light, helplessly genuine—and in that moment, her spin slowed. The harness steadied, and so did her pulse.

He was closer than she realized. Close enough that she could see the flecks of brown in his eyes behind the lenses, the faint crease near his mouth when he smiled.

“Better,” he said. “See? You’re not falling.”

“I wasn’t falling,” she said, breathless. “Just… adjusting.”

He didn’t argue. He just kept his hand near hers, not touching now, but there if she needed it.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Suspended midair, caught in the soft hum of the training chamber, they might as well have been alone in orbit.

The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was charged, alive, filled with everything neither had said yet.

When the gravity field slowly reengaged, Sue found herself standing a little too close to him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“You don’t need me to catch you,” he replied. “You just needed balance.”

“Maybe that’s the same thing,” she said before she could stop herself.

He looked at her then—not analyzing, not measuring—just seeing.

And she realized that the further she trained to leave Earth, the more grounded she felt standing next to him.

Chapter Text

Reed had started measuring time not by hours but by how often Johnny nearly set something on fire.

A month into training, and chaos had stopped being an interruption; it had become rhythm. Every day began with simulations, ended with debriefings, and somewhere between the two, someone managed to cause minor, technically impressive disasters.

He’d learned to accept it. Chaos, apparently, was what progress looked like.

And he was proud of them.
Mostly.
On good days.

Ben was steady as ever—gruff, sarcastic, patient in a way that only ex-marines and saints could be. Victor was competent, infuriating, and impossible to ignore. Johnny was talented, reckless, and too charming for his own safety. Sue—

Well.

Sue was becoming a problem.

Not for the mission. She was sharp, intuitive, focused—the kind of person who made efficiency look like grace. But for him? She was slowly short-circuiting his system.

Every time she walked into a room, his internal equilibrium shifted. His brain, that usually worked faster than most processors, stalled like an overloaded circuit. He’d trained himself to keep a straight face, to answer questions with calm precision, to pretend that every time she leaned a little closer to read a monitor beside him, his neurons didn’t reorganize themselves in protest.

And the worst part? She kept finding reasons to be near him.

At first, he thought it was coincidence. Then he realized it wasn’t. Whenever Victor hovered too close or started another monologue about her “potential,” Sue would casually migrate toward Reed’s workstation, asking about calculations or shuttle vector alignments.

He wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or alarmed.
He settled for both.

It made Victor’s glares burn hotter, though. That was unavoidable. The man’s ego had its own gravity field, and Sue’s quiet defiance against it only fed the tension. Reed could practically feel Doom compiling lists of new ways to hate him.

And yet… he didn’t mind being her escape hatch.

He didn’t like the reason—but he liked that she thought of him when she needed out. He liked being the one person in the room who could make her relax, if only for a moment.

Of course, he couldn’t admit that out loud. Not to Ben, not to Tony, and definitely not to himself.

He just kept his face neutral, his voice even, and his heart under strict command.

Except when she smiled. Then all orders were ignored.

-oOo-

Simulation day started like most: with enthusiasm, caffeine, and the faint smell of burned circuits.

The training bay echoed with the sound of propulsion tests. Reed was calibrating the control consoles when Johnny shouted across the hangar, “Hey Reed, I think I fixed the thruster issue!”

Reed turned just in time to see a small propulsion pod lurch sideways and nearly take out a supply cart.

Ben yelled, “You call that fixed?”

Johnny shrugged. “Define ‘fixed’.”

“Not on fire!” Ben shouted back.

Reed pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Storm, please refrain from experimental enthusiasm during active testing.”

Johnny grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Victor muttered something in the background that sounded suspiciously like, “Idiots shouldn’t be allowed near machinery.”

Reed didn’t rise to it. He rarely did. He’d learned that arguing with Victor was like trying to debug a virus by yelling at it.

Sue, standing between them, gave Reed a patient look over her datapad. “You two ever get tired of proving opposites don’t attract?”

Ben snorted. “Don’t give them ideas. They’ll turn it into a contest.”

Johnny raised a hand. “Actually, I’d win that one—”

“Enough,” Reed interrupted, tone even but amused. “Let’s reset for another run.”

Sue’s lips curved slightly. “You love this.”

“I love measurable progress,” he said.

“You’re smiling.”

“That’s because measurable progress is rare.”

She laughed softly, and Reed decided that was the real sound of success.

The afternoon ran smoother, if only by degrees. They managed two successful simulations without injury, mild property damage, or shouting—until Victor criticized Reed’s calculations again.

“These parameters,” Victor said sharply, “favor error. You’re compensating too much for Johnny’s unpredictability.”

“I prefer to call it realism,” Reed replied.

Sue gave Victor a look that could have powered the entire facility. “Maybe you should try realism sometime, Victor. It’s less exhausting than being right all the time.”

Ben muttered, “She’s not wrong.”

Reed hid a smile behind his clipboard.

As the session ended, he caught himself watching her longer than he should have—hair pulled back, brow furrowed in concentration, efficient, brilliant, unshakably calm.

And for the first time since this project began, Reed thought that maybe chaos wasn’t something to solve. Maybe it was something—someone—worth learning to live with.

-oOo-

He didn’t mean to overhear.

The training floor had mostly emptied for the evening. Ben was still in the simulator, Johnny had gone to grab food, and Vision was quietly reviewing data in another wing. Reed had stayed behind, reviewing diagnostics on the propulsion feedback when he heard the sound of raised voices echoing down the corridor.

Sue’s voice.
And Victor’s.

He froze—not because he wanted to listen, but because he recognized the tone. Controlled frustration meeting calculated provocation. He followed the sound toward the observation room, moving quietly until the words became clear.

“—You’ve been distracted lately,” Victor was saying. “Skipping my reviews, dismissing my input, spending all your time with Richards.”

Sue’s voice came, even but sharp. “Because Reed actually listens. Because he doesn’t treat collaboration like a chess game.”

“He’s using you,” Victor said. “You think he’s different, but he’s only kind because it benefits him.”

“Kindness doesn’t need a reason, Victor,” she replied. “You’d know that if you’d ever tried it.”

Reed hesitated at the door. He should’ve walked away. He knew that. But then he heard his own name again—heard the accusation behind it—and his body moved before his brain caught up.

He stepped into view.

Sue stopped mid-sentence. Victor’s expression shifted from smugness to calculation. For one awful, suspended moment, Reed felt like he’d intruded on something private. Sue’s eyes widened, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her face before she turned sharply away and strode toward the exit.

“Susan—” Victor started.

But she didn’t stop. “I’m done with this conversation.”

Reed stepped aside to let her pass, but Victor followed. His voice rose, low and cutting.

“You can walk away from me, but you can’t rewrite the truth. Everyone sees it. Richards is just another safe choice. Another man to hide behind.”

Sue spun around, jaw tight, eyes flashing. “You think you know everything about me, but you don’t. You never did.”

“Oh?” Victor said. “Then tell me—why him?”

Her pause was only a heartbeat, but it was enough for the silence to stretch, brittle and sharp. Then she lifted her chin.

“Because Reed and I are together,” she said. “We’re dating.”

The world stopped.

Reed blinked. Once. Twice. His brain stalled, filed an internal error report, and promptly stopped processing sound.

Victor’s expression fractured. “You’re what?”

Sue took a step closer to Reed, her movements precise, controlled. “We’re in a relationship,” she said, her voice steady now. “And if that bothers you, that’s your problem.”

Reed’s system officially crashed when she reached for his hand.

Her fingers slid into his—warm, deliberate, grounding. Every line of logic in his head disappeared under the electric shock of contact. His instinct was to analyze it: the slight tremor, the temperature difference, the statistical improbability of this being real.

But his heart was louder than his logic for once.

He looked at her. She didn’t glance up—her gaze was locked on Victor, her hand still in his, steady as armor. And then Reed understood. This wasn’t romance. This was defense. She was cornered, and this was the cleanest way out.

He could give her that.

“Yes,” Reed said quietly. “That’s correct.”

Victor stared between them, disbelief morphing into something colder. “Of course,” he said finally. “Richards gets the mission and the girl. How... predictable.”

“Or maybe you just keep losing,” Sue said, voice calm and deadly. “Good night, Victor.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She tugged Reed gently toward the corridor, her hand still in his until they were well out of sight. The silence stretched between them, the sound of their footsteps echoing down the hallway.

When they finally stopped near the elevator, she let go first.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “That was—”

“Efficient,” he said. “Unexpected, but efficient.”

Her lips curved into a small, tired smile. “You don’t have to play along. I just needed him to stop.”

“I know.” His voice came out steadier than he felt. “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

Reed looked at her then, really looked. The faint flush on her cheeks, the steel beneath her composure, the way she was still catching her breath like she’d just fought gravity and won.

“I’m sure,” he said. “We’ll… keep up the pretense. If it makes things easier.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “You’re a good man, Reed.”

He wasn’t sure what to do with that. Compliments were equations he couldn’t solve.

She gave him one more small smile before stepping into the elevator. “Goodnight.”

The doors slid shut.

Reed stood there for a long moment, his palm still tingling where her hand had been.

When he finally exhaled, the words came unbidden, a quiet confession to no one but the empty hallway.

“System reboot required.”

Chapter Text

If there was one universal truth about Stark facilities, it was this: nothing stayed secret for long.

By morning, their “relationship” had spread faster than a lab fire. Someone—probably one of the night-shift technicians—had overheard the argument between her, Reed, and Victor. By breakfast, it was whispered in the hallways. By lunch, Tony had texted her:
Congratulations, lovebirds. Try not to contaminate the simulators with feelings.

Sue spent the entire morning alternating between denial and disbelief. She’d expected rumors eventually, but not a full-scale gossip epidemic. Every time she entered a room, conversations paused half a beat too long. Every time she stood next to Reed, eyes followed.

And then there was Johnny.

Her brother intercepted her in the corridor, arms crossed, grin wide and smug.
“So,” he said, “you’re dating my professor?”

Sue groaned. “Johnny—”

“I knew you had it bad,” he said, ignoring her tone. “You’ve been hanging around his lab for weeks. I just didn’t think you’d… you know… seal the deal.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you finish that sentence, you’re sleeping outside the shuttle.”

Johnny laughed, unbothered. “Come on, I’m just saying—Reed’s a cool guy. Kinda uptight, but in a ‘he’s trying his best’ way. Just—wow, Sue. Didn’t think you’d go for the emotionally unavailable genius type.”

“Johnny.”

“Yes, sweet, loving, rational older sister?”

She smiled tightly. “Do you remember when I caught you testing the thruster nozzle with a lighter?”

Johnny’s grin faltered. “You wouldn’t—”

“I would.”

“Okay, okay.” He backed off, hands raised. “But for the record, you could’ve done worse. At least Reed isn’t a sociopath with a PhD.”

Sue sighed, exasperated but faintly amused. “That’s comforting. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Johnny said, and winked before heading down the hall. “Also, I’m totally telling Pepper.”

By lunchtime, she’d resigned herself to the fact that pretending came with an audience.

Reed, of course, handled it like an experiment in human behavior—meaning he ignored it completely. If people whispered, he didn’t flinch. If Tony sent teasing messages, he didn’t react. He just continued working with clinical precision, as if public gossip were white noise.

Unfortunately, part of their “performance” now included eating together in the cafeteria.

Sue had found him there that afternoon, staring at his tablet with untouched food. He looked exactly the same as always: sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed, glasses slightly askew, oblivious to the fact that several people were definitely taking pictures.

She placed a tray in front of him. “You’re supposed to eat, not analyze it.”

Reed blinked up at her. “I was just reviewing—”

“Your brain doesn’t work properly without fuel,” she said, sitting down across from him. “Eat.”

He gave a small, reluctant smile, like someone caught skipping a step in his own process. “Yes, doctor.”

Ben passed by just in time to hear it. “Would ya look at that,” he said, grinning. “Richards finally eats lunch like a human being. Miracles happen.”

Sue laughed. “I just reminded him food exists.”

“Reminded?” Ben said. “I’ve been reminding him for years. You’re the first person who actually got results.”

Johnny plopped his tray next to Ben’s. “You’re welcome, everyone. My sister’s a miracle worker.”

Reed, deadpan: “I can still revoke your simulator access.”

Johnny pointed his fork. “You wouldn’t risk the mission by crushing team morale.”

Ben snorted. “Morale’s fine, kid. Nerve endings? Not so much.”

The banter rolled easily across the table. For a brief moment, it didn’t feel like an act. It just felt… normal. Sue found herself smiling more than pretending. Reed relaxed more than he probably realized.

Every time their hands brushed—passing utensils, sliding datapads—his eyes flickered up in quiet apology, like he couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t cinematic—it was just soft. Ordinary. Real.

And that, somehow, was worse for her heart.

Because pretending was supposed to feel fake.

-oOo-

The night before takeoff, the Nevada desert went quiet.

The facility lights glowed dimmer than usual, and most of the team had already turned in. Sue couldn’t sleep. She’d tried lying down, counting backward from a hundred, reading through mission briefings again—nothing worked. Her body felt still, but her mind was weightless, spinning through every possible variable that could go wrong once they launched.

She ended up walking. The corridors were empty, the air cool against her bare arms as she stepped out onto the observation deck. From there, the desert stretched out in endless darkness, punctured only by distant starlight.

For the first time, she let herself feel it—fear, excitement, awe. It wasn’t the idea of space that scared her. It was the not knowing if she’d be enough once they were up there.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

The voice startled her, soft but familiar. She turned, finding Reed leaning in the doorway. He wasn’t in uniform, just a dark sweater and that quiet focus that always made him look like he’d stepped out of a thought instead of a room.

Sue exhaled, smiling faintly. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” he said, walking closer. “You’ve been pacing the same twenty feet for twelve minutes.”

“I didn’t realize you were timing me.”

“I time everything.”

“Of course you do.” She laughed under her breath, then looked back toward the stars. “I can’t turn it off. The nerves, I mean.”

Reed stepped beside her, resting his hands on the railing. “You’re not the only one.”

“You don’t seem nervous.”

“That’s because my anxiety prefers internal monologues.”

She glanced sideways at him. “And what’s it saying now?”

“That this is normal,” he said after a pause. “That we’ve tested every system, reviewed every scenario. Statistically, we’re ready.”

Sue smiled. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

He tilted his head, a small concession. “Maybe a little.”

They stood there in silence for a moment. The air smelled faintly of metal and sand. The stars above looked close enough to touch.

Sue broke the quiet first. “Why do you do it? Space, I mean. What makes it worth the risk?”

Reed thought about that for a long moment, then said, “When I was a kid, I used to build radio receivers out of spare parts. I’d sit up at night, trying to catch distant frequencies. Every once in a while, I’d get a signal—something faint, far away, impossible to identify. It felt like proof there was more out there. I think I’ve been chasing that ever since.”

“That’s… kind of beautiful,” she said softly.

He smiled, faintly embarrassed. “It’s not poetic when you’re the kid soldering wires instead of sleeping.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “You make it sound poetic.”

He looked at her then, eyes reflecting the faint blue of the facility lights. “What about you? Why sign up?”

Sue hesitated, searching for the right words. “Because I’ve spent most of my life taking care of everyone else. My brother, my father, my work. It felt like… maybe it was time to see who I could be outside all of that.”

Reed nodded slowly. “That’s brave.”

“It’s also terrifying.”

“Those two things usually coexist,” he said quietly.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You always have an answer.”

“Only for questions with data. You’re harder to quantify.”

Her smile lingered, and for a long moment, neither of them looked away. The world felt very still—the hum of the facility fading, the stars endless and silent above them.

Finally, she said, “Reed… about the whole fake dating thing—thank you. For going along with it. For not making it weird.”

He smiled slightly. “You’re giving me too much credit. I think I’ve just reached the denial stage of emotional processing.”

She laughed, the sound breaking the tension in her chest. “You really are impossible.”

“Statistically true.”

A breeze swept across the deck, cool against her skin. She rubbed her arms without thinking, and before she could protest, Reed shrugged off his sweater and draped it over her shoulders.

“Again?” she asked, smiling.

“It’s becoming a pattern,” he said.

Sue held the fabric close. “You always know what to say.”

“I don’t,” he said softly. “But I know what I mean.”

Their eyes met again—steady, quiet, sure. Somewhere between gratitude and something neither of them wanted to name.

When she finally spoke, her voice was almost a whisper. “I trust you, Reed.”

He looked at her for a long moment before answering. “Good,” he said. “Because I’ll make sure you come back.”

Sue’s breath caught—not from fear this time, but from the certainty in his tone.
And standing there under the vastness of a sky they were about to touch, she realized something she hadn’t wanted to admit.

Pretending wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Chapter Text

Reed Richards had never believed in perfect days.

Perfection, in his experience, was an illusion built on variables that hadn’t yet failed. But that morning, standing inside Stark’s Nevada launch facility, running through the final checks of a project he’d dreamed about since he was fourteen, he decided perfection might be allowed an exception.

Every number lined up. Every system passed. Every test repeated until margin of error felt theoretical. The equations held, the physics agreed, and for once, reality seemed willing to cooperate.

Today, they were going to space.

Ben was running diagnostics on the pilot controls, muttering a steady stream of Yancy Street slang under his breath. Johnny, suited up early, was joking with a technician about installing cup holders in the shuttle. Victor, distant and calculating, stood at his own console pretending everyone else was irrelevant. And Sue—

Sue was standing near the viewport, sunlight spilling over her profile, eyes fixed on the sky.

She looked both nervous and unshakable. Reed couldn’t help but watch her, quietly absorbing the surreal fact that she was here—his crew, his mission, his… partner, apparently.

He still hadn’t figured out how to categorize that last part.

He’d run countless simulations on human behavior, but none had prepared him for how his system reacted to proximity—to her voice, her laugh, the way she made space feel warmer. And every time she looked at him, some part of his carefully ordered logic simply rebooted.

He adjusted his gloves, tried not to think about it, and failed.

Tony’s voice crackled over the comm: “Alright, Team Rocket Science, we’ve got a press conference in twenty. Let’s try to look smart and photogenic, yeah?”

Ben groaned. “You sure the world needs to see my mug before coffee?”

“You’re welcome,” Tony replied. “I’m giving humanity hope.”

-oOo-

The press conference was chaos wrapped in enthusiasm.

Rows of reporters lined the stage, cameras flashing under Stark Industries banners. Reed sat at the table between Sue and Victor, pretending he didn’t want to disassemble the microphones just to stop them from screeching.

Tony opened with his usual flair. “Ladies and gentlemen, this mission marks a historic collaboration between science, courage, and very questionable decision-making—so basically, my kind of people.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Reed managed a polite smile.

Questions came rapid-fire—flight duration, mission goals, propulsion systems. Reed answered efficiently, each word measured and clinical. Sue handled the political angles with effortless poise, explaining the mission’s significance for civilian exploration.

Then came Tony’s grin. That particular grin that always preceded disaster.

“And before we wrap up,” Tony said, leaning toward the microphones, “I’d just like to thank our star couple—Dr. Reed Richards and Dr. Susan Storm—for proving that love and science can, in fact, coexist in zero gravity.”

The room erupted.

Reed blinked. Sue went completely still.

Flashbulbs exploded. Voices overlapped:
“Can you confirm the relationship?”
“How long have you two been together?”
“Will this affect the mission?”

Sue turned to Tony with a look that could’ve stripped paint. “Tony.”

“What?” Tony said innocently. “Public loves a good love story. You’re welcome.”

Reed’s mind split into two processes—one frantically calculating escape routes, the other trying to maintain composure. Outwardly, he kept his expression neutral. Inwardly, every neuron screamed in binary panic.

Sue’s hand tightened on the table. “Let’s move on—”

“Wait!” someone called from the press pit. “One more question! Dr. Richards—since it’s launch day, how about a good luck kiss for the cameras?”

The room fell into a stunned, anticipatory silence.

Reed’s pulse spiked. He looked at Sue—eyes wide, horrified—and something inside him simply… decided.

To hell with it.

He turned toward her, leaned in, and kissed her.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just enough.

The world went silent. Cameras clicked in a flurry. Sue froze for half a second before instinct took over—her hand came up to his chest, not pushing him away but steadying herself.

When he pulled back, she was looking at him like she couldn’t quite process what had happened.

“Good luck,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear.

Then he straightened, turned to the microphones, and said calmly, “Now, if there are no further questions, we have a launch to prepare for.”

The press erupted again, but Reed didn’t hear a thing. His internal systems were too busy recovering from what he’d just done.

Outside the press room, the noise fell away in stages — first the chatter, then the cameras, finally the echo of his own pulse. The corridor air felt cooler, steadier, though the heat of her mouth still lingered on his lips.

Sue stopped short halfway down the hall and turned on him, eyes bright with adrenaline. “What was that?”

Reed adjusted the strap of his suit bag, buying himself a second. “A redirection tactic,” he said evenly. “The press was escalating.”

Her brow furrowed. “You kissed me!”

“You looked overwhelmed.”

“I— You— That’s not—” She dragged in a breath, hands cutting through the air. “You can’t just solve panic with physics!”

He hesitated, surprised by how calm his own voice sounded. “Did it work?”

Her mouth opened, ready to snap — then closed again. Because technically, yes, it had worked. The reporters had backed off. The mission remained on schedule. Only her pulse — and his — refused to return to baseline.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll apologize if it made you uncomfortable.”

She blinked, the fight still flickering behind her eyes. “No,” she said finally, quieter now. “Just … warn me next time before you use my face as a diversion.”

His mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close. “Duly noted.”

He turned toward the hangar, posture composed, steps measured. From the outside he was all precision again — the efficient scientist, the commander returning to his task.

But inside, the math had stopped working.

He hadn’t planned the kiss. He’d calculated distraction, not consequence.
And as he walked away, his pulse refused to normalize, a quiet proof that no formula in the world could explain what had just happened.

The launch bay thrummed with energy.

By the time Reed stepped into his suit, the press chaos felt a lifetime away. The world outside the reinforced glass was drowned out by the symphony of countdowns, engine tests, and intercom chatter. This was the sound of everything he’d ever worked for — precision, math, purpose.

Ben was already strapped into the pilot seat, running through the ignition sequence. Johnny adjusted his harness with restless excitement, his grin uncontainable even under the helmet. Victor sat across the cabin, silent and rigid, the faintest trace of resentment in his jaw.

And then there was Sue.

She moved with quiet confidence as she checked her restraints, voice steady while her hands betrayed a small tremor. Reed noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

He leaned closer as the hatch sealed shut. “You okay?”

Her helmet turned toward him. “Nervous. Excited. Both.”

“That’s statistically normal,” he said, and she smiled faintly — the kind that reached her eyes.

He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary before focusing on his console. Every instinct in his body demanded perfection. The systems blinked green across the board — oxygen flow, navigation, reactor stabilization. All within limits. All under control.

For once, he felt calm.

“Control, this is Mission Team One,” Ben’s voice echoed through the cabin. “We’re green across the board. Standing by for countdown.”

“Copy that,” came Tony’s voice over the intercom. “Try not to blow up my billion-dollar baby, alright?”

Reed allowed himself a quiet breath. “Copy, Control. Beginning sequence.”

10… 9… 8…

He felt the vibrations rise through the floor — the deep, primal hum of power about to become flight.

7… 6… 5…

Sue’s breathing quickened. Without thinking, Reed reached over, gloved fingers brushing hers. She glanced at him, startled, then threaded her hand through his. The contact steadied them both.

4… 3…

“See you on the other side,” Ben muttered.

2… 1…

Ignition.

The world became thunder. Pressure surged through the cabin, crushing and liberating all at once. Reed felt gravity claw at them, then weaken, then vanish as the shuttle broke through the atmosphere.

A rush of white light filled the cabin. Johnny whooped. Ben cursed in awe. Victor stayed silent, eyes locked forward. Sue squeezed Reed’s hand so tightly he could feel it even through the suit.

And then — silence.

The engines cut. The shaking stopped. They were floating.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ben said quietly, voice trembling with disbelief. “We’re in orbit.”

Outside the viewport, Earth unfolded in breathtaking blue and gold. The curve of the planet glowed against the void. Every photograph, every simulation Reed had ever studied suddenly felt inadequate.

He turned, wanting to share it with someone who might understand, and found Sue.

She was gazing out, face illuminated by sunlight refracted through the glass. Her expression was pure wonder — calm, reverent, impossibly beautiful.

Reed’s breath caught.

He’d spent his life chasing the unknown, convinced the universe held the most extraordinary things he’d ever see. And now, here she was — the most extraordinary thing of all, right next to him.

He couldn’t help it; the thought surfaced before he could suppress it.

I think I’m falling for her.

It wasn’t a hypothesis. It wasn’t data. It was simply true.

She turned to him then, catching him mid-thought. “We did it,” she whispered.

He smiled, quiet and full. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We did.”

Outside, the Earth kept turning. Inside, so did something in him.

Chapter Text

Sue Storm had faced panels of world leaders, hostile negotiations, and Senate hearings with sharper teeth than most journalists — but nothing, nothing, had prepared her for Tony Stark’s idea of subtlety.

“And before we wrap up,” Tony said, leaning toward the microphones, “I’d just like to thank our star couple—Dr. Reed Richards and Dr. Susan Storm—for proving that love and science can, in fact, coexist in zero gravity.”

The words hit like a detonation.

Sue blinked. Once. Twice. Her brain lagged a full two seconds behind reality before the sound hit — a wave of gasps, laughter, and camera shutters.

No. No, no, no.

She froze, eyes flicking to Reed. He was seated beside her, impossibly calm, as if his nervous system had been swapped with a metronome. He blinked once, expression neutral, fingers steepled like nothing extraordinary had been said.

Meanwhile, Sue’s inner voice was screaming.

Regret. Immediate, catastrophic regret. Why did I ever agree to this? Why did I ever trust Tony Stark with a microphone?

“Dr. Storm!” a reporter shouted over the noise. “Can you confirm the relationship?”

Her pulse skyrocketed. “That’s—”

“And how long have you two been—”

“Does this affect the mission—”

“Are wedding bells in the—”

“Alright!” Tony clapped his hands, as if he’d just done them all a favor. “Save something for the post-launch special. You’re welcome, humanity.”

Sue wanted to bury herself under the table. She forced a diplomatic smile that probably looked more like a grimace. Reed was still maddeningly composed, answering technical questions with perfect cadence, while she sat beside him in what could only be described as romantic purgatory.

And then someone in the front row — clearly a sadist — called out,
“Dr. Richards, can we get a good-luck kiss for the cameras?”

The laughter that followed was deafening.

Her heart stopped. “Excuse me—”

Reed turned to her. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes — a flicker of decision — shifted.

And before she could process what was happening, he leaned in.

It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t showy. It was… deliberate.

The world disappeared in a flash of static. The cameras, the reporters, the noise — all of it dimmed to the single, impossible fact that Reed Richards was kissing her.

Her brain failed to categorize it. She was supposed to be mortified, but instead—

Warmth.
The faint scent of ozone and starch.
The hum of his steady breathing.

His lips were firm, careful, but not cold. Not detached. It felt like an equation breaking apart — controlled variables collapsing under something entirely human.

By the time he pulled back, Sue couldn’t feel her hands. The silence in the room was total. Then came the explosion of flashbulbs and applause.

Reed, of course, looked unbothered. Calm. Collected. Like he’d just resolved a scheduling conflict.

“Now,” he said evenly, adjusting his mic, “if there are no further questions, we have a launch to prepare for.”

He stood, motioned politely for her to follow, and walked off the stage.

Sue followed on autopilot.

Outside the press room, her body still felt ten seconds behind her brain. She stopped in the corridor, turned to him, and hissed, “What was that?”

Reed blinked, as if he genuinely didn’t understand the question. “A redirection tactic. The press was escalating.”

“You kissed me!”

“You looked overwhelmed.”

“I— You— That’s not—” She exhaled, shaking her head. “You can’t just solve panic with physics!”

He looked faintly apologetic. “Did it work?”

She opened her mouth, ready to snap — and then shut it again. Because, technically… yes. The reporters had backed off, and the mission was still on schedule.

It didn’t mean her heart had returned to a normal rhythm.

He straightened, adjusting the strap on his suit bag. “I’ll apologize if it made you uncomfortable.”

She hesitated, caught between irritation and something she didn’t dare name. “No,” she said finally. “Just— warn me next time before you use my face as a diversion.”

His mouth curved — almost a smile. “Duly noted.”

He walked off toward the hangar, unruffled as ever.

Sue stood there in the corridor, pulse still erratic, trying to breathe past the flutter in her chest.

Maybe it was just adrenaline. Maybe it was the cameras, the chaos, the heat of the moment.

But the truth lingered quietly, like the ghost of that kiss still pressed against her lips.

She’d felt something.

Something she couldn’t name, and wasn’t sure she wanted to.

By the time the press cleared out and they suited up, Sue’s pulse still hadn’t settled.

Every time she caught Reed in her peripheral vision — that steady composure, the faint crease between his brows — she remembered the kiss, the cameras, and how completely her logic had short-circuited.

She’d kissed him back. Maybe only for a second, but still.
And now she had to spend the next several hours in a shuttle with him.

Brilliant. Truly, spectacularly brilliant.

The launch bay was a blur of metal, light, and the deep hum of engines cycling through pre-ignition. Tony and Pepper stood behind the glass above them, waving, their faces proud and far too amused.

Sue tried to focus on procedure — helmet seals, harnesses, oxygen levels. Her hands trembled slightly. She hoped no one noticed.

“Storm, you good?” Ben asked, strapping into the pilot seat.

“Fine,” she lied.

Johnny leaned in from his station, grinning. “You sure? You look like you just saw your prom date blow up the punch bowl.”

“Thank you for that comforting visual,” she said dryly.

Reed’s voice came through the comm, calm and clear. “Final checks complete. Systems all green. Control, we’re ready for countdown.”

His steadiness grounded her. It always did. Even after everything that morning, he hadn’t faltered once.

She looked at him across the console — calm, confident, the faintest warmth behind the glass of his visor. She hadn’t realized before how reassuring that calm could be.

The countdown began.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

The floor vibrated beneath her feet. Reed’s hand found hers on instinct, the contact gentle but firm.

“Six… five… four…”

She squeezed back.

“Three… two… one.”

The world exploded into sound and force. The engines roared, the shuttle shuddered, and gravity clawed at her chest. For a moment, it felt like the planet was trying to hold them down — and then, suddenly, it let go.

The shaking stopped. The light shifted.

They were floating.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ben muttered, half in awe, half disbelief, “we’re officially not dead.”

Johnny whooped, unbuckling immediately. “We’re in space! Look at this! I’m actually weightless— oh, this is awesome!”

“Strap in before you concuss yourself,” Victor muttered, not looking up from his console.

Sue laughed despite herself. The tension she’d been carrying since morning uncoiled a little. Out the viewport, the Earth stretched beneath them — blue, gold, and breathtaking.

Reed drifted nearby, scanning readings with that same quiet focus. Even in zero gravity, he moved like a man built from precision.

She watched him for a moment before realizing she was smiling.

He looked up, meeting her eyes. “You’re quiet.”

“Just taking it in,” she said softly. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” he said — but he wasn’t looking at the view anymore.

Hours passed in measured, beautiful chaos. Johnny attempted flips. Ben cursed at floating coffee. Victor sulked. And through it all, Reed kept everything running perfectly.

At one point, he floated over to her, data tablet in hand, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant.

“About earlier,” he began. “The… press situation.”

Sue looked up from her console. “The situation where you kissed me in front of the entire world?”

“Yes, that one.” His voice faltered, a fraction. “I didn’t intend to make things uncomfortable. It was an impulsive response to media pressure. Statistically effective, but personally— questionable.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Statistically effective?”

“It redirected attention,” he said earnestly. “Which was the goal.”

Sue bit back a smile. “You’re apologizing for a tactical kiss?”

“I’m apologizing for acting without consent,” he corrected, sincerity softening the edges of his words. “It was unprofessional.”

She blinked, momentarily thrown by how much he meant it. “Reed, it’s—”

A loud clang cut her off.

Something metallic spun through the air — a detached load container, dislodged from the upper rack. Johnny’s voice shouted, “Oh, crap— I forgot to strap that down!”

Reed’s head snapped toward the sound.

Sue barely had time to turn before he lunged, grabbing her and twisting their bodies midair. The container slammed into his side with a dull, sickening thud.

The impact sent them both spinning gently through the air.

“Reed!” she gasped.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically — but the lie broke as droplets of crimson began to drift upward, scattering like tiny rubies in the weightless air.

“Physics doesn’t bleed!” she snapped, grabbing his shoulder.

Ben swore. “Johnny! What the hell, kid?”

“I said I was sorry!”

Reed reached for a rag, more worried about containment than pain. “We can’t let the blood get into the filters—”

“Forget the filters!” Sue’s voice was sharp with fear. “Ben, take over controls. I’m getting him to his quarters.”

“Copy that,” Ben said, already wrestling Johnny into helping.

The corridors were quiet again as she guided Reed through the narrow passageway, one arm looped around his back. He protested the entire time.

“It’s just a laceration,” he murmured. “Minimal velocity on impact—”

“Reed,” she said, her tone brooking no argument, “stop analyzing your concussion and sit down.”

He obeyed, mostly because his equilibrium wasn’t giving him many options.

The small quarters hummed faintly around them, screens dimmed, the view of Earth spinning slowly outside the window. Sue floated to the med kit, grabbed antiseptic, and drifted back to him.

When she dabbed at the wound, he flinched slightly — more out of surprise than pain.

“You should rest,” she murmured.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding in space,” she said. “That’s not fine.”

He gave a small, dazed smile. “You’re very stubborn.”

“Occupational hazard.”

They fell quiet. She finished cleaning the cut, sealed it with a medical patch, and brushed an errant lock of hair off his forehead before realizing what she was doing.

Reed exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said again softly. “For the press. For this. For—”

“Stop.” Her voice was gentle now. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I do,” he insisted. “If I hadn’t—”

She shook her head. “Reed, you don’t get it. I’m the one who started this whole mess. If I hadn’t lied in the first place—”

He looked at her then — really looked at her — eyes steady, calm despite the faint bruise darkening along his temple. “Then it’s a mess I’d walk into again.”

Her heart skipped.

The hum of the ship filled the silence between them, low and steady.

Outside, the stars drifted endlessly past the viewport, silent witnesses to everything unsaid.

Sue didn’t move, afraid that if she breathed too loud, the moment would vanish.

Maybe she was imagining it — or maybe, for the first time, she wasn’t.

Chapter Text

“Then it’s a mess I’d walk into again.”
The words left his mouth before he could evaluate them, and now they just hung there between them — uncalculated, unrehearsed, true.

Sue stared at him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion, as if trying to decide whether he was joking. Reed wasn’t. He would do it all again — every argument, every awkward headline, every near-miss in zero gravity — if it meant she could breathe easier.

She didn’t reply. Her eyes lingered on him, searching for something he wasn’t sure he could give voice to. The ship hummed softly around them, a low, rhythmic sound like a pulse.

And then, predictably, the door slid open.

“Okay, okay!” Johnny’s voice broke through the quiet, his tone an anxious rush. “I know, I know, I’m the worst! You can yell at me later, just wanted to check that Reed isn’t, like, dying?”

Sue turned toward him with a glare so sharp it could’ve burned through the hull. “Johnny—”

“I swear I double-checked the straps,” he continued, holding up both hands. “Well… maybe one strap. Or half a strap. Fine, no straps.”

Reed sighed, the kind of deep, resigned sound of a man who’d already accepted chaos as a scientific constant. “I’m fine, Johnny. I’ve sustained minor bruising.”

Johnny’s eyes darted to the bandage on Reed’s temple. “That looks more than minor.”

“Statistically speaking,” Reed said evenly, “if I can still calculate statistics, I’m fine.”

Sue folded her arms. “You could at least pretend to sound sorry.”

“I am sorry!” Johnny insisted. “I just didn’t mean for—”

“It’s alright,” Reed interrupted. “I’m more concerned about my tablet.”

Both Storms blinked at him.

“Your tablet?” Sue repeated.

“All my recent telemetry was stored there,” he explained matter-of-factly. “It contains the radiation data from orbit entry. I do have backups, but not the most recent samples.”

Sue stared. “You’re worried about your tablet more than your head injury?”

“Well,” Reed said, deadpan, “the tablet doesn’t bleed.”

Johnny snorted before Sue could stop herself from smiling. “Okay, that’s fair,” Johnny said. “Still — sorry again, man. Really. Won’t happen twice.”

“I appreciate that,” Reed said.

Sue moved closer, her tone softening. “Are you dizzy? Any nausea? Double vision?”

Reed hesitated — lying felt unscientific. “A little dizziness,” he admitted.

She frowned, brushing a thumb lightly near the edge of the bandage. “You should rest.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“Rest,” she repeated firmly, leaving no room for debate.

Reed found himself smiling despite the reprimand. “You’re remarkably efficient at issuing commands.”

“Occupational habit.”

Johnny cleared his throat. “Right, well, I’ll, uh… go before I get more lectures. Again, sorry!”

He backed out of the room.

Sue squeezed Reed’s hand briefly before following her brother, leaving a trace of warmth on his skin that lingered long after she was gone.

A moment later, through the thin bulkhead, Reed heard her voice explode down the corridor.

“Johnny Storm, do you ever think before acting?”

“Hey, come on, I said sorry—”

“You almost killed him!”

“Almost is a strong word!”

Their bickering echoed faintly, rhythmic as heartbeat. Reed floated in his sleep sack, the straps across his shoulders kept him still, eyes half-closed, the faint pull of fatigue blending with something softer.

He thought of Sue’s expression when she’d looked at him — the worry, the steel, the care she didn’t bother to hide. And for once, he didn’t analyze it.

He just let himself feel it.

When sleep finally claimed him, he dreamed not of equations or flight trajectories, but of sunlight caught in her hair, floating weightless in the quiet of space.

-oOo-

Reed woke to the soft hum of the ship and the faint metallic taste of recycled air. His head throbbed lightly — dull, not sharp — the kind of ache that announced itself politely but refused to leave.

He floated for a moment, disoriented. In zero gravity, there was no “up,” only direction and intent. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall, moving slowly, deliberately. A fine red mark bloomed along the edge of the bandage near his temple. He ignored it.

“Good morning, Dr. Richards,” came Ben’s voice through the comm. “Still in one piece?”

“Mostly,” Reed replied, maneuvering toward the galley. “How’s the pilot?”

“Hungry,” Ben grunted. “We’re all meeting for breakfast. You should join before Johnny eats through the supply.”

Eating in zero gravity was an experience Reed doubted he’d ever find routine. Everything was sealed, rehydrated, labeled. Coffee came in squeeze pouches, oatmeal in packets that had to be kneaded before opening. If you weren’t careful, a rogue glob of eggs could drift past your face like a culinary comet.

Ben was already anchored near the table, a pouch of scrambled eggs floating at shoulder height. Johnny was trying — and failing — to drink juice without it escaping the straw. Sue hovered nearby, laughing softly as he chased a stray droplet through the air.

Reed arrived, catching himself on the handhold. “I hope no one’s experimenting with food propulsion again.”

Johnny grinned. “I only lost one orange slice!”

“Lost or launched?” Reed asked.

“Semantics,” Johnny said, snapping the fruit mid-air and popping it into his mouth.

Ben chuckled. “Breakfast in space. Who knew it’d look like a food fight with math?”

Sue turned toward Reed as he anchored beside her, her voice soft but teasing. “How’s the head?”

“Still attached,” he said.

Her eyes lingered on the bruise, worry flickering there. “You should’ve stayed in bed a little longer.”

“I’d rather stay vertical,” he said, then realized the irony mid-sentence. “Relatively speaking.”

Sue’s lips curved. “Always the scientist.”

Before Reed could respond, Victor’s voice drifted from across the cabin. “Touching. The great Dr. Richards heroically survives a bump on the head. Truly an inspiration.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of zero gravity.”

Ben smirked. “He’s just mad no one asked him how his hair looks today.”

Victor scowled, but said nothing. Sue ignored him entirely, turning back to Reed.

“Eat,” she said simply, handing him a packet of oatmeal and a coffee pouch.

“I was planning to.”

“I’m sure,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Reed took the packet without protest. She hovered close until he opened it, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when he finally took a spoonful.

It was terrible oatmeal. He didn’t care.

The hours that followed slipped into quiet rhythm. Reed returned to his research console, calibrating sensors for cosmic radiation and gathering data on polymer shielding degradation. It was the kind of work he lived for — numbers, patterns, predictable outcomes.

Except now, there was Sue.

She floated nearby, pretending to check oxygen readouts, her attention far more on him than the instruments.

“Am I bothering you?” she asked finally, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

He looked up from the screen. “Not at all. You’re statistically reassuring.”

“Statistically?”

“It’s measurable,” he said, almost smiling.

She laughed, the sound soft in the low hum of the cabin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She drifted closer, glancing over his shoulder at the scrolling data. “You really never stop working, do you?”

“Curiosity doesn’t have an off switch.”

“Neither does anxiety,” she countered. “You should eat.”

“I had breakfast.”

“Hours ago.” She handed him a sealed packet. “Lunch.”

He blinked. “You’re very persistent.”

“I prefer the term ‘nurturing.’”

He accepted it, because refusing her felt wrong. She waited until he took a bite before excusing herself with a small, satisfied grin. When she left, the space felt colder.

By evening, the light outside the viewport had shifted — a slow transition from sunlight to starlight. The ship’s artificial cycle dimmed to match it, bathing everything in a calm, amber glow.

Victor had excused himself early, citing fatigue and the need for “solitude.” No one objected.

Reed, Ben, Sue, and Johnny gathered at the table again, the hum of the ship their only background music.

Ben floated a spoon lazily. “Y’know, if they ever make a restaurant up here, we’d be the entertainment.”

Johnny grinned. “Yeah, I can see it now — ‘Dinner and Disaster: The Space Show.’ I’d be the star.”

“You’d be the health violation,” Sue said.

Reed sipped from his coffee pouch. “Technically, open flames aren’t permitted aboard, so your cooking career would end abruptly.”

Johnny pointed his spoon at him. “And you’d be the fun police.”

Ben laughed so hard his pouch of mashed potatoes drifted past his head. Sue caught it midair and handed it back, shaking her head. “Children. All of you.”

“Hey, I’m mature,” Johnny said.

“Sure,” Ben muttered. “About as mature as space jello.”

Reed watched them, the corners of his mouth softening. The conversation ebbed and flowed — laughter, teasing, a rhythm that felt natural. For once, the silence in his head wasn’t filled with equations but something far simpler: contentment.

Sue’s laughter cut through the hum, light and easy. She leaned toward him at one point to steady a floating utensil, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact was brief, but it anchored him more than gravity ever could.

He looked around the cabin — Ben’s grin, Johnny’s chaos, Sue’s calm warmth — and thought that maybe, for the first time, he wasn’t chasing the unknown anymore.

He’d found it.

Chapter Text

Three days in orbit, and space was finally starting to sound like silence. The constant hum of the oxygen scrubbers had faded into background noise, and the faint whir of air recyclers had become almost comforting—like an invisible heartbeat pulsing through the ship.

Their “relationship” was working.
At least, that’s what Sue kept telling herself.

Every scheduled meal, every passing conversation, every subtle glance was rehearsed and natural enough to fool anyone. Reed, ever the scientist, played the part with his trademark calm. When he smiled at her, it looked genuine—perhaps too genuine—and she caught herself wondering if the warmth behind it was part of the act or something unscripted. Either way, it worked. Victor’s usual interruptions had dwindled to the occasional snide remark, and the crew functioned without friction.

For the first time in weeks, Sue could breathe.

Until Victor began to watch again.

It started small—his gaze following her a bit too long during a systems check, the faint lift of an eyebrow whenever she laughed at something Reed said. In zero gravity, everyone’s movements were slow, deliberate, almost graceful. Yet Victor’s seemed predatory—controlled in a way that made her skin prickle.
He wasn’t just looking. He was calculating.

Sue ignored it at first. Reed had data runs to oversee and didn’t need her anxieties piled onto his already overworked brain. But each passing day, Victor’s smirk grew more knowing.

By the end of the third day, she knew he’d put the pieces together.

-oOo-

The observation deck was empty—dark except for the soft blue glow of Earth below. Sue hovered near one of the handholds, her tether coiled loosely around her wrist as she typed out notes on a tablet. She didn’t hear him enter; the hiss of the pressure door blended with the constant hum of machinery.

“Still pretending?” Victor’s voice sliced through the quiet.

She stilled, but didn’t look up. “I’m working.”

“Of course you are,” he said, drifting closer. “Always the diligent one. Always keeping busy when there’s something inconvenient to ignore.”

She turned, her tone even. “If you’re here to check oxygen levels, I already logged them.”

“I’m here because I find your little performance fascinating.” His eyes glinted in the soft light. “You and Richards. The perfect pair. Almost believable.”

Her chest tightened, but she kept her face neutral. “Almost?”

He drifted nearer, his tether brushing the rail beside hers. “You don’t look at him the way you used to look at me, Susan.”

Her voice stayed steady. “That’s because I don’t look at you at all anymore.”

A small, sharp laugh escaped him. “So defensive. You forget—I know you. I can see when you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are.” He leaned forward, just enough that the reflected starlight caught the edges of his face. “You’ve always hated dishonesty. Which makes this charade of yours… fascinating. Tell me—does Richards know how poorly you fake affection?”

Sue’s fingers tightened on the rail. Every instinct told her to push off, to drift away, but that would look like retreat. She met his eyes instead. “You’re imagining things.”

He smiled, slow and cruel. “You really should know better than to challenge me at my own game.”

Later, when she replayed the moment, she wouldn’t remember how long the silence stretched—only how the air seemed to thin around them. For the first time since they’d reached orbit, the ship didn’t feel vast. It felt small.

When Victor finally drifted back toward the exit, his voice dropped to a near whisper.
“Careful, Susan. Secrets have a way of unravelling themselves.”

The pressure door hissed shut behind him, and Sue let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The Earth turned slowly below, serene and impossibly far away.

She told herself it was fine. That he wouldn’t go further than words.

That she could handle Victor Von Doom.
But as she floated there in the soft blue light, the quiet no longer sounded like safety. It sounded like a warning.

-oOo-

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

Even Johnny had noticed the shift, his usual chaos dimmed to polite conversation and distracted grins. Reed, meanwhile, was his usual self — calm, methodical, explaining minor calibration results between bites of vacuum-sealed pasta as if nothing in the universe could rattle him.

Sue tried to mirror his composure, but she could still feel Victor’s eyes on her, measuring, dissecting. He hadn’t said a word all meal. Just that knowing smirk.

When dinner ended, Ben drifted off toward the cockpit, humming some old Earth tune. Johnny followed soon after, calling a lazy goodnight. That left her, Victor, and Reed — and the shrinking silence between them.

Reed was gathering data tablets, half-tethered to the workstation when Victor finally spoke.

“You two make quite the spectacle.”

Reed looked up, puzzled. “Excuse me?”

Victor’s grin was sharp. “You should consider yourself lucky, Richards. Public opinion loves a love story — even a fabricated one.”

Sue’s hand froze on the latch. “Don’t start.”

“Start?” Victor’s voice was soft but venomous. “I’m simply admiring your commitment to the act. The careful distance. The premeditated smiles. Really, Susan — you should have gone into theatre.”

Reed’s brows drew together. “What exactly are you implying?”

Victor turned, eyes gleaming in the low light. “That your brilliant little charade is transparent. That she’s using you to avoid me. And that the great Reed Richards, with all his intellect, was too naïve to notice.”

Sue felt her pulse spike. “Enough, Victor.”

He floated a little closer, voice dropping. “Tell me I’m wrong. Go on.”

Before she could answer, Reed’s voice cut through, low and cold — not raised, not harsh, but precise enough to still the air.

“She said enough.”

Sue turned. Reed had straightened, his expression unreadable but his posture taut, shoulders squared against the slow drift of the cabin.

Victor smiled, almost delighted. “And there he is — the scientist defending his experiment. How touching.”

“You’ve made your point,” Reed said evenly. “Now leave.”

“Or what? You’ll publish a paper about me?”

“Or you’ll regret testing me tonight.”

The words hung heavy — not shouted, but steady, carved from steel. Victor met his gaze, smirk faltering just slightly before he drifted back. “Enjoy your performance while it lasts, Doctor. The truth has a way of surfacing.”

The hatch closed behind him with a hiss, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Sue didn’t realize she was shaking until Reed turned toward her. His voice softened instantly.

“How long has he been doing that?”

She blinked. “A few days. Since he started suspecting.”

“And you didn’t tell me because—?”

“Because you have enough to think about,” she said quietly. “Because I thought I could handle it.”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, the motion oddly weightless. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

“It’s not your responsibility, Reed.”

“It is when you’re under my command.” His eyes flicked up to hers, steady, firm but kind. “And it’s not just that.”

The hum of the ship seemed louder now, the dim lights flickering over his face. She opened her mouth to reply, but he spoke first — softer this time, more hesitant.

“Sleep here tonight.”

For a moment, she thought she’d misheard. “What?”

“You’ll be safer here,” he said, glancing toward the sealed hatch. “He won’t come near my quarters again. You can take the sleep station; I’ll use the observation chair.”

“Reed, that’s not—”

“Logical?” he asked, a faint, wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It is, actually. You need rest. I’d rather know you’re not looking over your shoulder.”

Her throat tightened. There was no command in his voice, just concern. She floated closer, slowly, the movement unintentional — a pull more than a decision. “You’re sure?”

“Completely.”

He reached for the spare sleep sack, clipping it to the wall beside his own. She slid into it carefully, the synthetic fabric cocooning her as she strapped the restraints across her shoulders and waist.

He stayed a few feet away, half-lit by the console glow, his eyes still restless even in calm.

“Reed?”

He looked up.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

His expression shifted — that small, thoughtful smile that always looked like it surprised even him.

“It’s a mess I’d walk into again.”

Her heart skipped. He said it again, without irony, eyes steady on hers. For a second, she couldn’t tell if the air felt thinner or if it was just her pulse.

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, suspended between fear and something far warmer.

Outside, the stars drifted past like slow-moving embers, the hum of the ship lulling them both toward silence. Reed leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

Sue lay awake longer — watching him, thinking of the quiet way he’d stepped between her and Victor, of the strange comfort in his presence.

And as the cabin dimmed to night mode, she realized that, fake or not, this was the first time she’d felt safe since they’d left Earth.

Chapter Text

Reed woke before the ship’s lights shifted to day mode. The cabin was dim, washed in faint blue from the console display, enough to outline the sleeping form beside him.

Sue floated in her sleep sack, her hair a soft halo drifting against the air currents. The straps across her shoulders kept her still, but a loose strand framed her face, moving slightly with each slow breath.

He had barely slept. His mind had been running simulations long after she’d drifted off — not of data or flight calculations, but of what he almost did last night. He had wanted, absurdly, to pull her close. To tell her no one would hurt her as long as he was breathing.

But the fear in her eyes after Victor’s cornering had stopped him.
He couldn’t risk repeating a mistake like the press conference kiss — crossing her boundaries again, no matter how much his instincts screamed otherwise.

Now, watching her in the quiet, Reed’s thoughts looped like faulty code. You’re supposed to be rational. Logical. Detached.

And yet his heart didn’t seem to care about logic. It pulsed louder with every breath she took.

She stirred, lashes fluttering as her eyes opened. When she noticed him already awake, she smiled — soft, still drowsy.

It was over before it began, but the effect was catastrophic.
If his mind were a computer, that smile would’ve triggered a full system shutdown and reboot.

“Good morning,” she said, voice light, still sleep-rough.

“Technically, it’s 06:42 hours,” he replied automatically, then winced at himself. “But yes. Good morning.”

She chuckled, floating slightly in her harness. “You were awake early.”

“I haven’t been asleep since about 0400.”

“Calculations again?”

He hesitated. “Something like that.”

Her gaze softened. “Didn’t know equations could keep someone up.”

“They usually don’t,” he said. “This one’s... complicated.”

She smiled knowingly, but didn’t press. “I slept better than I have in days. Thank you.”

He nodded. “Then it was worth it.”

For a few seconds, they just floated there — two people in an infinite void, the hum of life support the only sound between them. Then the ship’s internal clock pinged, signaling the start of the day’s schedule.

They pushed off toward the galley, anchoring themselves with practiced ease. Johnny was already there, hair sticking up like static electricity, squeezing coffee from a pouch.

When he spotted them, his grin was instantaneous. “Well, look who’s up together! Cozy night in the stars, huh?”

Sue sighed. “Johnny…”

Reed kept his expression neutral. “We slept in separate stations.”

Johnny snorted. “Yeah, but in the same room. Big difference.”

Ben looked up from his rehydrated eggs, chuckling. “Kid’s got a point, Stretch.”

Reed frowned, mostly at the nickname. “It was a matter of safety. Logical proximity.”

Johnny raised his pouch in mock salute. “Sure thing, Professor Logic.”

Sue rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide her smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Part of my charm,” Johnny said, floating backward in his seat harness until his spoon drifted away.

The intercom crackled softly, interrupting the chaos.

Vision (Mission Control): “Excelsoir crew, this is Mission Control. Morning systems check — life support nominal, orbit stable. How’s everyone up there?”

Ben grinned at the speaker. “Still alive, boss!”

Vision: “That’s the minimum requirement, Ben. Keep it that way. Richards, data sync coming your way.”

Reed tapped the console near the galley wall. “Received, Vision. Tell Stark his uplink patch worked.”

Vision: “Copy that. And tell Johnny not to test zero-G coffee propulsion again.”

Johnny groaned. “You narc’d me out, didn’t you?”

Vision’s faint laugh came through the static. “You’re predictable.”

The line clicked off, leaving a small wave of laughter in its wake.

Sue drifted beside Reed, taking slow, careful bites from her meal pouch. But he noticed her expression — distracted, her eyes flicking toward the far end of the cabin where Victor sat, silent and unreadable.

Reed didn’t need data to sense it — she was tense again.
And when she grew uneasy, it radiated through him like a shift in gravity.

He forced himself to eat, to stay composed, but each time her smile faltered, it felt like something inside him misfired.

Ben noticed it too. His gaze flicked between Reed and Sue before settling on Reed with that patient, big-brother look that always preceded unsolicited advice.

And Reed knew, somehow, that breakfast wasn’t the last conversation he’d have today about feelings.

Ben found him not long after breakfast. Reed had been reviewing radiation data when a broad shadow blocked his screen.

“Stretch,” Ben said. “Got a minute?”

Reed looked up. “Always, assuming it’s not about Johnny’s coffee experiments.”

Ben chuckled, hooking a boot into the floor restraint. “Nah. This one’s about you.”

Reed blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. And Sue.”

Reed’s fingers paused mid-air over the tablet. “Is something wrong?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.” Ben’s tone was casual, but his eyes weren’t. “You two looked like someone dimmed your lights this morning.”

Reed hesitated. “She’s been… under stress. Victor’s behavior—”

“I’m not talkin’ about Doom.” Ben crossed his arms, floating just enough to look impossibly grounded. “I’m talkin’ about you. You act like you care, but you keep it locked up behind equations and lab notes. And buddy, that doesn’t work with people.”

Reed frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Yes, you do.” Ben’s voice softened. “She’s good for you, Reed. Everyone can see it. But if you keep actin’ like a data set instead of a man, you’re gonna lose her trust before you earn it.”

Reed blinked slowly. “Are you suggesting I… express emotion?”

“Bingo,” Ben said with a grin. “Say what you mean. Or at least show it. Be sweet. Do somethin’ human for once.”

Reed leaned back, considering. “Sweet. That’s not a measurable variable.”

Ben laughed. “Doesn’t have to be. Just try it. Might surprise both of you.”

Reed looked at him for a long moment. Then, with that faint, thoughtful squint Ben knew too well, he nodded. “I’ll… attempt to implement that.”

“Good man,” Ben said, giving his shoulder a friendly tap that nearly sent him spinning.

-oOo-

Reed floated down the main corridor, muttering quietly to himself.

Be sweet. Right. Simple in theory, complex in execution.

He ran through potential strategies like an internal checklist:

1. Compliment her work? (Risk: may sound clinical.)

2. Offer assistance? (Risk: implies incompetence.)

3. Spontaneous kindness? (Unquantifiable. High error margin.)

He was still mentally debugging when he found Sue near the data module, tethered to a handhold and reviewing diagnostics. Her hair was tied loosely, drifting slightly around her shoulders as she moved.

She looked up at him, smiling faintly. “Hey. You look like you’re calculating gravity all over again.”

“Only emotionally,” he said before realizing it was out loud.

Her laugh was quick, bright, unguarded. “Emotionally?”

He cleared his throat. “Ben suggested that I should… ah… be sweeter.”

Her smile deepened. “He did, did he?”

“Yes. Apparently, my communication style lacks—”

“Warmth?” she supplied, amused.

“Precisely,” he admitted, lips twitching. “I wanted to discuss that with you, actually. Perhaps we should coordinate our behavior to make our—relationship—appear more convincing. Increased proximity, verbal affirmations, perhaps small gestures—”

“Small gestures?”

“I read that affection often involves—”

She held up a hand, laughter bubbling. “Reed, stop before you turn this into a thesis.”

He stopped, mortified but oddly charmed by her laughter.

“I get it,” she said gently. “You want to try being sweeter. I just… don’t want you to feel forced.”

“I’m not forced,” he said quietly. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Her eyes softened at that. “You’re impossible to dislike, you know that?”

He blinked. “I’ve been told otherwise.”

Before she could reply, her gaze flicked past his shoulder. Her expression changed—tense, alert.

Reed followed her eyes.

Victor.

He was floating near the viewport again, reviewing readings, unaware of them for now.
Sue’s breath caught. Reed felt her shift beside him—some mixture of instinct and decision flickering behind her eyes. And before his mind could process what was happening, she grabbed his collar, tugged him forward, and kissed him.

It wasn’t the quick, staged kind of kiss that could be dismissed as performance. It was sudden, desperate, real. For one wild second, Reed froze—brain offline, logic gone. Then instinct kicked in. His hands found her waist, steadying her against the drift.

The kiss deepened, slow and breathless, weightless and infinite.

When she finally pulled back, her lips parted just enough for a whisper of breath. Reed’s pulse was a violent, rhythmic error message pounding in his ears.

He caught a flicker of movement in the viewport — Victor’s faint reflection, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable before he turned and left.

Reed exhaled slowly and drew Sue against him, his voice low, even.

“It's okay. He won't bother you again.”

Her head rested against his shoulder, the two of them floating, tethered by nothing but each other.
Outside, the stars turned — patient, indifferent, eternal.

Chapter Text

The silence after the kiss was almost heavier than the kiss itself.

For a few suspended seconds she could still feel his breath on hers, the slow drift of them turning together in the air, the quiet hum of the ship folding back into her awareness. It wasn’t like before—there had been no audience, no need to convince anyone. This time she had chosen it, and Reed had chosen to answer.

She hadn’t expected that.

Reed Richards, who measured everything, who spoke in numbers and probabilities, had met her in a place that had nothing to do with calculation. His hand at her back had steadied her in the absence of gravity, careful and sure, as if the smallest motion might send both of them spinning out of orbit.

When they finally separated, she tried to breathe evenly. The taste of recycled air felt new somehow, sharp and sweet. Reed’s expression hadn’t changed much—his usual calm, precise focus—but something glimmered behind it, a quiet warmth that caught her completely off guard.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice low but certain. “He won’t bother you again.”

He meant it. The conviction in his tone struck deeper than the words themselves. She wanted to believe him, wanted to let that promise anchor her.

The way he held her for that single, steady moment afterward filled her chest with a warmth that startled her. Security, yes—but something else too, something she didn’t want to name. Because naming it would make it real, and real things had a habit of breaking.

-oOo-

Later, alone in her quarters, she floated with her eyes open, staring at the faint glow of Earth far below. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt that moment again: his breath, his steadiness, the quiet strength that had nothing to do with intellect.

She’d spent her whole life reading people—finding motives in gestures, meaning in silences. But Reed was unreadable. Not because he hid behind arrogance or charm, but because there was simply nothing false to find. He was honest in the way stars were—distant, constant, impossible to touch.

And yet she had.
And it had changed everything.

She tried to reason with herself: he was calm because that was who he was; he didn’t show emotion because he compartmentalised, not because he didn’t feel. Still, uncertainty pressed against her ribs. What if that kiss had meant nothing more to him than another necessary improvisation?

She turned slowly in the weightless air, letting the restraint straps keep her from drifting. The hum of the ship filled the silence like a heartbeat. She told herself to focus on the mission, on data, on control. But her mind betrayed her, circling back to the sound of his voice, the way his eyes had softened when he promised she was safe.

Her lips curved into a faint, helpless smile.
“You’re not supposed to fall in space,” she whispered to herself.

But she already was.

-oOo-

When she entered the main corridor that evening, she didn’t expect to see him waiting there—arms folded, posture composed, as though he’d simply calculated her arrival down to the minute.
“Reed?” she asked, a touch of surprise in her voice. “Were you… waiting for me?”

He looked up from his data tablet, his lips twitching into the smallest, most genuine smile. “Dinner seems statistically more efficient when we go together,” he said, and that was somehow the most Reed answer possible.

She raised an eyebrow, teasing. “So this is efficiency now? Walking your fake girlfriend to dinner?”

“Only if it keeps certain people from interrupting your meal,” he replied evenly, and that soft, unshakable certainty in his tone made her blush despite herself.

The cafeteria felt brighter than usual. Johnny was already there, floating upside-down in his seat like a show-off, Ben laughing at his antics. Reed guided her toward the table, his hand brushing her elbow—a small gesture that steadied her in more ways than one.

“About time you two showed up,” Johnny quipped, smirking. “Was the PDA delay part of the mission plan?”

Ben chuckled. “I’ll take this any day over Reed skipping dinner again. Space or no space, you still need food, Stretch.”

Reed shot him a wry look. “I’m perfectly capable of remembering basic sustenance, Ben.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ben grinned. “Remind me the last time you remembered lunch without Sue here.”

Sue laughed, a real, soft laugh she hadn’t felt in weeks. For a moment, the tension between them and Victor seemed distant. Then, of course, Victor’s voice cut through like static.

“Some of us prefer to focus on the mission, not... distractions,” Victor muttered, picking at his tray.

Reed didn’t even glance at him. He simply reached over and took Sue’s hand, his thumb brushing lightly against hers.

“Distractions,” he said calmly, “are often what keep the mission human.”

The quiet strength in his voice silenced even Victor. Johnny grinned, muttering something about needing popcorn for the drama, but Ben quickly changed the subject to tomorrow’s schedule. By the time dinner ended, Sue found herself smiling again—something easy and unguarded that she hadn’t felt since Earth.

-oOo-

The next day began with the steady hum of the ship and the faint golden light of the sun through the observation panels. Sue was just finishing her reports when she heard it—Victor’s voice, smooth and taunting.

“Still pretending, are we?” he said, floating near the work console. “You can’t keep up this little charade forever. Richards may enjoy the act, but eventually, truth finds its way out.”

She tensed, trying to focus on her notes, but before she could respond, another voice interrupted.

“Actually,” Reed said, appearing from the adjacent module, “I could use my girlfriend’s help with some lab analysis.”

The word girlfriend landed in the air like a pulse. Victor’s smug expression faltered for the briefest second.

Reed didn’t wait for him to respond; he simply took Sue’s hand—lightly but firmly—and guided her down the corridor.

When they reached the lab, she was still speechless. Her heart hadn’t quite decided whether to race or stop altogether.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she managed.

“I know,” Reed replied, setting down his tablet. “But he did.”

She turned to look at him—and that’s when she noticed. “You’re not wearing your glasses.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that to be her first observation. “They’re somewhere in here,” he admitted, glancing around. “They drifted off when I saw Victor heading your way. I didn’t have time to retrieve them.”

Her stomach did a strange, fluttering thing. “You came straight here?”

“I wasn’t going to let him corner you again,” he said simply.

She swallowed. The way he said it—calm, certain, utterly without pretense—sent warmth flooding through her chest. Her eyes traced the curve of his jaw, the faint bruise still fading near his temple, the depth of those brown eyes she could finally see without the barrier of glass.

“You shouldn’t be so sweet,” she said softly, trying to cover her fluster. “I might get used to it.”

His mouth curved in that small, barely there smile that somehow unraveled her completely. “I don’t mind,” he murmured. “I think I’m getting used to it too.”

Her answer came out as a whisper, half breath, half dream.

“Yeah… me too.”

And for the first time since the mission began, Sue Storm let herself feel it—the quiet pull of gravity, even in a place where none existed.