Chapter Text
Anyone with a decent knowledge of science knows there are a few materials that prevent the conduction of electricity, but your preferred choice was rubber gloves.
You usually bought lots of them—black ones, if possible—because they matched every outfit and spared you from the headache-inducing yellow that was most commonly sold. What looks good with yellow, anyway? You didn’t like the prospect of being out and about looking like a walking highlighter. Grey, black, and white—that’s where it’s at: discreet and imperceptible, like you.
Or at least that’s what you tried so hard to be.
Working in the hell of retail and customer service didn't help much, especially since you had the good fortune of working in a convenience store right next to a big fucking SDN building. How lucky you are that 75% of the people who enter are heroes and—supposedly—reformed villains.
The heroes would often glance at your hands, ask about them, and then immediately suggest you send your mediocre CV to the company.
"They're hiring!" some would say. The offer didn't spark any interest in you. Saving the day was something you stopped believing in years ago.
At least the villains had the decency to get straight to the point and try to steal a lighter. Emphasis on the word try, because you'd immediately zap their stupid asses away.
If you're being honest with yourself, you're not paid enough to worry about people stealing from the store. You're earning a minimum wage, and Seven-Eleven isn't going bankrupt over a miserly villain or a homeless person with nothing to eat.
However, your boss was still furious about the last time he saw you lounge around doing nothing—naturally, as any sane person would—on the security cameras. Now, because of your situation, you were expected to intervene.
Cool cool cool.
You hated, loathed your boss with every fiber of your being. An old, middle-aged white man who has no clue about what struggle even means. And, the cherry on top, he'd mock you constantly because of your own precautions.
“Are you seriously going to wear those at work?”
“I don’t want clients seeing you with gloves—it’s weird.”
“Can’t you control your powers or something?”
"No, James, I can't! Unless you want me to fry the last three strands of hair clinging to your greasy scalp," you'd typically think to yourself before forcing a polite smile. You never took the gloves off, of course. No matter how much shit he gave you about it.
You didn't want another incident.
It took a moment for your mind to realize that you had been staring blankly at the counter before finally refocusing your gaze with a slight head shake, as if you were trying to push all the unchangeable things to the back of your mind. You were clocked in—no time for PTSD now.
Talking about post-traumatic stress disorder—it’s hard being a productive employee with the physical aftermath of it. Chronic fatigue, to be specific. To you, lunch break was instead “lay-down time” in your head; ten minutes of eating, fifty minutes of shut-eye, even if you never truly slept.
You floated through the limbo between lucidity and unconsciousness. You were there, but barely. Nearly asleep, but not quite. Listening to the occasional cars driving by the store and your own thoughts—complaints, actually—about how you’d never be able to feel fully rested, about how you struggled to shut your brain off before sleeping.
Truth is, you didn’t feel like sleeping—it was the persistent heaviness in your limbs and eyelids that made you think so. The feeling of your bones being made of cement, bringing you down with every step. That’s chronic fatigue.
Now, with your arms crossed over the counter and your head resting on them, you wore a hoodie pulled over your head. Your right foot kept moving from side to side, trying—and failing—to lull you into sleep. It seemed more like a nervous habit, similar to bouncing your leg underneath the table during meetings. See? You can’t stop your brain from fussing over work. You let out a heavy sigh bordering on a groan of frustration, and just then, you began to feel overstimulated.
You jerked your gloves off roughly and left them by your side. You were incredibly careful with those things, but come on, there’s a limit. Can’t sleep with sweaty hands.
You decided that if you weren’t going to sleep, at least you’d allow your body some rest for a moment. Your knees were killing you from re-stocking shelves anyway.
Eighteen minutes passed, and your body was relaxed, with half of you melting against the counter while the other sat on the barely comfortable chair. You didn’t mind feeling the ceramic beneath your fingertips; it was cold and clean, and somehow regulated your body temperature. It replaced the sensation of a nice, cool pillow at night.
But today, the universe seemed really eager to push your limits—and maybe make you doubt whether investing in some nice earplugs was a good idea.
The door swung open because you forgot to flip the closed sign. You couldn’t see or hear it—not that it mattered in your current state.
You’re taking a break, for fuck’s sake.
Whoever walked in there was now making you unsolicited company, roaming around the aisles and carrying a comical amount of things in their long arms.
“Oh... is— How am I–” he quietly trailed off, doing mental acrobatics to find a way to wake you without making you jump out of your seat.
Reluctantly, he shifted his groceries from one arm to the other, then gently tapped your arm where it met your hand. He was very gentle, as if he understood you must have been too exhausted to stay awake during your shift. But his gentleness came back to bite him in the ass when he felt a slight shock traveling up his index finger.
He blinked down at you, looking completely confused. Like a cat pawing at a brand new creature, he gently poked the back of your wrist again, feeling the electricity pulse through his finger's nerves once more. He didn't know what he expected.
The second time was enough to wake you up, because the water from his hand dripped onto you and made you gasp loudly— not that it hurt to feel the electricity run through your own hand (that’d be ridiculous and contradictory)—you were just frightened. Naturally.
After fumbling with your hoodie for a moment and pulling it down to your shoulders with a frustrated tug, your scared and angry gaze met these apologetic blue eyes peering out from behind swimming goggles.
The tall, lanky, flushed-faced, and somehow soaking wet guy looking down at you with hovering, unsure hands just rambled on with what seemed to be endless apologies. You just looked at him with narrowed eyes and a slight frown, evidently annoyed that you’d been woken up in the most unpleasant way of all. You didn’t even feel sorry enough for him to pull out your earplugs as he spoke.
“I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t— I was— just wanted to hand— I mean, I wanted to wake you up, uh... yeah, sorry. Here's these—” he babbled, gesturing towards you, himself, and the various snacks he carried with wide, shameful eyes. What an expressive guy.
When he fell silent, you looked up at him with a dull expression, made half-hearted motions, and carefully removed each plug from your ears.
“I was sleeping,” you gently reminded him—voice soft and tired, yet still clearly annoyed that he had touched the most sensitive part of your body with damp hands. He was just looking to get himself killed, and it pissed you off to no end that it had almost happened while you were unconscious.
Before sliding your gloves back on, you rubbed the moisture away on your thigh with a subtle grimace.
“Ah, you... you didn’t— oh God... I’ve been talking to myself this whole time, haven’t... I?” He stuttered, and you swear you could see his face turn redder by the second. He sighed, adjusting his goggles before looking down at his shoes. He didn’t dare to look at your face after disturbing your peaceful sleep.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized for the umpteenth time in the very short lapse of a minute. Very impressive.
You shook your head slowly, let out a sigh, and rubbed the exhaustion out of your eyes.
“I’m... sorry too,” you said through a yawn, covering half of your face with your hand to hide the brief, ugly expression.
“I could’ve killed you,” you explained vaguely, running a hand over your face as you stared blankly into the candy aisle for a moment. Like you were back in those high school mornings where you dozed off at the sight of your own socks.
“You... huh? What do you... Kill me?” he asked with a nervous chuckle, and your eyes widened as you realized how threatening that sounded.
“God! No, sorry, I worded that so weirdly. Uhm...” you pointed at your gloved-up hand with a weary grin. “I could’ve tased you, that's why I freaked out,” you clarified, the realization that you could have easily killed this water fountain of a guy in seconds made your stomach churn. You took a sharp breath in and then let out a shaky exhale.
“Ah, oh... geez!” he chuckled again, not knowing how to handle that information appropriately. “I’m—” he pointed at the name tag on his chest. It seemed like you had realized his handwriting was gone before he did.
“Waterboy,” he said, almost as if he were discouraged because his name had rubbed off the sticker.
“Very self-explanatory,” you quipped, with the corners of your mouth barely lifting into another small grin.
This guy is adorable.
Only then did you genuinely feel sorry for him.
“I know, I— I make things wet— Moist! Moist,” he corrected himself. If he kept choosing the wrong words and backtracking, the flush on his face would never go away.
You fought to keep a straight face after hearing that interesting choice of words, but your lips quivered before you finally let out a giggle — a genuine one, no less.
"I'm sorry, it was funny. I really tried," you apologized, though the amused tone in your voice gave away that you weren't fully sorry.
“Well, um... I’m glad I made you laugh after scaring... you,” he replied with a crooked smile, adjusting the wet collar of his shirt under the tracksuit. You doubted it made much difference—it would probably stick to his neck again.
"You... you– uh... your name. You never said– never told me... your name," he stammered, watching you rise from your chair and walk from behind the counter toward the store entrance, now actually turning the 'closed' sign hanging on the glass.
“I’m [Name],” you presented yourself with a slight lift of your hand, too lazy to give him a proper wave or shake his hand. “You're new to the SDN, right? I've never seen you here before—the other heroes always come in here every day,” your eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to remember if you'd seen him in the past few months.
“Uh... yeah! It’s— my first... day, actually,” he nodded in confirmation, smiling sheepishly at the fact that you seemed interested (even if just a little) in his presence. It hadn’t been an easy day for him so far.
"How's your first day?" you forced out the question. You weren't exactly the most eloquent person in the room—especially when talking to strangers—but it seemed that the red-haired boy's endearing difficulty in speaking without overanalyzing had influenced you, causing you to trip over your words and pause awkwardly.
"It's been... nice. Yeah. I like being a– being the janitor. I'm very... helpful," he nodded, as if he were approving the use of his own words. You thought it was lovely to witness live how the gears turned in his head as he struggled to put words together and form a decent sentence.
"I like janitors, they're doing what others won't," you said without thinking, and felt your throat twist uncomfortably with embarrassment as you gave him a mortified look. "I mean– they're– dammit! That sounded really mean," you chuckled awkwardly with an apologetic tone.
"I was trying to say that their work is underrated. They keep the whole place nice and clean, that kind of job is very important for every workplace," you hoped with all your might that he hadn't felt diminished by your lack of precise explanation.
"I know what you mean," he responded, and he seemed pretty pleased with your opinion about janitors. Or at least that's what you assumed from the way his lips quirked to one side.
You liked janitors, therefore you liked him.
Probably.
"But seriously, I'm sorry you had to see me like that; it was inappropriate. I was supposed to be on my lunch break; I was... taking advantage of the time I had left. I completely forgot about the stupid sign," you admitted guilt again, making your way back behind the counter before stretching your arms a little with a small noise of protest.
Then you stretched your arms towards him, silently suggesting you could take the snacks he's holding to scan each barcode. "That's a lot of chips," you pointed out, almost admiring, as if wishing you could take that many snacks home without feeling guilty.
He explained with a touch of self-deprecation, "I know... it's— food gets soggy... when I try to eat it. Sometimes I accidentally drop too much water onto my food, and... yeah, it sucks. And I don't– I can't use the vending m-machine every single time or... my colleagues get mad.... mad at me."
You paused for a moment, carefully passing each product through the reader with a blank expression. It started to dawn on you that his powers could feel like a burden, too.
"I get it, can't eat fruit with bare hands," you finally spoke again, scanning the last bag of chips and then looking down at both of your own hands. There wasn't a single valuable thing you could do with those, besides charging your phone and turning the power back on in your house during a blackout.
For an unknown reason to you, he mirrored your movements, and now his hands were directly in front of yours.
He wore white gloves; they didn't block moisture like yours blocked electricity—water seeped through them. That detail hit you harder than you'd like to admit.
And the fact that he felt compelled to mimic you only made it worse. Waterboy reminded you of something you didn't want to think about, not there, not at that moment.
Even if you felt seen, you hated to know why.
It didn't make you feel comforted at all, you could only describe it as being dragged away from your hideout. Naked and exposed against your will.
You just wanted to go back to your make-believe world of normalcy and uneventful days.
"That would be seventeen dollars and five cents. Cash or card?" you asked with eyes fixed on the scanner, refusing to look at him again and trying to move on from... whatever was going on. You didn't want to give it a name.
"Uhm... just a sec," he gestured with his index finger before reaching for a twenty-dollar bill that was tucked underneath the wrist of his tracksuit and then smoothing it out on the counter before giving it to you.
"It's wet. Very wet," your lips curved again into a subtle grin, taking the money from him as quick as you could and then looking around for something heavy to flatten it while it dried. You ended up hiding it underneath your book (not without patting the moisture away with the sleeve of your hoodie). It was the first volume of The Hunger Games. You cherished that book a lot, and it helped you get through the most boring shifts.
"Hey, before you leave," you called out to him as you grabbed a permanent marker from underneath the counter and a new name tag. The store had those too, you didn't bother to use them, as you realized with each day of work that no one cares about addressing you by your name. But now you had the perfect excuse, and you also wanted to try and do something nice for him. For someone. Just once.
You quickly wrote down his hero name and pulled the sticker apart from the release liner. Then, you got rid of that ruined name tag sticker for him before pressing the new one against his chest, rubbing it for good measure.
"There you go, it matches your suit too," you commented a little flatly, trying so hard not to make it sound like a compliment, even if you were trying to be friendly. Though it was just to mask the inner conflict he had caused inside you.
Your mouth, face, and hands were often disorganized, out of sync with your brain. No matter how much you wanted to appear as outgoing and effortlessly social, you also felt like shutting the world out all the time—especially this one guy who wore gloves just like you. Was inconvenient like you.
He was like you.
You wanted to pull him in for a hug and push him away all at once.
"Th-thanks..." he mumbled quietly in gratitude, his fingers trailing over where you had touched him before his gaze snapped to look back at you as you handed him the receipt and his change.
You gave him a thumbs up, and said: "Have a great day, don't give up. First days are always tough, you'll be fine. Water is the best thing a janitor can have."
Judging by his expression, you could tell that he needed to hear that more than anything. You wished it hadn't mattered as much as it did, but at the same time... you liked seeing and knowing that you made that sopping wet guy smile.
Maybe because if you couldn't convince yourself that you shouldn't be ashamed of existing, that you weren't a punishment to society, perhaps you could convince him of those things instead.
"You too!" he said while frantically waving at you, and then blurted out a high-pitched "I like your gloves!" as he rushed his way out of the store.
When he left, your features relaxed into nothingness again. You looked down at the counter where the old name tag was and held it between your fingers.
It didn't say nothing on it, not anymore. But it still had Waterboy written all over it.
You made the choice of keeping that useless peace of paper anyway, sticking it to your water bottle that was hiding underneath the counter as some sort of inside joke.
Then, as if the universe were trying to make you see how ridiculous you were being, the door suddenly flew open and there he was in front of you. Again.
"I– my chips! I forgot my..." he gestured towards the multiple bags of chips, and you quickly helped him gather them into a pile.
An awkward silence hangs between you two before he says more fluently this time: "Thank you for being nice to me."
He leaves again, walking at a normal pace. Not because he didn’t want to run away as soon as those words left his mouth with no interruption, hell, he wanted to haul ass. But he knew he had left a puddle and he'd only ridicule himself in front of you if he slipped.
Now you had a floor to mop and a new thing to keep you up at night, as if you didn't have enough shit going on.
Knowing that there was a chance he'd come back any day of the week only made everything more disastrous.
He was a part of your routine now, for better or worse.