Work Text:
Sonar totally has it figured out: chicks dig a good redemption arc, right?
Don't get him wrong, his recent career change has been very beneficial, for many different reasons. One, he has an actual, paying job, with benefits (minimal as they are, it's still something) – including dental, too! Man, it's always been a nightmare finding a dentist who could actually take care of his teeth, but the SDN does know how to take care of its employees. Sure, there are risks, like how they're putting their lives on the line every day, but it's nice to know someone in the corporate ladder gives a shit.
Two, said job has opened up his social life to a whole new level. His coworkers are nice, fun to be around and banter on the job and in the break room. Getting to hang out with Malevola is, like, one of the best things ever, so he doesn't complain about having to do actual work while on the clock. And on top of it all, it's a great conversation started with anyone new: Oh, me? I'm a hero, ya know, saving people and shit. Yeah, it's no big deal. (But he knows it is totally big deal, so he plays it so cool. Yeah, he's nonchalant like that.)
Three – well, it could technically be two-point-five, but whatever; he's feeling better about himself in general! Who would have guessed being a nice person and doing actual good things would make him feel great, in turn? It sounds like something stupid and completely obvious those self-help books try to sell to the masses, but maybe in all the bullshit, there was a seed of truth.
The point is, the whole bad-guy-turned-good thing he has going on right now? Super hot and irresistible to the right kind of niche.
And man, he rides that high for some good weeks. There's the occasional cocaine high, too, oops...? But the approval and praise he gets from strangers he makes small talk with in pubs and bars? Fuck, man... it's been amazing. People like him! They listen when he talks, they ask him about juicy details and hero gossip, and then come back to his place for hot and meaningless sex! What could he want more?
See, that's the source of his newest problem.
He's feeling better than he has in years. He's gotten so many things he used to only dream about, and, and, and... well. Something's still missing. Something still doesn't feel right, and it's been making him lose his fucking mind over it.
If he thinks about it a little better, the problem might be... well, you – super cool, super smart, super sweet, and super hot (and so many other attributes he keeps a mental list of, for no reason in particular). Whenever you talk to him, his heart starts beating out of control, he sweats like a lame teenager, and he cannot take his eyes off of you.
It's just normal, he rationalized at first. Literally everyone around the office must have a small crush on the reliable, ever-patient IT Specialist, right? You give your help and expertise no matter the problem, maintain all the equipment so it's up to standard, repair or replace every broken computer or pairs of headphones – hell, you're the god-sent that fixes the internet whenever a hero's power's accidentally mess with it!
(His crypto talks don't impress you, unfortunately. Which is fine! He's a Harvard graduate. He can appreciate a different point of view, even if it conflicts with his own. The fact that you stand your ground and meet him beat-for-beat in any intellectually-challenging conversation makes you hotter, he won't lie.)
But the conversations you both share, either at lunch, or during those much-needed afternoon coffee breaks, are easily the highlight of his day.
You seem genuinely interested in him. Genuinely! You ask about his weekend plans, offer him the last cookie in your pack, drop a glass of water by his desk to remind him that, yeah, running solely on caffeine is terrible for his stomach, and even check out his favorite band just because he once mentioned he liked it. You come up with fun conversations topics, obvious set-up for jokes, and he gets all giddy when he smoothly continues the banter, bouncing the teasing remarks like you're playing a perfect game of ping-pong.
It's been amazing. And he's fucking terrified by it all.
Because it's all so... easy. He's not pursuing you or leading you on for shits and giggles; no, he's not like that. He's never been good with serious commitments, so he's never really done serious relationships. He's been responsible about that, at least.
But maybe he wants to change that, because lately, he thinks so much about you, all the time. It's new to him. It's insane how you make it all feel so natural, so carefree. Like every single smile you give him that lights up his day, comes right from your heart, without fear. It's like there are no ghosts following, looking down over your shoulder, terrifying you to put on a mask and be someone people want to be around. You live unafraid, being wholly yourself – genuine, silly, caring, responsible – and whoever decides to stick by your side, you accept them fully. You just are, and it's all such a wild concept to him. It's all Sonar wants to have by his side, if you'll have him.
He's been wanting to ask you to dinner for a while. Just you and him, some good food, maybe a nice bottle of wine he'd order just to impress you with it. The lighting would be warm and cozy, and he's sure you'd look so relaxed and comfortable, it'd make his heart swoon whenever you laugh at his corny jokes, again and again. It wouldn't even matter that he definitely overspent his budget for the week, because he'd get to give you the wonderful, romantic night you deserve.
But, uhhh... shit got a bit hectic around the office, to put it lightly. Your schedules just couldn't sync up. Abnormal villain activity making him work overtime several evenings. You mentioned how you'd have to leave early to drive a friend to the airport one day. There's a Z-Team hangout right after work, and Prism and Flambae drag him away before he can stop by your office and invite you, too.
"Damn, you're down bad, buddy," Punch Up teases when he keeps cheeking his phone obsessively for any story updates on your social media (you posted a picture of the sunset, perfectly golden and hazy, with a really good song in the background). He doesn't retort, because Robert and Invisigal have already made fun of his 'heart eyes' after he downed his third drink of the night, and asked the group if they noticed if you did anything different with your hair that day – What, it looked even nicer than usual...!
You do manage to have a few casual dates outside work, some really good ones, actually. Trying out a local bakery you've been gushing about went amazing – the way your eyes sparkled when you tried that overly-sugary pastry he insisted he pay for is ingrained in his memory, because part of that admiration was directed at him. He thinks your smile is sweeter than anything; he might get cavities from it one day (thank god for dental). He doesn't mind if he does.
Another weekend, you invited him to a local fair, because one of your friends had a booth selling his hand-knitted plushies. The place was alright, lots of cool stuff around, and he even brought an art print of a show he likes. His feet hurt by the end because of how much you both walked around the open space, but it was worth it in the end when you insisted you have to get matching keychains of little cartoon bats; one gray, and one black. He kept grinning like an idiot the whole way home, looking back at the silly trinket that connect him to you.
Then there was that late night walk in the park. Getting off work late, but not in the mood to go home yet, and since he hasn't invited you to come over yet, third locations have been the safe bet to hang out. It was the kind of time spent together with another person he'd imagined since high school: alone in the night, laughing like nerds at nothing and everything, playing on the swings while you both shared parts of yourselves you're usually terrified to tell another soul.
When he talked about his time in jail, or some of the worst days coming off too many drugs, you stayed silent and listened. When he felt like a man on death row, defeated and ready for judgment, when he finally accepted he is inherently broken and unlovable, he looked up at you to get his final answer (because, at least, he'd not be a coward this time).
And you looked at him like he hung the fucking moon.
No stars could reflect in your eyes, because the L.A. sky will forever remain light-polluted, but he swore he could see them; you were glowing. You told him how strong you think he is, how kindness is so difficult, yet he's still fighting to be good, to do good. You didn't look down on him, judge him for the man he was, didn't pity the sob story or the unfortunate victim. He felt like you were staring right into his heart, and terrifying as it was, to be so wholly open and perceived, it made him want to show you more.
He wouldn't mind if your hands tore open his chest and explored what had been left to rot there. Because you'd see a seed, stubborn and maybe a little crooked, but you'd dig your fingers inside and nurture it with thoughtful words and patient smiles and loving embraces.
His coworkers are right: he's down bad.
Right, back to the plan – romantic dinner, flowers and wine, the whole shebang. When he's sure he finally has the perfect opportunity to drop his brilliant plan, your work phone interrupts his hilarious story. You groan, giving him an apologetic smile and a friendly pat on his shoulder, promising you'll continue this later – but, later doesn't come that day, to his misfortune. Some stupid servers went down, and since you were the only one capable enough to fix them, it took you the rest of the day to sort it out with the other departments.
(He thinks, many, many, times, about the way your hand touched his shoulder, the skin underneath his suit burning at the memory. He's been holding back on physical touch in general, not wanting to scare you or make you uncomfortable. Past experiences have made him be careful with that sort of thing. But you've already reached out first. You've broken down barriers he was terrified of even approaching, all with a glimmer in your pretty eyes that made him shiver in a way that's completely foreign to him.)
Any semblance of a plan gets turned around unexpectedly, but maybe that's just a pattern when it comes to you.
He was in a particularly shitty mood that Saturday, partly because he doesn't get to see you, and partly because he had to do actual adult tasks he'd been putting away for a while. Standard, boring, time-consuming things: deep clean the bathroom, vacuum everywhere, dust off his collection of Funko Pops, get some actual groceries for the week (in an attempt to meal-prep for real this time; because the idea of eating the same high-protein burritos for every meal for the next seven days is just so appealing).
Still, somehow, by the time he leaves the store with his semi-fresh produce stacked neatly in his fashionable, Vanderstenk-branded tote bag, it's way later than he expected. And he means late late, like, oh shit it was day when I went in the store, and now it's completely fucking dark out jesus chirst what is this world coming to.
Ok, maybe he spent a little too much time comparing avocados for one that would be perfectly ripe in exactly two days; and maybe, he spent an exorbitant fifteen minutes smelling all the different types of laundry detergent and fabric softener, just so he could choose the optimal combination of layered scents. It's a little later than he planned, but it's fine. His made-up mental schedule isn't ruined at all.
Oh, and now it's storming, too, because fuck him, right?
Dark gray clouds loom above, and the rumble of far-off thunder booms among the sky. It's pouring decently hard, but he does have an umbrella, because he's cool and prepared like that. His place isn't far, so at least his shoulder won't cramp too bad from holding the groceries and umbrella high enough not to hit his ears; it's still annoying and inconvenient.
So as he walks down the street, eyes on the sidewalk as to not splash into any puddles, his quiet grumbles stop the instant he picks up the sound of a distinct voice. His whole body freezes, ear twitching out to the side. Slowly, he looks up, and across the street, it's you, completely soaked and shivering a little, hiding away under the awning of a bakery, cursing your phone as your cold fingers tap the water-sprinkled surface of the screen.
But it's you! Wow, he's suddenly decided he's having a great day.
"Hey!" he exclaims, before trying to sound more composed. "I mean, hi, 'sup?" His steps bring him right next to you, underneath the tiny patch of safety. (He wants to ask you if you are okay, if he can do anything to make you feel better, but it dies in his throat because he's terrified of ruining everything.)
Everything else stops when your gaze meets his. Something weird twists in his gut when your frown eases the instant you realize he's there. "Sonar!" And his name sounds so sweet when you say it like that. "Ugh, I could do worse, I guess. But I'm better, now that you're here." The sweetness in your words makes his heart flutter.
"Shit, the rain got you good," he mutters, awkwardly leaving the umbrella down and taking off his jacket (he's not wearing his work clothes on the days he's not working, obviously, but a funky jacket is always essential) while balancing his bag in one hand. He puts the jacket over your shoulders, and while the size difference is adorable, his mind is more focused on thinking about a dozen other things to actually help make sure you don't catch a cold.
"Oh...!" His action catches you off guard, but it's so thoughtful of him. You don't even remember why you were mad anymore, and his hand rubs over your back in an attempt to warm you up. "Thanks, babe. I could totally pull off your style, right?"
Cute nickname, genuine gratitude, teasing little joke. God, the combo might kill him on the spot. Unfortunately, he's got more important things to do right now – explicitly, you sneeze suddenly, and shake with a full-body shiver, so any comeback he has turns into worry.
"You know I love your optimism and all, but let's get somewhere dry first, yeah? Don't want you missing work 'cause of a little rain." He secures his bag on one shoulder, his large umbrella held firmly in one hand, while the other is gently draped over your upper back, guiding you along and keeping you close; you feel safe, protected.
He tells you his place is just down the block. You agree to come over without any complaint. It's a short walk, and the silence gets drowned by the patter of raindrops cascading from above. He's suddenly a man on a mission, and he needs to stay focused on making sure you will be okay.
Never has he been as grateful to his past self for actually taking the time to clean earlier that day. Thirty-two years on this planet, and it's finally the moment when he can impress someone and pretend to be a put-together, responsible adult, that totally has the will and energy to keep everything nice and clean all the time. Totally.
(But he also finds he isn't as scared as he thought he would be. He's always been one about appearances, about putting on his nice suit and fancy tie and casual attitude, and pretending to be someone cool. Pretending like it's all so easy for it, so effortless, that nothing ever gets to him. The world cannot control him. He's the one to decide what the world sees, what the world thinks of him.
You see him for who he really is underneath all that. Completely bare, and you find him beautiful.)
"Well, bathroom's down that way, " he points out, putting his keys on a hook, and leaving the groceries by the door. "I'll grab you some towels. And a change of clothes would be smart. Think you need anything else..?"
You leave your shoes by the door, trying to limit the space you drip water on the floor. His jackets comes off next, and you give him an inquisitive look, pretending to be deep in thought. "Actually, yes."
"Oh. What is it?" he tilts his head to the side. He's so adorable.
Your hands grab onto his. "While a nice, hot shower sounds just about divine right now," you take a step backwards, and he follows instantly. "I'd like it more with you."
You're dragging him towards the bathroom with sure steps and a smile. His mind goes blank.
(Because he's imagined many, many moments with you. He's fantasied about the first time he'd take you to his bedroom, how he'd be so suave and sexy and prepared. How he'd have all the right things to say, how he'd smoothly swipe your hair behind your ear and you'd look at him so lovingly; then he'd lean in, close his eyes, and everything would be just perfect for a moment.
He's thought about how your body looks like without the work uniform, how you'd sound when he'd playfully bite at your neck, how your curves and muscles would look when he drags his hands over every part, how he'd kiss and caress and tease and make you want to want him more and more and more –)
You're getting naked. You're both standing inside his cramped, shitty bathroom, and you're casually pulling off your pants and socks and shirt. The wet clothes get pushed to the side, and then you look at him fully, eyes locked into his. He swears he's going to have a fucking aneurysm, because you're in your underwear, and every patch of skin revealed is setting his heart ablaze.
"Let me help you?" you ask gently, with that same tone you use especially for him; natural, loving, unafraid. He nods, because he'd agree to anything you could ever ask of him.
Steady hands open the buttons of his shirt, exposing the patches of fur that travel down this chest and shoulders. Then, his belt, his pants, carefully folded and laid down, and he stands, in the same state as you. He's frozen in place. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do.
You start the shower, testing the temperature, letting the water warm up. Your underwear joins the pile with the rest of your clothes. He's stuck between wanting to remain respectful, and really wanting to look down, away from your face that's still smiling without a worry.
Then you're both naked, facing each other as the shower rains a gentle spray across his back. You're so beautiful.
Warm hands lather shampoo over his fur. Of course, you don't cringe when you see the specific, animal-specific shampoo he needs to use. You simply drag your nails over his fur and skin, making sure the suds take shape under gentle ministrations. Steam begins to build up within the space between shower curtain and wall. You begin to hum a song, a slow rumble in your throat, and he recognizes instantly, because it's one he showed you this same week.
For the love of all fuck, you're standing in a steamy shower, bare naked, lathering his three-in-one shower gel over his arms. You haven't really put a name to what's going on between you, but he's aware you both like each other. A lot.
This is supposed to be sexual, right? You'be both supposed to be all over each other, dripping with passion and desire. That is all he's ever known about any situation following these same parameters. That's the easy, safe way, because it's one he could navigate easily.
Instead, it's a simple shower. Domestic, unhurried, full of unspoken tenderness in every touch your fingers leave lingering electricity across his skin; in every giggle you give when he tickles your ribs with gentle hands. You've always made it seem so easy: to smile and laugh with him, to listen to his fears, to love him without asking anything in return.
(A memory of reading something similar to this, many years ago, from one of those inspirational pages that would post deep quotes and whatever bullshit – You can fuck anyone, but with whom can you sit in water? He thought it stupid when he read it. He understands it now.)
He's completely bare, and you find him beautiful.
"You're really adorable when your ears twitch like that." His ears twitch like that at your words, and also because you're petting the space behind one of them. "Your heart is beating so fast. Are you okay? I'm not gonna scare you into a coma, am I?"
He laughs, and you feel rewarded by the sound. It shakes him from his doubt. "Yeah, I'm good. A little new at this, so I'm sorry if I'm doing it wrong."
"New at showering...?"
He flicks your nose. "Being open and genuine. Learning to trust. You know, all that sappy stuff."
"You haven't run away, so I say you're doing a pretty good job, Victor." Oh, you're an absolute menace, saying his name so sweetly. It makes him melt. It makes all of his bones feel like goop, like his body has turned into clay that can be easily molded by your hands.
Maybe he's been the idiot all along. He was so sure it was supposed to be a hard battle, something to struggle through. Life is hard, relationships are hard, and it's been fucking harder for him, for many, many reasons. He's always had something to prove; except with you.
He's really been taking his rehabilitation to heart. You've noticed; you've noticed so many other things about him, too. It hasn't been easy, nor has it been linear. Maybe it won't be. Maybe we'll fuck up eventually, if things get bad again. Maybe he'll wake up one day and realize how he doesn't deserve all the good things he's been getting. There are many fears and doubts that plague his mind, because he's always thinking about the future, what tomorrow can hold.
"I love you," he whispers, pressing his snout to the top of your head.
Fuck all that ironic, nihilistic bullshit. Every intrusive thought melts away, carried down the drain with soap bubbles and warm water. All of those possibilities seem so small, so worthless, when you're standing right here with him, treating him like he's the only thing that matters right now. He wants to be genuine with you, because you've been that way with him. He knows it'll be worth it, because it's you; because it's always been so easy and soft and tender with you.
"I love you too, ya dork."
"Your dork."
"Always."
You both get dry, using the fluffiest towels he has. He gives you comfortable clothes that fit you well enough, and he's the one helping you get dressed in them; mirroring your earlier actions. The covers of his bed get pulled aside, and you both get cozy underneath them.
He's never felt this light before. Even if he's flown above the city skyline so many times before, his heart is souring, so gently, like he's drifting away on a cloud. He doesn't want to be afraid anymore, not when he knows how strong you have been, to have so much faith in him and his feelings.
The night grows dark, but no more shadows haunt him. He holds onto you, and you hold onto him, and the rhythm of your hearts and the sound of your breaths become one.