Supercorp- One shots

Neighbors

It's not like Lena considers herself to be good neighbour material. She keeps to herself. She stays out of people's business, stays in her line. She doesn't go out her way to interact with the people living in the complex. She doesn't participate in any apartment complex meetings or season outdoor activities and parties.

But she doesn't consider herself to be a particularly bad neighbour either. She's polite and has manners—she'll greet back when greeted, smile, and go along with small talk. She helps the eighty-six-old woman on the fourth floor with carrying her groceries up the stairs when the elevator is out of order.

She doesn't complain and yell out of her window into the streets about noisy kids when they get loud outside on a Saturday morning.

The thing is, Lena hates her next door neighbour. She's never met them, but she knows, even with the lack of solid evidence. She knows, she just does, that they must be awful. There are clues, for starters.

The list isn't long, but it is certainly growing.

The first one is the lift issue. It's happened many times already. She runs to catch up, calling for her neighbour to hold the entrance, only to have the doors close right in her face as she gets there. The asshole lets the doors close, and Lena knows it's her neighbour. She knows.

Like clockwork, she'll hear the sound of the lock clicking and door closing next door to her apartment when she's inside her own. She'll hear footsteps head towards the elevator as she comes out and locks her door. She'll jog when she realizes that the elevator's open, and then call for her neighbour.

The doors close on her every single time.

The second issue is the strange sounds. Sounds of doors slamming and the occasional weird thuds and knocks. It's just—weird, especially when Lena hears them really late at night. Then, there's the music problem. Spotify, Guilty pleasure, Top Pop Hits, with heavy NSYNC content, which blasts through the walls.

For such a luxurious complex, the walls are pretty fucking thin. It's a wonder that no one's called out this asshole yet.

Of course, there are times when Lena has considered stepping into the hallway and talking to the asshole herself. She has a lot of pent up thoughts. She never does, though. Because she doesn't have the time—she's a busy woman and her energy is best spent on work.

The elevator matter is annoying, but Lena can take it. It's not a game-breaking thing. The music is loud, but she can take that too, she supposes.

She's dealt with worse things, just ask her friends.

It's okay, it's fine, until one night the Asshole Neighbour starts playing some music. Again. She can usually deal with that, really, but right now Lena's feeling particularly off and snappy. It's been a long day. Work sucked, and she spent most of her day looking at faces that looked down on her, talked behind her back.

Lena downs her last glass of scotch. It's probably not ideal to be doing this right now—but enough is enough. What the fuck. She marches down the hallway, and bangs her knuckles on the door.

She knocks on the door, ready to give the asshole her long overdue volcanic speech. Has she mentioned that she's kind of wine-drunk?

The door opens, and oh.

Oh.

Bright blue eyes. Her eyes are big, pretty, captivating. Her? Oh.

There's a woman right in front of her. Blonde. A woman who is wearing only a sports bra and grey cotton sweatpants. She stands in the doorway with her sweatpants hanging low and she's sweating and her chest is heaving and she looks like she was in the middle of a workout until Lena interrupted. Oh, and did Lena mention she is a blonde woman and that her eyes are blue and she's sweating and god, what the fuck, she wasn't prepared for this—