scott x hope oneshots

heal my wounds

Going straight was hard.

Remaining so – even harder.

Remembering why he was doing it? Now that was a piece of cake!

Awoken by the gentle whisper of raindrops falling against the roof and the gutters, Scott stretched lazily, his mind foggy with sleep. The room was filled with the grey light of dawn, and the world outside the window, streaked with the rivers and rivulets of rain, looked smudged and out of focus. Christmas time in San Francisco couldn't be more dreary even if it tried. Absently, he wondered if the city was laughing at them all and their festivities and colourful lights and miles and miles of tinsel hanging everywhere.

He cut it close this time, very close, barely making it back home on the night before Christmas Eve. Apparently, the bad guys had no notion of holidays and no respect for his desire to maybe not spend them being repeatedly punched and kicked and thrown around.

His body ached with every breath he took, his ribs – probably broken, most definitely cracked – protesting his every move, his muscles sore from the things he didn't want to remember and the fights he hoped were worth it. In the back of his mind, Scott remembered that he needed to get up and maybe fold the suit that was lying on the floor in a shapeless heap because he couldn't care less a few hours ago, too worn-out to bother.

By the time he walked through the door, it was nearing 2 in the morning, and Hope was already in bed, undoubtedly thinking he wasn't going to be back in time, and probably pissed about of that. He promised, after all. The sight of her curled under the covers echoed with a tug in his chest, and a wave of longing so strong it took his breath away. This was it, he thought. This was why he kept trying.

She rolled into him when he slipped under the blanket next to her, curling around him without waking up, warm and solid and real. He'd fallen asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, breathing her familiar scent.

Scott ran a tired hand over his face, feeling the scruff on his cheeks with his palm, his eyes still raw like someone took their sweet time to use them as punching bags. Although that probably was exactly what had happened, he thought sourly. Damn Avengers and their high moral ground. He could probably go back to hacking into bank accounts. That could still get him beaten up, but at least not by choice.

"You're staring," Hope murmured without opening her eyes.

Her head was resting on his bicep, using it as a pillow, and even though his arm had fallen asleep, Scott refused to move. Refused to so much as breathe lest she pull away and take that warmth with her.

He was, and without realizing it, too, his gaze roaming slowly around her features, taking in the elegant curve of her eyebrows, her thick, black eyelashes, the gentle bow of her lips, the sprinkling of freckles over her nose. He missed her, missed seeing her like that, soft around the edges, with her armour stripped down. No sharp suits or sharper heels, or holding back from saying and feeling everything that was real. Her hair was longer now, framing her face with soft waves, and his fingers itched to thread through it, feel its silkiness against his skin.

"How did you even know it was me?" Scott asked in a mock-appalled whisper. "It could've been anyone in your bed, and you'd just say You're staring?"

"Anyone?" She opened one eye, and he could see she was struggling to keep her smile at bay. "Really?" And there it was, brighter than the sun, tugging at the strings inside him he didn't even know were there. "You're the only one who can get past the goddamn security system without summoning a S.W.A.T. team here."

He considered her words for a moment. "Fair enough." After all, he set up the 'goddamn security system' himself. For all he knew, this place was basically something between Fort Knox and Pentagon. Hank was very proud.