scott x hope oneshots

superman's got nothing on me

Hope's body registers the unsure, wavering breaths before her mind fully does.

Her legs slowly come out of their angled splay, the stretch calming in spite of its burn. Even now, years later, decidedly in the after, she can't seem to sit on surfaces the way most people normally would, relaxed and unsuspecting. The taut pull of her muscles guards against complacency, leaves her ready to launch into action first and let actual tactics follow.     

("Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee," Scott chants whenever he discovers her in the pose, playfully adopting a boxer's stance and kissing her cheek. "Excellent.")

She may not have to fight tonight, but someone still needs her. Sprinting down the hall, she pushes into a bedroom just as half-hearted hiccupping transitions into full-blown shrieking.

"Hey, Halley, hey. You're okay, baby. You're okay." She lifts her daughter out of her crib and cuddles her close, swaying from side to side.

Checking off all the suspects that usually lead to her mini-me melting down at two am lands her no closer to solving the mystery.

(Yes, Mr. 'Lists For Life' Lang has rubbed off on her that much. She did marry the guy. What else was going to happen? Also, yes, these problems are remarkably similar to the catalysts for her own emotional implosions: lack of food, lack of sleep, environmental overload, and ridiculous people getting way too far into space that is very personal. The baby's column extends even further, into mishaps that leave her wet, cold, hot, or otherwise uncomfortable.)

Her heart breaks, again, like it has on countless occasions over the past month, at seeing this new person she already adores so much so unhappy. "What are we gonna do, huh?" Inspecting her daughter's face intently, an idea strikes.

"Do you not like the bars?" For a little girl born in the midst of the (seldom controlled) chaos that their lives are, this aversion would simply be another quirk to add to everybody's ever-expanding pile. Still rocking, she leans to murmur against the top of the small head tucked into her shoulder, "Daddy doesn't like them either. Maybe Mr. Stark can work some design magic for you." She cringes. "We're definitely keeping that conversation a secret from Grandpa."

---

What could be five minutes or two hours or four years later, Hope and Halley's situation hasn't exactly improved; instead, it's shifted into different, if still well-traveled, territory. The littlest Lang's 'homesick-Alice' tears (they appear gigantic relative to the size of their host) have dried and her demeanour has returned to bright and bubbly.  

Hope never takes Halley (especially happy Halley) for granted, and she wouldn't trade their time together for the world. That will never change. Ever. She's reaching the point where her eyes blink shut on their own, though, so the status quo can't stay.

(Lying on the carpet with the baby, dimming the lights, and leaving her Glo-Worm tinkling softly between them might not have been the greatest plan.)

"We're gonna get up," she narrates, scooping Halley into her arms, "and we're gonna rethink our strategy."

She ends up circling the room singing Billy Joel ("Walking in the middle of the, I go walking in the, in the middle of the – in the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep -") repeatedly because her foggy brain shoves some random fact about infants being soothed by rhythm at her, and she doesn't do poetry. She stops when the words no longer hold any meaning, glancing over and finding wide-awake brown eyes.

"Halley, sweetheart, you've got to go to sleep. I mean, honestly, Nutter Butter, coffee can only do so much for Mommy."

"I knew you slipped up every once in a while! You had to!"