Chapter Text
The steam had slowly dissipated, but the overwhelming tension hadn’t. Mark finally laid eyes on the suit she was holding.
”So, what’s the verdict for tonight?” Mark asked, a little quieter now. “Will my suit live on?”
She quickly glanced down at it; a soft, small click audible from her tongue. “Barely. The alien’s blood really did a number on the lining right here.” With her index, she carefully traced the embroidered ‘i’ on the front of his fabric. “At least your own suit lives up to your name.”
Mark’s grin stretched out wide across his face. “Wow, you’re the first and only person that’s made me feel better about being called Invincible.”
Her lips pursed into a small line as she confidently shook her head. “No, I’m saying you’re stubborn. Both the stain,” Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “And the guy wearing it.”
He blinked like he hadn’t expected to be hit directly. “Ouch, I walked into that one didn’t I?” Mark tilted his head down at her, playfully wounded at her jab. “Just when I was planning on pledging my life-long loyalty to your small business.”
She scoffed, amused more than anything. “Small business?” She asked, finally turning towards him with the suit hanging off her forearm. “Is that what you call the shop that’s been stopping your guts from being displayed like modern art on the 6’o clock news?”
“I mean-” Mark’s brain began to scramble itself together, searching for a comeback. “That’s… That’s fair. That’s true.” He slowly opened his mouth in recovery, but nothing smart came out of it.
She’d step closer without warning, close enough so she could relay every word that left her lips. “Face it, Grayson.” He’d caught a small hint of the workshop on her.
That miniscule scent of metal, old cotton, and a mix of something floral that had clung on the collar of her shirt.
The steam from the wash bin rising up to hit the side of her jaw, softening each feature right on her face.
And the soft layer of sweat that had been accumulating, letting the loose hairs that were previously tied back to curl and gather stubbornly near her temple.
She was working all day, yet she’d manage to put him in an emotional headlock in a fraction of a second.
“You need me.”
Mark blinked. His fingers had slightly flexed like how his mind would prepare to swing a punch. Flight or Fight? Something like that. But Mark had no intention to do either of those things. He felt something instinctual awaken inside him, like he wanted to just do something, anything, but he couldn’t put a finger on what. The stupid smirk that donned across his face was wearing down, not gone completely, but had just been forgotten. His head was in the clouds, trying to catch his heart that was jumping around erratically, nowhere near its intended spot.
“I-” His voice had cracked up an octave, clearing it immediately with a cough before she’d notice. “Yep. Totally. I need you.”
She tilted her head- one brow lifting, out of confusion. “Huh?” Her tone of voice wasn’t of teasing, no. She seriously didn’t get it.
Had she really not noticed how closed they’d gotten? The way his voice cracked like a kid in choir? He couldn’t imagine how he’d look from her point of view, all red as a tomato.
Meanwhile, the seamstress leaned in closer. Mark realized that she wasn’t trying to flirt with him now, but inspecting him as if she had forgotten a stitch. Her eyes narrowed like she was attempting to diagnose him for such a red face.
“What is wrong with you? Why are you looking at me like I grew two heads all of a sudden?”
Mark’s laugh was strained, choking on his breath and trying to laugh everything off. “No, no. You’re very fine-” He stifled a quick cough. “You’re very great. And I’m fine.”
She straightened up a little more, crossing her arms and reserving herself now. “Okay…” She had come to the conclusion that the steam had malfunctioned him beyond repair. Viltrumites are such… interesting species.
”I really hope I’m not interrupting anything hormonal.”
Mark jumped, startled to the point where he was airborne for a few seconds. She turned her head around slowly, knowing exactly who it was.
Art Rosenbaum stood at the bottom of the stairs, Mark still bewildered as to how he was able to cross to the basement floor without being detected. In one of his arms rested a box of spool and the other, a steaming cup of joe that had been his alternative to popcorn, watching a film unfold infront of him. A smug smile had formed on his face, his daughter unsure whether or not it was from accomplishment or an attempt to hold in a fit of laughter.
“Dad-” She began to speak, “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to make me want to reconsider a late retirement if this is what goes on in my workshop when I’m making coffee.” Art leaned back slightly, swirling his wrinkled finger at the pair. “I leave my daughter alone with a single customer, and she ends up practically chest to chest against Nolan’s boy.”
She let out a huff, shaking her head in disbelief as Mark’s jaw had locked itself into place. “Papa, we were just talking about suit cleaning.”
”Of course,” Art nodded, “Because tailors always discuss the best methods to rid a stain while their client is practically on top of them.”
Mark had made a poor attempt to throw everything under the rug, laughing nervously along with Art’s jokes so that the attention wouldn’t shift as much towards him. As his chuckles died off, he immediately took a side step away from her.
“I should- I should go… Let you guys… Tailor the thing… Tailoring…”
“Good idea.” Art smirked, unbothered to move an inch from the foot of the stairs. “Don’t forget the suit. And your dignity.”
Mark glanced at her hands, the suit still clenched around her fingers. She’d realized this too, immediately throwing it into his chest with the absence of eye contact. He grabbed the garment in time, offering a fumbled “Okaygreatseeyouguys” and made a beeline towards the exit stairs.
As soon as the door had clicked behind Mark, she turned to her dad, arms crossed twice and brows furrowing. “So, are you going to be like this every time I talk to someone my age?”
Art finally strolled himself farther into the workshop, taking his sweet time and plopping the box of spools down on the desk. “If they’re walking, no, flying out of the room? Yeah. Buckle up.” He paused for a moment more, as if he was savouring the next set of words on his tongue. “But you've got good taste. Respectful, polite, heals quick enough to survive your dry comebacks.”
She groaned almost instantly, walking around the room and giving her father a sore eye. “He wasn’t even- God, Mark just got alien guts to the face and forgot how to function. I was the professional one.” Gazing through the fogged glass, a blur of yellow and blue streaked into the sky, vanishing into the stars.
“Besides, he'll forget about me in a week.” She muttered quietly to herself, her teeth softly biting on her pin.