Chapter Text
Your head was pounding. The curtains weren’t thick enough to keep out the morning light. You shielded your eyes, trying to make sense of your surroundings.
This was not your bed. Still, the sheets smelt strangely familiar. You sat up, and a wave of nausea almost pushed you back down. You fought it, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and sitting upright.
There was a sealed bottle of water on the nightstand. A blister pack of aspirin. You cracked open the water bottle and drank it down greedily, and then threw back two of the pills.
To your relief, as hangovers went, this wasn’t one of the worst ones. You were sweaty and your head hurt, but aside from the initial rush of nausea, you didn’t think you were going to throw up.
You still didn’t recognise where you were. Your phone was on the nightstand too, plugged into a charger that wasn’t yours. You were pleased to see that it was at 100% battery. That was one less thing to worry about.
Bracing yourself, you pulled back the curtains. Light flooded in, and you covered your eyes with your forearm, pain flaring in your brain. Your lashes were stuck together with sleep, and your breath tasted foul.
Finishing off the last of the water in the bottle, you let your eyes adjust to the new brightness in the room. It wasn’t so bad now that your throat no longer felt so dry.
You took an inventory of yourself. Your phone was accounted for. After a quick search, you found the small bag you’d taken out last night, and in it were your wallet and keys.
Aside from your headache, you were physically okay. You were still dressed in the jeans and nice top you’d worn out, although the jeans were unbuttoned. There were no injuries that you could feel, which was honestly miraculous, because you were very clumsy when you were drunk.
You were even still wearing your bra. The underwire was digging into your ribcage uncomfortably. You must’ve been pretty drunk to not feel the discomfort last night.
Your shoes were beside the bed, socks stuffed inside them. Standing up, you shoved all of your possessions back into your bag and then picked up your shoes.
The bedroom was small, with a double bed pushed into the corner under the window, a desk, and a chest of drawers. There was no other furniture.
In the opposite corner, there was a barbell, weights stacked into a haphazard pile. The desk was a little messy, and there was a stack of clothes on the desk chair. On the shelf above the desk were a handful of sports trophies. The room looked as though it had been tidied very hurriedly.
As you reached the door, your heart stuttered. Pinned up next the door were a collection of photographs. There were a few of people that you didn’t recognise, and some of people that you did. Nat, Clint, Bruce. Group shots of people partying and having fun. You were even in a few of them.
But the person in by far the most pictures was Wanda Maximoff. You had a few classes with her, so you had become fast friends at the beginning of the year. There were photobooth photos of her with her twin brother, Pietro, as well as pictures from childhood. There were pictures of the two of them with people you could only assume were their parents.
It was suddenly very clear to you that you were in Pietro’s room. The photos, the exercise equipment, the trophies; it all made sense.
You felt your stomach churning, and for a moment you thought you might actually throw up. Had you humiliated yourself in front of Pietro last night? Had he taken you home, put you to sleep in his bed? Your chest hurt.
You’d been out at the club last night, celebrating the end of exams. Wanda and Pietro had both been there, as had a few of your other friends. Pietro always made you nervous, with his handsome face and his flirtatious attitude. He never seemed to take anything seriously.
You had drank in the hopes that you would feel less nervous around him. Evidently you had overdone it.
You opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall. Now you recognised your surroundings. You’d never been in Pietro’s bedroom before but you had been in his and Wanda’s apartment.
Thankfully, the bathroom was just across the hall. You darted into and locked the door behind you, breathing hard. If you were going to face Pietro, you needed to look presentable.
After using the toilet, you took stock of yourself in the mirror. Your make-up was smeared and you were looking worse for wear.
You stole some toothpaste and brushed your teeth with a finger. You also took some mouthwash, rinsing until the rancid taste was gone from your mouth.
Next you moved on to washing your face. There were some make-up removal wipes – Wanda’s, you assumed – which you used to try to remove your eye make-up.
You weren’t able to get it all off, but the effect made your lashes a little darker, traces of mascara clinging to them. It looked fine, so you splashed some water on your armpits and tried to make your hair look vaguely presentable.
When you were done, you stole a couple of sprays of deodorant. You could tell from the smell that it was Pietro’s. It was the same scent that engulfed you every time he hugged you, leaving you a little breathless. You hoped that he wouldn’t mind you using it.
Finally, you were as put-together as you were going to look without actually taking a shower – you might’ve been stealing toiletries but you drew the line at using someone else’s shower without asking – so you begrudgingly left the safety of the bathroom.
Down the hall, you found the open-plan kitchen-living room. A pair of socked feet were resting over the arm of the couch. You could hear quiet, steady breathing. Someone was sleeping on the couch.
As quietly as you could, you made your way to the front door. Your hand was on the handle when a sleepy voice interrupted you.
“Where are you going?” It was Pietro.
You turned to face him guiltily. He was lying on the couch, pushing himself up onto his elbow. His eyes were bleary. He looked very cute.
“Home,” you said. “Sorry for kicking you out of your bed. You didn’t have to sleep on the couch.”
“I wasn’t going to make you sleep on the couch,” he said, sitting up. “You don’t have to leave right now. It’s still early. I was gonna make breakfast.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you said, although the thought of breakfast had certainly piqued your interest. Perhaps you could grab a sandwich on the way home.
“I know I don’t have to,” he said, sounding a little annoyed. “I’m not being nice because I have to. I’m doing it because I want to.” He got to his feet. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and you had to stop your eyes from tracing the line of his hipbones. “Come on. What do you want to eat? Eggs? Toast? Cereal? Pancakes?”
“I like pancakes,” you said, a little shy.
“I’m making you pancakes, then.”
You followed him to the kitchenette, feeling embarrassed, but also grateful. As he started to mix up the pancake batter, you said, “Thank you for looking after me last night. I must’ve been a mess.”
“It was nothing,” he grunted. “What kind of man would I be if I left you alone like that? I had to make sure you were safe.”
“Thank you…” And then, because you were feeling bolder than usual – perhaps you were still a little drunk? – you said, “It was your fault I was so drunk, anyway.”
He cocked an eyebrow at you. “Is that right?”
“Talking to you makes me nervous. I wanted to be brave.”
He set down his whisk and turned to face you. “That’s funny. I was feeling the same way. I was thinking about kissing you last night but then you were too shitfaced.”
“I’m not shitfaced now.”
“That’s true.”
He closed the distance between you and cupped your face in one hand. You could feel the strength of his hand holding you in place, and a shiver went down your spine.
“Do you still wanna kiss me? Or did I ruin it last night?” you asked.
He chuckled. “You’re an idiot if you think that there’s anything you could do to make me not want to kiss you.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
His lips were a little dry when they touched yours. His free hand fell to your waist, and he turned his head to kiss you deeper. You tried to slide your tongue into his mouth but he stopped you.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” he said, and you let out a groan of frustration.
“I don’t care,” you said, touching his cheek. His stubble was rough against your skin.
He kissed you again. You held onto him, sliding your hand into his messy curls.
“The pancakes can wait,” you murmured. “Maybe we should go back to bed for a little while? I do feel awfully bad about turfing you out of your own bed.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me,” he said, smiling against your lips.