Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The lab was quiet in the way only places full of expensive equipment after hours ever were. Not silent, exactly, just humming. A low, steady thrum of machines doing important things while silently judging him for being there past ten p.m.

Which, okay. Fair.

Buck snapped his gloves on with more force than strictly necessary, glaring at the PCR machine like it had personally orchestrated his late night. In his defense, falling into an online rabbit hole about a new TV show was not his fault. One clip had turned into five, which had turned into a heated fandom debate, which had turned into reading a fanfic that left him emotionally devastated in a way he was absolutely not prepared for on a Tuesday night.

So yes, he had slept in. And yes, that meant staying late to finish today's work. Worth it. Probably.

He leaned over the bench, carefully pipetting microliters of primer into a neat row of tubes. Precision mattered. One slip and he would ruin the entire run, something he very much did not want to explain to his advisor. Again.

The sample itself sat innocently in its container. It came from an insect that could paralyze a grown adult with a single bite. Exotic insects had a way of being both small and deadly.

Buck loved them.

Biology had always been his thing. Not the cute kind, no dolphins or bunnies for him. Okay, not true, he loved all animals, but the weird ones, the unusual ones, the creatures that made people wrinkle their noses and ask, Why would you want to study that? Those were his favorites.

He had started out as a biology major, fallen hard for biochemistry during his master's, and somehow ended up here, a PhD student elbow-deep in toxicology, analyzing exotic insect venom for bioactive compounds that might, just maybe, become the foundation for future drugs.

It was cool. Important.

And deeply unglamorous, involving a lot of tiny tubes, pipetting, and machines that cost more than his yearly paycheck.

He slid the last tube into place and exhaled, rolling his shoulders when his back immediately started complaining. The PCR machine whirred to life, lights blinking as it began its overnight run.

Good.

That was it, his last task for the day. Everything else depended on tomorrow morning, once the run was finished and he could see if his careful work had actually paid off.

He cleaned his workspace on autopilot, wiping down the bench with ethanol and making sure nothing was out of place. Then he paused, staring at the machine that now contained all his samples, his entire day's worth of effort.

"Don't screw this up," he muttered, pointing at it sternly.

The machine did not respond.

Rude.

He peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the biohazard bin, then checked the clock and immediately regretted it. Very late. The kind of late that made his bed feel like a distant myth, something he had once heard about in childhood stories.

His mind was already halfway home anyway, imagining sweatpants, his couch, and the sweet relief of checking his notifications. Maybe there would be updates from the authors he followed. Maybe he would be lucky, and there would be a new chapter waiting for him, something long and indulgent that he could read before passing out.

He packed up his things in the office, grabbed his bag, flicked off the lights, and let the door close behind him.

Before leaving, he took one last look into the insect room, a separate lab space with temperature and oxygen control, lined with terrariums full of exotic specimens. The display panel glowed calmly, all the numbers where they should be.

Everything looked fine.

Buck lifted a hand in a lazy little wave. "Goodnight, tiny murder friends."

Then he left his group's floor and stepped into the quiet university hallways.

His shoes clicked softly against the floor as he walked, the sound echoing in the emptiness.

Finally going home.

He could already feel the pull of his shower, the comfort of clean clothes, the luxury of being horizontal for longer than three minutes. His thoughts drifted, as they always did, toward the small things that made his stressful PhD life survivable.

And by small things, he meant his fandoms.

Buck had always loved getting into things. Really getting into them. Not just watching a show and moving on like a normal person, but falling headfirst into the rabbit hole. Discussions, theories, fanart, memes, fanfic, the whole chaotic ecosystem. Sometimes he even wrote his own, which was both deeply embarrassing and deeply satisfying.

His Ramble-blog was proof that he was a multi-fandom blogger.

But his one true love was the Inhumans.

The comforting chaos of the Inhuman fandom was like a soft blanket after a day spent handling venomous insects. He had been obsessed with them forever, and honestly, how could he not be? They were real-life superheroes. Flying, telekinesis, super speed, energy blasts, powers no one could explain. Half of them were vaguely terrifying, all of them were magnificent.

And most of them actually used those powers to help people, which was somehow even cooler.

It was a relief, a distraction, a place where the impossible felt ordinary. The Inhuman fandom was Buck's safe zone when the real world felt like it might swallow him whole.

And he loved it.

By the time he reached the street, he was already picturing himself sprawled on his couch, phone in hand, scrolling Ramble for new sightings, new fanart, and the latest completely unhinged theories. And if there were no new sightings, well. There was always fanfic.

Buck dug his phone out of his bag and tapped open directly to the tags he followed. Straight to the keyword he checked far more often than he would ever admit out loud.

Obsidian.

Buck had Opinions™ about Obsidian.

He was fascinating. Compelling. The kind of hero you were a little scared of, but also… embarrassingly attracted to. Obsidian was not like Firegirl or Thunderbee, always cheerful, always smiling for cameras like they were auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.

Obsidian was different.

Darker. Sharper. Sarcastic in a way that made people either love him or feel vaguely insulted. He never gave interviews, posed for pictures, or waved at fans. He showed up, did what he had to do, and disappeared again as if he owed the world nothing.

Also, honestly, he was kind of hot. His black leather outfit, shadows bending to his will, the way he could cut through a skyline like gravity was just a suggestion. The way his power looked almost alive, twisting and reaching like it had its own personality.

Buck's brain short-circuited a little every time he thought about him.

The stories were everywhere. Obsidian's biting comments to the people he saved, his refusal to play nice, the way he apparently demanded favors in return for his help, though no one could ever agree on that one. And of course, there were the whispers. The scandalous ones, the ones that spread online like wildfire.

People claiming he had invited them inside his lair after saving them, and that it had been… a very memorable experience.

Buck told himself it was probably nonsense. Most of it was probably RPF disguised as eyewitness accounts, written by someone who had clearly never been within ten meters of an actual Inhuman.

Still.

The idea of Obsidian, all that power and danger wrapped up in black leather and shadow, choosing someone, looking at them, and deciding they were worth his attention…

Buck's cheeks warmed.

His pulse did that stupid little jump it always did when he thought too hard about someone he definitely should not be thinking about.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Focus, Buck. Go home first. You can think about tall, dark, and probably ridiculously handsome behind the mask when you're inside your apartment."

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and started walking again, trying very hard not to think about him. It did not work.

And that was when he rounded the corner.

The alley behind the university building opened up in front of him, long and narrow, wedged between brick walls that swallowed the streetlight. It was the kind of shortcut Buck had taken a hundred times without thinking, because it was quicker.

Tonight, it felt wrong the second he stepped into it. The air was cold, still, like the city had suddenly decided to hold its breath.

Buck's footsteps echoed softly against the walls. He had just enough time to register the sound before something shifted in the darkness.

A hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder hard.

Buck jerked, sucking in a breath, but before he could even twist around, another arm locked around his chest and yanked him back.

Cold metal kissed his throat.

Buck froze so fast his whole body went rigid.

"Don't scream," a rough voice said close to his ear. "If you scream, I cut you."

Buck's heart slammed against his ribs so hard it hurt. The knife pressed just enough that he could feel the edge. Not slicing yet, but close. Close enough that the tiniest movement could turn it into something worse.

His mouth went dry instantly.

"Oh," Buck managed, because his brain had apparently left the building. "Okay. Okay, I won't. I won't scream."

"Shut up," the man growled.

Buck swallowed, throat tight, and immediately regretted it when the blade scraped slightly. A sharp sting followed, hot and real. Not deep, but enough to make his stomach drop.

His fear turned cold and heavy.

Someone else stepped closer, and Buck caught the movement in the corner of his eye. A second man, face half-hidden in the dark, reached up and yanked Buck's backpack right off his shoulder.

"No, wait," Buck blurted out, voice cracking despite his best effort. "Please don't, I have notes in there, I have, I have my laptop, I have my whole life in that bag."

The man didn't even pause. He unzipped it and started rifling through like Buck's belongings were trash. Notebooks hit the ground. A protein bar rolled away into the dirt. His carefully labeled lab notebook, the one he had rewritten twice because he'd messed up the formatting, got tossed aside.

Buck's chest tightened painfully. This was his work. Months of it. Everything he'd done since starting the PhD.

"Take the money," Buck said quickly. "Take my phone, my wallet, seriously, just take it, I don't care, I won't call anyone. Just please don't destroy the lab notebook and my laptop."

The knife pressed harder.

"Not here for your money," the man holding him said.

The second man stopped rummaging and looked up. His eyes caught the dim light, and there was something sharp in them, something impatient.

"We want your key," he said. "The electronic one. The one that gets you into the labs."

Buck's stomach dropped so hard it felt like it hit the pavement.

"What," he whispered, because that made no sense. People stole wallets. People stole phones. People stole cars.

People did not mug PhD students for lab access.

"I don't…" Buck swallowed, carefully, trying not to move against the knife. "I don't know what you want…"

"Don't play stupid," the second man snapped. He kicked the backpack aside and stepped closer. "You work in the insect lab. We know you do. We know what's in there."

Buck's pulse thundered in his ears.

The man behind him growled, voice low. "Where's the keycard?"

"I, I think it's in my jacket," Buck said, voice shaking now, unable to stop it. "Please. Please, just take it, okay. Just take it and go."

The man with the knife shoved his hand into Buck's jacket pocket roughly, fingers digging hard into it. Buck flinched, throat tightening when the blade shifted again.

Then the man yanked the key out.

"There," he said, satisfied. "Told you."

The second man grinned, and it was the kind of grin Buck would have described as cruel if his brain wasn't busy screaming to get out.

"This is the one," the man said. "This gets us into the insect room."

Buck's chest felt like it was collapsing.

"Wait," he rasped. "What do you want with the insects? They're dangerous. You can't just… You can't handle them without training, you could die."

"Not our problem," the second man said.

The first man tightened his grip around Buck's chest, pulling him back harder.

"We get the insects, our boss gets the toxins he wants," he said. "We sell them. Then we disappear."

Buck's mouth tasted like metal. His hands were shaking. His legs felt weak, useless. The alley smelled like damp bricks and trash and the sharp bite of his own sweat. The world felt too close, too narrow, like the walls were closing in.

Then the second man said, almost casually, "Kill him. We've got what we need."

Buck's brain went blank.

For one terrible second, there was no witty comeback. No clever stalling. Just raw, animal panic.

"Wait," Buck choked out. "Please, please don't. I won't tell anyone. I won't. I swear."

The man with the knife laughed, low and ugly.

"So you can call the cops the second we're gone?" he murmured. "No thanks. You're a loose end."

The knife shifted.

Buck felt the pressure of it bite into skin again, just enough to burn, and he suddenly realized with horrifying clarity that this wasn't a threat anymore.

They were actually going to do it.

His heart hammered so violently it made him dizzy. His lungs refused to work properly, sucking in air that felt too thin. He tried to move, tried to twist away, but the arm around his chest locked tighter.

He couldn't fight them. He couldn't run.

He was trapped.

Buck didn't even have time to process the fact that he was about to die.

The knife was still pressed to his throat, cold and steady, the man's breath hot against his ear, when something in the alley shifted. 

Not footsteps, not movement, but the shadows themselves.

At first, Buck thought it was smoke, or his vision blurring from panic, but then the darkness along the walls stretched, curling like liquid ink. It slid across the wet ground, gathering in slow, deliberate waves, as if the alley had suddenly decided it was alive.

The man holding him stiffened.

"What the hell," the second attacker muttered.

Buck's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then the air went cold.

Not normal cold, but the kind of cold that prickled along Buck's skin and raised every hair on his arms. A pressure filled the space, heavy and electric, like the atmosphere itself was bracing.

And then he was there.

He didn't step into the alley so much as appear, like the darkness had simply shaped itself into a person and decided to stay that way.

Black leather, matte and worn, moving without sound. The shadows around him shifted like they were attached to him, like they belonged to him, coiling and drifting with slow, predatory patience. His face was covered by a mask, smooth and dark, but not static. It moved in subtle ways, as if expressions existed beneath it, like ink flowing across fabric, hinting at a mouth, the curve of a cheek, the twitch of something that might have been a smile.

Obsidian.

Buck's chest tightened painfully.

"Oh my God," he whispered, the words barely air. "It's actually him."

The man with the knife swore, grip tightening around Buck as if Buck was suddenly a shield.

Obsidian didn't look at Buck at first. His attention stayed on the attackers, calm and unhurried, like they were annoying paperwork.

"You're kidding," Obsidian said, voice low and flat, with just enough disbelief to make it sting. "Two idiots bothering a pure student."

The second man reached into his jacket, hand moving fast.

Buck barely had time to inhale before the shadows struck.

They shot forward like whips, snapping across the alley with a sound like fabric tearing. One wrapped around the attacker's wrist and yanked his arm up so violently his shoulder popped with a sickening crack. The gun clattered to the ground.

The man screamed.

The first attacker jerked, trying to keep the knife against Buck's throat, but the shadows surged again, curling around his arms and ribs, locking him in place like a restraint.

The knife slipped from his fingers and hit the pavement with a wet metallic sound.

Buck sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt.

Obsidian tilted his head slightly, as if considering them.

Then one of the shadows moved, snaking across the ground toward the gun. It wrapped around the weapon and twisted.

The metal folded like it was made of foil.

Buck stared, horrified and fascinated all at once.

Obsidian made a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a scoff.

"Seriously?" he said. "That's the best you've got. A letter opener and a cheap handgun, and you're trying to steal toxic insects from a university lab?"

He took a step closer, boots silent against the wet concrete. His shadows rose behind him like wings.

"Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is?"

The second attacker struggled against the dark tendrils binding him, face twisted in panic. "You're going to regret this," he spat.

Obsidian leaned in slightly, and Buck couldn't see his expression, but he could feel the shift in the air, like the temperature dropped another few degrees.

"Am I?" Obsidian murmured.

His voice was almost gentle, which was somehow worse. He straightened, flicking his hand as if brushing lint off his sleeve.

The shadows tightened.

Both men were yanked off their feet so fast their boots left the ground, dangling helplessly in midair, limbs pinned by the living darkness. Obsidian stared at them for a long moment, as if deciding whether they were worth the effort of being angry.

Then he spoke again, voice dry.

"Lesson one," he said. "Don't touch people without consent."

One of the attackers made a choked sound as the shadows tightened.

Obsidian continued, as if he was giving a lecture to a room full of idiots.

"Lesson two, if you're going to commit a crime, at least pick one with a decent payout. You're risking prison for… bug venom."

His head tilted again.

"Actually, you know what, forget it. You're not the learning type."

The shadows snapped sideways, and the men slammed hard against the brick wall, pinned there, gasping.

Obsidian stepped back, satisfied.

"I'll call someone to collect you," he added lazily. "Try not to choke on your own stupidity before they get here."

Buck was still standing in the middle of the alley, frozen so completely he felt like he had been turned into a statue. His throat burned where the knife had pressed. His skin prickled with adrenaline. His hands were shaking, and he could barely breathe.

Obsidian finally turned toward him.

Buck's heart did something ridiculous in his chest, a painful lurch that was definitely not appropriate in the middle of a near-death experience.

Obsidian's head tilted, just slightly, as if he was looking Buck over.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

Buck's voice came out strangled. "I… I think I'm still alive."

"Good," Obsidian said. "That's the goal."

Buck blinked rapidly, still trying to convince himself this was real.

"Uh," he managed. "Hi."

Obsidian made a sound that might have been amusement.

And then Buck felt the shadows wrap around him.

Not rough, not violent, but careful and supportive. Like they knew exactly how much pressure to use. They curled around his waist and lifted him clean off the ground.

Buck yelped, arms flailing automatically. "Hey, whoa, okay, okay, that's, that's really not necessary, I can walk, I promise, I have legs, I use them regularly!"

"You're fine," Obsidian said, voice bored in a way that felt practiced. "Stop panicking, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. Buck's brain short-circuited.

Before he could form a coherent response, the shadows surged upward, carrying them higher. The world blurred, brick and darkness replaced by open air, and suddenly they were landing on the rooftop with the ease of something that had done this a thousand times.

Buck stumbled a step, clutching his backpack that one of the shadows was pushing into his arms like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

The city stretched below them, lights glittering, cars moving like distant insects, the night vast and indifferent.

Buck sucked in a shaky breath.

He was alive. He was alive.

And Obsidian was standing right in front of him, close enough that Buck could see the subtle movement of his mask, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way the shadows curled at his feet like loyal animals waiting for another command.

Buck's heart hammered.

He had never felt so terrified in his life. He had also never felt so completely, absurdly in awe.

Obsidian stood there like he belonged on the rooftop, like the city had been built around him. The shadows at his feet twitched and curled, restless, almost alive, slipping over the concrete like dark water.

He glanced at Buck.

"Next time," he said, voice low and dry, "try not to get ambushed in an alley. I hate babysitting."

Buck's knees went a little weak, which was deeply unfair. He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe like a normal person and not like someone who had just narrowly avoided being murdered.

"Oh," Buck managed. "Uh. Thank you."

Obsidian tilted his head, as if Buck's gratitude was mildly confusing.

"I mean," Buck rushed on, because apparently his mouth had stopped listening to his brain, "you saved me. You literally just saved my life."

Obsidian made a quiet sound that might have been a scoff.

"Please, honey," he said. "That was nothing. Two brainless idiots with a knife and an ego. Someone probably equally stupid promised them a payout if they brought back a few 'toxic little critters' and now they think they're criminals."

His mask shifted slightly, like a smile that didn't quite reach his voice.

"I probably saved them from themselves. They would have gotten stung by the wrong insect and died screaming in five minutes."

Buck stared.

God. He was so calm about it. Like this was just another evening for him. Like nearly dying was an inconvenience, like heroism was something he did with the same enthusiasm Buck had for doing laundry.

Buck's mind, traitorous and exhausted, flickered to all the stories he had read online. The rumors. The whispered claims that Obsidian didn't just save people, that sometimes he took them somewhere quiet afterward, somewhere hidden, and then…

Buck's face warmed, and his pulse jumped, ridiculous and inappropriate.

And before he could stop himself, before he could think, before he could grab his own tongue and physically restrain it, Buck heard himself speak.

"So," he said, voice a little too light, "should I thank you now, or… later?"

Obsidian's head snapped toward him. Even through the mask, Buck could feel the stare.

"What," Obsidian said flatly, "are you talking about?"

Buck's brain stuttered.

"I just meant, you know," Buck said quickly. "Like, thank you. Because you saved me. And I'm grateful. That's all."

"Wait, what are you… Are you opening your pants?!"

Buck's brain fried. 

"Ahmm… no," he said, fastly closing his belt again. "I just thought… never mind. I was just- I was adjusting my… my pants. For safety reasons."

Obsidian stared at him for another long second. Then, incredibly, he let out a sound that might have been laughter, though it was hard to tell if he was amused or just suffering.

"You're unbelievable," Obsidian muttered.

Buck's face burned. "I'm stressed."

Obsidian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose through the mask like he was trying to prevent a headache.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked, voice slightly less sharp. "Did you hit your head?"

Buck shook his head quickly. "No. No, I'm fine. Just shaken. And, uh… general awkward."

Obsidian studied him for a moment longer, like he was actually checking. Like he cared, despite the sarcasm.

Then he nodded once.

"Good," he said.

Obsidian turned away as if the conversation was already over.

"Take care, sweetheart."

Before Buck could respond, the shadows moved again.

They surged up around Obsidian like a cloak, and for a brief, dizzy moment, they wrapped around Buck, too. Cool darkness slid over his arms and waist, solid enough to hold him, gentle enough not to hurt.

Then the rooftop vanished.

Buck blinked, and suddenly he was standing on the street below, the night air colder, the world louder. A police car was parked nearby, lights flashing, and two officers were already pulling the attackers into custody, their faces pale and furious.

Buck turned, searching instinctively.

Obsidian was gone.

The officers took his statement, asked him a hundred questions, and checked the small cut on his throat with professional concern. Someone offered him water. Someone offered to call an ambulance. Buck insisted he was fine because he technically was and because he could not deal with sitting in an ER and explaining that he had been rescued by an Inhuman just to proposition said Inhuman and humiliate himself in the process.

Eventually, they offered to call a cab for him. Buck accepted, because his legs still felt like they belonged to someone else.

In the back of the car, with the city sliding past the window, Buck stared at his hands. They were still trembling slightly.

His mind kept replaying the alley. The moment he realized they were serious. The cold certainty that he was going to die.

And then the shadows.

And him.

Obsidian.

Oh God.

The leather, the mask, the way his voice had curled around the word sweetheart. The way his shadows had moved like obedient creatures, like extensions of his will. The way he had looked at Buck, calm and dangerous and completely in control.

Buck dragged a hand through his hair and let out a shaky breath.

"Focus," he muttered under his breath. "Focus, Buck. You're alive. You're fine. Totally fine. Not dead. Not kidnapped. Not…"

His fingers pressed against his chest, right over his heartbeat, as if he could physically calm it down.

Nope.

His body was still buzzing with adrenaline, and his brain was still stuck on the image of Obsidian stepping out of the darkness.

Buck's apartment building finally came into view.

His legs felt like rubber, his hair was plastered to his forehead, and his heart was still doing that ridiculous drum solo in his chest. He fumbled the front door open and stumbled inside, heading for the elevator.

And yet, somehow, the universe had decided he wasn't allowed to collapse in peace.

"Hold the door, Evan."

Buck blinked.

Tommy.

His neighbor, slipping into the elevator at the last second, looking like a dream as always. Calm, composed, handsome. The kind of man who always looked like he had slept eight hours, drank enough water, and never once had a mental breakdown.

Tommy had already lived in the building when Buck had moved to Novacity for his PhD. They were friendly neighbors, friendly enough to chat in the hallway, borrow sugar occasionally, and, most importantly, trust each other with the important stuff concerning their apartments. Tommy had watered Buck's plants, checked on his mail, and taken care of his cat whenever Buck had to leave town for conferences or lab exchanges.

And he was also the only person who called him Evan, and Buck liked it.

Buck swallowed. "Hey," he said, aiming for casual.

Tommy's eyes flicked over him, taking in the sweat, the messy hair, the exhaustion written all over his face.

"You look… exhausted," Tommy said carefully. "Everything okay?"

Buck tried to sound normal. He tried really hard. "Uh, yeah," he said. "Totally. Fine. Just… an incident."

"Incident?" Tommy repeated, one eyebrow lifting.

The elevator stopped, and they stepped out onto their floor.

Buck's words spilled out before his brain could stop them.

"Yeah, so, an Inhuman saved me today," he said, like this was a perfectly normal thing to announce in a hallway. "I was mugged on my way home. But he was totally badass. Black leather, shadows, amazing. I'm alive. You know, in case you were worried."

Tommy's expression shifted into something complicated.

"An Inhuman saved you?" he asked, voice quieter now, eyes scanning Buck's face. "And you're fine? Are you hurt?"

Buck shook his head quickly. "Yeah. Totally fine. Adrenaline is still doing its thing, but nothing happened."

He hesitated, then added, because apparently he had no instincts at all tonight.

"I mean, I was held at knifepoint, though."

Tommy stopped walking. His whole body went still, and his gaze sharpened in a way that made Buck's stomach twist.

"Evan," Tommy said, stepping a little closer, voice low and serious. "Do you need an EMT? Did you call the police?"

"No, no, I'm okay," Buck said quickly, waving him off. "The police were already there. They took my statement, got my data, everything. It's handled. I promise."

He fumbled with his keys, hands still slightly shaky, and finally managed to unlock his door. The relief hit him immediately, warm and overwhelming.

He barely had time to open the door before a small black shadow darted forward.

"Shadow!" Buck exclaimed.

His cat meowed loudly, furious and dramatic, demanding attention as she twined around his legs, then promptly abandoned him to run circles around Tommy's feet instead.

And then, as always, Shadow rose up on her tiny paws, pressed her head against Tommy's hand, and started purring like a little motor.

Buck stared, half amused, half offended.

Tommy crouched automatically, stroking her like this was the most natural thing in the world. Shadow leaned into him shamelessly, tail flicking in contentment.

Buck let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

"I swear," he said, shaking his head, "she hates everyone. Everyone. Except me and… you."

Tommy's mouth twitched slightly, like he was trying not to smile.

"I was really terrified the first time I left her with you," he admitted. "I thought she'd scratch you or bite you or just hide under the bed for three days straight."

He watched Shadow purr against Tommy's palm.

"But she loved you immediately," Buck said, softer now. "She just… knows, I guess. That you're a good guy."

Tommy glanced up at him, eyes steady.

For a second, Buck's chest felt strangely tight.

Shadow's approval was subtle, but in Buck's world, it was basically a cosmic seal of approval. Tommy was safe.

Also, unfortunately, Tommy was hot.

Buck dragged a hand through his hair and groaned internally. He seriously needed to stop spending his evenings thinking about either his ridiculously attractive neighbor or the ridiculously attractive Inhuman (who had just saved his life). It was not good for his blood flow to his brain, and definitely not good for his sanity.

Buck gave Tommy an awkward little wave, still standing half in his doorway.

"Goodnight," he managed.

Tommy hesitated, eyes still on him, like he was debating whether to push harder or let Buck have his space.

"Goodnight, Evan," Tommy said finally, holding his gaze for a second longer, then stepped toward his own door. "If you need anything, you know where I am."

Buck swallowed around the strange lump in his throat. "Yeah. Thanks."

Tommy gave him one last look, then turned and walked into his apartment.

Buck scooped Shadow up into his arms, pressing his face briefly into her fur like she was a small, warm anchor keeping him attached to reality.

"Come on, baby," he murmured.

Shadow tolerated the affection for exactly three seconds before wriggling out of his arms and marching into the apartment with the confidence of someone who owned that place. Buck shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, letting the lock click into place. For the first time all night, he let himself breathe properly.

Shadow immediately sprinted into the kitchen, meowing loudly, like Buck had personally starved her for a decade.

"Yes, yes," he called after her. "I know. You are wasting away. It's tragic. Someone call the animal rights people. It's not like you have an automatic feeder that gives you food on time."

As an apology for daring to go to work, he gave her some Churu.

Once the snack situation had been resolved, the adrenaline finally started to fade, leaving behind that strange cocktail of exhaustion, relief, and something dangerously close to excitement.

Buck kicked off his shoes, shuffled to the couch, and dropped his bag on the floor next to it.

He should have showered. He should have checked his neck in the mirror. He should have maybe sat down and processed the fact that he had almost died in an alley.

Instead, he did what any responsible adult would do.

He grabbed his laptop.

Ramble opened, and his notifications popped up like they always did. Buck ignored them for now. He went straight for the tags. The Inhuman fanbase was active tonight, of course they were, and Buck felt like he might crawl out of his own skin with the need to scream into the void.

Because he had actually seen him.

Not in a news clip. Not in some grainy video filmed on a shaky phone. Not as a rumor passed around like an urban legend.

Obsidian had been real, right there in front of him, leather and shadows and sarcasm and all.

And Buck had been close enough to hear his voice.

He started typing with shaking fingers:

OKAY. SO. I literally just met Obsidian. In real life. WITH HIS SHADOWS. And his sarcasm. He yanked me out of danger like I weighed nothing. I'm fine. Totally fine. Breathing. Kinda shook.
#obsidian #inhuman #inhumanrescue

He stared at the post for a second, then he hit send.

Immediately, notes came in. His mutuals were already losing their minds. Someone demanded details. Someone else was already arguing in the replies about whether Obsidian was better than Silverstar. As if anyone could be better than Obsidian.

Buck's fingers hovered over the keyboard.

He was supposed to be decompressing. He was supposed to be calming down. Instead, he was replying and muttering out loud like a man who had completely lost his grip.

"No," he whispered fiercely at the screen. "You don't understand. He's much better in real life. He's so cool, and so sarcastic. Honestly, he's a little terrifying, but in a really hot way. And the shadows, oh my God, they were moving like they were alive! Also, the whole thing about how he likes to have dirty sex with the people he saves is totally made up! I mean, okay, write your dark romance fiction. I love reading those, but TAG them as fiction and don't claim that this actually happened!"

Shadow padded into the living room and leapt onto his lap with a soft thump, purring immediately. She nudged his hand with her head, demanding attention like she was the most important creature in the universe.

Buck scratched behind her ears absentmindedly, his brain still half stuck on the alley, half stuck on Obsidian's voice, and half stuck on the fact that his life had just turned into a real-life fandom fantasy.

He looked down at her and whispered, "I have to write about this."

Shadow blinked slowly, utterly unimpressed.

"My first real-life encounter with Obsidian," Buck continued, voice reverent. "Totally unhinged. Definitely going into my fic later."

Shadow meowed at him.

Buck let out a shaky laugh and finally closed the laptop most of the way, forcing himself to breathe.

The apartment was quiet. Warm. Safe.

Shadow curled against his stomach like she had decided he was not allowed to move anymore tonight.

Buck leaned back into the couch cushions, his legs stretched out, his eyelids heavy.

He should eat. He should shower. He should do a lot of things.

Instead, with Shadow purring steadily against him, Buck's thoughts finally slowed.

And before he could even finish another sentence in his head, he was asleep.

***

Buck only meant to deposit the money his family had given him for his birthday into his savings account.

That was it.

Five minutes, tops. In and out. A boring adult errand, the kind that made him feel vaguely responsible, which was always a strange feeling.

He had not planned on being inside the bank when the shouting started.

He had not planned on a masked man vaulting over the counter, waving a gun like he had watched exactly one crime movie and somehow learned all the wrong lessons from it.

Buck froze, clutching his little number slip like it might magically protect him from bullets.

"Everyone on the ground!" someone yelled.

Buck's brain went blank for half a second, then kicked into survival mode. He started lowering himself toward the floor, trying not to panic, trying not to think about the fact that his advisor would absolutely still expect results tomorrow even if he got shot today.

He was halfway down when the lights flickered, the air changed, and the shadows stretched.

"Oh," Buck breathed, the words leaving him before he could stop them. "You have got to be kidding me."

Obsidian dropped from the ceiling like gravity was optional for him.

Black leather, dark mask, and shadows flaring around him like something alive, something hungry. They snapped outward in a blur, wrapping around arms and legs, yanking weapons away before anyone could even register what was happening.

The gun was ripped from the robber's hands mid-scream, twisted into something useless, like it was made of cheap plastic instead of steel. Shadow-tentacles pinned the rest of them to the floor, holding them down with terrifying ease.

Obsidian turned slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, and his gaze locked onto Buck immediately.

Of course it did.

"Seriously, sweetheart?" Obsidian drawled. "Do you collect dangerous situations, or do they just follow you around?"

Buck swallowed, his heart hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to escape his ribs. "I was literally just here for like a minute," he blurted out. "This never happens to me."

Obsidian gave a low, amused sound. "Honey, that's the saddest excuse I've heard all week."

Buck should have been offended, but instead, his stomach flipped.

By the time the police arrived, the robbers were zip-tied in shadows, struggling uselessly while the officers stared at Obsidian like they weren't sure whether to thank him or ask him to stop being so terrifying in public spaces.

Obsidian didn't wait for any of it. He was already backing away, gaze lingering on Buck for half a second too long, like he was memorizing him.

"Try online banking next time, honey," he added lazily. "Less drama."

And then, like he'd never been there at all, Obsidian melted back into the shadows and disappeared.

Buck stayed where he was, flushed and shaking, still clutching his stupid little number slip.

And thinking, with horrible clarity:

I am absolutely attracted to this.

***

The gas station near Buck's apartment was usually quiet at night.

Buck had just come back from visiting Maddie, exhausted in that bone-deep way that made his body feel like it was running on fumes. He was hungry too, not normal hungry, but feral hunger, the kind that made him willing to eat a frozen dinner.

He stopped for gas. And because his stomach was growling, he figured he might as well go inside and grab something that could technically be considered food.

He was halfway to the freezer aisle when the shouting started.

Buck barely had time to register the robber's voice before the lights flickered once, twice, and then went out completely.

Darkness fell like a held breath.

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of panicked movement and the harsh rasp of someone yelling, and Buck's heart climbed straight into his throat.

Then the shadows moved, surged out of the corners like liquid smoke, crawling across the floor, climbing the walls, twisting over the ceiling in thick coils. It was dramatic in a way that felt almost theatrical.

The robbers didn't even get a chance to react.

Shadow-tendrils snapped around their wrists, their ankles, their torsos, yanking them down hard. One of them hit the floor with a curse that sounded more surprised than angry.

Obsidian stepped forward out of the dark like he'd been summoned.

Buck stared helplessly and muttered under his breath, "Wow. You really love an entrance."

One of the robbers tried to run.

Obsidian barely moved. He flicked a hand and a shadow shot forward, wrapping around the man's ankle and yanking him off his feet like he weighed nothing. The robber hit the ground with a thud that made Buck wince sympathetically.

"Well, buttercup," Obsidian said, voice smooth and dry, "and you have terrible timing."

Obsidian's gaze slid over Buck, sharp and assessing.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

Buck nodded too fast, like his neck had forgotten how to behave. "Yes. Yep. Totally fine. Just… wow."

Obsidian's mouth twitched, like he was holding back a smile. "Careful," he said, voice lower now. "You keep looking at me like that, and people will get ideas."

Buck choked on air. "I… what?"

But Obsidian had already taken a step back and dissolved into the darkness as easily as he had appeared. The shadows held the robbers on the floor while the gas station lights flickered back on, and police sirens were heard approaching.

And Buck was left standing there in the fluorescent aftermath, frozen dinner still in his hand, hands shaking slightly, face hot.

His brain supplied one single coherent thought, over and over again:

He called me sweetheart again.

***

Buck's hands were still shaking when he finally made it back to his apartment building. Like his body was only now deciding it had time to process the fact that he had very nearly been turned into a tragic headline.

He stepped into the lobby, forced himself to breathe, and made it into the elevator. The doors closed, and Buck leaned back against the wall, staring at his reflection in the metal panel like it might tell him what the hell was wrong with his life lately.

When the elevator dinged and opened on his floor, Buck was already bracing himself for the sweet relief of being alone.

Instead, he walked straight into Tommy.

Tommy stood in the hallway in sweatpants and a dark hoodie, keys in hand like he had just been coming back himself. He looked up the second Buck stepped out of the elevator, and something in his expression sharpened immediately.

Was that… concern?

"Evan?" Tommy asked, voice careful. "What's wrong?"

He tried for a smile and failed. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Tommy's eyes flicked over him in a way Buck very much noticed. His face, his hands, his posture, like Tommy was looking for bruises or something worse.

"Evan," Tommy said again, and this time it sounded like he didn't believe him at all. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Buck let out a breath, too tired to pretend. "I almost got hit by a car."

"What?" he demanded. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah," Buck said, because apparently his life had become a collection of casual statements that should have required at least three hours of therapy afterward. "Some drunk guy ran a red light. I was crossing, I didn't even have time to react, and then suddenly he was just… there."

Tommy moved closer in an instant, his hand finding Buck's shoulder like it was instinct, warm and steady. His fingers tightened slightly.

Buck's brain short-circuited.

Because Tommy was close. And Tommy was worried. And Tommy's hand was on him, and Buck had been having a totally normal and not at all embarrassing crush on his neighbor for months.

He swallowed.

Tommy's eyes were wide. "Jesus, Evan. Are you okay? Did he hit you?"

Buck shook his head quickly. "No. No, I'm fine. I'm okay."

Tommy didn't move his hand.

Buck cleared his throat. "I'm only okay because… an Inhuman saved me."

Tommy's gaze sharpened again. "An Inhuman? Again?"

Buck nodded. "Yeah. Again."

Something flashed across Tommy's face. Something too quick to read. Then it was gone, replaced by calm concern.

Buck kept talking, because once his mouth started, it was basically unstoppable.

"It was Obsidian, again," he said. "I saw the car coming, and I knew I couldn't move fast enough. Like my legs just… froze. And then the shadows came out of nowhere, grabbed me, and I swear to God I was flying."

Tommy's thumb shifted slightly against Buck's shoulder, a small movement that somehow felt like attention. Buck's heart did a stupid little flip.

"And then," Buck continued, voice rushing now, "he caught me. Like, fully caught me. In his arms. He was really strong, and tall, and well built, and sexy..."

He paused. Realized what he'd just said.

Buck coughed. "Anyway. That's not the point. The point is, he saved me, and he stopped the car too. Just, like… slammed it into a wall  of shadows, I don't even know."

Tommy stared at him for a long moment, and Buck could see the tension in his jaw.

Then Tommy exhaled, slowly. His hand finally loosened.

"Okay," Tommy said quietly. "Good. I'm glad you're okay."

His hand slipped away from Buck's shoulder. Buck immediately missed it in a way that was deeply inconvenient.

Buck forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Me too."

But even as he said it, his mind kept circling around the same thought, persistent and irritating as a mosquito.

It didn't make sense.

He looked at Tommy, unable to stop himself. "It's just… weird, right? Like, how was he there? It happened in seconds. How could he have known I was about to get hit?"

Tommy's expression changed unreadable, and he gave a small shrug.

"We don't exactly know how Inhumans work," he said. "Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe he was nearby."

Buck frowned. "Yeah, but…"

Tommy's lips curved slightly, and his eyes, impossibly blue, held Buck's for a second longer than necessary.

"Don't think too hard about it," Tommy said gently. "I'm just glad you're safe."

Buck's brain, always eager to betray him, immediately decided that Tommy's smile was the most beautiful thing he had seen all week. Possibly all month.

Buck nodded, because he had suddenly forgotten how to argue.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Okay."

***

Six months in, Buck stopped believing in coincidence.

It wasn't even the dramatic kind of realization, not a lightning strike moment where everything suddenly made sense. It was more like waking up one morning and realizing your fridge had been making a weird noise for weeks, and you had been ignoring it because you didn't want to deal with what it meant.

Except in this case, the weird noise was the fact that Buck had been saved by Obsidian five times.

Five.

Three robberies, one drunk driver who had treated a red light like a suggestion, and one near-death experience involving Buck looking at his phone instead of where he was walking and nearly falling off a bridge like some kind of tragic idiot.

It was… a lot.

Before this, Buck had never met an Inhuman in his life. Not once. Not even in passing. He had seen them on screens, read about them, watched grainy footage on social media, obsessed over them online like everyone else. But real life? Real life had been very non-superhero.

And now, within six months, he had been personally rescued by the same Inhuman five separate times.

Which was ridiculous.

Granted, Buck did not normally find himself in dangerous situations. He was a PhD student. His idea of danger was contaminating his samples or having to send an email twice because he forgot the attachment the first time.

So yes, the dangerous situations may be a coincidence.

But Obsidian being there every time?

The odds of this being happenstance were nearly zero.

Which was how Buck found himself approaching a group of men standing in an alley behind a party venue in a part of the city that definitely did not have good vibes.

His heart was pounding. His palms were sweating. His brain was screaming at him to turn around and go home. He swallowed and stepped closer anyway.

"Hey," Buck said, and his voice cracked, because of course it did.

All three men turned to stare at him.

Buck cleared his throat, desperately trying to sound casual, like this was a normal conversation people had in dark alleys at night.

"Um," he said. "Do you… have… drugs?"

The silence that followed was so long and so heavy that Buck could practically hear it settling onto his shoulders.

One of the men stepped forward. "What?"

Buck winced. "I mean… I want to buy some drugs?"

Another man snorted. "Are you asking us?"

"No," Buck said quickly, then realized that was exactly what he was doing. "I mean, yes. I mean… do you have them?"

A third man tilted his head. "What kind of rich white boy are you, stepping into this part of town alone at night?"

Buck opened his mouth and closed it again.

The first guy narrowed his eyes. "Are you a cop?"

"What? No!" Buck said, horrified. "No, absolutely not."

The second guy leaned in, voice low. "Then why are you talking like a cop?"

Buck stared at him, offended. "I'm not talking like a cop."

The third man muttered, "Let's just beat him up and get out of here before someone catches us with the stuff."

And then they moved.

Buck's body locked up, instincts screaming run, run, run, but his legs didn't listen. One of them grabbed his jacket, and Buck's breath hitched sharply in his throat.

This had been such a bad idea. Such a catastrophically bad idea.

And then the shadows exploded between them. A wall of darkness slammed down like a living thing, and the men were thrown backward, swearing and stumbling, their hands suddenly empty.

Buck didn't even have time to gasp before he was yanked backward and up, lifted so fast his stomach lurched.

Darkness wrapped around him like a cocoon, warm and weightless, and then the world dropped away entirely. And Buck was suddenly standing on the roof of a skyscraper, the wind sharp against his face, the lights below smeared into glittering lines.

He swayed, dizzy, his breath coming too fast.

Obsidian was there, holding him, as if Buck weighed nothing at all. Buck's hands were clutching the front of Obsidian's jacket.

Obsidian's voice was sharp, annoyed, and somehow amused at the same time. "We really have to stop meeting like this, sweetheart."

Buck stared up at him, heart pounding so hard it felt painful. Buck should have been terrified. Instead, he was, in a way that was deeply inappropriate, completely thrilled.

"Well," Buck managed, voice weak, "I'm a scientist. I was… testing a theory."

Obsidian tilted his head. "Yeah?"

Buck swallowed. "You keep showing up when I'm in danger."

For a moment, the shadows stilled.

Then Obsidian leaned in just slightly, close enough that Buck could hear the amusement in his voice, soft and dangerous.

"Careful, honey," Obsidian murmured. 

Buck's breath caught. His brain attempted to reboot. It failed.

Obsidian straightened, as if the moment hadn't happened at all. "Come on," he said, tone casual again. "I'm taking you home before you decide to go interrogate a street gang about their career choices."

The shadows wrapped around them both, thicker this time, like a curtain falling. Buck felt the strange pull in his stomach again, like his body was forgetting where gravity was supposed to be.

It wasn't flying, not exactly, it was like falling through warm ink, like the world was folding.

Buck barely had time to gasp before the rooftop was gone, replaced by darkness, replaced by movement, replaced by the sensation of being carried through something that wasn't quite space.

Then suddenly, there was air again, warm and familiar. Buck blinked.

He was in his living room.

He barely had time to process that fact before his feet hit the floor, slightly unsteady, and he realized Obsidian still had a hand around his waist, steadying him like Buck was some fragile little thing that might tip over if he sneezed too hard.

Which was probably true.

He stared at the space around them, his couch, his coffee table, the half-folded laundry he had abandoned this morning. Everything was normal. Except for the masked Inhuman in black leather standing in the middle of it like this was the most natural place for him to be.

Buck swallowed, voice coming out faint and confused. "How… how did we…"

Warping. That had been warping. He had just been carried through shadows like they were a doorway. Buck was about to say something else, something coherent, when a blur of black fur shot into the room.

Shadow.

She skidded to a stop in front of them, tail puffed, ears pinned back. Her little body was tense, ready to throw paws at anything that dared invade her territory.

She let out a sharp hiss.

Obsidian didn't move, just stood there, calm as ever.

Shadow stalked forward slowly, suspicious and stiff-legged, like a tiny predator approaching something that might be dangerous.

Then she paused.

Sniffed.

Her head tilted slightly.

Buck watched in real time as her entire attitude shifted.

Shadow took another step, pressed her nose to Obsidian's boot, sniffed again, and then, with complete audacity, she rubbed her whole body against Obsidian's leg.

Purring. Loudly.

Buck stared at her like she had just personally betrayed him.

"What," Buck said slowly, "are you doing?"

Shadow purred harder. She rubbed against Obsidian again, tail curling like she was flirting.

Buck's mouth dropped open. "You don't like people. You hate people. You have literally scratched Maddie because she looked at you wrong."

Obsidian's chest rose with a quiet chuckle.

Buck snapped his head up. "Don't laugh."

Obsidian's voice was amused, warm with something almost gentle. "Goodnight, darling."

Obsidian's hand slipped away from Buck's waist, and Buck hated how quickly he noticed the loss of contact.

"Take better care of yourself," Obsidian added, tone dry again.

Buck's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me, I did not ask to be pulled into trouble. Well, except for today maybe…"

Obsidian's head tilted slightly. "Sure you didn't, sweetheart."

The shadows behind him thickened, rising like smoke, swallowing him whole. For a second, Buck saw the faint shifting shape of his expression beneath the mask, something that looked dangerously close to a smile.

And then he was gone.

Buck stood in the middle of his living room, staring at the empty space where Obsidian had been.

Shadow trotted over to Buck like nothing had happened and rubbed against his shin, purring innocently.

Buck looked down at her, betrayal burning in his soul.

Then he looked back at the spot where Obsidian had vanished.

"How," Buck whispered into the quiet apartment, voice small and horrified, "does he know where I live?"