This started as a story for Love is a Strange Master, but it grew too big so I decided to let it out on its own.
. . . . . .
If there's one thing about having her as a sidekick that has always surprised him, it's her complete inability to talk about her feelings.
He doesn't understand that; he's his mother's son, and he's never met a thought that didn't make it to his mouth, even if that means exposing his vulnerable side or admitting to something embarrassing. But not her. She'll crack jokes, make sarcastic remarks, yell and scream without batting an eye, but any softer sorts of emotions, anything really serious or important to her, she plays pretty close to the chest. She doesn't like exposing herself to ridicule or admitting to weakness.
But it's the way she is, and he never really let it get to him . . . until right now, at the embassy reception after the awards ceremony. He sees her standing alone on the balcony with a glass of champagne in her hand, and he's suddenly irrationally annoyed that she's paid more attention to that champagne tonight than she has to him.
"You haven't said a word to me all night," he says as he steps out into the cool night air.
"You seemed busy," she shrugs.
"I—I suppose I have been," he admits. "But I did want to talk to you."
She makes a face. "I've been talked out today. My brothers, and the other villains, and reporter after reporter after reporter . . ." She takes a sip of champagne and shakes her head. "I have had my fill of talking."
"Oh." He's not sure what to say now; after that, he can't really say what's on his mind—that he's hurt she hasn't really talked to him since they beat those aliens—without annoying her, and recently keeping her happy has become very important to him.
So he hems and haws a few moments, then says, "Quite a week we've had, isn't it? There was a moment or two where I wasn't sure I was ever going to see Earth . . . or you . . . again."
She's gazing out at the city lights below them, and maybe this distraction is the reason she's dropped her guard enough to let her emotions cross her face—a quick frown at the thought of how much danger they were in. "Me too," she says, and then he can sense the moment when she clams back up. "If I'd gotten killed by those ridiculous aliens, I would have had to kill myself out of embarrassment."
She's clearly amused with herself, but he's not letting her off the hook that easy. "Why do you do that?" he asks. "Back away when we start talking about something serious?"
And of course she backs away again, since his was a serious question. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize we had time for Very Special Talks. We're usually trying to conquer the world." She ponders. "Or save it."
"You're doing it again," he said. "I'm trying to talk to you about something major that happened to us. Can't you at least listen?"
"Should we paint each other's nails while we chat?"
He growls in frustration. He supposes he'd thought that what they just went through changed everything, changed what they are to each other, and he was happier about this possibility than he'd like to admit. But that seems to be the furthest thing from her mind.
"Clearly I'm kidding myself if I expect anything that happened to mean anything to you," he grumbles.
"Geez, Doc, how did you get to be the woman in this relationship?"
"Why can't you ever talk about anything?"
"Why do you have to talk about everything?"
"Because that's how people communicate!" he all but shouts. "I can never tell what's on your mind or what you need or what's going on with us." At that he winces; this may not be the time to discuss their "us," whatever that may be at the moment.
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"I don't know!" he retorts. "My life just turned upside down and I'm trying to figure out what happens next and how you . . . fit into all of this." He feels awkward saying it but he supposes that if he's lecturing her on never talking about her feelings, he can't turn around and refuse to talk about his own. But it makes him defensive and he says sharply, "But I have no idea because you've never told me how you feel."
She sets her champagne glass down hard on the railing. "What do you mean I've never told you how I feel? I went to space for you, didn't I? I rode in a spaceship with that idiot Stoppable to fight aliens for you, didn't I? How much more clear can I be?"
And this knocks him silent, giving her time to shake her head and down the rest of her drink. "Just because you're a Chatty Cathy doesn't mean everyone is," she says. "And just because I don't talk about my feelings doesn't mean I don't have them."
He's embarrassed to admit that this is a new concept to him, but it's one that rather cheers him. "So you do . . ." he starts hopefully.
She rolls her eyes, but her expression is amused. "There you go, needing to talk about everything again."
And as he stands there, rooted to the floor in happy surprise, she steps forward and kisses him on the cheek, one hand against his chest for balance, and he says nothing but reaches out to grasp her hand, finally understanding that actions sometimes speak louder than words.