AN: Wow, this is old. I started writing this the day after 'Downtime' premiered. :D But I revisited it and discovered it needed only minor tweaking, so here we are. :) Hope you like!
Disclaimer: I was filling out the paperwork to take ownership of Young Justice, but then I took an arrow to the knee.
Too Much At Once
It's not always easy living with someone like Superboy. Well, scratch that. It's never easy. Well, no, I don't mean it's always bad, but... He's very hard to predict. I can never tell whether something I do will make him mad or if he'll have no reaction at all. Apathy and anger seem to be his dominating emotions. Sometimes he smiles, but rarely, and even rarer still when it's just us at Happy Harbor. Like we are now; alone.
From what I've learned from books, television, personal observations and the 'Inter-Web', the awkwardness I feel can be contributed to something called 'sexual tension'. It isn't something we have on Mars, since everyone can read each other's minds. I have also discovered the English word for what I feel for Superboy that seems so different than what I feel for the others: 'crush'.
A crush, as has been explained to me through various forms of media, is a casual form of romantic feelings, usually contributing to one's physical appearance, social stature, or talent in a certain skill, and is used casually as a slang term. I was appalled to see that the literal meaning was 'to destroy' or 'squeeze harshly'.
Superboy certainly seems capable of such things, and that may be what scares me the most.
So, anyway, I was alone with Superboy at Happy Harbor. It was almost dinnertime, so I had pulled out my favorite Earth cookbook to find a recipe I could use. Superboy was watching static on the television; obviously someone had turned the cable box off. Or maybe it was broken; I wasn't too savvy when it came to electronics. Everything on Mars is organic.
Having decided on French bread and spaghetti, I looked up toward Superboy's seat on the couch. Maybe he didn't know how to turn it on? I built up the courage to break the silence and asked, "Would you like me to turn that on?"
Without even glancing back, though with a good three or four second pause, Superboy replied, "No," in a voice that made me feel like I'd asked a ridiculous question. Hello, Megan! He would never admit that he didn't know how to turn the cable on! But then, why would he sit there and watch it? A dreamy, cliché little part of me wondered if he wanted to be close to me, while a more logical half surmised that he really had nothing better to do.
Then, perhaps I would make a suggestion.
"Well...would you like to help me make dinner?" I asked, a hopeful smile that he couldn't see curling my lips.
Again, and more quickly this time, he said no. But I didn't have the time to be disappointed, because he was already off the couch and heading toward me before the word was finished.
The obvious message was, 'I don't want to, but I will anyway.' Whether he was just bored or not didn't matter; I was very happy to have him help.
I let my smile widen to show him I appreciated it – I've heard that Earthlings use facial expressions to show their emotions rather than mind-speak – and turned toward the refrigerator as he came around the counter, the cookbook floating up beside me and flipping to the correct page.
This was going to be fun! Cooking with a friend would be a lot better than cooking alone! I saw it all the time on sitcoms. Flour would get everywhere, someone would smear batter on the other's nose to make them both laugh, and there would be some kind of scolding about getting eggshells where they're not supposed to be. Somehow, it was hard to imagine any of that happening with Superboy, but it had to, right?
"Let's see, um..." I began, glancing at the levitating recipe and trying to hide my giddiness. "We're going to need some brown sugar," With my mind only, I opened the cabinet above the island and sent the right bag toward Superboy, where a soft thump confirmed that he'd caught it.
"Uh, a little butter..." Another thump.
"Some salt, cooking oil, vinegar," I sent them all flying toward Superboy and opened the fridge, leaning down to inspect what I needed from there and sending them his way.
"A few eggs, couple of tomatoes, some milk, a bowl of flour, and a few cups of-" I was cut off by a few not-so-confirmatory thumps and the clatter of plastic and glass on tile from behind me.
I turned around, wondering if Superboy had dropped something.
He was standing there, feet apart like he was braced for a fight, with his entire upper body coated in a gloopy mixture of flour, milk, and eggs. The bowl was on his head, and the milk carton was in his hand, but they were both empty. Eggshells littered his broad shoulders, and a piece of tomato hung from his chin as he lifted his head to look at me.
His expression was half irritated and half kicked-puppy (an expression I hope Wally had not had to personally experience in order to explain to me), lips twisted into a distressed frown and brows scrunched together in embarrassment.
The milk carton and an unbroken egg fell to the floor as he opened his dripping arms up to inspect them with a disgusted look.
"Oops..." I offered immediately, putting up my hand to grab the dishtowel that floated toward me. So much for that sitcom. I'd just dumped half of the fridge on Superboy! If he hadn't hated me before, he was definitely leaning toward it now.
I crossed quickly toward the sodden boy, pushing the bowl off his head. "I'm so sorry!" I said, beginning to try to wipe the goo off him with the towel. "I should've payed more attention; it was too much at once, too much at once, heh." I began to babble, pushing the eggshells off his shoulder, and then moving to his cheek. "Hello, Megan! So me. I...uh..."
Once again, I was cut off, but not by any foreboding noises. One hand on his shoulder, the other rubbing a towel over his cheek, I hadn't realized before how close I'd gotten to Superboy until he moved his head down a fraction, and our eyes met.
His hair was wet and turned white with the mess, milk dripping down his cheeks where I had lowered the towel. Against his tanned skin, those electric eyes grasped at me, pulling me in so deep that I feared I would never find my way back out. I wasn't even sure I would want to.
We were close. Really, really close; like inches away. I could feel his breathing, and he was looking right at me. His expression was nearly unreadable, though I could tell there was something other than apathy there. My eyes widened slightly, brows lifting in uncertainty. Something was happening here.
Suddenly, I understood the word. 'Crush'; it felt like someone was squeezing my heart and making it difficult to breathe or think or form a coherent sentence. Its beating was hard and painful, thundering against my chest in an effort to break free from the iron grip. I was absolutely positive Superboy could hear it, and my cheeks flushed suddenly with color.
Something was happening here, and I wanted so desperately to read his mind that...with pure intentions, I swear...I probed at his thoughts, just a little bit.
Just enough to know that Superboy was trying to make a decision...and something about me.
"I told you not to do that!" His gruff voice shot out, and I felt his hands push me back at the shoulders, hard. Whatever had been around us broke, and once again I could feel the floor under my feet as I stumbled back, smell the sweet ingredients dumped on the floor, and hear the faint crackle of the television in the background.
Superboy's milk-stained face was creased in anger, large hands curled into fists at his side. He obviously seemed mad at me for getting in his head, but as I mentally reeled in the poke, I sensed very little anger in his mind.
"I'm...I'm sorry," I replied, rubbing my arm nervously. I never liked when people yelled at me, even back on Mars. "I didn't mean to...well, I did, but I just...um...I'm sorry."
I felt embarrassed for being caught, bad from being yelled at, but also disappointed...either because I hadn't gotten a chance to see what Superboy was thinking or because that moment...whatever that was...was gone.
Superboy's face twitched, as if it were trying to do something other than what he wanted it to, and opened his mouth hesitantly, the same way he had when he'd apologized to me after the Mister Twister mission. Was he about to say something? I thought he was, but something interrupted. Something always interrupted. Snapping his mouth shut, Superboy tilted his head, then glanced down the hall leading out of the room, as if he heard something.
"Whatever," were his words, and he went back to the couch without bothering to clean himself off.
That's how Red Tornado found us when he entered; a dairy-coated Superboy staring at static, and me chopping onions to put in spaghetti sauce, because the French bread was drying in Superboy's hair.
I have to give the robot some credit; he didn't ask questions. He just turned and walked out again.
And after a while, so did Superboy.
Something had happened here. Something had changed, but I didn't know what.
I hope it's something good.
AN: I debated whether or not to go AU and really 'have something happen', but decided against it. M'gann's head is fun to be in. :)
I have to say, I like M'gann a LOT more after 'Image'. For those of you who haven't seen it, I won't spoil anything, but I think all the Martian-haters out there (and there are many, unfortunately) will feel pretty foolish for giving her so much crap. :D
Rant concluded. Thanks for reading! Please send me some spicy reviews!
Tickle that toast.