The Gap

spockjasperlokizukowriting

Nine- Return

I had made the Asgards promise that, come Friday morning, I would walk to the bus-stop on my own, to prove that I could take care of myself after the week-long nannying. It was a groggy Friday, the fog outside my window thick as I parted the curtains, curious of the outside. I got dressed in no particular hurry and checked Andrew's room, his door parted, my brother dead asleep, backwards on his bed with his head hanging over the edge and feet propped up on a pillow, sheet in a mess on the floor. His curtains were drawn and his clothes strewn about the carpet, boxes of half unpacked belongings lined against the wall, his computer on screen saver.

I smiled to myself and then walked downstairs, assuming that he had stayed up all night again to work on his novel. The house felt strangely empty as I made myself breakfast, my father gone for work and my mother out, probably doing the shopping. I guess the early bird always got the bargains at the super store. The toast popped from the toaster and I lathered it butter and jam, humming to myself my favorite melody all the while.

I sat alone at the dining room table, drinking my orange juice and slowly eating my toast, part of me regretting telling Tom not to pick me up. In this particular moment, I felt no urge to be alone, the quiet unnerving. It just reminded me of how vacant English classes had now begun to feel, the black-haired boy and his captivating green eyes vanished. Even if it was just two days absent, his vacancy was noticeable, and it was beginning to drive me crazy. I remembered the small gesture of kindness he had shown me Monday, his pale hand resting over the pages of my copy of Cymbeline as he showed me to the correct page- or when my sketchbook had fallen open to an embarrassing image, and he had simply leaned down to pick it up with ease, returning it to me from the floor.

I shut my eyes, praying that those were signs that he didn't hate me, but the prolonged absence was proving to me otherwise.

I slipped my lunch into my bag just as Andrew came tumbling down the stairs, dragging his feet as he plodded into the kitchen, eyes wide and bloodshot, his hair wild as he turned around, the empty coffee pot in his hand as he gave me an insistent look. "Where's the coffee?" he demanded in a slur, reaching up to rub his eyes when he staggered.

I laughed. "You'll have to make it yourself," I mothered, shouldered my bag and giving him a brief, unwelcome hug.

He narrowed his eyes as me, wobbling on his uneasy, just woken up legs. "But...but I need coffee!" he pleaded, the dark rings under his eyes evident as he panicked. "I'm in the middle of the middle of this chapter and it's horrible and someone's about to die!"

"Sounds urgent," I commented, taking an apple from the fridge and shoving it into my backpack.

"Coffee..." he moaned as he stared at the empty pitcher. I strode out the living room, confident in my ability to take care of myself as I left my brother behind.

"Bye, Andrew!" I called back, opening the door and locking it behind me with the key I had acquired at dinner last night, closing out his groan in midway. The fog was dampening my clothes, the cold humidity thick in the air as I shivered, exhaling and shoving my gloved hands into my pockets, dew collecting on a few stray strands of hair.

A door slammed in the house next door to us, and I glanced over to find Arren trudging off his front porch, giving me a small smile as he waved. I rounded my picket fence and nodded to him. "Hey Arren," I acknowledged.

"Hey, Isla, wait up!" he called, sprinting up to my side as I hesitantly stood, biting my lip while he gave me a smile, white teeth flashing. "What's up?" The scratch along his cheek pulled as he grinned, shifting along his flesh almost sickeningly. The injury didn't look any better than it had, still red, but the bruising seemed less, the scabs not so many in quantity. It gave him a rugged look, a damaged look, his easy smile weak as he brooded, aware that he looked beaten.

"Not much," I answered, slowly starting back up the hill while he walked eagerly back at my side. I hadn't mentioned to him, or even hinted that Tom had told me that he had lied. I didn't believe either of their stories to any extent, and tried not to dwell as Arren spoke.

"Happy Friday," he assented, both hands tucked in his pockets while his breath shone before his lips. "What are you doing on the weekend?"

"I think Tom invited us for tea..." I drawled, but quickly realized my mistake as his expression fell.

"Oh."

"It's nothing much," I covered too quickly, swallowing through the lump in my throat, appeasing his despondent expression. "His parents just want to meet me- that's all."

"His parents," Arren laughed. "They're crazy; just a hint of warning."

His words struck a chord within me and I scowled. "I'll decide my opinions for myself, thank you," I snapped, tired of being warned away from people. I picked up my pace, aiming to keep ahead of him without the intent of furthering the conversation, remembering my resolve to keep interactions between him and I in the dark.

The fog was heavy as it rolled down the hill, but I was determined, cresting the top and turning down Burnish Creek from Willowy lane, Arren's footsteps echoing behind me. I could distantly make out the orb of yellow light hanging suspended near the bus-stop, beckoning me as I crunched through the icy sidewalk, but still felt isolated from the group I knew to be there. The houses faded in and out of the mist next to me, but I held true to my course. Slowly, several figures emerged in the distance, large and tall, slender and dark. I squinted when I counted them, finding instead of four from the last two days, there were five.

My heart skipped a beat when I drew closer, seeing the black-haired boy appear at the stop-sign, his figure becoming defined as he leaned against the pole, hazy, absent expression on his angular face. His skin was luminescent in the horrible light, shining and clear, black hair stroked back in its familiar throw while his green eyes met mine darkly, black, thin trench coat pulled up to hide his neck. I ducked from his gaze, feeling my face heat as the embarrassment and worry crept free again. I crossed the street rigidly, Tom standing with Sif and his other cousins, all relatively silent. Sif smiled as I came into view, and I tried to grin back, but my mind was a maelstrom of thoughts, excitement, worry- the black-haired boy had returned. I felt his eyes on me as I hopped up the curb and strode to Tom's side, self conscious that the black-haired boy was watching me.

"Told you I could make it," I grinned, fidgeting as the black-haired boy's gaze continued pressingly against the back of my neck.

Tom smiled back and nodded, the gesture reaching his blue eyes and prompting an inward sigh of relief from me. "You did good. I thought the mist would deter you, but you have proved me valiantly wrong."

"Mwhaha," I cackled maniacally, reaching up to gaze through steepled fingers. "My evil plan is complete."

Sif snickered down at me. "So, ready to conclude the week?" she asked, both brows raised.

"Sure... Let's say that," I hesitated, biting my lip through another smile as my hands dropped to my side.

Finley looked over my shoulder from Vlad's side, grinning as Arren's footsteps resounded from the curb. "How's the cheek, Coulson?" he greeted with a laugh. I peered over my shoulder as Arren shot a dark glare back at Finley, resulting in even more laughter. Arren gave me a slightly hard look, the question burning in his hazel eyes: Why, Isla? Why do you tolerate them?

Behave, I reprimanded with another glance, warning him with widened eyes until I felt another pair leave me. My gaze was quickly distracted towards the black-haired boy as he turned his head back, his shoulder hunching minutely, avoiding the gaze of the pacing Arren and I.

I caught myself staring, reluctantly pulling myself back into the conversation Tom was leading as the bus screeched around the corner. My heart was thundering in my chest, the shock that I he had returned not quite wearing off as I was ushered onto the bus, following the black-haired boy and Arren as Tom held my hand, still staying loyally at my side. It comforted me to know that Tom was there, that he wouldn't let me do anything stupid as I sat down at his side and wallowed, contemplating and struggling over the black-haired boy's sudden reappearance.

The black-haired boy sat down only a few seats away, on the opposite aisle, closer to where he had sat my first day of school, but still with distance. Was he conscious of me? I hoped so, desperately wanting to ask him whether or not I was forgiven. But the silence prevailed, the bus jerking back and forth as it launched down the streets, finally arcing along a final hill with a full load of acquired passengers, halting before the school as the brakes engaged.

I sighed, taking my backpack from my feet and standing as I followed suit of the students ahead, my eyes glued to the black-haired boy as I was shepherded from the bus and onto the pavement. I gave the Asgards a loose farewell as I headed towards Physics, ready for my third class, terrified of Photography and English. Mr. Clark took the hinting look I threw at him in the beginning of the class, the look that told clearly that I did not want to be disturbed as I took my seat in the back of the classroom.

"Hey cupcake," Darcy crooned as I walked into Photography, avoiding a dimpled smile from Ms. Greene as I hugged my sketchbook to my chest. Darcy was wearing a plaid hat and an abominably fluffy scarf, dark lips wide and grinning as she walked up to my side, crossing her arms. "You're stuck with me today."

"I am?" I asked uncertainly, quickly scanning the classroom to search for the black-haired boy.

"Yes," she affirmed. "You are. My other friend is sick with the flu, so you're going to entertain me for the next hour and a half."

"I'll try," I promised, now conscious that the black-haired boy had already beaten me to his seat. He was sitting his hands folded in front of him, not looking at anything in particular until he noticed me with wide green eyes, pursing his lips and slowly reaching up with a hand to hide his face, long fingers shaping around his temple as he looked away.

I exhaled, prying my gaze back to Darcy as she tightened her arms and tapped her foot. "So, today we have to work with Photoshop," she explained, gesturing to the board when I didn't continue the conversation. "Any preference as to where we sit?"

The black-haired boy snuck a reassuring peak at me, and I stiffened, whirling around to face the opposite direction. "No computer in particular- let's just go," I stammered.

My cheeks went bright red and I took my seat at one of the computers, facing away from the black-haired boy and towards the wall while Darcy chattered nonsensically at my side. I logged on while she spoke, the bell ringing in the background.

"So, anyway, how's the first week going, cupcake?" she inquired, tapping on her own keyboard as she entered her information, the camera hooked to the USB port by her side.

I bit my lip and pulled out my own camera, sighing, "It's been...interesting."

"What are you planning for Mr. Blake's project?" she continued, her face highlighting as the screen lit with blue light.

I drummed my fingers impatiently, my computer considerably slower than hers. "Just a drawing," I excused, having an internal panic moment when I realized that I had absolutely no clue what I was going to do for the project.

"I'm going to use this picture," Darcy explained, pulling up a new window and gesturing to the image, a simple image of the locker she had been taking photos of all week. "And I'm going to warp it and twist it using photoshop, saving each stage as a separate file, until I have a complete, smooth transition to an undamaged locker."

I exhaled heavily, both eyebrows raised. "Cool."

She glanced down the row of computers and then giggled, her glass flickering as she laughed, "Hey look, the cutie-pie you ran over on Monday decided to sit nearby."

Stiff, I quickly looked to my side to see none of than the black-haired boy sitting just three seats down, typing away at computer but side glancing towards Darcy and I, leveling our gazes momentarily before he looked away again.

"I think he can hear you..." I murmured, shunting my vision from him.

"Like hell he can," Darcy giggled, opening up the files as she began her work. I tried to focus, but couldn't, knowing that he was so close by. Deep laughter echoed down to my left, down to where the black-haired boy was nervously working, his long fingers persistent over the keyboard as masculine voices cut through the awkward quiet.

"Hey, look, Softie's back," said the first one, taking the seat next to the black-haired boy, his curly blond hair shaggy as it hung over his eyebrows, loose clothing unflattering to his physique. He playfully tapped the black-haired boy on the upper arm. "Looks like ol' Coulson really did you a number, there."

"I wonder if we can still see the bruises," giggled the second, and the black-haired boy shrugged his hand from his shoulder.

"Leave me alone, Henry," the black-haired boy ordered quietly, wrinkling his nose. I couldn't help but stare as they teamed up against him, surrounding him, a third putting his feet on the back of the black-haired boy's chair.

"Ooooh," Henry cooed, flipping his atrocious haircut to the side. "Look at this. Softie's fightin' back again."

The black-haired boy appeared impassive, continuing to work as he ignored them. The third boy, with his feet on the chair, glanced over at me, meeting my gaze as he smiled wickedly. "Looks like your pretty girlfriend's got glue eyes," he snickered, and I went bright red and turned away, letting a curtain of hair drape forward to hide my expression. "Can't stop staring at your pretty, stupid face."

"She's not my girlfriend," the black-haired boy corrected quietly, his tenor voice musical compared to their gruff altos. "She never has been, and never will."

They all laughed, Henry slapping his knees. "Word has it Coulson's got his eye on her," he chortled, his dark eyes pressing on me. The black-haired boy's fingers continued to tap at the keys.

"Oh come on, don't play silent!" Henry snapped. "We all know it's true."

I felt my heartbeat rise, the rouge in my cheeks warming as I thought, What were they talking about? Coulson was nevermore than friendly to me!

"Coulson's already moved on from Maria, has he?" the black-haired boy asked flatly. "Good for him."

"Who? Maria Hill? That old heartbreak?" Henry specified, waving his hand in the air. "Course not. Found someone a lot easier on the eyes, now that the new girl's in town."

"So, Softie, you gonna fight for your girlfriend?" the third boy challenged.

"She's not my girlfriend," the black-haired boy corrected again, fingers continuing at the keys.

"Yeah right!" the second one laughed. "Heard she got all gooey on you in PE."

"She was merely apologizing," the black-haired boy defended.

"After slamming you with a basketball?" Henry snickered. "How romantic. So, what are you gonna do on your first day? Have her jump from a building and land on you? Good ol' S and M?"

The black-haired boy stopped at the keyboard, falling silent. I snuck a glance to see him seething where he sat, glaring at Henry. "Leave her alone," he growled, green eyes threatening.

"Oh? Or what?" the third countered.

"You going to smash our own heads into the lockers?" cooed the second.

"She can hear you, you dunce."

"Whoa, Softie's growing a pair," marveled Henry. "You wanna dance, pretty-boy?"

"Nah, dance with his girlfriend. It'll piss off Softie," the second suggested, punching the black-haired boy in the shoulder.

"Not unless Coulson 'dances' with her first," Henry sneered. "How do you like that image, pretty-boy? Coulson with your girl on his lap."

The black-haired boy sat in silence, eyes wide, inhaling and exhaling at a growing pace. "Coulson can date her for all I care," he finally said. "It's her life. Not yours, so don't speculate."

Henry threw his head back and howled in laughter. "Don't speculate!" he repeated, wiping his eyes. "We aren't speculating, my friend. We know, that's what! Get your move on before all the good girls are taken for the Winter Dance."

Henry then stood, snickering with his friends as they got up and sauntered off to the other side of the room, high-fiving each other and slapping their shoulders, staggering about like competing gorillas. Their tortuous work was done, leaving the black-haired boy sitting in his chair, a grim look on his face as he slid his gaze over to me, thin lips pursed.

I covered my mouth with a hand and looked away, staring at my pictures and wondering what was wrong with me. My stomach churned, confused, hurt, and sickened by their words. I felt myself go all shades of green, feeling suddenly lost and nauseated.

Darcy glanced over at me, double-taking when she saw my expression, eyes narrowing. "You okay, Isla?" she asked uncertainly.

I nodded stiffly, taking my hand from my mouth, trembling. "Yeah, it's just...it's just a passing thing," I replied, the black-haired boy's emerald gaze on me.

Neither lunch nor trigonometry saved me. Lunch was burdened through, my teeth grinding in anxiety and disgust the entire time, unable to stomach my food as I sat still and furiously drew. Tom had noticed the mood change, but decided to drop the subject, reading me with Mr. Clark's understanding attitude. Trig was as worse as ever, Mrs. Spencer somehow even more grumpy because it was Friday, and had felt free to indulge us in three new assignments due Tuesday, no excuses, along with an essay. I felt like my mentality was slowly slipping, one finger at a time, from the cliff, promising myself that English would be okay.

I strode into the classroom to be greeted with an overbearing Darcy practically jumping on me. "Isla! Isla, are you feeling better?" she persisted, dark eyes wide behind her frames.

I gulped, nervously glancing at my seat. The black-haired boy wasn't to be seen yet, the shared table empty, still to my own. I heaved a breath and nodded towards Darcy. "Yes, Darcy, I'm fine," I assured, ducking around her before she could badger me with anymore inquiries.

Mr. Blake smiled and waved at me, undeterred by my distance for the last few days, and glanced down to his own copy of Cymbeline. I shook my head, mouthing that I had my own and gestured to my backpack. He then smiled and gave a thumbs up, though I felt slight remorse for the lack of annotations in my brand new issue of the play, no guide from a well rounded English teacher, and I sighed as I placed myself down in my seat, letting my backpack fall to my feet.

The black-haired boy walked plaintively into the classroom as I stared at the door, his arms crossed and his expression cool, olive green scarf floating behind him as he strode lithely, slowing down when he caught a glimpse of me at the table. He visibly gulped, almost blanching as I did, taking his seat cautiously next to me with raised eyebrows. He sat stiffly, shoulders hunched, fidgeting, uncomfortable, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists, elbows on the table, gaze fixed forwards.

I quickly got out my own copy of Cymbeline, trying to look busy as I skimmed through the scenes we had already written.

"You won't need that today," a soft voice said quietly, and I glanced up to meet the gaze of the black-haired boy. His pale skin was nearly glowing in the florescent light, a dim shine that broke into multiple hues, gentle around the angle of his cheek.

I glanced towards the board and took in the directions, inhaling, blushing in embarrassment that my escape had been taken. I leaned down and set my book back in my bag. The black-haired boy only stared emotionlessly as I squirmed.

Mr. Blake bounced to the front of the classroom, clapping his hands as the bell rung and asking that all standing take a seat. I re-situated myself against my stool as he spoke. "Welcome back, bright, young learners, and happy Friday! A true blessing that the week's over, eh? So, to reward you guys for all the hard work you've been putting through on Cymbeline, I'm letting you all work on your art projects for the entire period!"

The class silently congratulated themselves, victory dances popping up from several seats scattered around while Mr. Blake chattered on. But I wasn't paying attention, not half-hearing the words he said as I pulled out my sketchbook and immediately set myself to drawing, recording the images of the day, not wanting to survive in this reality and instead escape to my own.

The black-haired boy squirmed in the seat next to me, provoking curious side-glances from me while he tried to work at the glistening laptop he had brought out, long fingers impatient, his leg twitching. I raised boy eyebrows as he cleared his throat, glancing towards me, eyes burning with unknown words. I gazed back as his lips parting, trying to say something, but the words wouldn't come out.

I raised an eyebrow, pursing my lips as my pencil wavered in my hand.

He swallowed, avoiding my gaze as he finally said, "I'm sorry about what Henry said during Photography." A faint blush hid in his cheeks. "I don't know if it's true, and I realize that it probably upset you. It's...he's..."

"Don't mention it," I quickly rescued, my jaw locked as his words fell apart. He gaped at me, blinking, measuring my expression carefully as I returned to drawing. "He was just being a stupid teenager. Please, forget about it. It's done- over."

"Oh." He blinked and turned away, a stray finger on his laptop as he nodded. "Right. Well, then..."

Neither of us spoke for the rest of the class, him lost in whatever he was writing on his laptop while I buried myself behind the covers of my sketchbook, each of us intent on keeping the silence until class was called to an end.

"Isla! I tried to save you a seat, but fat-ass here-"

"Hey! Watch what you say, thunder-thighs!" Vlad retaliated, teaming up with an already peeved Finley to wrestle Tom and give him a noogie.

I smiled and laughed, the bus more crowded than usual on the Friday afternoon. The Asgards sat in the back, Tom struggling under the combined effort of his cousins while Sif and Hayden looked on with silent laughter. "It's okay, guys, I'll just sit somewhere else," I nodded simply, Sif giving me a guilty look.

I scanned the bus, hoping for a seat to myself, but there was hardly one I could even share with someone. After a brief, deliberating moment, I spotted a free space and sprinted to it, swinging on my wrist as I fell back into the chair, conscious of the person next to me as I sighed, reaching down to pull my sketchbook back out from hiding, placing it on my lap when my gaze ventured to my neighbor. My eyes widened and I started.

"Oh-" I gasped, voice quavering, hands shaking as I clutched my sketchbook. "I didn't-"

The black-haired boy only stared at me simply, huddled to himself with an impassive expression, cheek pinks from the cold outside while he shook his head. "No, it's fine."

My nerves grated and I stiffened, trying to allow him as much room as possible in the closely allowed space. He hugged his satchel on his lap while my own bag bowed limply at my feet, both locked in silence as I nervously sketched. It was a futile effort to avoid the conversation I thought was coming. But when my pencil brushed the paper for the beginning stroke, I felt no image come to mind. Everything was blank.

I glanced at the black-haired boy again and my breath hitched, coming up with an idea as he gazed out the frostbitten window. Winter on the way, our breath visible before our lips, I furiously drew a picture of Vlad and Finley tackling Tom for a noogie, their faces affectionate and expressive despite the combat of masculinity. The image of the perfect family, willing to embrace each other and play, whereas the most affection I was allowed from my brother was the occasional smile. It made me pine for a quiet home all the more, and the drawing increased a brooding envy of the Asgards. I quickly changed from that scene to just drawing a simple rose I had seen on Mr. Blake's desk, in full bloom with a startling crimson that contrasted the oak of his desk.

I heard a breath exhale, impressed, and I glanced up unsurely to see the black-haired boy puzzling down at my work, and for a rare, glistening moment, he was smiling. I held my breath and my heart stopped beating for a few precious seconds as I watched him do something he had never done before for me. The distant smile on his face faded as he watched my hand stop, glancing up to pause with a reserved look, eyes wide and imploring.

"You draw well," he complimented

I struggled to think of an answer, unsettled by the sudden act of kindness. My chest almost swelled with hope- had he forgiven me? His green eyes flashed as I gulped.

"Yes, well..." I stammered, lying, "I've had a lot of coaching and practice." Well, it wasn't half a lie- I had been drawing like this since I was six. My mind was barely registering the facts, my lips still parted agape that the black-haired boy, the dark beauty I had been so worried about all week, was speaking to me as if nothing had ever happened. My neck tingled from the absent feeling of a scarf and I felt pink.

"Mainly more practice than anything..." I corrected, shifting my gaze with unsure eyes back to my sketchbook. "I think I'm only halfway decent."

He dipped his head, inching closer to get a better view, a fist clenching as he raised his hand slowly, gracefully. "May I?" he asked, glancing back up, a hand slightly outstretched for the sketchbook between mine.

My mind went completely blank as my fingers relaxed, instinctively offering him the sketchbook. I was thinking clearly when I animatedly replied, "Sure."

His lips tugged in a small, brief grin as he took the sketchbook from me, blinking, emerald eyes powerful. He flipped through the pages, starting at the beginning, entranced as he saw the evolution of my drawings from sixth grade to tenth. The sketchbook was thick, pages crinkled and abused at the tips and spine, fabric cover delicate underneath his careful fingers. "I didn't know that you made up characters," he mused.

"Oh no," I laughed nervously. "They're real people." I reached out a tentative hand and turned several of the pages, leaving it on a page of a spanning picture of my family. His green eyes sparkled. "See? That's my family. Mom, dad, and Andrew."

He pursed his lips. "They all look like they're in pain," he said slowly, turning an inquiring gaze back to me.

I blinked, leaning towards his shoulder as I took in which picture I had turned to. The uncomfortable expression on our faces- it had to be our family photoshoot. "That's when we went to a store to take our pictures as a family," I explained, anxious. "Our photographer was terrible. He had his computer facing our way and we could see his disastrous work."

He smirked softly, his entire face lighting up with the gesture, listening to my words with an honest enjoyment. But it quickly fell once more as he returned to his scanning of the pages, flipping through until he stopped at specific page, one smeared with a few tear marks, entirely covered with pictures of him- the pictures that I had drawn of him Monday night during my venting session.

He quickly frowned, but didn't look up while I froze, horrified, shaking. I couldn't think of what to say, the full stupidity of my generousity hitting me in the worst-case scenario. My entire face ached in my blush while I squirmed, impatient to have my sketchbook back as soon as possible.

"I...I take images or...scenes...that I see, and I draw them..." I stuttered slowly, wincing. "It's... It's almost a way of making sense of them... I saw the look you wore during English class on Monday, and thought that your expression was interesting, and I couldn't shake... I drew it, but it's ghastly..."

The black-haired boy looked up at me emotionlessly, eyes bland, the brief sparks gone. I wiggled briefly, feeling uncomfortable on the fabric of the seat and hot. I bit my lip, extending a quivering hand, shyly avoiding his gaze. "Can I have my book back?"

He shut it simply and offered it back, flexing his gloved hands while his eyes burned. I took it back quickly and hugged it to my chest, pulling up my knees, the conversation gone again. I clutched the pencil in my hand, mortified. Acacia Isla Selvig, you idiot. He thinks you're crazy now. The black-haired boy resumed looking back out the window, silent and thoughtful as he pursed his lips.

My heart skipped a beat- he had resumed the look he wore on the bus, Monday morning, ignoring me, reserved in his own little world. I peered down at the images I had attempted of him, the sketches in vain, and the thought graced my mind. I turned back to the original page of Connecticut sketches, the first of Tom and Vlad and Sif, before Arren was in the mix, the first sketch of him in the corner. It looked rougher, looking back on it- not so refined and easily fixable since it had been forged in the dark. Drawing from the light in the bus windows, I took my pencil to it, and mended the stitching of the image. I checked back and forth from the image to him, sallowing the contours of his cheeks, the lines of his face and neck, the shapes of his trench coat pulled to conceal and divert. I took the care to make sense of his image, hoping to capture the moments and the hidden piece of the puzzle I felt I had always been missing from my drawings.

After a small while, he caught me. His turned back as the drizzle became fog on the window, obstructing his vision and snapping his attention back to me. His green eyes were quizzical, his expression interrogating my actions curiously when he noticed my hand paused on the image of his face.

"Sorry..." I murmured, my lungs squeezing as the devastation of the situation ran me over. The blush returned and I snapped the sketchbook shut, pushing the pencil into my pocket and forcing the cursed book into my backpack, squeezing it between my knees. Stiff, I sat on the edge of my seat, eager to go even though the stop the bus had halted upon wasn't mine. My heart pounded in my ears, terrified that he hated me now- thought I was weird, a creep, a delusional girl with balance and social problems, a freak, a nerd, an introvert, someone to be isolated in an asylum rather than be forced headfirst into high school. I reached up to hide my face in my hand, shaping my fingers around my temple and looking away.

A gloved hand slowly appeared in my vision, reaching down to pull out the sketchbook from the open backpack between my knees, careful and considerate as my hand dropped and I watched him open it once more. He turned through the pages until he found the one I had been working on when I he had seen me. He ran his fingers over his face briefly, glancing up and offering an encouraging smile. He then looked back down, turning through the pages to see the full extent of my guilt, all the images, occasionally interrupted with one that wasn't him, but everything essentially was, the thought dawning on me in horror that the only thing I really had been watching for the entire week was him.

His long fingers stopped on an image I had seen of him during Photography, typing on a keyboard, alone from Henry and his posse. "I didn't realized I frowned like that when I typed," he smirked kindly.

I stared back at him, ashamed, trying to believe that he was attempting to help, but it wasn't enough. My instinct was to take my book back, and I did, slipping it from his hands and closing it, cradling it to my bust as I mumbled, "Sorry... I'm so sorry..."

The bus stopped and I glanced outside, my heart leaping to my throat when I saw Andrew waiting for me, his attention buried in his iPhone. But it was enough- I had to get out of here. Followed by a stunned black-haired boy and Arren, I stood up in a flash and shoved my sketchbook into my backpack, not half paying attention as I darted down the steps and zipping up my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. Tom's heavy footsteps sounded from amongst Arren's confident and the black-haired boy's light, and I barreled into Andrew again, hugging him and burying my face in his jacket, a refuge I had sorely missed. I pulled my face back, smiling and waving at Tom and his cousins as they began walking down the street, a hesitant black-haired boy trailing after them from a few steps behind while Arren began in the direction of our home.

Andrew, rigid, his hands avoiding touching me while he frowned. "Jeez, Acorn, what are they doing to you in that hellhole?" he snapped, pushing me out of my tight embrace.

I staggered back, but grabbed a hand of his and pulled him down in the direction of our house, tugging him along as I begged, "Let's go home. I need the weekend."

THOR

Thor strode along down the street proudly, glancing every so often over his shoulder to watch Isla careen down the sidewalk with her brother in tow. Thor smiled widely, looking forward to their weekend visit when he assured himself with a glance at his younger brother, the calculating youth with emerald eyes holding something gently to the side, away from Thor.

This immediately got his attention, and Thor laughed, eager to find out what his brother was apparently hiding. Sif walked ahead with her three warriors as Thor quickly ducked around Loki, but the God of Mischief was faster, his hands darting to the other side before Thor could lunge for the book.

Thor laughed. "What is so worth hiding from me, brother?" he chortled, swiping for it again though Loki kept it thoroughly out of reach.

"A book of pictures," Loki answered calmly, his eyes emotionless while Thor clambered about him. "It doesn't belong to either of us."

"Then why keep it from me, brother?" Thor challenged, grinning stupidly, relishing the game as he snatched for it again.

Loki kept it from his brother's brutal hands, holding it considerately while he brought it back into view. "Because you can hardly take care of yourself, much less something that doesn't belong to you," Loki explained with sigh. "I'm planning to return it to the owner. It fell out of her backpack while she was getting off the bus- she hadn't put it in properly."

Thor stopped his attempt, leaning down to squint at the name etched on top, scrawled in messy handwriting. "Lina Sell- sellan- vega- what?..."

Loki shrugged, drawing open his satchel to slip the book inside, the pages thick and rough hewn at the edges, fingers pausing over the thick fabric cover. His eyes flashed when the flap fell closed, sealing the book inside. "It's a neighbor's, most likely. I'll email friends to find the owner."

"You always do the honorable thing," Thor commented, clicking his fingers before flexing them, admiring the bulging muscles along his arms. "I'd just hand it to someone else, or the trashcan." He chortled and picked up his pace to follow Sif and Finley, signaling Loki to follow.

A/N: I've been short-changed for time, as of late. Please excuse the belated update.