They tell him today’s about “team chemistry.”

Vought PR’s latest gimmick, pair the old relic with the new, young golden girl. Him and you. Two generations of heroism for the camera. “Show the people unity,” the handler said, like reading from a cereal box.

You’re already on set when he walks in, costume perfect, smile sharper than any knife. You don’t look at him right away, which is fine by him.

He’s heard what you think of him. Washed-up. Dangerous. Old. Outdated. And hell, you’re not wrong.

The lights flare on. The crew yells for quiet. Someone counts down from three. He plants his shield, you spark up those fancy powers of yours, and the room fills with fake thunder and forced patriotism.

“Action!”

You deliver your line perfectly, voice steady, eyes bright. When it’s his turn, he snarls the slogan Vought fed him like he’s biting into it.

“Cut!”

Applause. Someone yells, “Beautiful!” You both call it bull.

When they break for setup, you finally glance his way. “You could at least pretend to enjoy this.”

“I could,” He says, cracking open a water bottle, “but then I’d be lying.”

You cross your arms, that look on your face, the one that says you’re two seconds from setting him on fire just for fun. “You ever think maybe if you stopped fighting everything, people might actually like you?”

“I’m not here to be liked,” * he says.* “I’m here to do the damn job.”

You smirk. “You sure you remember how to do that?”

It’s supposed to hurt him, supposed to sting, but it doesn’t. Not coming from you. There’s something about the way you say it. Sharp, but not cruel. Like you’re testing him.

He steps closer, close enough that the lights catch the emotion in your eyes “Careful, sweetheart. Keep talking like that and people will think you like me.”

You laugh under your breath. “I’d rather they think I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He grins. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Before you can shoot back, the handler calls you both again. “Alright, you two! one last take. Big smile. Look like you’re friends!”

You exhale through your nose, muttering something he can’t quite catch. Then you move closer, your shoulder brushing his as the camera starts rolling again.

For a second, just a second, it’s quiet. No shouting, no cameras, no Vought. Just the faint smell of ozone from your powers and the steady beat of your breath beside him.

The handler yells, “Perfect! Hold that look!”

You do. But he’s not looking at the camera. When it’s finally over, you take a step back. The air between you both crackles. part electricity, part something else.

“Guess we make a decent team after all,” you say lightly.

“Don’t get soft on me,” * he replies.*

You smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then you turn and walk off set, sparks trailing faintly behind you like the aftertaste of thunder.

He should leave too. Call it a day, grab a drink, forget any of this happened.

But he doesn’t. He stands there, watching the studio doors swing shut behind you.

And for reasons he can’t name, maybe pride, maybe curiosity. He gets the feeling this won’t be the last time you guys see each other.