#i want the blue flame look but they turn the palette too chill immediately

[flufflecat]

save me from color scheme hell

[dreadhaus-literature]

{January Collection} #7

Hearth

Monday Theme: Multiples Monday

“Oh my god, not AGAIN!”

The frustrated yell could have come from anyone in the apartment building, but it originated from Apartment 4B. Monica’s head dropped back to rest against the arm of her couch, her tablet dead in her lap, dark like the rest of her apartment. Why? Because the storm raging outside had knocked out the power, again. And it wouldn’t be a huge issue, with the exception that she had a deadline to meet...that she may or may not have been procrastinating on working on, because the Sims is addicting and her publisher just didn’t understand!

“No, what you don’t understand is that demand for your series is through the roof and we need to release the next book in the series to fan the flames! Give your fans what they want!”

That had been the end of the conversation, with her publisher not hearing the tail end of her sentence--that she didn’t care what her fans wanted, the main hero was going to die at the end of the book anyway. He was getting too popular and she hated it. And do you know what else she hated?

Power outages, because it left her unable to work on her next book cover. Talented to a ridiculous degree, Monica was one of the few authors who was actually skilled enough to write and illustrate her own novels, which was partly why she was so successful. The other part was just pure, raw talent, for creating worlds readers wanted to crawl in and never leave. She was on top of the literary world right now, and her publisher was under the impression if she kept riding these waves there might be talks of movie deals in the future--

“But only if you can prove you can meet deadlines!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Monica all but growled out in the dark, as if her publisher was in the room with her. She might have wailed her dead tablet at her head if she had been, but noooo, Keli was across the city, likely with power. And heat. Goddamnit, the heat was out because of the power outage, and Monica became very aware of that the moment she threw her blanket off her legs to grab her cell phone. Her tablet was laid on the coffee table, and hopefully the auto-save would have captured her most recent additions to her sketches because honestly she couldn’t remember the last time she saved. Swiping to turn on her phone’s flashlight, Monica resisted the urge to shiver as the residual heat settled near the ceiling and left her legs chilled. The apartment building was eerily silent, with most of it’s occupants likely not noticing the power was out as they were asleep, but Monica did her best work at night...which would be fine, except there was no natural light to substitute the power being out.

Flashes of lightning tossed shadows carelessly around her dark home, and she fought to keep a damper on her over-active imagination while she tried to work out a strategy. What could she do? She could go to bed...but a single glance at her bed and then her phone’s time nipped that idea right in the bud. There was no way she was going to bed before 2AM, what a waste of a night, power or no power. But she couldn’t sit up and stare at the wall with her phone’s light, either. And it was just going to get colder the longer the power was out, with no heat. Monica stood in the center of the room with one hand on her hip, chewing the inside of her cheek as she turned the problem this way and that, trying to come to a decision that made some sort of sense. She couldn’t do anything about the power issue, or the heat...but there were common areas in the apartment building that had fireplaces! She could light a fire, and use the light to draw in one of her sketch pads! That way, she wouldn’t lose the spark of creativity, and she’d be warm in the process! And the best part was that the common areas would likely be empty, given it was so late. Granted, that was just a guess, because Monica kept to herself, but it was still an educated guess!

Ten minutes and two stubbed toes later, and Monica was pulling her dark apartment door closed, sketch pad, utensils, and water bottle in one hand, keys and blanket in the other. The hallway was thankfully lit by the emergency lights and Monica snuck a glance down the opposite end of the hallway toward the elevators, sending up a silent thanks that each floor had common areas so she wouldn’t have to go down four flights of stairs to execute her brilliant plan. Just down the hall and around the corner and she cleared her throat quietly, listening to the relative silence of an apartment building forced into the dark ages by an awful January storm. Monica started down the dim hall, eyes taking in the difference of a building that was normally extremely well lit; it was too bad she wasn’t working on a horror novel, because this would make for a perfect plot. A beautiful woman finds herself pursued by a tall, dark stranger through barely lit hallways--

“Oh, excuse me.”

Monica knew better, she fucking knew better, than to let her imagination run away with her when she should be paying attention and boy was she paying for it right now. She hadn’t been able to stop her squeal of surprise and wide green eyes snapped up, up, up to meet with the chiseled, distinguished features of a man filling out every inch of a red flannel shirt and blue jeans. He was impossibly tall and built like a statue carved from marble; Monica had honestly only seen physiques like this on famed superheroes, but she didn’t recognize this man. Beautifully kind blue eyes met her started green and already she could see a concerned apology clouding their depths; jet black hair was a little toussled as if he’d been running strong hands through it, and Monica was suddenly very aware she hadn’t brushed her hair before coming to sit out here.

She didn’t have any make-up on, either.

Son of a bitch.

“I am...so, so sorry, are you all right?” Clark Kent could not believe how insensitive he’d been! Startling this poor...absolutely gorgeous young woman in the dark like this...

Wow.

Holy wow. She was stunning.

“T-That’s...that’s okay,” Monica laughed a little breathlessly. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

Clark was left staring, wide-eyed behind his glasses, floundering for a moment or two before his brain realized he was supposed to be answering her! It was just...even her voice was enough to knock his socks off. Who was this woman?

“No, no, that was entirely my fault.” Clark recovered as smoothly as he could, his smile natural and returning immediately when her eyes met his. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you or anything, did I?”

It was completely inappropriate to touch her, of course it was--Clark hadn’t even bumped into her--but he couldn’t stop himself from gingerly brushing his fingers along her upper arms as if to steady her, but the touch lingered when he felt satin soft skin beneath his own calloused fingers. His throat ran dry, and Clark felt a little...out of his element. Hadn’t he adjusted to life on Earth? Learned what it was to at least mimic being human? Before this encounter he would have answered yes, but this was...new.

“I-I’m fine,” Monica tried hard not to focus on the way his touch felt, ghosting against the skin of her arms and inwardly she was really grateful she was still in a T-shirt. “I really don’t want you to worry about it! I wasn’t...really paying attention--”

“Everything okay, Clark?”

A second deep voice from behind the man Monica now knew was named Clark caught her attention--as well as Clark’s--and as Clark turned, Monica was met with another, equally impressive specimen of a man and where were they coming from? Was she sharing an apartment building with beautiful men this entire time and just didn’t know it because she didn’t socialize?

This other man was blond, and seemed to share the same height advantage Clark had--they also shared similar physiques, though this man was testing the limits of a T-shirt tucked ever so politely into the top of jeans that left nothing to Monica’s imagination. This man definitely did not skip leg day. The man offered her a smile, one that looked kind despite the hard, square cut to his jaw and a profile that could be on billboards. It took Monica a moment to notice that he was standing in front of an easel, a brush and palette in hand, a half-finished painting on the easel in front of him. The fireplace was lit, tossing heat and shadows down the hallway, and it appeared the blond was using the natural light of the fire to paint. This...gorgeous man was an artist? Monica was suddenly even more self-conscious, hugging her sketch pad to her chest as if to hide it.

“Yes, Steve, I just startled this poor girl.” Clark laughed a little sheepishly, and it was a laugh Steve mirrored.

“Is she okay?”

“I’m fine!” Monica interjected, not wanting Clark to feel bad or for this Steve to be worried. She cleared her throat, fidgeting on her toes. Now that she’d come around the corner...it was pretty apparent she was here for the common area, but it was one these two were obviously sharing. She didn’t want to intrude.

As if sensing her inner thoughts, Clark stepped a little to the side, opening up that broad posture as he gestured toward the common area. “Would you like to sit with us? With the power being out, Steve needed somewhere to paint and I needed somewhere to read.”

“Oh, no! That’s okay, I can go to the next floor.” Monica waved her free hand in front of her, shaking her head. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Steve couldn’t help wanting to throw his weight in with Clark’s offer. He really...didn’t want her to leave. “Company’s always nice.”

“The more the merrier!” Clark added, smiling wide enough to show perfectly white teeth.

Monica looked between the two, torn between her own shyness and her desire to share company with men she would consider so far out of her league...wholly unaware they felt exactly the same about her.

“W-Well, if you don’t mind...”

“Not at all!” Clark tried to keep the excitement out of his tone at her agreement, but he wasn’t sure how well he did. “I’m Clark, by the way.”

“Monica,” she offered, and shook Clark’s offered hand. Despite their size difference and the strength she could feel in those fingers, he shook her hand with the utmost care.

“Beautiful name.” The compliment slipped from his lips before he could censor himself, and Clark tried to cover the blunder by releasing Monica’s hand and gesturing to his friend. “Steve, this is Monica.”

Steve Rogers set his paintbrush and palette on the table, wiping his hands on his jeans just in case, before he closed the distance between himself and Monica in a few powerful strides.

“Hello, Monica. It’s nice to meet you.” Steve’s handshake was a little more firm than Clark’s, but Monica had no way of knowing it was because Steve was more nervous. He had...little to no experience around women--especially ones as beautiful as Monica.

Not that he thought there were any women as beautiful as Monica. She was a bombshell, an absolute knock-out and he...had been shaking her hand too long.

Steve released Monica’s hand with a smile that was tinged just a little with nerves but he recovered by stepping back and gesturing toward one of the open arm chairs in the seating area.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

The seating area was intimate and small, but that was because this floor housed larger apartments for the more elite of the building, so she didn’t have too many neighbors and Monica idly found herself wondering about Clark and Steve and what they did that afforded them the luxury of one of the upper floors. Were they models? Was that a silly thing to wonder? They certainly could be...

Steve and Clark exchanged a glance as Monica took the offered armchair, both wondering the exact same thing she was--was she a model? Were they in the presence of one of those aesthetic elites? It would make so much sense; she carried herself with a natural grace that both men noticed, and she had a physique they couldn’t ignore no matter how many times their “nice guy” mentality told them to stop staring at her. As the fire kissed her profile, Steve cleared his throat because he felt his heart was hammering a little too loudly; he could still feel her touch in the calloused center of his palm. Clark had to resist the urge to run his hand through his dark hair. Both men, capable of such incredible feats, were fighting the urge to drop to their knees in silly schoolboy confessions of a crush on the prettiest girl in their apartment complex.

Honestly, the prettiest girl either of them had ever seen.

“I was going to go make some coffee.” Clark spoke up to break the silence, eyes on Monica. “Would you like some?”

“I...Well I actually usually drink tea,” Monica admitted. “I’m getting over a cold, though, so maybe something hot would be good no matter what--”

“I can make you tea.” Clark hated to interrupt, but the moment he heard she was sick, he couldn’t resist wanting to offer what would make her feel better. “With a little honey and lemon for your cold?”

Monica’s smile was shy, but genuine. “That would be...honestly, great, Clark. Thank you so much.”

Clark nodded and spared a glance at Steve--who didn’t even notice, because he was still staring at Monica. Clark resisted the urge to chuckle, and he turned with a quiet courteous, “Be right back.”

Steve was thankfully jerked from his longing stare at Clark’s exit, and he moved back toward his easel, which thankfully was positioned to give him the best light from the roaring fire--it also afforded him the ability to see Monica from his peripheral without any issue. Steve hated to admit, even to himself, but it would have been an issue if he couldn’t see her.

“Are...Are you an artist?”

Monica’s timid question caught at Steve’s heart, transporting him back nearly a century to a scrawny kid from Brooklyn and he couldn’t resist meeting her curious gaze, a soft smile on his face. He may not be that boy anymore, but he was still Steve, and Steve was a man who took care of others. He didn’t want her to be nervous in his presence.

“Not professionally,” Steve supplied, glancing between Monica and his half-finished painting. “It’s more of a hobby, something that calms me, takes me out of the moment when I need an escape.”

It was a sentiment Monica could relate to, and that lowering of Steve’s guard also lowered hers, so that she felt comfortable resting her sketch pad on her lap--it caught Steve’s attention immediately.

“You draw.” It came out a statement, but an incredulous one.

“W-Well, y-yes, I mean,” Monica stammered through an explanation that wasn’t really one, too shy at the idea of Steve seeing her sketches or even finished pieces. “It’s nothing, r-really.”

But Steve was already across the small space, so excited by this connection between himself and Monica that he forgot his usual propriety, dropping down to his haunches in front of her.

“May I?” Steve gestured to her sketch pad, but her slight hesitation caught his attention and he withdrew his hand. “I don’t mean to pry, I’m sorry, that was too forward--”

“N-No! I don’t...mind,” Monica laughed, mostly at her own expense. “My artwork’s already on display, it shouldn’t be a problem to share it with you.”

“On display?” The incredulity was back in Steve’s tone, and Monica fought the urge to squirm at how in awe he sounded.

“I’m...Well I’m an author, and I illustrate my own covers and I’ve...released a few graphic style novels, too.”

Steve wasn’t entirely familiar with what a graphic novel was, but he knew talent when he saw it and for the second time tonight, Monica stole his breath by the sketches the pad revealed. As soon as he flipped open the cover, Steve was transfixed by the expression on these character’s faces, the gracefully drawn lines--even the frustrated erasing told a story of a passionate artist with stories to tell and worlds to create. Some were merely sketches done in pencil, but others were fully completely drawings, color and all, and Steve turned each page like an art dealer searching for just the right piece--when every single one was more perfect than the last.

“They’re a little rough, some of them aren’t even any good--”

“They’re incredible, Monica.” Steve glanced up from her pad, nailing her to the chair with the sincerity in his tone. “I’ve never seen anything like these, before.”

Monica was more or less at a loss for words, staring at the raw honesty in Steve’s eyes and in the baritone of his voice. He spoke with a ringing truth that was hard to ignore, and Monica idly had to wonder if this man had ever uttered a lie in his entire life. When he turned back to her sketch pad, Monica continue to stare, transfixed by him and that strong profile. He had jawline for days, and the fire seemed to set his blue eyes ablaze. His hair looked soft, as if he had no product in it at all. Even with her seated he was every bit as tall as she was on his haunches, and his shoulders all but blocked the fire behind him. How...was his man even real?

How was this woman even real? Steve had no answer for his unasked question, just more fuel to the embers smoldering in his belly. She lived here? Had Clark known she did? There was no jealousy in Steve’s question, only curiosity at whether or not his neighbor and friend was just as awestruck by this angelic newcomer as he was. Steve was torn between appreciating the talent on the pages in front of him...and the vision sitting before him. So close he could scent her perfume and Steve fought off a blush at how sweet it was. Monica was turning Steve’s world upside down and he wasn’t experienced enough to know what was happening, only that he was entirely grateful for the power outage. He couldn’t imagine living here and not having ever known Monica was not only in the same building, but on the same floor. Reaching the end of her sketches, Steve opened to a blank page but didn’t close it. He carefully folded the cover back and then handed it to Monica, giving her a handsome, encouraging smile.

“You came out here to draw by the fireplace?”

Monica laughed a little shyly, nodding. “Great minds think alike, I guess.”

Blue locked with green and Steve felt his heart stammer in his chest, his smile deepening to show teeth and give away how much that adorable little quip had affected him--and it had, very much.

“Here we are,” Clark returned just in time to see Steve giving Monica that heart-stopping smile, and the Super Soldier straightened to his full height a moment later. Strangely enough...Clark didn’t feel jealousy to see his friend had been so close to what Clark could...only rightfully consider a crush. The only other way to describe it was love at first sight but just the fleeting thought nearly tipped Clark’s tray too far one way. He had to take this one step at a time; he couldn’t risk ruining his chances with his pretty neighbor.

As Clark set the tray on the table, Monica took in three cups, and noticed one was the thoughtful tea Clark had promised. The other two were black coffee, and she noticed both Steve and Clark waited for her to take her tea before they took their coffee.

“Thank you so much, Clark, this is so sweet.” Monica gave him a genuine smile as she sat back with her cup.

“You’re very welcome, Monica.” Clark returned her beautiful smile with a handsome one of his own. “So, what did I miss?”

“Monica’s an artist,” Steve supplied immediately. “She’s a published author and illustrator, and she’s extremely talented. She was showing me her sketchbook.”

Clark sat up a little straighter, totally dwarfing the chair he was already towering in as he turned wide, excited eyes on Monica. “You’re an author?”

There it was again, that incredulity and awe in Clark’s tone, the same tone Steve had when he discovered Monica’s talent. Monica cleared her throat, distracting herself with a sip of tea, using the hot, soothing liquid like a balm over shaky nerves. These two men paying her attention was...a little more than she could handle.

“Y-Yes, I am.”

“I’m an avid reader, I would love to read something of yours sometime.” Clark didn’t even try to keep the excitement out of his tone, this time.

“I-It’s...I’m not s-sure it’s something you’d like?” Monica lowered her tea-cup to her lap. “Some of them are classified as Young Adult novels, and I’ve got graphic novels but I’m not sure that’s for you either--”

“I’ll happily read anything you’ve done.” Clark’s statement rang with such truth Monica’s eyes locked with his. His smile was a touch reserved, but his eyes weren’t in the slightest. He meant what he said. “Whatever it is. Please.”

“A-All right.” Monica couldn’t help but oblige; the request was just too sweet, too genuine. “After...the power comes back, or before we turn in, I could...give you a copy. I’ve got some in my apartment.”

“I’d like a copy, too.” Steve couldn’t resist adding. “Whatever you’re planning to give Clark, please.”

Monica looked between the two men, only able to nod helplessly. There seemed to be nothing but friendship between the two, and it was a solid friendship considering the smile they exchanged at her nod. This was all a little surreal to her, but she wasn’t going to complain either way.

“So were you two friends before you moved in?” Monica asked, taking another sip of her tea. It was soothing and delicious, and that may have had a little to do with the man who made it for her.

“Yes,” Clark nodded with a smile that reached his eyes. “Steve and I have known each other for a while, now.”

“We just decided living near one another would make the most sense.” Steve added, dabbing his brush onto the palette.

What they hadn’t, or couldn’t, in Clark’s case, told her was that they knew one another thanks to their line of work--being a superhero was a lot easier when you have friends, and it just happened to work out Clark and Steve got along famously. It was a lot more than what could be said about the grudge match turned friendship between Batman and Iron Man. Steve raised his brows; with such similar sounded names, who would have thought they’d have such a hard time getting along?

Although, Clark would add they got along better than they realized they did, and heaven help anyone who dared cross one in front of the other. They were in for a world of hurt, be it physically or being sarcastically sassed to death. Yes, Bruce and Tony’s friendship was coming along well...though no one could say for sure whether or not that was a good thing.

Maybe Monica would be able to be the judge of that, one day?

“Do you live alone?” Clark asked. Steve’s brush paused on the canvas, and both men were inwardly holding their breath, waiting for news of a boyfriend or even worse, a husband.

“I do,” Monica missed dual looks of relief in lieu of setting her teacup down. “I actually don’t know anyone who lives here. You two are the first people I’ve met.”

Steve had to admit he liked those odds, and it was a sentiment Clark shared. Clark had taken the arm chair across from Monica, which left her open to Steve’s view and was a perfect compliment for his, so he could smile clearly at her.

“I hope we’ve made a good impression.”

“More than,” Monica nodded, hoping the blanket hid her nervous fidgeting. Clark’s smile was handsome enough to make her heart skip, and she could feel Steve smiling at her, too.

Silence lapsed, but it was comfortable, familiar. Steve was working on his painting, inspired like he’d never been before, and Clark found renewed interest in his book so that he could finish it and begin reading Monica’s as soon as he could get his hands on it. They may have asked her about their impression, but if she’d asked about hers...she’d made quite the impact on the two unrevealed Supers. Steve couldn’t resist sneaking glances every time he picked up his coffee cup, and Clark used the excuse of turning his page to glance up at Monica, who was hard at work with her sketch pad.

Time passed, coffee and tea disappeared into satisfied tummies, and the warmth of the fire seemed to weave ember-warm thread between the trio so that the air of comfortable familiarity was settling between them. Monica’s posture became more and more relaxed, something that pleased both men immensely, and they noticed when she worked that she had these adorable little mannerisms; beneath the blanket they could see her socked toes curl, or the way her hair spilled over her shoulder as she was concentrating on getting the sketch just right. It made sense to Clark that Monica was an artist; she herself was like watching living art. She was...beautifully distracting, and Steve had to wonder how he’d ever get anything done without the image of her smile distracting him.

The fire in the hearth dwindled, died down to embers as minutes turned to hours, and the symbolism was not lost on the Soldier or the Man of Steel as another log was added and the fire roared to life.

Monica had done the same thing to them the moment she’d come around the corner, igniting both of them instantly, like a spark that would turn a slow burn into a firestorm of passion--three hearts, one soul.