rodrikstark's headcanons (part 5)

heat (d. brackett x reader)

you swear, even the ceiling is sweating on you.

it's ninety-two degrees in new york, the air conditioning is broken, and "i'm literally dying," you realize, clawing into the hardwood. the cool surface affords only a scrap of relief from the humidity sticking to every other inch of you, so the fatigue still weighs on your limbs, to the point where you're not able to smack danny away when he tries to kiss you. "if you even touch me—"

defeated—but amused—he flops onto the floor beside you. seeing through the emptiness of your words, though, danny takes your hand. "i could go down the block and get some ice cream."

your mouth waters at the thought. you'd definitely prefer a brain freeze to this horrible, all-over viscous feeling, but a sweet treat isn't worth danny getting roasted alive outside, the concrete reflecting the sun, the guy at the bodega probably pissed at him for opening the door and letting the hot air in.

more importantly: you'd hate to make danny put his shirt on. "nah."

"c'mon." he drags himself onto an elbow. "the hell kind of boyfriend would i be, if i didn't—?"

"oh." you scoff, blinking away sweat. "i didn't know you were my boyfriend."

"did i forget to tell you?"

"tell me?"

"sorry. ask you." and danny grins, in that big, sunny way that revives your urge to smack him.

when he moves over you once again, your throat tenses, grappling for the right words to push him away this time. he mouths at your salty skin while you think, his forearm slipping beneath your waist. "i'm not good at this stuff, danny."

you like him. a lot. enough to let him touch you, even in this heat. enough to come over to see him today, even though you knew damn well that his air conditioning was broken. but not enough to—

"i don't need you to be good at it." he surfaces slowly, his eyes a calm, earnest blue. "i just need you to want it." and he nods, so sure of himself and his intentions. so sure of you, somehow. "the rest, we'll figure out together."

a little scared of what you'll say next, you scratch at the short hair just behind his ear. usually, that's a sign for him to kiss you, but he hovers above you now, out of your reach, letting you think.

"i want..." the admission leaves you, half a joke and half a pathetic truth: "ice cream."

he tilts his head.

"and if you got me some—" you swipe a bead of sweat on his temple with your thumb. "i guess that would be a very boyfriend thing of you to do."

finally, he laughs, and though it makes you smile, you regret asking, because he's already rolling away to get dressed. "what flavor?"

whatever gets him in and out and back to you the quickest. "surprise me."