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Mason was a lot of things: techie, engineer, inventor, hacker, getaway driver and general support, team member and friend, criminal (but not, he would argue, supervillain -- he was too much in the background for that). He was also a stagehand, and that had expanded his skill set a good deal.

"Are you planning to eat tonight or are you going full stereotypical mad scientist on me?" Beck, who would absolutely be the first to call themself a supervillain if the press somehow dropped that ball, spoke up from behind him, and Mason grunted. It took him a moment to actually parse the words, but then he paused in his welding, turning slightly on his stool and glancing back.

"What time is it?"

"A little past seven. You've been shut up in here for hours, you need to take a break."

Mason sighed. Now that he'd actually taken any kind of break in his work, he could feel the stiffness in his spine and his fingers, a slight twinge in his wrists. "You're right."

Beck smirked at him. "When am I not right?"

"Don't set me up for such an easy line."

"Very funny. You didn't take it, though," Beck pointed out. They stepped closer as he stood, rolled his neck and shoulders, trying to get a better look at what he'd been working on and wrinkling their nose at the acrid smell of hot metal sparks. With how many chemicals they worked with, the fact that that was a scent that bothered them was kind of funny. Their eyebrows shot up when they saw the cape, a rich purple, brighter than the one they'd been using as Mysterio so far. "You figured it out?"

"Pretty sure I'm on the right track." Mason had been trying for two solid months to make some sort of bulletproof fabric. Some attempts had been too heavy, all of them had been too stiff; anything that had actually worked hadn't moved like fabric should, not even close. This metal, though, at least looked like fabric, and... "This isn't just strong, it should spread the impact out across the entire surface, making it easier to stand up to the force. The problem is if it's too stiff. Forget the fabric effect we're going for, we don't want it cracking..."

"Congratulations; you're a genius; I shouldn't have asked." Beck took another step closer and put a hand on Mason's shoulder. At some point Mason had looked back over at the cape, but turned his attention back to his partner when they leaned up to kiss his temple. "It'll still be there later. Maybe tomorrow."

Mason had to smile, at the gesture and at Beck's insistence. "Are you trying to tempt me away from my work?"

"I'm succeeding at tempting you away from your work," they corrected dramatically, and easily slipped right back into their normal speaking tones. "And telling you that our food is going to get cold if you keep getting distracted."

"Our food?" Mason was, for a moment, puzzled, but as Beck led him out the door of the little area the two of them had sequestered away for his workshop, the metal and ozone smell that had permeated the air gave way to more delicious scents, and he blinked behind his glasses. "Wait, you cooked? You didn't need to wait for me to eat."

"I didn't need to make you reheat it later, either," Beck pointed out. "Besides, you do plenty of stagehanding for me. Least I can do is snap you out of it when you disappear into your inventing hole for eight hours. Did you even have lunch?"

"I had a sandwich with my coffee." Mason raised his hands, amused, half in surrender and half as if to ward off further insinuations. "I am getting better about this."

"You are," they agreed, "but believe me, I know how hard old habits die. Now come on: dinner, drinks, and a show?"

Dinner was steelhead trout with lemon and dill, grilled acorn squash, and white rice. Drinks were a couple of glasses of Pinot Noir each, and the show was, of course, a movie -- 2001: A Space Odyssey specifically, one they'd seen half a dozen times before.

Truthfully, for Mason, the show was Beck. The movie started out more in the background while they ate and chatted a bit, but as they finished their food and started on their second glasses of wine Beck's attention wandered to the film more than once, as they idly told Mason about how Kubrick and his crew achieved 2001's various practical effects. "Bill Weston should be at least as big a name as Keir Dullea," they opined. "And Trumbull should be as well known as Kubrick. I want to see that Tree of Life movie solely for him; he hasn't bothered with Hollywood in almost thirty years and I don't blame him."

It wasn't the first time Mason had heard... well, most of that, anyway. It felt like every time he listened to Beck describe a movie's effects, its crew and its stuntmen, even go on some tear about remakes or sequels or translating stage to screen, he just loved them more. It was a helpless feeling, and in all other areas of his life he liked feeling like he was mostly in control of the situation, but this...

This was something he'd dedicate the rest of his life to. Gladly.

"This is the better line of work," Mason said instead of that. Beck knew all of it anyway -- knew what he meant even now, by the way they glanced over at him and smiled.

"We probably shouldn't be thinking about work any more tonight," they said, raising their eyebrows at him and smile spreading into a grin. "You want to finish up here, get to bed early?"

That sounded incredible, and Mason smirked at him, but replied, "Let's finish watching this first. You're better than any behind-the-scenes features."

That made Beck blush, in way that outright flirting sometimes did not. Then again, Mason pretty much was outright flirting by saying it, and they both knew it. "Sounds good to me."