Writing in the Raine

Then what is it? The two of them were sat way too close together. The villain had been smiling, laughing brightly just before their eyes had fallen on the sidekick.

“I don’t care,” the sidekick snaps coldly. “I’m telling [Superhero] about this.”

That earns a tight hold on their shoulder as they move to escape. “No,” the hero says. “No, she don’t need to know about this, this is—”

“You wouldn’t think she would!” The sidekick tries and fails to shrug the hero’s knuckle-white grip from them. “Why else would you be sneaking around like this?”

“Keep your voice down, [Sidekick], please. Look.” The hero sighs deeply, steering them out of earshot of the villain slightly. “[Villain] is giving me vital information on what’s going on in their little cult, okay? They trust me. They’re giving me details [Superhero] wouldn’t be able to torture out of them.”

“Then—” The sidekick’s voice catches, lost. They glance over and catch the villain’s eye as they take an unbothered sip from their glass. “Then why are you hiding it?”

“[Superhero] would kill me if she knew I was voluntarily hanging out with a villain.” They shake their head with an idle shrug. “Thinks getting too close to them will foster too much of a real relationship. She doesn’t want us to get too attached to any of our opponents.”

“Then why—”

“Because we’ll never take them out with the information we have. Infiltrating is our only bet at destroying this thing once and for all.”

The sidekick worries their lip, refusing to give the answer they know the hero is searching for in their face. It’s bad. The superhero would hate to know this is happening behind her back, and the sidekick would be in for it if she found out they knew about it.

But how many years has the agency been fighting this syndicate? Maybe they need a breakthrough—maybe the hero will get them the information they need so badly to put a stop to this at the source. A knife to the heart of their little operation.

The hero clearly sees something in their expression, because they put both hands on the sidekick’s shoulders and try for a comforting smile. It looks a bit pained, but the sidekick doesn’t say anything. “Just give me a little longer,” the hero says quietly, “and we can bring this thing down together. You and me. Okay?”

“O-Okay.” The sidekick glances down at their feet. “But I agree with [Superhero]. Don’t let all this hanging out make it too hard to face them on the field.”

“Of course not, [Sidekick]. I’m better than that.” The smile is much more confident this time. They think they’ve won. “It’s intel, nothing more. [Superhero] doesn’t need to know anything until we deliver her this entire string of criminals in cuffs.”

The sidekick nods shortly, and the hero clearly takes that as a silence agreement. They ruffle the sidekick’s hair before turning on their heel and returning to where the villain is patiently waiting at their table.

The sidekick, as well, turns for the street to escape this whole situation. “You have a sidekick now?” they hear the villain ask sweetly.

“Oh, no,” the hero says with a laugh. “My cousin’s kid. Very righteous little thing.”

“I can see that. Not going to be a problem with [Superhero], are they?”

“Of course not. They know to not say anything.”

After a few minutes of adjusting to being awake and the crucifying migraine accompanying it, they pull themself to their feet and carefully shuffle towards the inklings of light on the opposite wall. Throwing the curtains open is, in hindsight, not their best idea—the sun is very much up, illuminating the room like a nuclear blast and forcing the hero to shield their eyes.

Once they get used to it, though, they can finally see the room they’re in. Lavish, vintage. An ornate table and chair sit in the centre of the room that the hero miraculously didn’t trip over.

“Um,” comes a voice from the doorway. “Could you close the curtains please?”

The hero whips to face the voice, instinctively reaching for a weapon they should’ve known wouldn’t be there. The villain is in the doorway, a step out of the natural light, a bowl in their hands, the tiniest grimace on their face.

It’s not a secret what the villain is. The hero’s hand immediately goes to check their neck, which seems to scrunch the villain’s expression into something more offended.

“I’m looking after you,” they add drily, “if you hadn’t noticed.”

The obvious question comes out before the hero can think how to say it. “Why?”

“Close the curtains and I’ll tell you.”

The villain can’t come in here, of course not. This is a safe haven—at least until the sun goes down. “What, so you can suck me dry?”

The villain snorts at that, the last sound the hero was expecting to come out of them. A spoon knocks loudly against the side of the bowl in their hands. “You think I wouldn’t have done that when you were passed out in the street?”

Whatever’s in that bowl smells divine. The hero’s stomach growls embarrassingly loud, which the villain politely pretends to not hear. “I have some food for you,” the villain continues after a moment of silence. “I figured you’d be hungry. Your recovery’s been rather on and off. You’ve barely eaten since you got here.”

The hero edges forward, and when the villain holds the bowl out they reach into the shadows to snatch it before they can be dragged out from the light.

It looks like some kind of stew. A spoon rolls against the rim as the hero tips it to look inside. “I don’t understand,” they say flatly. It’s all they can think to say, really, and the villain seems unimpressed that the hero hasn’t moved past it yet.

“You don’t have to understand. You barely understand me as it is.” The villain brushes an invisible speck of dirt from their trousers. “If it makes you feel any better, let’s just say I’m trying to get you to recover because you’re fun to fight, okay? Eat your food.”

They turn on their heel and disappear down the corridor before the hero can complain. That’s probably for the best for both of them, because the hero doesn’t have much else to say than the questions the villain’s already shown no interest in properly answering.

~~

When the villain returns later that evening, just before the sun sets behind the skyline in the distance, they’re surprised to find the hero’s room coated in thick darkness. They peek in through the door, half expecting the hero to try and leap at them, but instead they‘re sitting on the edge of the bed. They look up when the villain lightly raps on the door.

“And now you knock, jesus christ,” they mutter. “Curtains are closed, alright? Can you tell me why I’m here now?”

The curtains are, indeed, closed. The bowl the villain gave them is sitting empty on the table, so the villain shuffles in to pick it up.

“Well?” The hero’s voice is sharp. At least they’re feeling better than before. “Why am I here, [Villain]?”

“I was worried,” the villain says faintly, “and I’m old enough to remember what etiquette is in such a situation.”

“Bullshit. Give me a real reason.”

“Is it such a stretch that I might not want you to die from whatever disease you’ve given yourself?”

That gives the hero pause. Only momentarily though. “Yeah, it is.”

“I don’t want to suck your blood, [Hero]. I’ve already drank today.”

“Oh, which poor innocent was that?”

The villain fixes them with a stare until they shift uneasily. “It was a cow,” they offer eventually. “I don’t drink human blood.”

“I see,” the hero says with a flat laugh. “You took up a life of villainy, but you draw the moral line at killing people to drink their blood.”

“That’d be an awful way to die.” The villain grimaces. “I may kill, [Hero], but I try to do it with kindness.”

“What? You don-”

“You seem to be feeling better,” the villain hastily cuts in. “Front door’s down the stairs, the big double doors on your right. You’re welcome to leave whenever you feel ready.”

They ignore the frown on the hero’s face as they hurriedly whisk the bowl away and escape the room.

The hero doesn’t leave, much to the villain’s disappointment. They linger in that room as the villain tries to make it apparent that they’re trying to clean their presence out.

It comes to a head when the hero stands as they enter to wipe the table down, several days after their initial conversation. The hero’s eyes are steely, much too determined for the villain’s liking, when they say, “I’m gonna figure out what your deal is. You saved my life, helped me recover, and didn’t even take a drop of my blood. What’s your game, [Villain]?”

The game, to the villain, is finding the politest way to get the hero out their damn house. They’re not sure how many ways they can explain that, when they were turned two-hundred years ago, this behaviour really was just etiquette. They’ll be damned if they let time erode their manners, and they certainly won’t let a prying hero wear them down.

The medic unfurls the strap from their arm and looks at them so intensely it feels impossible to look away. A slight frown furrows their brow when they ask, “What, your big guy scarier than ours?”

A hint of a smile twitches traitorously at the villain’s mouth. “If you think a villain's boss is nicer than the good guy’s boss, you need your head screwed back on. If he found out I’d let on to anything I‘d be dead on the spot.”

“Well, it’s not too much better here.” The medic drops their voice, leaning in so close that the villain can smell their perfume. Light, sweet. “This business is dangerous if you’re not careful. [Superhero]’s had his fair share of kills to keep himself out of [Supervillain]’s peripherals.”

“Well, [Supervillain would love nothing more than to know what he’s up to.” They scoff humorlessly. “So all that killing is doing him a fantastic job.”

“Amazing news!” The medic steps back, a smile beaming on their face. “I’ll let him know you said that.”

Shit. Not again. The villain stands a little too fast and almost knocks their head on the low-hanging light swinging above them. “No, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay, [Villain].” The medic’s already out, sliding the door shut, safely at arm’s length as the villain’s slip up catches up to them. “You’re lonely. Every conversation matters in a little hole like this, doesn’t it?”

The villain should burn this place to the ground. They should want to smite the medic where they stand. They’re a puppet of the agency, they know that. The medic’s smiling at them gently, like they understand. Why do they always let their guard down around this one idiot? Why are they so desperate for someone who isn't on their side?

They summarise this with an apt, “Fuck you.”

That seems to humour the medic. They huff a little laugh, their eyes crinkling as their smile grows. “Maybe one day, [Villain].”

And without another word they turn on their heel and let the door slam echo around the little jail like a bell tolling for the villain’s death.

The villain rubs their face in their hands as they flop back down on their rock-hard bed. Why? Why is it this one innocent-looking freak that gets to them so much? If anyone else came in here they wouldn’t say a word. Hell, they’d start a fight if pushed. But this one medic, this one person who speaks in soft tones and acts like they don’t hate the villain—well, maybe they’re right. Maybe the villain’s just lonely. That’s a better explanation than anything else the villain themself can come up with.

“Oh,” the hero says again. “I appreciate that. Well, as you can see, I’m alright.”

The superhero narrows their eyes slightly. “Yeah. I can see that.”

The hero seems to catch on then, suddenly standing a bit straighter. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s, y’know…” They gesture vaguely. “I’m just coming out of it now. Recovering. I’ll be back full-time soon, I promise.”

“Yeah.” The superhero clicks their tongue. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know if—”

The superhero isn’t listening. They shove their way, ignoring the hero’s protests as they scan the hallway. A door is open on their right, a light on and the sound of boiling water slinking out. Another door, right at the end of the hall, is ajar, the light off. The rest are closed, but the superhero pays them no mind. They have their points of interest marked down.

The kitchen first. The hero trails after the superhero them uselessly as they take in the pot bubbling on the stove, the hum of music from a nearby radio. “You seem really ill,” the superhero offers flatly. “So ill that you can cook.”

“Yeah, just making some pasta.” The hero hacks an uneasy laugh. “Light on the stomach, y’know.”

The superhero gives them a long stare that seems to burn into the hero’s very soul. Nothing of note in here, but that doesn’t get the hero off the hook just yet. “Sure,” they say eventually, turning back for the hall.

That room at the end of the hall still has the light off, but the superhero is undeterred. They take two steps towards it before the hero leaps in the way with a nervous laugh.

“You’ve gotten the idea I think, [Superhero],” they say urgently. “I appreciate your concern, but you’ve no need to ransack my house for proof of sickness.”

“I’m not necessarily looking for proof of sickness, [Hero].”

The hero stammers some kind of lacklustre defence as the superhero pushes past them and nudges the last door open.

Someone is in the bed at the end of the room, that much is clear. Whoever it is stirs slightly, and a faint, familiar voice rasps, “[Hero]?”

The superhero gently pulls the door shut to face a very distressed-looking hero. “Uh,” they start uncertainly. They have to admit that they’ve not had to handle this kind of situation before. “Why is [Villain] in your bedroom?”

The hero looks like they want to be anywhere else. Their eyes land on anything but the superhero. “They’re, uh…” A heavy sigh, weighed down by guilt and shame. “Ill.”

The plain pasta. The sick days. It’s so stupid how obvious it is, but then again the superhero didn’t really expect this to be the answer.

“Really ill,” the hero continues anxiously, like words will fill the gaping hole of betrayal. “They’ve been down and out for days. They’re barely awake, not really there when they are, they just seem so weak, I just…” A moment of uncomfortable silence fills the air where the superhero can feel their face slowly contorting into distaste. “Being a hero is about helping people. That’s what I’m doing. We can’t stop villainy if these people aren’t being looked after.”

“You do realise,” the superhero says slowly, “that bringing a villain back to full health just means they can go back to committing crimes.”

“I’m getting through to them,” the hero refutes, the words a frantic jumble. “They’re changing, I can feel it. Let me keep them until they’re better. I’ll prove this has been worth it.”

A sigh escapes the superhero. “No,” they manage after a long moment. “Heroes shouldn’t be caring for villains and I can’t make any exceptions. Get them out by tomorrow or you can consider your job gone.”

The stare the hero gives them is entirely blank. “I’m a hero,” they say flatly. “Helping people is what I do. I should be—”

“No, [Hero],” the superhero cuts in calmly. “You help people. Villains are not people. Think about whether you’d prefer to keep a criminal in your home or your job.”

They don’t wait for an answer; they don’t want to. The superhero leaves the hero at their bedroom door and quietly lets themself out.

First time for everything, they suppose. Maybe they should’ve gotten the villain kicked out there and then. Maybe they should’ve fired the hero on the spot for the mere idea of helping a villain.

“And the mind for some bite.” The villain sighs, bending down the scrape the pieces of his beloved vase off the floor. “And I can’t get out, this is my house.”

Why the hero is in the villain’s house, even the villain’s unsure. He’ll never admit to the fact his stomach flipped when the hero went down, or that he tried so hard to stop the blood leaking from the hero’s wounds. The hero will never know that his potential death was the first thing that really scared the villain in his entire career.

And he doesn’t need to know. The way he’s practically snarling would suggest he’s not interested in any of the events that got him here, anyway.

“I’m not your prisoner,” the hero continues.

“Never said you were.”

The hero briefly looks like he’s at a loss for words, like he wasn’t expecting the villain to agree with him, before he turns right back to being angry. “Then why the hell am I here, huh?”

The villain’s been trying to think of a good answer to this for the past few days, and now he’s being asked it’s obvious he doesn’t have one. What does he say? He panicked at the thought of the hero dying? He’s suddenly decided the hero isn’t worth the effort to hate? He doesn’t know.

The villain shrugs idly, trying to seem nonchalant but probably just coming across nervously twitchy. “The job’s no fun if you’re dead now, is it?”

The hero doesn’t seem to entirely believe that, but some of the rage seems to release in his face. He looks alright, the villain decides, when he’s not mad all the time. His eyes seem kind, his face soft. He doesn’t look like someone the villain would usually pick on.

The villain hated him years ago, in school, like many hero-villain duos do. It seemed easy to go for the nerd, and it seemed even easier to pin the blame on him when the resentment got too much and he hit back.

Adulthood made it worse, if anything. Something about that little brat getting into the agency, the place where all the shining stars go, hit a nerve. The villain had the option to let it go, to let the old animosity fizzle out, but he just couldn’t. He stalked the hero into this career purely because he hated him.

And the hero hates him too, that much is clear. He’s thankful that it’s equal. But the hero has been staring him down here, angry as ever, and it doesn’t feel so equal anymore. Something’s changed, but the villain can’t quite place what.

“If you’re done destroying my property,” the villain adds, “I need to put new bandages on.”

The hero looks like some horrific realisation has hit him. “You’re looking after me?”

“Unfortunately for both of us, yes.” The villain settles on the stool next to the bed, grabbing a roll of bandages from the little table next to him. “Move your arm.”

“Not a chance.”

“I need to replace the—”

“And let you do what you want when you think I’m vulnerable? You’re insane.”

“You are vulnerable. Move your arm.”

“If you seriously think I—”

“Have you not noticed that you’re not dead?”

That shuts the hero up for a moment, thankfully. “If I had left you there,” the villain continues into the tense silence, “you would have died.”

The hero’s gaze drifts, seemingly uncertain for the first time… maybe ever. All the lingering anger seems to have dissipated with the surprise, and now more than ever he just looks like some normal guy.

“You’re welcome,” the villain adds faintly.

The hero doesn’t stop him as he carefully swaps the old bandages out for clean ones. The silence now feels calmer, less taut, broken every now and then with a sigh or the slicing of more bandaging.

“I don’t feel particularly saved,” the villain continues coldly. “I feel mostly like you’re trying to corner me. What do you want?”

The hero sets the plate in their hand down on the little coffee table between them. “For you to get better and get out my house, honestly.”

The hero’s house is offensively nice, if this bedroom is anything to go by. The fact they can fit a coffee table and a sofa between the giant king-size bed and the door is evidence enough. That and the fact there’s an en-suite bathroom in here.

The hero steps back with a bored sigh. Such a tiny, idle noise is almost enough to make the villain want to throw their pillow at them. “Eat and we’ll talk afterwards,” they add plainly, and with that they make for the door and sweep out.

The villain waits until the door is closed and the hero’s footsteps have faded to nothing before leaving the safety of the bed. They double check the hero is definitely gone, and once they’re sure they’re alone they flop down on the sofa with a tired huff.

It still hurts to move, they can say that. Whatever burden’s been laid into their shoulder likes to remind them every-so-often, twinging mockingly even now as they lean forward to grab the plate from the table. They don’t really remember how they got it, honestly, but they remember being caught out by the superhero, remember feeling trapped, remember—

No, they’re not doing this now. The villain lets the food take their interest instead. It looks like some kind of curry, thrown on top of a pile of fluffy rice. It smells good, they must admit.

The hero returns half an hour later to the villain sitting in the bed and the food mysteriously vanished from the plate. “Ah,” they says with almost believable happiness. “You actually ate it. Good.”

“I threw it away,” the villain snaps back, “because I don’t trust you.”

“Obviously.” The hero smirks slightly, a look the villain absolutely hates. “Shall we talk?”

The villain’s lip curls without them realising. “Why are you acting so goddamn weird?”

“I thought you found me weird anyway. Come sit down.”

They can’t deny that. They sit on the sofa as far away from the hero as physically possible, which isn’t far enough considering the thing is only made for two people. “Do you remember what happened that landed you here?” the hero asks carefully.

The villain shrugs, an action they realise too late shoots pain through their shoulder. “Not really, so your explanation better be damn good.”

The hero nods along idly. “It’s no surprise; you’ve been out for a week. I was starting to think—”

“It’s not been—” Surely not. They haven’t been trapped in the hero’s house for a week. But… they were feeling rather out of it for what felt like multiple weeks, to be honest. “It’s been a week?”

“And a day,” the hero adds unhelpfully. “[Superhero] was there. He’s had a vendetta against all of you since the beginning, but recently he’s been going down a path most of us are unwilling to follow.”

“So what? He hates us, that’s not new.”

“No, but his attitude is. We— I care about rehabilitation.” The hero doesn’t react to the sarcastic scoff that gets. “[Superhero] used to as well, but nowadays he seems to care more about killing criminals than helping them.”

“About time one of you grew a backbone,” the villain comments with a snicker. “We’ve been egging you on for years.”

The hero doesn’t mirror the villain’s amusement. “If I hadn’t been there, [Villain], you would’ve died.”

That sobers them up. They clear their throat, dropping their eyes to study the dregs of sauce raked around their plate. “And you didn’t think that me dying would save you some hassle in the future?”

“I think if [Superhero] had gotten a taste for it, it’d be harder to stop him.” The villain can feel the hero’s stare burning into them. “I sacrificed a lot to save you, you know. I hope you realise that.”

“Oh no, your boss now thinks you have the moral high ground.” The villain scowls, their head shaking slightly. “Whatever will we do?”

“Another thing about [Superhero] is that he doesn’t let anyone stand in his way,” the hero adds quietly, “not even his allies.”

The hero lifts the hem of their shirt slightly, and the villain’s first reaction is to look elsewhere. But curiosity gets the better of them, and they are faced with a white bandage hero’s side, brown and red bruising peeking out from the edges. The bandage itself is starting to lose some of its colour to the splotches of deep red freckling its pristine fabric. It looks horrendous, to put it lightly.

“That’s his doing,” the hero tells them.

“Your lot’s definition of an ally is screwed,” they offer plainly, and that somehow breaks a tiny smile on the hero’s face.

“He’s beyond reason. I wanted to save you because he doesn’t represent what heroes are meant to be, and I don’t want anyone dying because of him.”

“So I’m meant to be your, uh…” The villain grapples for a word awkwardly. “Proof that rehabilitation works?”

“Maybe in the future. Right now I’m more focused on keeping people alive.”

“Am I alive enough to not be caged in your house anymore?”

The hero snorts a laugh of sorts. “Well, you’re well enough to argue with me, and I don’t need you trying to escape by breaking something, and I do want you to leave, so… I guess I can let you go.”

Twenty minutes later, the hero is seeing the villain to the door with firm instructions on how to recover their poor shoulder. It's quicker than the villain was expecting, but they're not complaining.

“Well, I guess, despite, y’know, you being you, and me being, uh, me,” the villain starts haltingly, “thanks for not letting me die.”

“You’re welcome,” the hero says mostly convincingly as they swing the door open. “Looking forward to seeing you back on your a-game once your shoulder’s better.”

The villain clicks their tongue impatiently. “You’ll see me as long as you don’t try and rehabilitate me like some kind of sad dog.”

They expect the hero to laugh, but they mostly just nod thoughtfully. “I think you’d make the right choices, [Villain], given the option,” they offer with a light smile. “Maybe I can help you make them, one day.”

“I don’t think you heard me.” The villain snaps, although the venom of it is missing. “I don’t want to change.”

“Okay,” the hero says with a shrug. “See you on the street, in that case.” And without waiting for a response they shut the door in the villain’s face.

The villain sulks most of the way home. They’re not some hero’s project, and they’re certainly not letting themself get brainwashed to prove a point. The hero’s bandaged side is still on their mind, though, and they can’t help but wonder why the hero would put themself in harm’s way like that. Surely that wasn’t just to stop the superhero. They could’ve done anything to stop him, and they chose to save the enemy’s life.

It feels weird. Wrong. Doubt starts to settle like a thick fog in their thoughts. Why? Why?

“Are you the assistant?” the hero asks incredulously.

The villain’s face contorts in offence as they give themself a once over, as if they need to find why the hero would ever think that. “I’m the tailor, thank you. What do you need?”

Good to see that the villain is still an ass outside of their villainous work. It would probably be weirder if they weren’t.

“This—” the hero holds up their bag, containing their shredded suit “—has been decimated.”

The villain holds their hand out expectantly and the hero hooks the straps over their palm. “It’s in bad shape,” the hero adds awkwardly.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

The villain ushers the hero through the curtain and into the back. Something flowery wafts through the air here, a round podium taking up most of the central floor space. The villain drops the hero’s bag on a lavish looking work table and unzips it to survey the damage.

They don’t flinch at the hero’s suit before them. “Yours or a friend’s?” they ask casually.

This is almost definitely a trap. Is it too obvious to deny it? Are they asking for a fight if they don’t? They’re off the clock right now. They can’t be bothered starting something when they’re not even getting paid.

They can’t take their eyes off the villain as they tenderly open the suit, ghosting their fingers over the giant tears in the fabric. Tears they caused. There’s no way they don’t recognise it.

“It’s a friend’s.”

The villain hums shortly. “Tell them to come in. This is unsalvageable.” A notepad gets dropped on top of the suit. “I’ll need to measure them to make a new one.”

Shit. “You could, uh, measure me?” the hero suggests uncertainly. “We’re a, uh, similar size.”

For a moment the villain gives them a blank stare, like that’s the stupidest idea they’ve ever heard, then their eyes narrow slightly, then they raise their eyebrows, then they turn around with an age-old sigh to grab a tape measure and notepad from the table. “Fine.” The villain gestures vaguely to the podium in the middle of the room. “Up there. Jacket off.”

The hero doesn’t like a single one of the expressions the villain just pulled. They drop their jacket over a chair and hop up onto the raised platform. The villain follows, carefully unrolling the tape measure. The hero barely knows where to put their eyes as their nemesis’s hands drift over them. An arm pushed up here, a leg adjusted there.

“You’re not very subtle, by the way,” the villain says quietly, so quiet the hero probably would’ve missed it if the villain didn’t breathe it into their ear. “I know this is for you, [Hero].”

An uncomfortable laugh slips out of the hero’s mouth before they can stop it. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Neither do I.” The villain nudges the hero’s arm higher to measure the underside of it. “I certainly don’t start fights, you know that.”

The hero huffs as the villain notes something down on their notepad. “What happened in your life to make you into a tailor, then?”

“Villainy doesn’t pay like being a hero does,” the villain retorts flatly, “and anyway, I’m good at tailoring.”

“How do I know you’re good at it? You might destroy my suit even more for all I know.”

The look the villain shoots at the hero is nothing short of scathing. “Have you seen [Other Hero] recently?”

“Sure.”

“And did you notice anything different about their suit?”

The hero tries to picture it in their head. “No?”

“Exactly. Shut up.”

The villain steps off the podium to drop the notepad on the table, running a hand over the suit. Their finger catches on a clean rip across the shoulder, pulling their attention from where they were reading their scribble from their notes. “Is this from our little showdown in the drive-through?”

The hero can’t help but laugh a little as they jump down from the podium to collect their jacket. “Yeah.”

A ghost of a smile appears on the villain’s face before they seem to sigh of the happiness out of themself. “Making something from scratch will be time-consuming. Come back in two weeks.”

“Two weeks? I can’t work without it!” the hero cries. “What the hell am I meant to do?”

“I dunno.” The villains shrugs idly. “Get a normal job like the rest of us? Two weeks is me being nice.”

The hero scowls as they throw their jacket back on. “You suck.”

“Nothing you didn’t know already.” The villain gives them a sarcastic smile. “Now go away. Two weeks.”

The villain huffs angrily, but she adjusts all the same to let him see her injury. “You haven’t even said thank you for any of this,” is all she has to say to that.

The hero carefully lifts her shirt to study the gash on her side. It looks much better than it did when he first ended up with her sleeping on his sofa, but it still has a ways to go before it’s healed. She sighs and tuts and tries to hide her discomfort when he replaces the gauze.

“I know I’ve asked before, and I know you had no interest in giving me a straight answer,” he hero starts as he carefully smooths a hand over the new bandage, “but why would you do that?”

He doesn’t say what that is. He knows she knows. The way she avoids his gaze and shuffles uncomfortably on the sofa gives that away.

“My bad, I didn’t think you liked getting shot,” the villain says hotly. “Sorry for keeping that experience from you.”

The hero pulls her shirt back down and tries to catch her eye. She doesn’t let him. “Look, [Villain],” he tries gently, “I know you don’t like me. I just don’t—”

“Don’t like,” the villain cuts in, “is the understatement of the century.”

“I know. I’m—”

“I hate you.” The villain is seething now, her voice traitorously shaky. “You’re a liar, you’re a thief, and you’re an entire sack of shit. You’re the goddamn scum of the earth, y’know? Don’t think I’ve ever, ever forgotten what you did to me.”

And then, a little more hesitantly, “And I’ll never forgive myself for falling for it.”

The hero worries his lip for a moment, waiting. She doesn’t add anything. “Then why would you take a bullet for me?”

“Because I’m stupid.” It comes out too quick. “Because you ruined everything and made it complicated for me.”

The hero can’t think of a good answer to that. He doesn’t need one; she keeps going. “I know you never thought it was real, but I did.” She sniffs pitifully, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. “I really thought we might be able to change for each other. I thought all the times you planned our dates, and brought me flowers, and told me you loved me, I thought it was real. But I don’t really know what I was expecting. Heroes don’t change.”

“I’m sorry, [Villain].” It seems ridiculous to say, like it’s all he has to offer. “I— I knew it would be hard when I left. I didn’t want to put that strain on you, but by the time I realised that I cared what happened to you afterwards, it was too late to back out.”

The villain finally meets his eyes, like she’s searching for something behind them the hero knows isn’t there. “Stop it,” she says sharply, her voice uncertainly quiet. “We’re not doing that anymore. I’m done with you lying to me.”

“You’ve taken a shot for me,” the hero continues carefully, “because, I think, some of those original feelings can’t be shaken off. Now, think for a second, [Villain]—if you did that, why do you think I brought you here to heal the wound?”

Some sort of croaky laugh tears itself from the villain’s throat. “Either you finally realised you feel bad for what you did to me,” she suggests with a sigh, “or you thought it’d be funny to make me experience your sad, beige living room one last time.”

“Hey now,” the hero retorts with a smile. Genuine, the hero finds, more genuine than it has been in a long time. “I bought that blanket because of you.”

The villain studies the throw sitting on her lap, running her finger over the raggedy lines in the stitches. “This is barely not beige. It’s khaki.”

“Khaki,” the hero repeats sarcastically, and now he can see the slight smile on the villain’s face too. “It’s green, you weirdo.”

“Green with an undertone of beige.”

The two of them laugh shortly, and the silence that follows isn’t completely tense.

“Look,” the hero starts, his voice cautiously soft, “I know I screwed up. I know I’ve broken your trust. You’ve no reason to like me, but…”

The villain’s staring at him now, a slight furrow in her brow. She always looked like this when she was concentrating—hair falling over her face, lip caught between her teeth, that little furrow in pride of place between her brows. He always thought it was the cutest thing in the world. He still does.

“If you’d give me the chance,” he continues after a deep breath, “would you give it a second try? For real this time.”

The furrow deepens. “I have no more information to give you.”

“Oh, I think you have plenty,” the hero says with a smirk. “For example, you never told me when your birthday is.”

Something not entirely negative flickers across the villain’s face. “If you’re lying to me a second time, I’ll be obligated to kill you.”

“Sounds fair to me.” The hero pulls the blanket up to the villain’s shoulders, brushing a stray hair from her face. “I’ll let you think about it, anyway. I’ll go make you something nice—how’s a full English sound?”

“Divine,” the villain says lightly.

The hero shoots her a gentle smile, one he’s glad to see her return, and makes for the door. His hand is on the handle when she pipes up, “By the way…”

He glances back at her. Her hands bunch the top of the blanket, her cushion tucked cosily behind her head, a slight grin on her face.

The villain starts after the hero, his footsteps echoing to give away his approach. The hero glances over his shoulder, spits a quiet, “fuck”, and fumbles for something in his pockets. The villain comes up behind him as he drops his knife on the floor with a mocking clatter.

The hero turns to grab it but the villain moves faster, tucking the blade under his shoe and flicking it behind him. “None of that,” he says plainly. “I’m not here to fight.”

The hero looks like he could cry all over again. He wipes at his nose, his gaze averted to anything but the villain. His hand still clutches at his shoulder, and now the villain’s looking at it he can see a messy crimson circle spilling out from under the hero’s palm.

For god’s sake, he’s too soft to be a villain. “What happened?” he asks gently.

The hero’s mouth works for a moment, words seemingly evading him, before he croaks out a simple, “nothing.”

“I don’t appreciate the assumption that I’m blind here,” the villain snaps. “You’re bleeding and crying, walking down a dark alleyway. That’s not normal heroic behaviour to me.”

A moment of silence, filled by the hero's snivels. “My life’s fallen apart,” the hero says through new tears, “because of who I am.”

“Cheers to that.” The villain steps closer, and the hero doesn’t stop him when his hand runs smoothly over his back. “I know how it feels.”

The hero shakes his head slightly, his face tilted down to the floor. “No, it’s not- it’s not the same.”

“Then tell me what it’s like.”

“I-” A sniff, another wipe of his nose. “I’m a man.”

It’s such an obvious statement said so seriously that the villain can’t help but laugh. The hero’s face turns even more downtrodden, though, so the villain regains his composure with a quick clear of his throat. “What’s that meant to mean?”

The hero worries his lip for a long moment, his eyes locked onto his own shoes, “I’m trans,” he says quietly, like speaking too loud would kill him, “and the agency didn’t like that.”

The hand on the hero’s back stops for a moment, and the villain can feel him tense slightly at the pause. “I’m sorry,” the hero continues. He’s already pulling back, putting distance between them. “Please don’t- don’t kill me.”

The villain whips to look at the hero so fast the poor man actually flinches. “Don’t kill you?” the villain spits, appalled. “Is that how low the bar is?”

The hero looks lost for words, wide eyes searching for a clue on how to defuse this. “The agency tried,” he says eventually.

It’s now that the villain realises he feels a little sick. Even his own moral compass is skewed by all this, just as the agency’s clearly was.

He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say in this kind of situation? I’m sorry? I hope it gets better? Do you want me to kill them for you?

The villain sighs. “It’s okay,” is all he can think of. “Let me take a look at this.”

The hero stares at his hand like he’s offering him a grenade, but after a moment he inches closer. The villain snatches his arm before he can change his mind.

The villain helps the hero shrug his shirt from his shoulder. He doesn’t miss the fact that the hero keeps his shirt carefully poised over his chest. “Not exactly a killing blow,” the villain says drily as he takes in the damage. “But shockingly bad aim if it was meant to be.”

He roots on the inside of his coat for some wipes and bandages. The hero watches idly, still snivelling every now and again. He flinches at the wipes, no matter how careful the villain is. He hisses through his teeth as the villain wraps the bandages tight around him. Blood’s already seeping through it by the time the villain’s stepping back to admire his handiwork, but the hero frankly looks exhausted. It’ll do.

“Alright.” The villain puts a hand on the hero’s back again to steer him. “Let’s get you some rest.”

The hero stops, the pressure on his back almost toppling him over. “I’m not going to your evil lair.”

The villain laughs again, and this time to hero doesn’t shy away from it. “You’re not going to my evil lair,” he soothes, his fingers running circles on the hero’s back, “you’re going to my house, where I can keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Look, [Hero]-” the villain gives the hero a little push, and his legs start moving again “-I have a certificate in advanced first aid. You can see it in my house if you don’t believe me.”

The hero laughs shortly, an awkward snorting noise that the villain doesn’t hate. “Do villains need first aid responders?”

“Not officially, but they do like me for my amazing healing powers.”

The villain walks the hero to his house, setting him up on the sofa with a blanket and a pile of cushions. He knows most villains would scream at him for this kind of stupidity, but what’s he meant to do? Leave the hero there, hurt and traumatised?

The hero and the villain both give her stares of horror and delight. “Ooh,” the villain says with a smirk, “daddy plays favourites?”

“You’re here to listen, honey,” the hero jumps in curtly when she starts to nod. “You don’t need to respond to anything this criminal says.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” the villain continues, their gaze locked dangerously onto the girl, “I get it. I was bottom of the barrel in my parents’ eyes too. Why do you think I’m like I am?”

A small smile breaks on her face, and the hero can see the opportunity the villain is clearly trying for here. “She’s here to learn about the agency, asshole,” he snaps. “She’s not taking anything from you, so back off.”

“Oh, sorry.” The villain holds their hands up with a laugh. “I thought we weren’t swearing in front of the young, impressionable mind.”

The hero heaves a deep sigh. Just ten minutes. Ten minutes of interrogation and he can send this trash back to their cell. He glances back down at the file on the table. Keep it in check. “[Supervillain] sent you, I presume?”

“I have all the time in the world to not answer your questions, [Hero]. You’ll never know. Maybe I’m a lone wolf.”

“There’s been sightings reported of you conversing with her and pulling off coordinated hits. Multiple times.”

When the hero glances up from the file in front of him, he can tell he’s caught them. Their face is blank, mildly pissed off at best, the cogs clearly turning behind their eyes. “Would you like to present me with all your evidence first, officer, or are you just interested in seeing how far I can get on bullshit?”

“I’d mostly like you to tell me outright what you think you’re playing at, but I doubt I’ll ever get that lucky.”

“I’d like to hear some bullshit,” the hero’s daughter adds innocently.

The villain barks a harsh laugh as the hero shoots her a glance. “Don’t say things like that, sweetheart.”

“Incredible,” the villain manages from behind another laugh. “You are so much more fun than your dad.”

She leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. “What’s it like being a villain?”

The villain puffs with pride, shooting her a grin. “Oh, so much fun,” they say brightly. “You don’t go by rules. You live by your own morals, and when weird little snobs with a superiority complex—” they nod their head to the hero “—try to stop you, your friends come together to help you out. We live and die together. It’s a good place to be.”

“Sounds like a great time,” the hero’s daughter says with a wistful sigh. “More fun than all the seriousness going on here.”

“Hey,” the hero snaps, and she only shrugs.

“You could be one of us,” the villain continues, their voice much too inviting, his daughter much too invested. “You have the attitude. You could live how you want, on your terms. No one tells you what to do.”

“[Villain],” the hero cuts in, his voice dangerous, but the villain only has their eyes on his girl.

“Doesn’t that sound freeing?”

She nods, a smile light on her face. “How do I get in?”

The hero stands, pulling his daughter up with him. “Absolutely not.”

“There’s a gate in the back of the old school, downtown,” the villain says quickly as the hero drags her to the door. “Tell them I sent you. [Supervillain] will meet you personally. She’ll just a—”

The door slams shut and the hero pulls his daughter down the corridor slightly. He knows these rooms aren’t totally soundproof. “What on earth are you doing?” he snaps coldly. “You’re going to get yourself killed acting like that. When we go back in there, you stop talking, you hear me?”

“That school they were talking about was the school I got deferred to last year,” she says bluntly. “I know it well.”

“That’s not my point, you’re inviting—”

“[Villain] can control electricity, [Supervillain] controls water,” she continues over him, confident, almost blazé. “I go in with [Villain], I could get the two of them in the same room and electrocute the entire place. Villainy's little anchor would be gone.”

The hero blinks at her dumbly. “How do you know that?”

“It’s on Google, dad. All the villains have their own wiki pages.” Her tone is disinterested, as if this is obvious and boring to explain. “I could burn them from the inside. If they think a hero’s kid wants to turn to villainy, they’ll be so blinded by their success in getting me that they won’t see that I was never on their side.”

He has no response to that. He’d just expected to come out here and talk some sense, and possibly some morals, into her. “A fake turncloak,” she adds unhelpfully.

“I don’t know what that is,” is all he can think to say.

His daughter tuts, glancing past him and down the corridor. “Can we go back in now?” she asks. “I haven’t got them totally on my side yet, I can tell. Release them tonight and I’ll go with them. I’ll be back by the weekend with their flames in my wake.”

“Okay, you’re not a poet,” the hero says tiredly, “and you’re not putting yourself in danger like that on my watch. We have [Villain] right here—we’ll figure something out.”

“Like what?”

“Like— Like, you know—” The hero grapples for an inkling of a plan. Frankly his daughter’s is taking up too much brain space. “I don’t know yet, honey, but—”

“Cool.” She slips past him and back to the interrogation room. “Then let’s prank this idiot.”

She doesn’t wait for him before she swings the door open. “Yeah, apparently, evil is, like, bad,” she says with a typical teen sigh, and the hero can see the wink she shoots the villain before the door closes behind her.

He can’t believe he’s going along with this. He’ll need to tell the superhero before he gets his daughter involved in anything. He can’t deny that it could work, though.

He sighs, his hand on the door handle and listening to the whispers thrown between his daughter and the villain inside.

Any other day, the villain would’ve leapt up and taken the intruder on with his bare hands. But today is not any other day, and he can only watch as his bedroom door silently swings open.

Damn, he knew he shouldn’t have oiled those hinges last week.

“Oh,” the hero says faintly from the doorway, as if he’s surprised to find the villain in his own house. “You’re not looking so good.”

The villain lets out a sarcastic wheeze that sends a surge of pain through his chest. “I wonder whose fault that is.”

The hero approaches the bed, almost nervous, and the villain can see his nemesis’s favourite weapon tucked at his side, the metal protruding from his hip like it’s part of him. Maybe it is. It certainly seemed like it when it turned on the villain before.

The hero tsks humourously, the sound almost lost on the villain deafened ears entirely. “Those are the words of someone who didn’t dodge fast enough.”

“Can we stop dancing now and get to the good bit?” It’s intended to be sharp, harsh, but the lack of energy makes it come out like he’s begging. As if the villain ever would. “It’s a little unprofessional to follow your enemies home, but I think this might be for the best.”

“Oh, would you like me to fix you a drink while you bleed out, sir?” The hero breathes laugh, his usual grin worming teasingly onto his face. “Read you one last bedtime story?”

It’s a beautiful set up from the hero, really. On any other day, the villain would’ve laughed in his face and accepted either of those offers before putting him in the ground. Today is not any other day, so the villain just sighs and simply says, “I’d like you to put me out my misery.”

The grin on the hero’s face, patiently awaiting the usual retort, slips. The villain can barely find it in himself to put a name to the emotion his nemesis is slowly falling into.

“[Villain], wh—” The first flickers of uncertainty from the hero the villain’s ever seen. “I can’t do that. You know that’s against my hero’s code.”

“Eh, well,” the villain manages from behind halting breaths, “maybe it’d work out better for us both if you were the bad guy for once.”

The hero’s eyes flick over the villain’s face, then the crimson halo slowly seeping into the sheets, then, for some reason, at an ornate watch on his wrist.

“Alright,” he says confidently, like he’s just concocted a perfect plan in those three seconds. “Alright, I have fifteen minutes before the Agency starts asking where I’ve gone. Can you walk?”

“You can shoot me lying down, [Hero], I’m not wasting the last of my life obeying your orders.”

“It’s not an order, you moron,” the hero snaps, somehow gentle and annoyed at the same time. “It’s a request, and this is definitely not the last of your stupid, badly-spent life. Come on.”

-

Five days pass in what the villain assumes is the hero’s house. Not a decision the villain would’ve made, but he’s had five more days to judge the man about it than if he hadn’t made that decision, so really he can’t say too much on it.

The hero’s been in and out, much like the villain’s consciousness. A bandage here, a bowl of food there. Soft words, softer touches. When the villain meets him with more clarity and finds a smirk on the idiot’s face, his first worry is that he’s said something nice in his half-alive stupor.

“You’re more awake than you were,” the hero comments idly. “That’s good. Up to eating?”

The villain stares at his reflection in the soup the hero’s holding out to him. The blood caking his face before is gone, the giant gash the villain remembers the hero giving him barely a pink line now.

He’s better. Maybe the villain isn’t as awake as he thought, because this treatment, from the hero of all people, is rather charming.

He takes the bowl slowly, giving it a sniff. “Is it poisoned?”

“You’re definitely back!” The hero laughs, his smile wide and bright, and the villain almost smiles too. “No, it’s not poisoned. It’s not too flavourful, and the veg in it is nice and soft. Take your time.”

The villain brings the bowl to his lips and takes a sip of the broth. The hero wasn’t lying—tame, light, and not tasting even slightly of arsenic. “Thanks.”

It doesn’t sound natural to the villain’s ears, but the hero beams like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

The two of them sit in silence as the villain slowly works the soup down until it’s just a couple of carrots floating in a rather meagre sea. It’s warmed him nicely, woken him up a little. This care isn’t something the villain’s earned. Why is the hero doing this? Why is it making him so soft?

He’s been slowly planning his question, the obvious one, the one that’s been bothering him since the hero hoisted him out of bed and into recovery like he deserved it.

This question, carefully planned in the villain’s head, comes out as a rather pathetic, “Why would you do that?”

The hero shrugs, shaking his head slightly. “Any other day, I wouldn’t,” he offers with a light smile. “But it wasn’t any other day, and I felt like giving you another try.”

The villain nods and looks back into his soup. The hero, after a moment of awkward silence, adds, “Is that okay?”

Maybe any other day it wouldn’t have been. But today isn’t like any other day.

“Not exactly any of your business.” The villain tries to sound annoyed, but his energy is sapped and it mostly comes out tired. “The sooner you leave me alone, the better.”

The hero is quiet for a moment, and the villain leans his head against the wall to get a glance at him. A frown is forming on his face, his eyes darting back and forth in the way they do when he’s trying to piece things together. Then his gaze snaps back to the villain, and he quickly looks away.

The hero doesn’t seem interested in asking any more questions. He crouches down in front of the villain and, without asking, carefully lays a palm on his forehead.

For a moment the villain basks in the coolness of the hero’s hand against his internal fire. Then he remembers who he is, remembers who the hero is, and makes a weak effort to push him away.

“Touching your enemies usually gets your hand snapped off.”

The hero doesn’t seem to hear him. “You’re running a horrible fever.”

Well, no hiding it now he supposes. “I know, villains are human too. Shocking.”

The hero stays there for a moment, his frown deeper now, his tongue running over his teeth thoughtfully. He turns to glance over his shoulder, and the villain knows he’s looking in the direction of the agency.

He’d like to avoid seeing prison preferably. He’s not exactly in fighting condition, so words will have to do the fighting for him. “I’m contagious.”

“Obviously,” the hero says flatly, but he shuffles back a bit. “I don’t need whatever disease you have.”

“Great. Go away then.”

The hero looks over his other shoulder, and it’s not clear where he’s looking this time. He clicks his tongue, the sound too loud in the villain’s ears. “Where do you live?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s this or prison, [Villain]. I’m doing you a favour here.”

Goddamn heroes and their little games. The villain has no doubt this will come back on him somehow in the future. “I’m not far from here.”

-

The hero more or less kicks the front door open, much to the villain’s vocalised dismay. The two of them make an awkward stumble inside, and the hero doesn’t hide his relieved sigh when he gets to dump the villain on the sofa.

“Nice place,” the hero says, although the villain would guess it’s sarcastic. His place doesn’t fit his villainous persona in the slightest. Colourful walls, full of potted plants, his cat weaving a line through the hero’s legs.

“Don’t say a word,” the villains snaps. “Get me some water.”

“A please wouldn’t kill you.” And then, once the hero has disappeared into the kitchen, “Jesus Christ, [Villain], you went out with something on the hob?”

Oh. Maybe this fever is eating away at his brain more than the villain thought. “Ha, totally forgot about that,” he mumbles. “Oops.”

The hero reappears from the kitchen with his deepest frown of the evening, a glass of water in one hand and an electric fan in the other. The glass gets shoved into the villain’s hands before the hero sets the fan on a side table and turns it on.

The breeze is divine. The villain fumbles with his pocket for a moment to grab the medicine he bought, cursing at the fiddly packaging. The box gets plucked from his hands, and the hero snaps it open in one easy move and drops a pair of painkillers into the villain’s palm.

“Good lord,” the hero says faintly as the villain carefully takes the pills, one by one. “You’re a mess.”

The water is smooth on the villain’s sandpaper throat, only ruined slightly by the disgusting rasp of the painkillers. “Thank you for your kind words,” he manages after a moment. “You can go now.”

The hero glances back at the kitchen, then down to the box in his hand, and the villain hates that he can see the train of thought chugging through his nemesis’s head.

“I’d better not,” the hero says eventually. “I’ll stay.”

For a moment the hero ignores them. A paintbrush drifts back and forth in his hand, his brow knitted in concentration. He leans back to study his work, his head tilted slightly, and says, “I’ve been here the whole time.”

The villain can see that. The painting in front of the hero can’t have taken anything less than a week. They glance about for a moment—the walls are covered in art, all in various states of completion. “Well, when are you coming back out? You’re kinda needed.”

The hero moves closer to his painting, the brush dipped lazily into a colourful blob of paint before taking to the canvas. “I’m not.”

The villain barks a laugh, and that seems to finally get the hero’s attention. He turns his stool around to give his nemesis a blank glare.

The villain has to clear their throat. “You’re not coming back. Ever.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The hero sighs. Paint spatters the front of his shirt like fireworks, his hands brown and green and blue and white. He seems more tired, more drawn—his shoulders sag, his eyes droop, his posture slouching. He looks every bit as done as he says he is.

“Because being a hero is hard work,” he says flatly, “and I have decided that I’m done with hard work.”

“You—” The villain barely knows where to start. “You can’t just quit. People in the city need you.”

The hero chuckles, turning back to his painting. “You sound like [Superhero].”

“Yeah, well, it’s true. Being a hero doesn’t mean you just get to leave when people need you! You can’t— you—”

“Are you my arch-nemesis?”

That gives the villain pause. “Huh?”

“You’re talking a lot about how much people need me for someone I thought would be happy that I’m out of the way.”

“I’m insulted you’d imply that I’m anything less than your arch-nemesis,” the villain snaps, “but it’s not that, [Hero]. I need you to go back out there.”

The paintbrush pauses halfway to the canvas. “You don’t.”

“No one does it like you do.”

“There’s good heroes. You’ll find them.”

“None of them are you, [Hero].”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“By the agency’s standards, I’m dead.”

The villain’s next retort dies on their tongue. “What?”

The paintbrush continues on its journey across mountains ridged with paint. “The agency thinks I’m dead. I was starting to think they might’ve sent you to tell me they figured me out.”

“I could tell the agency you’re still here.” The villain shrugs nonchalantly, even though the hero isn’t looking in their direction. “If you wanted.”

The hero huffs a laugh. “That would involve going to the agency, and you’re not going to do that.”

The villain groans, throwing their hands up in defeat. “Why can’t you just undie and come back out?”

“Like I said,” the hero says with an age-old sigh, “I’m done with hard work. I never liked being a hero anyway.”

“But…”

“No buts, [Villain].” The hero’s eyes are glued to his painting, clearly more interesting than his nemesis at his back. “I’m done. Find a more willing hero to bother.”

“Fine.” The villain throws the door against the wall a bit harder than is necessary. “I’m going—but this isn’t the last you’ll see of me.”

“What?” the hero snaps, but the villain’s already drifted down the hall and back out into the night.

-

The superhero carefully settles into the seat opposite the villain. “It’s not often we see villains just… roaming into the agency.”

“Aren’t many reasons to, usually.”

A notepad flips open in his hand. Good—he’ll want that. “So what’s the special occasion?”

The hero isn’t in any rush. He always catches his prey. This may be the villain’s life on the line, but to the hero this is a simple game of cat and mouse.

He finally gives chase as the villain disappears around the corner. It’s not hard; the villain’s barely halfway down the road when the hero catches up to him. He cuts the thief off, bringing him to a skidding halt, but this isn’t capture to the villain—it won’t be until the hero has him practically unconscious, probably. The thief turns on his heel and leaps down a side-alley.

The hero always found it funny that these fiends still try to escape him, even after his reputation started to get around—he always catches criminals, and it’s always worse for those who think they can get away.

Clearly this one hasn’t heard the stories. The hero blocks his escape, grabbing onto his shirt so he doesn’t try doing a one-eighty again. The villain makes some noise that sounds a bit like, “Augh!”

“Nice try,” the hero snaps coldly. The villain looks terrified, for lack of a better word. “Now give me the stuff you’ve stolen.”

With shaking hands, the villain reaches into his coat. The hero tenses, prepared to snatch a weapon away, but after a moment of fumbling the villain presents him with a single apple.

“You should know better than to mess with a hero.” The hero tightens his hold on the other’s shirt. “Show me what you actually took.”

The villain pulls a pained face. “That- That’s it. That’s all I took. It was a grocery store, there wasn’t much else to take.”

He barks a laugh, once, awkward. The hero isn’t laughing. “They sent me after you for an apple.”

He can kind of see it now. His shirt is crumpled, his coat plain, his hair neat. The expression of a scared animal. The hero scowls—this isn’t a villain.

He gives the thief a shove, sending him stumbling back. He almost trips over a brick laying on the floor. The sight makes the hero feel even more tricked.

He holds his hand out expectantly. “Give me that.”

The civilian looks at the apple sitting in his palm. Then he sighs and puts it in the hero's expectant hold.

“There’s nearly no money going into this city,” he comments as the hero takes a bite. “None of us normal people can afford anything.”

“Get a better job then.”

“Not all of us can be heroes.”

The hero glances at him. It sounds like it’s bordering an insult but the man isn’t looking at him, so he simply hums in disinterest before heading back to the shop.

“Thank you!” the shopkeeper cries when the hero appears in the doorway. “Did you catch the thief?”

The hero takes another bite of his apple. “No,” he says flatly. “What’d he take?”

“Basically my whole shop!” The shopkeeper gestures vaguely to the shop behind her, which frankly looks more ransacked by the hero’s entrance than an actual thief. “He’s probably taken half my profits for this month with him.”

The hero nods idly. He’s only half listening—he’s busy reining in his annoyance. “Sorry he got away, then.” The apple crunches loudly into the following silence. “Better luck next time.”

“Thank you for trying. I’ve no doubt he’ll be back—I’ll call you then!”

The shopkeeper shouts that last part, since the hero’s already checked out of the conversation and is making his way to the shattered front door.

The hero laughs, bright and loud, and the villain can’t help but admire the confidence. “Your attempt to save your poor comrade is commendable, [Supervillain], but I think I’ve earned this catch,” she says, the arrogant smile clear in her voice, “haven’t I, [Villain]?”

The very thought of their little battle is very clear in the villain’s mind. This certainly isn’t the moment to remember how she grappled with him, and definitely not how she so easily flipped him onto his back.

Maybe she won because he didn’t mind losing to her, but he’s not saying that out loud. He just nods to avoid opening his mouth and letting out any telling sounds.

“You don’t earn my friends,” the supervillain snarls. It’s almost animalistic, this protectiveness. The villain’s finding he doesn’t mind that either. “Now let go.”

The supervillain leaps for the hero again, and she’s so busy preparing her cocky response that she realises too late. She moves out of range, but the supervillain grabs a hold of the villain and pulls him to safety.

The villain practically trips into him with how sudden it is. The supervillain wraps an arm around him protectively, his hold tight, and earnestly asks, “are you okay?”

The villain’s mind is running at a million miles an hour. He thought it was bad enough having a thing for his sworn enemy, but this is different territory entirely. “Yeah,” he manages, though it doesn’t come out as much more than an embarrassing squeak. “Yeah, fine.”

The supervillain nods, once, short, and returns his gaze to the hero. “You’re messing with the wrong guy, [Hero],” he snaps coldly. “Let’s put an end to this.”

The villain can’t say anyone’s ever fought over him. But the supervillain and the hero clash, their insults spat over who deserves him, and he can’t help but revel in it a little. He knows he should help the supervillain—they could bring the hero down together, the two of them, a team—but he’s barely in it anymore. The adrenaline of it all, of the fight and whatever the hell is going on with him right now, has worn him out.

The hero leaps for him before he even realises the pair’s fight has swung in his direction. The supervillain grabs a hold of him as the hero’s blade rests itself against his neck. The three of them stand like that for a moment, the villain painfully aware of everything: the supervillain’s hands, hot on his sides, the hero’s glare intense and cutting. Her chest is heaving slightly, and the supervillain is similarly panting a little, his breath warm on the back of the villain’s neck.

It’s a little much, being in the middle of all this.

“I can arrest him,” the hero offers lightly, “or I can cut him open right here. Up to you.”

“I’ll tear your head clean off before you get the chance to do either,” the supervillain says, his voice grating.

“Uh,” the villain starts haltingly, “do I get a say?”

“Do you—” The hero looks at him like he’s lost his mind, like the idea that he decides what happens to him is crazy. “You know what, yeah. Sure. Would you like to be arrested or would you like to die?”

The supervillain scoffs, but his grip on the villain tightens in a way that’s more telling than words would be anyway. Protective, possessive. Wanting the villain to choose him because that’s the obvious choice.

And the hero, her blade speaking of her need for him in a way her eyes are carefully guarding. A need for him to be in a cell, sure, but he wouldn’t mind if she were there, or if the supervillain was there to blow the wall clean off it and help him escape.

He wishes he hadn’t said anything. It’s a surprisingly difficult question to answer.

The villain laughs, the sound too nervous. “You can arrest me if it means you’re putting me in cuffs and bending me over your car.”

The hero’s face contorts into something that’s not entirely disgust, and the supervillain takes the moment to pull the villain out from under her knife and kick him into a run.

It’s a miracle they get away. The supervillain eventually shepherds the villain into a dark corner of the city to check him over, looking for any signs of injury, his hands gentle against the bruises blossoming under the villain’s clothes.

“Good distraction, saying that to the [Hero],” the supervillain says with a laugh once they start on their way again. He pats the villain’s shoulder proudly, a smile warm on his face. “Really threw her off.”

The villain’s not sure how to say that his little distraction was practically a true statement. That, or that he thinks the same thing of the man walking next to him.

The villain has a lot to process after tonight before he says anything stupid like that, though. So he nods with a light smile and simply says, “Thank you for coming for me.”

“You know I always will.”