#invisibility

He paid attention in a way most people didn’t. Not the loud kind, not the prying kind. Just quiet observation, patterns, and pauses. He noticed the things others dismissed: the way your fingers twitched when a voice got too sharp. The way your leg bounces nervously when the room turns tense. The way your eyes never quite met anyone’s after a hard mission.

And most of all, he noticed when you were suddenly gone.

Not physically. Not entirely. Just… hushed. Faded. The kind of gone where your seat at the table was still warm, your plate barely touched. The kind of gone where you stopped making eye contact, stopped breathing deep, stopped existing in the room even if you were still in it. The kind where your powers were not needed at all to remove your presence from a space.

Then overtime, he learned the different ways you could vanish. And unlike others, he didn’t joke about it. Didn’t push or pull or guilt you back. He just waited. A silent and steady presence to turn to.

The first time it happened, he stood in your doorway for ten full minutes, speaking to the air. Not because he thought it would fix anything. But because he knew what it meant to be terrified, voiceless, and unseen, yet still wanting someone to come find you anyway.

After that, it became a kind of rhythm between you. A quiet understanding. Then, the similarities began to show themselves. You weren’t touchy, and neither was he. Your voice was soft, never one to stand out in a room full of people. He was quiet, selective who he spoke to as he watched more than he engaged. You didn't open up easily. But you know he also struggled to do so as well. And when the world pressed too close and you disappeared into silence, he was the only one who could sit with it without trying to fix you.

It wasn’t romantic, not in the beginning. But it was intimate.

In the moments you let yourself be visible, Bucky saw you in ways no one else did. The slight tilt of your lips when you made a dry joke. The way you tilted your head when you were curious, and the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t at you. He never made it a big deal. Never made you feel small, insecure, or unworthy. Not even when you couldn’t quite express how you felt and never for existing.

He just noticed. And remembered.

So when your door clicked shut, and you didn’t speak, didn’t eat, didn’t check in? He knew. Because this man had memorized both your presence and absence like a shadow. It was what led him behind your door now, knocking three times. Three simple, soft taps. The kind that asked for permission, not attention.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“Doll?” His voice was soft, the edge of gravel worn down into silk. “I know you’re in here.”

Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.

The door creaked open. He didn’t turn the lights on. He didn’t need them to know you were there. Sometimes you cursed his super soldier hearing.

“I saw you leave the training room without speaking to anyone. That’s not like you.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just concern. Measured, careful concern. He stepped in further, and you saw the glint of metal catch the moonlight through your window.

“I know what it’s like,” He said after a long pause. “To want the whole world to stop seeing you. To disappear because it’s safer that way.”

You turned your head slightly, though you weren’t sure why. He still couldn’t see you. No one could.

“I used to hide,” He continued. “Behind orders. Behind missions. Behind… the Soldier.”

The reference hit the air with a dull ache. He sat down on the floor, not too close, but close enough.

“I’m not sure what happened. Maybe I never will. But I know you don’t have to be alone.”

You heard a quiet rustle before spotting his hand reaching out, palm up, resting between you both.

“I won’t touch you. I won’t even look, unless you want me to. Just know I’ll be here.”

Your breath hitched. Not because of the panic, but because of him. He stayed yet again. You still can’t get used to it, like somehow you’ve convinced yourself you’re not worth it.

But minutes passed, maybe an hour or more. Who knows. Bucky had learned the hard way how to sit with silence. How to let it breathe instead of trying to fill it. How sometimes just being there meant more than any words.

But slowly, carefully, you let the invisibility fade. Like dust in sunlight. Your fingers, trembling and pale, reached out and barely brushed his.

His hand didn’t move. Instead, you heard his voice, gentle and soft.

“There you are,” Bucky whispered, a ghost of a smile upon his face.

Something in his chest loosened. Not relief exactly, but… a sense of trust. Pride almost. You trusted him enough to come back, to be seen.

Because for the first time all day, you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone nor unseen. He had stayed there, grounding you.

Your voice didn’t answer him, not out loud. You didn’t need to. Instead, you leaned just a little closer, the barest shift of weight, but he felt it. You were still trembling, but you weren’t hiding. Not from him.

He turned his palm so his fingers could wrap lightly around yours. Not tight. Just enough to remind you he was there.

“I know the world feels like too much sometimes,” He began quietly. “I don’t blame you for disappearing. I used to want to do it all the time. Hell, I did.”

He gave a short, hollow laugh; no humor, just memory.

“When I first came here, I kept thinking: If I can just vanish, if I can just keep still enough, no one will look at me like I’m broken. Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m one bad memory away from snapping.”

You shifted. Still silent, but listening. He could feel it.

“I saw that same look in your eyes today. Like you were made of glass and someone was swinging a hammer.”

The grip of your hand tightened slightly.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened. Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want. But if you need someone who gets it, you know I’m here.”

He tilted his head toward you, careful to keep his movements soft.

“No pressure,” He said quickly, a beat of hesitation filling the space before he added. “Just… if you ever wanna disappear, let me be the one who waits with you in the silence.”

A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Okay.” You nodded. It was tiny, fragile; but Bucky felt it like a damn earthquake.

You didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t move an inch.

The safehouse is a third-floor walkup, its stairwell coiled in rust, stinking of damp iron. Tokyo is a wall of rain and sodium light; the city here is never truly quiet, only ever pretending.

You and Masumi both make your way up until you reach a blue door with paint peeling off in ribbons. Inside, the air is thick—hot, fried street food wafting through a single open window. Neon seeps in, painting your skin blue and gold.

The living room is cramped—low ceiling, two tired futons, windows webbed with condensation. You’ve barely set your bag down when Ogiwara stumbles in after you. He’s young, round at the jaw and soft around the waist, cheeks ruddy from running. Tonight he’s been assigned to escort you both, and he’s all nervous energy, sidling too close as he points out the amenities—hot water, kettle, a shelf of canned coffee like an offering.

His eyes keep straying to your face, your hands, the slow way you shake out your wet hair. You barely notice at first. This happens everywhere you go.

It’s not that you enjoy it, this strange effect you seem to have on people (especially men). It just happens. You stopped being surprised years ago.

Your boots are soaked through. You kick them off, wincing, rubbing at your ankle as he chatters behind you.

He hovers, nervous, cracking jokes about “long nights” and “good company.” The tension is cheap and easy. You offer a small, polite smile. Your mind is elsewhere—on the ache behind your eyes, the cut stinging beneath your collarbone, the thunder rolling over the city. The mission with Masumi was too long, too close for comfort. You both nearly lost your lives—on more than one occasion—chasing the Momotaro group through rain-streaked alleys and pitch-black warehouses.

From the far corner, half-shadowed, jacket dripping at his side, Masumi watches. He’s silent, always silent, big eyes as hard as glass. You sense his attention before you see it—an invisible weight, prickling the back of your neck.

Ogiwara leans closer, voice lowered, “I'll be just next door. You need anything, anything at all, just knock.” He winks, broad and awkward, already imagining a story that will never happen. You simply nod, noncommittal. Masumi’s eyes are a weight on the back of your neck.

When Ogiwara leaves, it’s abrupt—the door clicks shut, footsteps fade. Silence tumbles into place. Finally.

Masumi moves, rolling his jacket with quick, tight hands, rain still dripping from his hair. He glances at the clock, then at you, all cold detachment.

“We’re not to leave until zero six hundred. You’ll keep to the room.” His tone is official, clipped. His gaze is flat and glassy, that razor-thin smile carved beneath dead eyes.

You nod as you peel your coat off, strip down to a skimpy tank top, not for effect but for comfort. Skin flashes, pale and marked by bruises earned. You reach for the first-aid kit, not thinking about the view you might be giving Masumi. Why would you? It’s just your body—a machine that’s gotten you out of tight spots more times than you can count. To everyone else, it’s a spectacle; to you, it’s survival.

He speaks again, voice low, almost bored: “You enjoy it, don’t you?”

You look up, thrown. “Enjoy what?”

His eyes narrow, mouth curving slightly. A smile on Masumi’s face is never just a smile. It’s something else. Something dangerous. You’ve seen men mistake it for kindness before. They don’t make that mistake twice.

“Watching men turn stupid over you. It makes you feel powerful, doesn't it?”

You blink, surprised. You want to laugh, but quickly decide against it. “I don’t do anything,” you reply, unbothered. “It just happens.”

He shrugs. “But you don’t do anything to stop it.”

You roll your eyes. He’s not accusing, exactly. Just stating facts, as if diagnosing a wound. He sits across from you, arms folded. The space between you is tight with static. The rain is louder now, beating patterns into the glass.

His eyes stay fixed. “Do you even notice?”

“I notice,” you say, quietly. “I just don’t care.”

You're bristling a little, but let it slide. Masumi’s opinions are a weapon—meant to provoke, not wound.

He studies you while you finish cleaning yourself up. You have to hike your shirt up to get at a nasty scrape along your ribs, the fabric riding high over your chest. The sting makes you flinch, but you keep working. When you shift, you tug the waistband of your trousers low enough to disinfect a cut blooming over your hipbone, baring more skin than you usually would around anyone else. Necessity doesn’t care about modesty.

The whole time, you feel Masumi’s eyes on you: steady, unblinking, cataloguing everything. Not the leer of a man easily flustered, but sharp, analytical—like he’s making mental notes of every old scar and new bruise. You keep your chin up, pretending it doesn’t matter, but the air between you winds tighter with every silent second.

You fake a yawn, stretching your arms overhead, arching your back as if you’re just tired, not strung out and prickling under his gaze. It’s a weak disguise, but you need the moment to breathe.

As you lower your arms, you mutter, “Some men would say anything for a smile.”

It’s a nothing comment—just air, just habit. You turn to grab water and—

Masumi’s gone.

The sudden emptiness is jarring. Your heart kicks up, nerves buzzing. You scan the room, and it feels wrong, angles off, as if the shadows are waiting for something to happen.

Confusion building, you sit upright on the futon.

Then hands catch your wrists, cold, sure, pinning you back down. Hot air shivers by your cheek, radiating from nowhere. A flicker of warped light bends at the edge of your vision, and you know—without a doubt—it’s him. Saliva gathers in your throat.

You gasp. He doesn't let go. A voice—his voice—brushes your ear, low, dangerous:

“Is this what you want?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. He’s everywhere—his weight, his presence, the whisper of a smile you can’t see. Fingers trace your jaw, your throat, every inch of skin a fuse. You try to twist, but his grip tightens, all command, no give.

He keeps you pinned, whispering in the shell of your ear, lips skimming with every word: “You make men idiots. But you want something real, don’t you? Not some boy drooling over you. Someone who doesn't care how pretty you are. Someone who'll break you open.”

Your chest is heaving. A tremor runs through you. You arch, pressing into nothing, desperate for him to touch you—really touch you. You're more alive than you've ever been.

His hand slides under your shirt, trailing nails over your ribs.

He chuckles, quiet, cruel, delighted. “I'm right, aren't I? Say it.”

He doesn’t give in. His mouth traces slow circles on your neck, his fingers ghosting over your skin, never settling, never touching where you want. Your pulse stutters, frustration burning hotter with every breath.

He grinds against you, the shape of him hard and unforgiving through his clothes. You whimper, hips rocking, wanting more, needing more. You can’t lie—not to him. Your body is doing all the talking.

“Please,” you whisper. The word comes out ugly and raw.

He sinks to his knees, breath hot against the inside of your thigh. You can’t see him—only the subtle shift of air, the sensation of hands slipping under the waistband of your trousers, then your underwear. Fingers slide, slow and certain, dragging the fabric down just enough to bare you to the chill.

His tongue flicks out, quick and testing—just once, a single stripe of heat that leaves you shivering and open, anticipation spiking so sharp it hurts.

He pauses, letting the moment stretch, mouth hovering maddeningly close. You can feel the ghost of his smile in the air, his grip iron around your hips.

“Beg,” he mutters, voice rough and close, the command vibrating straight through you. “I want to hear how much you want it.”

You don’t hold back. “Masumi, please—” The words taste desperate, sharp as blood on your tongue. Your whole body is humming, strung out and exposed.

He growls—hungry, approving—and only then does he give you what you need.

You choke on your breath as his mouth closes over you—hot, wet, every nerve alight. At first, his tongue only flicks, teasing along your folds with the barest touch. Every flick of his tongue is measured, maddening, coaxing you higher, stringing you along. He circles you, never quite where you need him, drawing it out until your hips are lifting from the futon, urgent, chasing it.

Then, with brutal precision, his tongue slips inside—deeper, tasting you, making you squirm and keen, fingers clawing at the empty air. He works you open, tongue stroking, sometimes gentle, sometimes relentless, like he means to ruin you with his mouth alone. Heat blooms in your belly, your whole body shaking with the effort to hold on.

You’re lost, undone—sent spiralling into oblivion as he drinks you in with absolute focus—only to pull back just as you reach the edge, leaving you gasping, hungry, not quite able to fall. Again and again, he brings you right to the brink, then stops, holding you there, savouring every helpless whimper that escapes your lips.

By the time he finally relents—when you’re shaking, slick with sweat and desperation—you’re left raw, every nerve wound tight, and you know you’ll never forget the feeling of his mouth claiming you.

He hauls himself up, still invisible—just a ripple in the air, a shifting outline against neon shadows. One arm locks around your waist, holding you steady. The other slips down, rough fingers finding you, lining himself up. All you feel is the heat of his body and the hard press of his cock against your core—no sight, only sensation. The room is nothing but ragged breath and the rush of blood in your ears. It's devastating.

His voice carves straight through you: “Don’t forget this. Don’t pretend it’s nothing.”

You feel the heat of him at your entrance, the pressure and promise, and suddenly it’s too much—too real.

“Wait—” The word trembles out of you, naked. “I’ve never—”

There’s a moment, a pause that lasts only a heartbeat. You can feel him watching, even though you can’t see his eyes. His voice, low and clinical, slips across your skin.

“It’ll hurt,” he says, like stating the weather. “Don’t be scared.”

And then he takes you—pushes inside with a single, brutal thrust, filling you all at once. Ache blooms, sharp and overwhelming, the stretch burning as he sinks to the hilt. You cry out, hands clawing at the torn fabric of the futon, but he doesn’t pause or slow. His body—unseen, unyielding—grinds into yours, every thrust driving you further apart and back together, over and over.

It’s like he's a ghost—there’s nothing to see but a shimmer of heat, the press of invisible skin, the impossible sensation of being split open and remade. Every movement is a mystery, every breath a shock. His grip on you is bruising, his rhythm relentless, a force you can only feel, never witness.

At first, it’s too much—your mind blanks with the shock of it, of someone finally inside you, real and undeniable. You’ve come before, sometimes under your own hands, sometimes with mouths and fingers. But this—this is a different kind of surrender.

As he moves in you, the pain begins to slip, melting into pleasure, building and building with every invisible thrust. You feel him everywhere: the friction, the pressure, the way his cock claims the most secret and intimate part of you. There’s no way to brace, no way to hide, only the rawness of being taken—of being seen.

You’re desperate, whimpering, hips arching involuntarily. The pleasure climbs in you, fierce and terrifying—not from your hand, not from anyone’s mouth, but from being fucked, from being his.

You try to hold on, try to keep from shattering too soon, but it’s useless. The pressure snaps. You break for him, tears streaming down your cheeks—your whole body shuddering with it. “Masumi—please, please—”

He doesn’t speak, just grunts and fucks you harder, grinding you into the futon. His breath is at your ear, harsh, uneven. “Mine,” he mutters, the word guttural, a claim you feel in your bones.

You’re still sobbing, shaking, falling apart as he slams into you. The world narrows to sensation and sound—the slap of invisible flesh, the rough drag of the futon beneath you, the city’s distant neon glow flickering over everything.

He holds you tight, pace growing ragged, reckless. And when he finally comes, he stays buried, cock throbbing as he spills inside—so much, you feel the warmth flooding you, dripping down your thighs, leaving no part of you untouched. He stays there, locked deep, holding it all inside you, as if he can keep you claimed by force alone.

You’re both trembling, breath tangled in the dark. The outline of him flickers, only half-there, but you know—absolutely—you’ll never be the same. The memory of this will stay seared into your brain until the day you die.

After, you slide down to the floor, legs jelly, mind white-noise. He reappears, silent and efficient, collecting his clothes, eyes studiously averted.

The rest of the night is a blur—quiet, restless sleep, the echo of his hands and mouth haunting your dreams.

Weeks Later

The bathroom light is harsh, turning your reflection into pale shapes and shadow. You sit on the toilet, knees drawn up, waiting for the universe to rearrange itself. You're staring at the bathroom tiles. A test strip trembles in your grip.

The apartment is silent except for your own breathing, too loud in your ears. It’s been weeks since the safehouse—since Masumi touched you, ruined you, left you wanting. And, somehow, the world has kept spinning. Still, you’ve been thinking about him ever since, unable to stop: remembering the feel of his body, the sound of his voice, the sharp, consuming way he took you and then vanished back behind that same unbreakable mask.

You want more. You crave something—anything—beyond the brittle professionalism he’s shown since. At work, he’s distant, all business. Sometimes you catch him watching you, but the moment your eyes meet, he looks away, like nothing ever happened. There are no words, no comfort. Just the memory of it burning holes in you.

Your stomach twists, nausea creeping up your throat. You’d blamed the nerves, the stress, the late nights. But now the truth is there, stark and inescapable, blooming pink on the test strip. The second line appears.

You stop breathing for a second. For too long, you just sit, numb. Fear and longing knot in your chest, equal and opposite.

You know what you have to do. But it feels too heavy. Too real.

You pick up your phone, thumb hovering over his contact, the name that’s been on your tongue a hundred times, but you’ve never managed to say. Your hands shake as you press call. The wait feels endless.

He answers on the second ring. His voice is flat, distant. “Yeah?”

Your mouth is dry. You force yourself to breathe, to speak, hoping he can’t hear your heart pounding out of control.

Hyperventilating, shoving a random mildly chlorine scented rag against their side, inside a closet. They weren’t stupid enough to hope for a rescue–not inside the villain’s base. They were going to have to wait, probably hours, before the henchmen who had spotted them let the alarm drop and they all assumed the hero had escaped. Then, maybe hero could–

A shadow stopped outside the door. A moment later, there was the tiniest thud as whoever it was, leaned a shoulder against the door. It felt, despite the fact the hero couldn’t see them and the world was beginning to blur just faintly around the edges, almost conversational. 

“Hey, love,” the villain said through the door, easy-going. Like this was a run-in at the town's only coffee shop. The hero stared, feeling a little sick and maybe a little dumb, at the crusty green of the door. 

The hero swallowed, the fabric of the shitty towel grinding harder into their palm. 

“See, the thing about being invisible,” the villain continued, as if the hero had given any sort of acknowledgement to the original comment. “Is that it’s only you that’s invisible. Not your blood. Which, by the way, I think you have substantially less of in you than you should right now.”

“I think my blood volume is none of your business,” the hero managed after another, too long moment. They were slow with it–the banter, and they knew that both wasn’t good and also that it was something the villain was carefully cataloguing. 

“Considering the majority of it is in my hallway? I think it is,” the villain corrected amicably. “But that can be forgiven. Who doesn’t love a good cleaning spree? What can’t be corrected is if you die in my closet, however. That would be rather distressing.”

“I’m not going to die in your closet,” the hero said, feeling somewhat petulant about it. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve got about, hmm,” the villain wagered, “ten minutes before you pass out. And I need you to know I’m being very generous with those ten minutes because I am respectful of your capabilities as both a vigilante and a stubborn little shit.”

“You’re a lair.”

“I’m an optimist,” the villain corrected, still lounging against the other side of the door. “And you’re bleeding out in my closet.”

The hero’s leg cramped, kicking out just barely, sending a broom clattering down the shelves and to the floor. The villain’s silence was judgmental.

“What exactly do you expect me to do about it,” the hero said, annoyed. A muscle tensed in their jaw, then untensed when their vision swam. “Tell my blood to knock it off?”

“I expect you to let me come in there and stop you from bleeding out, for one, and then you’re either going to let me drag you to my medbay and keep you nice and safe and alive, or you’re going to let me take you back to your base and your medbay, where they will also keep you nice and safe and alive.”

“I don’t seem to have much agency in this.”

“You’re down to roughly eight minutes of consciousness, now. If we’re generous.”

“Villain–”

“Hero,” the villain’s voice was firm. “I’m sure you’ve realized how limited your options are. So you either let me, a person who likes you and is generally amused by your antics instead of enraged by them, take care of you, or one of my henchmen finds your cooling body later. Tell me, do you think your body will still be invisible even after you’re dead?”

The hero’s stomach sunk. The villain was right–the hero wasn’t stupid. They knew, with an unfortunate amount of clarity, that there was no way they would make it past the villain, all of their henchmen, and out through their needlessly complex security system before they passed out on the concrete floors. 

It took them two, miserably pathetic tries to reach up and unlock the door, still half sprawled on the floor. The villain pulled it open before they had even fully sagged back on the floor–and though their voice had been calm, their eyes were half-wild, slightly wider than the hero was used to. 

“God,” they said, eyes darting through a visual assessment faster than the hero had ever seen them. “You got yourself fucked up, didn’t you?”

“Are we victim blaming the person who got shot?” The hero asked, voice rasping by the end of the sentence. They winced, throat raw. 

“You should know how to dodge by now,” the villain replied, and then their palms were pressed against the hero’s side and the hero was doing their best not to pass out. Their power flared, panicked, but the villain didn’t seem bothered by their brief stint in non-visibility. Sickeningly, the hero noticed once more, that their blood refused to go invisible with them, leaving half of their body outline only by the mess of red spreading across their side. 

It was really, really annoying that their power would turn clothes invisible but not their blood, because their clothes were just on them and their blood was their blood–

“Fuck–” the hero finally managed to gasp out, blinking the white spots from their vision. “You could have–”

“Warned you? Sure, but it wouldn’t have made it hurt any less. I’m trying to stop you from bleeding out, hero, not woo you.”

Privately, the hero considered the fact that in their mind, those things weren’t mutually exclusive, before promptly dismissing that thought as a product of their severe bloodloss. Maybe when they had more blood they would consider it again–

“Did you hit your head?” The villain asked. They pressed down harder with one hand, pulling a punched out wheeze from the hero’s lungs, before grabbing the hero’s chin with their free hand, tilting it up to the light. The hero could feel their own blood slick across their skin, but it was a faint, muted sensation. “Ah, yeah. That’s a concussion.”

“I’m not concussed,” the hero said, petulant. The villain shot them a…mildly scathing look.

“So the mismatched pupils are a fashion choice, then?”

The hero gave them as much of a dirty look as they could manage. From the way the villain bit back a snort, the hero was pretty sure the message got across just fine. 

“And what would you know about fashion,” they said. The villain raised a brow.

“Says the individual who wears a form fitting suit and domino, in perhaps the most basic superhero costume aesthetic known to man. Seriously, did you just open a random comic book and go from there?”

The hero fought a frown, insulted. “Hey, I’ll have you know people love the suit.”

“Right,” the villain said, head ducked low as they examined the wound. They ended up half-pressed against, half on top of the hero in the process, which the hero didn’t really mind. “Because it’s formfitting, and everyone loves to be saved by a hot, charming individual with a dashing grin. Why do you think people love firefighters so much?”

“You think I’m hot?” The hero asked, voice slightly slurred even to their own ears. A second later, they blinked, and blushed as much as they could out to the tips of their ears. They felt themselves flicker in and out of that comforting, all encompassing blur of light and image entirely, like a blink. 

The villain looked up from where they were wrapping a bandage against the hero’s side, fingers deft as they taped a generous amount of gauze through the hole of the hero’s suit. The hero had no idea where they had gotten it from. “Darling, I thought we had established this earlier.”

“Maybe you established that earlier,” the hero muttered, and they felt more than heard the villain laugh through where they had settled against the hero’s side.

“This is as good as we’re getting with the supplies I brought,” the villain said, sitting back. The hero missed the contact immediately, like a lost limb.

The villain shifted slightly closer once more, as if they knew exactly what the hero had been thinking.

From the very tiny, sly smirk at the corner of their mouth, somehow, the villain did.

“Stop that,” the hero said. The smirk widened slightly.

“Stop what? Saving your life?”

“You know what,” the hero said, and the villain laughed.

“Let’s get you up,” the villain said, half-rising on their haunches. The hero peered up at them, side still flaring with pain. 

“If you expect me to walk–”

The hero was settled in the villain’s arms. They weren’t…entirely sure how it had happened, but as they, vision dazed and half-blurred, watched their limbs flicker back into visibility, they figured they had probably passed out. 

The villain tucked the hero’s head more firmly against their neck. Like they were worried the hero would fall, or hurt their neck–

“What,” the hero finally managed. The villain glanced down at them, face a painful mix of panic and amusement.

The hallway was beginning to swirl around the edges as they moved–the only concrete, certain thing the hero had was the villain. 

Privately, again, they considered the fact that this was not in fact a new feeling–

“I’m taking you to the medical wing,” the villain reminded, soothingly, and the hero gave half a nod before slumping back against their chest.

“You’re really warm,” the hero informed them. The villain’s chest stuttered in a sort of half-laugh.

“This would be far funnier if you weren’t still actively bleeding out in my arms.”

“I’m not bleeding out,” the hero said. They glanced down at their side, but the villain’s arm, curled around the hero’s body, blocked their view. “You fixed that.”

“Fixed is generous,” the villain replied, and then they were half-turning to shoulder open some sort of swinging door. The hero, idly, watched it swish closed again as the villain settled them on to the medical bed. 

“I’m going to grab you something for the pain while we wait for my staff to–” the villain paused, half a step away from the bed. They turned back to look at the hero, expectant. The hero just blinked at them. 

A second later, the villain glanced down to where the hero’s hand had wrapped itself firmly around their wrist, slick with blood and about as strong as a newborn kitten. 

The hero willed their very traitorous hand to let go. It did not. 

“That’s–I’m not–”

The villain’s face softened. 

“Hero,” they said gently. They made no effort to tug themself out of the hero’s grip, something the hero was secretly, viciously grateful for. It was cold in here, and the hero didn’t know if it was the bloodloss or the dizzyingly white walls of the medbay, but the hero hated it. “I’m going to be right back, alright?”

The hero nodded. Their hand still refused to move. 

“Okay, hero,” the villain said, soft, all their edges dulled, and sat down at the side of the hero’s bed. They entwined their hand with the hero’s, seemingly unbothered by the blood. Considering how often injuries happened in this line of work, maybe they were. “I’ll stay.”

“It’s just–I can’t–”

“Hero,” the villain said, “you’re invisible.”

It took far more effort than it should have to force themself back into visibility, fighting to release their grip on light and mirage. By the time they managed, there was sweat slicking the side of their temple, their headache had sharpened to an unbearable point, and a medic had appeared and begun sorting through something against the far wall.

“Sorry,” they said, mouth heavy around the word, and the villain’s face tightened. 

The villain just shook their head, fingers tightening around the hero’s. A second later, the medic passed the villain something that the hero couldn’t see. 

“You’re probably going to pass out in a second,” the villain informed them. It didn’t scare the hero as much as it should. “But I’m not going to leave. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

“You mean more than the gunshot?” the hero managed. The villain’s face darkened.

“That will be handled.”

The hero managed a small nod in agreement, and then the world twisted in a sickening, thrumming way, and the hero was–

They woke up, bandaged, swaddled in blankets, and on what they could only assume was an insane level of pain killers, to find the villain half-asleep against the side of their bed, hair mussed.