#mightyheroics

      “  you can tell me it doesn’t hurt you as much as you’d like -- i’m not buying it.  “ she glances up at him with faint amusement, though she’s very serious about not believing him. if it wasn’t for the bloody lip and the bruises that’d be sure to stay, then maybe she would. but considering he does have all those ... yeah, she’s definitely not buying it. zatanna leans back on her knees, her hand still holding an ice-pack to his face. “  looks like it hurts, anyways.  “

I’m no leader. I’m not a king. I do not work or play well with others 

. ﾟ * ｡ ･        maybe those articles about millenials fearing commitment are true in some cases,  but not for dawn.  she’s not necessarily dating for marriage ---- she’s never liked that saying ---- but she is dating to know she’ll have a future with someone,  at least.   (  no point in getting invested long - term in someone whose expiration date is two months from now.  she’s been down that road too many times to see it not pan out.  )   then again,  maybe dawn is a bit too overzealous about commitment,  given that the moment things are going well she asks the question,  that godforsaken question.  every single time,  she feels it leaving her lips in slow - motion ;  do you want kids ?  she sees their eyes widen and there’s always a untimely interruption afterwards or some bull - shit excuse and she’s left at dinner to bang her head into the table and ask why she’s always ruining the moment.

    except she’s got a perfectly good reason in her mind.  she’s twenty six and according to the plan she drew up at age five,  she should be married with kids already by now !  of course,  it’s pointless to compare herself to the standards of her five - year - old self,  but that little nagging fear of her inevitable,  ticking biological clock is right in pace with five - year - old dawn.  

“Vous avez fait les nouvelles.”

The nurse sounded amused, but it was only the ointment she was applying to one of his many injuries that caused his carefully blank expression to break, a wince following the unpleasant sting. Treating the general wear and tear of combat was about the only thing they could do for him at the moment, though the hospital staff had attempted to find the source of his memory loss with x-rays (that were nothing like the machines that would arrive on the front lines in one of the Little Curies) and a machine they called an MRI (something Steve hoped to never experience again). They found nothing but hints of old injuries, which he supposed was to be expected when his story was only half-true. He didn’t know how he got here, but he did know his own name and what year it was supposed to be. But something wasn’t right.

He should be dead, for one.

“La nouvelle.”

A loud voice echoed throughout the room, prompting Steve to jump, and the nurse murmured an apology, pressing a button on an oddly shaped piece of plastic, slowly lowering the volume. He found the source of it, though. Moving pictures on the ugly black box. Inappropriate pictures. He averted his gaze from the scantily clad women who were wearing even less than Diana in her armor and only turned back with the prompt of: “C’est toi.” And sure enough, there he was, waking to the sounds of laughter and horror atop some kind of memorial, naked as the day he had been born (though they had at least found a way to protect his modesty, if only just). Steve supposed he now understood the purpose of those strange rectangles some of the spectators had been holding.

The pictures continued, containing flashes of his escape into the street, his run-in with the strange automobile, and the clothes he acquired from a patron that had dropped her bags in shock. What they did not show was the shaky hands that pulled on pants, a shirt, a jacket after he disappeared around the corner, eventually emerging in a peculiar style but still barefoot. They did not show him enter a building full of things he did not recognize and follow a stranger into a restroom, a hand dropping onto the man’s shoulder, the other shooting out in a punch to the nose when he turned. No one heard the apology Steve uttered as he lowered him to the ground, taking both socks and shoes, pocketing the money he found in the man’s wallet for good measure. The replay did not catch up with him until he was once again running from authorities, now at least fully clothed, through the strange maze of the building, eventually apprehended to the sound of more clapping spectators.

Later, he had been asked why he ran if he was not guilty. Steve had not known how to properly describe the fear, the instincts that had driven him.

“C’est bien,” the nurse said, likely noting his embarrassment, “votre famille verra et viendra vous réclamer.”