#hero x vigilante
Everything already sucked when the vigilante staggered into the motel room they couldnt afford, feverish and aching down to the bone. The mattress was lumpy, the carpet gritty, the shower tepid and weak. And yet, when they emerged from the bathroom wet and shivering in the thin towel, things managed to get even worse.
“You’re homeless?” blurted the hero from where they sat lying in wait on the sagging bed, hands clasped nervously between their knees.
The vigilante, with great dignity, stomped past the hero to their duffel bag and grabbed the bottle of vodka - carefully palming the little throwing dagger in their other hand.
“Course not,” they said, taking a swig and ignoring the sick swimming feel in their stomach. “Got a mansion on the upper seaside, I just like to slum it for kicks. Don’t you have real criminals to go and bother?”
The hero cleared their throat, not quite meeting the vigilante’s eyes. “You are a criminal. There been a warrant out on you for months.”
The hero’s gaze was floating nervously somewhere over the vigilante’s shoulder. Why was…? Oh. The vigilante forced a grin and cocked a hip. “Like what you see?”
Sure enough, the hero blushed. Like a 14 year old. The prude. “No! Stop it. And no. You look beat to hell.”
“Thanks, must be my healthy lifestyle.” They took another swig.
“Have you been living in that stupid van?” The hero wrung their hands. “No wonder you’re sick, it’s been below freezing for days!”
“Can we get to the part where you arrest me or murder me or do whatever you came here to do?” the vigilante sighed.
“Jail is still on the table,” The hero stood to their feet and the vigilante braced - but the hero took no further action other than a look around the grubby room. They were always so smug, so self-righteously sure that took the vigilante a moment to recognize the strange expression on hero’s face: uncertainty. “I’m honestly not sure if jail wouldn’t be an improvement over this.”
“Guess that takes us back to murder,” the vigilante snarled and sprung at the hero, blade out.
Or at least they tried. No sooner did the vigilante shove off the wall then a wave of nausea cut through them. Instead of a lethal pounce at hero, they staggered blindly. The towel fell and the vigilante crashed into the hero’s arms.
“Oh god,” the hero whispered, holding the vigilante tight as the world spun. “Let’s get you to bed.”
The vigilante protested, or tried to, or thought they had. But the next moment they were somehow tucked in under cheap sheets and a polyester comforter. A real mattress. Bliss.
The hero was rushing around like a nervous hen, straightening things that didn’t need straightening. It was funny to watch them as the vigilante drifted in and out of consciousness - blip! The hero was gathering clothes off the floor. - blip! The hero was going through the vigilante’s bag. - blip! The hero was at the door taking a grocery bag, thanking a delivery person.
“So, no to jail?” The vigilante croaked as the door closed.
The hero sighed and flopped next to them, dumping the bag across the bed. “It wouldn’t be very heroic to infect the entire police station with whatever you have.”
It was the fever and the light headedness that made the vigilante edge down the covers, roll close enough to brush their fingers down the hero’s back. “Gonna keep me all to yourself?” they singsonged.
The hero smacked their hand away, blushing again. Interesting. “Call it a challenge,” they said, sorting medicine bottles onto the nightstand. “If you can get healthy in time to escape, before I run out of patience and turn you over. Let’s start with the Tylenol for that fever.”
The vigilante rolled their eyes, but opened their mouth obediently for the little plastic cup of red syrupy medicine. They could wait until they had their strength back. Then there’d be all kinds of fun new weaknesses of hero to exploit.
