“In every losing fight there’s a window,” Mentor had said, all those years ago, “between the moment you realize you can’t win and the moment it’s too late to retreat. Everyone loses sometimes. You’ll survive - if you don’t get caught outside the window.”

Something coiled around the protagonist’s ankle and yanked them back to the present. They hit the slimy pavement hard on their hip. A familiar form stood over them - between them and the only exit from this dead-end alley.

“Is that a whip?” the protagonist gasped as they lurched to their feet to circle backwards, scrubbing the rainwater and blood out of their eyes. “A little kinky, don’t you think?”

The antagonist curled the long leather tail through their hands - so deceptively human looking, if you ignored the claws. They weren’t even breathing hard. Not that the antagonist breathed or got cold or tired. Oh god the protagonist was screwed. “It seemed appropriate for this confrontation,” the antagonist said mildly, wrinkling their nose in distaste as they glanced up at the sky dumping rain on them both.

“Oh this is a confrontation?” the protagonist sneered, trying to keep their hands steady as they raised their silver edged sword. The antagonist hadn’t brought any other weapon and wasn’t that a taunt. The protagonist was going to lose. They had to keep the window open as long as possible.

“Yes.” The antagonist crossed their arms, red eyes gleaming in the streetlight. “You see, [protagonist], I need you alive. And you are trying to get yourself killed. Now what are we going to do about that?”

The protagonist gaped. Thunder boomed in the distance. “You want me alive?” they sputtered, focusing on the least worrying part of the antagonist’s statement. “You’ve been trying to kill me for years!”

The antagonist rolled their eyes. “First of all, if I wanted you dead I’d have snapped your neck like that. It would be easy; you’ve smelled like whiskey and exhaustion and old bruises for weeks. Second, well.” They smoothed their wet hair over their left ear, missing the top chunk the protagonist had taken out in their first encounter years ago. “We’ve had our differences in the past but I’ve never wished you - or [mentor] - dead. You might say you and your kind are a necessary evil.”

The protectionist choked out a laugh. “You calling me evil. Now that’s funny.”

They sidled right, as if circling. The antagonist matched steady parallel, firmly between the protagonist and the exit, and gave a fanged smile. “Hunters keep the more impulsive members of my community in check. You cull the destructive and the foolish, and deter others who do not otherwise see the value of discretion. Which is why I find your recent self-destructive streak in the wake of [mentor]s death so alarming.”

“Sounds like not your problem,” the protagonist said, giving a desperate look around again for any other exit. Nothing.

“You know you’re not the first person to lose someone,” said the antagonist, closing in, backing the protagonist towards the alley corner. “You know how many people I’ve lost?”

“Oh poor you!” The protagonist raised their sword, even as their muscles screamed in protest. “Come over here, I’ll take the pain away.”

“Is that what you want, one of us to take the pain away?” The antagonist kept pressing in. “You think this is what [mentor] would have wanted? Seeing you get sloppy? Reckless?”

“You keep her name out of your filthy mouth,” the protagonist snarled, heat rushing through them, all thoughts of retreat suddenly gone.

The antagonist tilted their head, red eyes lit with a horrible, gut wrenching understanding.

“Oh, [protagonist],” they said with awful compassion. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The protagonist howled and flung themselves forward in an attack.

The antagonist easily ducked the first two wild swings, leapt in a blur of motion. The protagonist flung themself to the side and took the blow on their shoulder, their silver edged sword ringing out as it skittered across the pavement - and under a dumpster.

The protagonist made a frantic dive after it, only to be caught halfway in a pair of impossibly strong arms. The protagonist screamed and kicked their weight back with all their might. They toppled together, landing ass first on the slick pavement. The antagonist did not let go, even as the protagonist thrashed wildly.

“Let it out,” they whispered, tightening their grip. “You need to hurt, I’ll hurt you. You need to be held? I’m right here. Stay with me. Please.”

The protagonist turned their head into the antagonist’s chest and gave themself up to gasping sobs. Cradled against their enemy’s chest, they wept uncontrollably until their throat hurt and the rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle.

“Come home with me,” the antagonist whispered, tucking the protagonist’s head closer, running clawed fingers through their tangled hair. “Just until you’re better.”

It took a long time to get better.

CW: The Disapproval of an Authority Figure

“So,” Mentor said, way too calmly. “Explain?”

The three heroes in training standing before Mentor’s desk exchanged mildly panicked looks. The telekinetic cleared their throat. “Well. Sir. TikTok is a social media platform focused on shared short videos-”

“I know what TikTok is!” Mentor rubbed their eyes. “HR explained it to me at great length this morning when they told me I had to come in on my Saturday off. Do you know how rarely I get a Saturday off?”

“No,” whispered the teleporter, staring at their shoes and already tearing up.

“Then here’s an easier question.” Mentor slammed their hands on the desk. All three trainees jumped. “What were you three idiots thinking!? Filming yourselves inside the training facility?”

The telepath raised a hand and tried for a big smile. “Sir, I would argue we were taking initiative! As per the public relations part of our training we are advised- nay, compelled! to present a friendly and approachable persona to better build trust for when our professional activities bring us in contact with the public!”

“Building trust in your professional activities?” Mentor repeated. They spun the computer screen around.

Once again, all four watched the 11 second clip of telepath squawking like a chicken as they backflipped 30 feet from the gymnasium scaffolding into the pool, from which the teleporter erupted, froggy kicking straight up into the air, while the telekinetic ran back and forth across the top of the water, howling like a banshee.

The video cut, leaving the office in silence.

“There are some where we participate in popular dance trends,” the telepath said brightly.

“Do you know how many villains have tried to get inside info on our programs? On our students?” Mentor yelled. “And here you three are broadcasting to the world!”

The teleporter overflowed with tears. “I wouldn’t say we were sharing actionable intelligence,” the telekinetic protested.

“Oh, I’m not seeing any intelligence at all.” Mentor spun their computer screen back around and started typing. “You three are on KP duty for a year. Two months for this little stunt. Ten months because now HR tells me I have to write a social media policy.”

The telepath raised a hand. “Perhaps - maybeinexchangeforlesskitchenduty - we could assist you with writing that policy, sir?”

“Yeah, sure!” the Mentor drawled. “Here’s what I got so far - whaddya think?”

They turned the screen again. It was a Word document that said, in 72 point font, DON’T. The telepath gulped.

“Now get out!”

The trainees scattered. Mentor waited until they heard the interior and exterior doors bang shut, all three fully clear. Only then did they pull the archived videos back up and sat back to watch them all again. The HR department was taking votes on the best ones, and the other teachers were arguing on their favorites.

“Kids,” Mentor chuckled. “Where do they come up with this stuff?”

nuttynutcycle:

Prompt 342

“All this exposed skin,” the villain purred as she slowly looked up and down the hero’s new suit, “Tells me you’re dying for a hands-on approach.”

Very fun! Thanks for a great prompt,@nuttynutcycle!

CW: rated S for Spicy

“Oh yeah?” The hero cocked a hip boldly, jutted her chin. “Come and see how that works for you, babe.”

The villain cackled but no, she did not take the bait. She was properly prepared, all gloved and covered up against those bare arms and legs and now that midriff too, shimmering with magic and pain, but she was no fool to let pride drag her into a trap. To let the hero bait her into a physical fight instead a psychological one. And god, it was almost embarrassing how vulnerable the hero was to a little flirting.

“I particularly love the short shorts. Planning to electrocute me between those gorgeous thighs?”

“Enough chatter,” the hero snapped, even as her face darkened to a gorgeous shade of copper. She raised her fists and set into a ready position that was no joke. “Surrender, or we can do this the hard way.”

“Ooh, I’d love to do you the hard way,” the villain fired back, hand on her holster. “Why don’t you be a good girl and turn that light show off?”

“I wish,” the hero muttered, flicking sparks off her shoulder.

The villain stopped dead. “What?”

“I said, you wish,” the hero cried, something new in her eyes. Horror. Panic.

“Wait,” the villain said, flipping rapidly back through everything she knew about the hero, every encounter they’d had. “You… can turn that power off, right? You’re not permanently stuck in electrocution mode?”

The hero let out a howl of rage and flung herself at the villain. The villain drew her blaster but hero was already on her, simply batted it away. A few swift strikes and the villain found herself bleeding from a painfully throbbing nose, pinned flat on her back.

Somehow none of that seemed to matter as the hero straddled her, eyes scrunched and breath heaving in her chest far beyond the simple exertion required. The cuffs were in her hand and she did not move to put them on her prisoner as the villain’s gloved hand pressed across the bare skin of the hero’s muscled abs.

“Oh, you poor thing,” whispered the villain. The wiring in the gloves sizzled furiously but held. “Has no one been touching you the way you deserve to be touched?”

The hero shuddered so hard she almost fell off.

“It’s okay, let me have you,” the villain said, daring to pull her other hand free to place it on the other side of the hero’s waist. The buzzing intensified exponentially but it was nothing the villain couldn’t handle.

A sharp yank and a sudden twist, and they rolled. Suddenly it was villain rolled atop hero, who arched beneath them as they dug their grip in tight on that shimmering skin.

“The costume’s fine. Honestly.” the villain whispered, running their hands up the sides of hero’s body, barely breathing as sparks flamed away. “But if you don’t like it, tell them to stuff this costume where it came from. Nobody gets to make you suffer.”

“Except you?” the hero moaned, high and breathy, and the villain thought between that sound and the frantic vibration of her suit she might just combust on the spot.

“Oh darling,” the villain gasped, letting their hand roam up the hero’s arm towards those cuffs. “Suffering is the last thing I’m going to make you feel.”

“Wait!” The villain froze as the hero’s eyes snapped open, blinking away the haze. “Wait, [Villain]. You… you’re right. I can’t turn it off.” And then the hero’s face split into her winning grin. “But I can turn it up.”

The sparks screamed as they multiplied across the hero’s glimmering skin. The villain screamed too as the protective wiring in her suit failed, as her body seized in hero’s current, as everything flashed to static…

And she woke up tucked neatly into a hotel bed a note on the nightstand: Called the Agency. I’m getting my old costume back. Thanks.

“Good girl,” murmured the villain dizzily and heaved herself up to make her escape before the cavalry could arrive. And if she smiled as she limped home, well. That was no one’s business but hers. And maybe hero’s.

“If you make me fight you now,” the hero said without raising their head from where it rested on their backpack, “I will throw you off this mountain.”

“Oh my god, [hero]!” singsonged the villain with their biggest, most shit-eating grin, kicking a brand new hiking boot up on a rock near the hero’s head. “Fancy running into you up here!”

The hero groaned and flung an arm over their face. “It’s daytime, asshole. What do you want?”

The villain tsked their tongue and swiped a granola bar from the hero’s unprotected lunch, open on their lap. “All this suspicion. Can’t a person enjoy a little fresh air and sunshine?”

They were mostly saying it to be obnoxious, but it was, in fact, quite lovely if you went in for this sort thing; wind rippling across grassy slopes, the sunshine sparkling off the city towers below, the sky studded with clouds fluffy enough to choke on. There was a steady trickle of day trippers and health nuts marching up and down the trail. One trio of bro-ish dudes had stopped higher up the slope and were blatantly checking the hero out, sniggering amongst themselves. The villain gave them a look over the top of their sunglasses. The bros quickly pretended to be looking elsewhere.

“Fine. Great. Whatever.” The hero flapped their hand, as if at insect. “Go get your nature on. Don’t let me stop you.”

“God, this view!” The villain chomped down on the hero’s granola bar. It was good. Hiking was hungry work. Next time they’d bring snacks. Not that there’d be a next time. “Look at that. There’s City Hall, and there’s the opera house, and… well, golly. Looks like you can just see over the walls and into [Supervillain]’s compound from this angle! What a bizarre coincidence.”

The hero sat up, no longer playing at laziness “[Villain]…” they started.

“Hey!” A shadow fell. Both hero and villain snapped their heads up… to find the three hiker bros standing over them. “Hey,” the biggest said again to the hero, chest puffed and thumb jabbed at villain. “This guy bothering you?”

The villain bared their teeth and opened their mouth - but the hero was faster. In a half second they were on their feet, their dealing-with-the-public smile on full blast. The lead dude-bro took a half step back.

“Oh you guys are so sweet to check on me,” the hero gushed, even as they curled a hand over the villain’s forearm possessively. “But we’re actually, ah, work colleagues. Just giving each other a bit of friendly shit.”

The dude’s brow creased. “It seemed like-”

“I do appreciate y'all making sure everything’s okay!” the hero sang. “Thank you!”

There was nothing for the bros to do with that but retreat with as much grace as the hero left them and some muttered “glad it’s all okay then"s and "have a good one"s.

"Brutal takedown,” the villain observed as the trio scurried out of sight. “Work colleagues?”

“Yeah, well.” The hero took off their own sunglasses to look villain in the face. The wind whipped strands of hair across their freckled nose, across those brown eyes lit up gold. God, how had it never occurred to the villain before to wonder what hero looked like in the sun, standing on thebside of the mountain? “What are you here to do?” they asked quietly, hand still warm on the villain’s forearm.

The villain pushed their face into a smirk, pulled their arm away from hero’s touch to shove their fists into their pockets. “To warn you. I figured out what you’re up to and I’m a big dummy compared to [Supervillain]. She probably already knows. She’s probably watching us right now.”

“Hm.” The hero gave villain a pointed up and down look. The villain tried not to gulp. “Did you buy an entire outfit, just to hike up a mountain to give me a warning?”

“Don’t blame me for having style,” the villain said, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of their TENCEL blend shirt before turning their feet back towards the trail down. “Anyway, you’re welcome. Try not to get murdered, eh?”

“Hey, [Villain]!” the hero called. The villain stopped but did not turn. They didn’t need to. The could feel hero’s eyes on their back, could hear the smile in their voice. “I’ll see you round, right? Can’t let the new outfit go to waste.”

“Never doing this again, thanks!” the villain called back, just as jaunty, and left quickly before they, like the dude-bros, flew too close to the sun and got burned for their trouble.

some-messed-up-writing-for-you:

Short Prompt #488

“Ah, Scientist! How’s experiment number 387 doing?” - the villain asked, strolling into the lab. Said scientist jumped in surprise before turning to their boss.

“V-Villain, sir! Uh- Everything’s going smoothly so far.” - Scientist replied, checking something on their tablet as Villain walked over to the giant tube in the middle of the room.

The criminal ran their hand down the glass, admiring the creature growing inside it. “Marvelous~. Once this beauty is finished, we’ll be unstoppable.”

This got very silly. Thanks for a great prompt @some-messed-up-writing-for-you!

There was a long pause as the villain basked. It was a good bask. They were having fun. Until the scientist cleared their throat nervously.

The villain sighed. “What?”

Their scientist wrung their hands nervously. “Well, uh. I know it might be above my pay grade but uh…”

“Spit it out, Scientist!” Villain pulled a potato chip from their jacket pocket and bit in. “I pay you to think, let’s hear those thoughts.”

“You, uh,” the scientist stammered, staring at the villain’s snack, “technically don’t pay me. But that’s not the point! You do keep saying things like we’ll be unstoppable and all shall bow before me, and I would remiss not to point out we have no idea what kind of traits or personality we’re going to get when our chimera decants.”

“An excellent point!” The villain crammed in another potato chip, chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Two questions then. One, what do you know about animal handling? And two, what do you mean I’m not paying you?”

“You, uh, technically kidnapped me?” the scientist said with a nervous laugh, hugging their tablet to their chest. “But I have been doing some reading in zoology and aquarium journals-”

“Great initiative. Now shut up,” interrupted the villain, looking less amused, more confused. “I kidnapped you?”

“Well, yeah.” The scientist looked a little hurt. “The International Biochem conference in Berlin? I was presenting a paper, it wasn’t going well. But then you - you suddenly stormed the stage yelling that I was a genius and my talents were wasted on them and then you, um,” the scientist blushed bright red, “you sorta tossed me over your shoulder and you had these kinda rocket powered skates-”

“Mm.” The villain nodded thoughtfully. “The Jet Set Rockets, yes. This is ringing a bell. Go on.”

“And then you brought me here. But no big deal!” the scientist hurriedly said. “Everyone just sort of forgot I was a prisoner after a few days. I was able to go home, pack my stuff, let the landlord know I was breaking my lease because I’d been kidnapped. But to get back to Beastica -”

"Beastica?”

“Oh, sorry! I mean…” The scientist ducked their head, running a hand gently along the glass. “That’s just what I’ve been calling her in my head. I didn’t mean to presume.”

“Beastica,” the villain hummed. They placed their hand next to the scientist’s on the glass. “I dig it.”

“Oh wow,” the scientist breathed. “But, uh, I am short on cash and some of that zoology literature is behind paywall, so can I get that expensed? Subscription to the Annual Review of Animal Biosciences and the Journal of Experimental Biology should do it.”

“Sure, sure! Tell Accounting Deirdre I authorized it and she’ll order it for you. Now.” The villain grabbed the tablet out of the scientist’s hand and flung it away.

“Hey!” the scientist yelped - and then shut up as the villain advanced on them, eyes glinting with intent.

“We need to sort this out,” the criminal purred, backing the scientist across the lab. “You can’t be ‘kinda’ kidnapped. That effects things, like your PTO accrual and whether you get invited to the holiday party.“ The scientist gasped as they hit the wall. The villain was there in a flash, hands bracketing them against the cement. "So what’ll it be, genius?” they grinned, running a finger down the scientist’s lab coat lapel. “Are you kidnapped, or do you maybe kinda wanna be here?”

“Oh, um…” the scientist stammered, eyes perfectly round aa they watched villain’s hand trace across their chest. “I mean, maybe… I don’t know! Can’t we do something in the middle?”

“Independent contractor! Got it!” The villain abruptly stepped back and started tapping things into their phone. “Go tell HR Deirdre you need a W9. That’s a good choice,” the villain went on, with a sly glass up through their lashes. “I have a strict no fraternization policy with my employees, but I don’t see any reason I can’t throw a contractor over my shoulder every now and again. If they ask nicely.”

“Okay,” whispered the scientist again, melting slowly into a puddle.

The criminal gave them a wink and handed them a pretzel stick from their shirt pocket. “I wanna see that behavioral plan by Thursday! Keep up the good work and you shall be rewarded in my day of victory!”

“Will do, sir,” the scientist whispered and hurried back to building their villain the world’s most beautiful marauding monster.

CW: general violence and threats, suggestive themes, implied torture

The protagonist knew they couldn’t carry it off forever. They just had to hope that when the truth came out they’d have enough warning to run.

They did not.

One day everything was laughter and roses, the next they walked into the dining room to be met with armed guards and drawn swords and the villain pale and terrible with rage over breakfaat.

One look at that face and the protests of innocence died on the protagonist’s lips. They put up no resistance as the guards swiftly disarmed them, bound their hands too tight behind their back.

“How did you know?” the protagonist said into the sudden stillness.

The villain tilted their head, eyeing the protagonist like they might a particularly offensive bit of paperwork. And then they stood from their untouched tea and toast to take up their own sword from where it had been laid across the breakfast table.

“Leave me,” the villain said, unsheathing the blade. “With this.”

The guard captain cleared their throat. “Your Grace, with respect-”

“If you’ve done your job they’re no threat to me now.” The villain tested the blade’s edge with a light tap. “Take the rug with you. I don’t want it ruined.”

The guards were too well trained to gloat or laugh like common street thugs over a cornered victim, but the protagonist felt that same vicious thrill go through the bunch. Hands quickly pulled the rug up and away, and the protagonist was kicked down to their knees. The door shut and it was just them and the villain.

“You like my things too much,” the villain said into the silence.

The protagonist blinked. “What…?”

“You asked how I knew.” The villain strode closer, their rapier glinting in early light. It was not the ceremonial one, nor the dull blade they used for practice bouts. “When you got tired or distracted, I’d see your eyes wander. I wanted to take you for just another greedy hanger-on but… no.”

The blade whistled through the air. The protagonist flinched as it stopped a hairsbreadth from their neck. “You looked at my things like someone who’d never before seen a properly tended garden or a well turned piece of lace. Like someone struck with delight that such a thing could exist,” the villain said softly. "An effective strategy, I’ll admit. I was looking so hard for a professional, it took me embarrassingly long to consider that someone could be cruel enough to send an amateur into my bed to do their spying.”

“No one sent me,” the protagonist said, too fast. They tried to swallow. Their mouth was so terribly dry. Their fingers were going numb, their arms and shoulders starting to burn. “Can I convince you I was just trying to con you out of a few good meals?”

“Oh, I wish you could,” the villain murmured back. The sword point flicked down into the soft parquet floor as they crouched to eye level. The protagonist shuddered as those clever fingers curled around their skull, pulled the protagonist closer. “I know how you fight and I know how you fuck,” the villain breathed into their ear. “We both you’re not going to last long if you make me do this the hard way. Save yourself some pain. Tell me who made you do this.”

The protagonist clenched their jaw and said nothing. The villain sighed and took up their sword again. “The offer stands,” they said and went to work.

In the end the protagonist told them everything. They could only hope they’d bought enough time for the others to run.

some-messed-up-writing-for-you:

Short Prompt #556

“Well, aren’t you pretty~?” - the villain purred, crowding the terrified civilian into a corner, cutting off any means of escape.

Other Villain, who stood beside them, chuckled lightly in agreement as they hungrily eyed Civilian’s shaking body. “The universe must love us for sending such a gorgeous gift into our territory~.”

A terrific prompt! Thanks@some-messed-up-writing-for-you!

“Wait, wait! Please!” The civilian wedged themselves back against the dirty brick, hands out and up. “I… I came here to find you. To ask for your help!”

The villains exchanged a look and burst out laughing. The first one, taller by a fraction of an inch, snaked a hand out to pin one of the civilian’s wrists up against the alley wall. “Sure, cutie,” they said with a sneer. “What can little old us do for [Hero’s] latest squeeze toy?”

“Oh, good, you do know me,” the civilian breathed, eyes glued to the villain’s hand around their wrist. “This’ll sound slightly less - ahaha! - slightly less crazy. Yeah, um. I….”

“Spit it out, doll,” cooed the second villain, faster by a second or so as they caught the civilian’s chin, turned their face to the yellow street light. “My partner asked you a question.”

The civilian closed their eyes. “I need you to kidnap me for real,” they blurted out in a panicked rush.

The villains exchanged another look. This time they did not laugh. “Darling,” the second villain said with decidedly less purr. “Not sure you noticed but we were very much already in the process of kidnapping you.”

“Well you’re going to have to do a lot better than… than stupid flirting,” the civilian snapped, even as their breath came quick and unsteady. “I thought you two were supposed to be good. Or bad. Or whatever!”

“What is happening?” said the first villain very calmly.

“I believe we are still waiting for the looker here to get to the point,” the second villain said. “[Hero] sure doesn’t pick them for their brains.”

“Hero’s planning to have me murdered!” the civilian cried. “And he’s going to pin it on the two of you!”

There was silence in the alley. Somewhere nearby a cat yowled, a car engine roared. The villains did not exchange a look. Their eyes stayed locked on civilian.

“And why should we believe that?” said the first villain, tightening their grip.

The civilian winced. “You know what happened to [Hero’s] last partner.”

“Killed by [Supervillain],” the second villain said through their teeth. “And then [Hero] killed Supervillain on camera. And walked.”

“Well, congrats!” the civilian said with a hysterical wheeze. “Looks like you two are his next big threat.”

“Is [Hero] aware that you know this?” the first villain said sharply.

The civilian tried to pull loose. Both villains hung on. They sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Yes.”

One final time, the villains shared a look. And then the second let go, leaving the first to pull civilian from their corner out to the open. “I think you’re coming with us, gorgeous.”

The civilian gave them a queasy smile. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

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.

The minister pointed his finger at the queen. “The poison in your wine could only have come from her, your majesty! The queen is trying to kill you!” “No,” said the king. “If my wife wished to kill me she would look me in the eye and push a dagger into my chest.”

Prompt courtesy of@writing-prompt-s, as foundhere

“Stop joking around when you’re dying!” I snarled at my idiot husband, now turning a delicate purple. The minister was backing away, so I leapt the table, ripping my dagger loose straight through the hole in my skirts.

He shrieked and tried to run, but courtly life had not been kind to his dexterity or his strength. It was child’s play to take him to the ground, my blade to his throat. “What did you give him? Where is the antidote?”

The minister’s eyes were wide and he was blubbering. It was an embarrassing display from a senior courtier - you’d think the man had never been in a knife fight before. “I don’t - Madame, I - what are you implying?”

“You see, it wasn’t me so that means it must have been you,” I said sweetly to the minister. “Talk or I flay you alive from the balls up.”

It was too theatrical a threat. I could see the pompous mask settle again. “Now see here-” he started.

I stabbed him. He screamed.

“Darling please,” wheezed my moron husband, who should have been sitting down and conserving his breath. “We need… answer…”

“Working on it,” I sang back, grinding my dagger against the minister’s shoulder joint. He screamed again and a spurt of blood landed on my bodice. One of the summoned guards who’d been hovering turned away, his face green. Honestly, I was going to have to fire everyone next week. “I realize these aren’t your balls. This is the warning stab to make my point that I am quite serious.” I pulled my stiletto from my hair, considered the thin blade critically. “Not the best weapon for the job, but I’ll make do. Might have to stab your balls a bit instead of flaying.”

I reached down for his pants.

“Wait!” the minister screamed. “It’s golden rest vine. Golden rest vine!”

There were gasps through the court. At least a couple were clearly fake and I cursed my inability to look in all directions at once.

“Never heard of it.” I slit the fabric open. “I hope for your balls’ sake there’s an antidote.”

“I know! I know that one!” We all turned to look at the little court doctor, hitherto best noted for their ability to fall asleep on two glasses of wine. They blushed but kept their hand up like they were in school. “Standard milkweed powder and brandy.”

“Then go get it,” I hissed and the only member of the court staff who was still going to have their job next week bobbled off at full speed. I turned back to the minister cowering at my feet. “You’re a coward and a traitor,” I declared. And incompetent, I added but only mentally as I couldn’t very well critique an enemy assassin for that quality. “Guards, take him away to stand trial at the king’s pleasure.”

Now that I’d done all their job for them, the guards rushed in a great clank of armor to drag the stupid man away. That handled, I turned back to the stupid man I’d married.

The doctor was already back, trying to feed my husband a cup with their hands shaking worse than his. “Great… great work, my love,” he wheezed.

“No. Beloved. Rest,” I said and grabbed him by the nose. His jaw flapped open and the doctor poured the draught down his gullet. I crushed his head to my breast in a tender embrace before he could spit it out.

“How dare you try to die on me?” I hissed in his ear. “I told you your death is mine when I’m done with you!”

My husband wriggled his head free to look up at me, his color already returning. “Yes, dear,” he whispered back with his stupid, inane smile entirely inappropriate to a man nearly killed by a greedy minister and incompetent staff. He touched my face gently. His fingers came away wet. “Don’t cry, love. I’ll be fine.”

“I am not crying!” I protested, but my husband forestalled further argument on the topic by turning his head and emptying the contents of his stomach across my skirts. In the ensuing clean up of yet another mess, he slipped into gentle rest before I could conclusively prove him wrong.

Another thing I’d have to get revenge for. Another reason - no, another obligation to keep the idiot alive, no matter how exhausting.

It’s a hard thing, proper revenge, but absolutely worth doing right. I’d get him. Someday.

The villain had to admit, they were not immune to the sight of the hero kneeling before them. 

“…cannot fight two wars at once,” the hero was saying, steady and dignified, their clenched jaw the only sign of their tension. “In a choice between the annihilation of my people or surrender, I come to negotiate terms that will be mutually beneficial against a common enemy.”

“Interesting,” the villain said, popping a grape into their mouth. They had day dreamed about this, though their version typically involved a couple guards to hold the hero down. Never had they dreamed the hero would give themselves up of their own accord. “Or, I could make smart decision and sit back, watch you and this new challenger exhaust yourselves, and then swoop in to pick up the pieces.”

The hero’s jaw clenched even tighter. “If you do nothing, the only pieces left for you will be salted fields and mass graves,” they said, almost smoothly enough to hid the raw anger under their words. “I did think you were more avaricious than that.”

“Careful, you’re throwing insults,” the villain said, standing to their feet. “That’s not very appropriate when you’re begging me to save you. No, no - stay down.”

The hero took in a great, shuddering breath, but sank back down to their knees from where they had started to rise. Their face was flushed and their hands clenched around the mudstained hem of their tunic, but they kept their glare fixed on the villain’s. The villain didn’t mind. They held the hero’s gaze with a grin as they strolled down the steps of their dias.

“There will be no negotiation,” the villain hummed, savoring the fury and the helplessness in the hero’s face. “I get your throne. And I get you.”

The hero jerked back as if struck. They did not break eye contact, the villain had to hand it to them. But there was no surprise. Just a despairing acceptance that the worst was happening. “A… a marriage alliance is certainly a solution I am prepared to consider,” the hero said.

“Oh, if this were a marriage proposal I’d be the one on my knee.” The villain reached out and ran a hand through the hero’s hair. Just because they could. The hero shuddered deliciously under their touch as the villain leaned in. “You’ll be mine,” the villain whispered in their longtime rival’s ear. “Whatever I choose to call you, however I choose to use you.”

“I’m not accepting that,” the hero breathed out.

“You don’t have a choice-” the villain started.

“-unless you guarantee my people’s safety,” the hero finished, eyes fixed past the villain. They were trembling but still so defiant, so brave. “Half your best forces to my borders within the week, another quarter within the month. And no throwing my people off their land - you take them as your own to defend.”

The villain stopped in their tracks. Looked down at the hero. “I said no negotiations.”

The hero managed a faint smile. “And yet here we are. Negotiating.”

The villain drew their dagger. The hero closed their eyes but did not flinch. “Look at you,” the villain hummed, teasing the hero’s chin up with the edge of the blade. “Out of friends, out of soldiers, out of resources. Begging on your knees and you still don’t realize your position.”

The hero swallowed again, throat bobbing against the knife. “Take my deal,” they said, the self sacrificing idiot. “Save my people. And in return…” Their hand wrapped around the villain’s wrist, warm and gently promising. “In return, I suppose you can teach me my position.”

The smart play was to do nothing. The smart play was to wait this war out. But the hero was on their knees, on their knees, offering the villain everything… The villain couldn’t say no to that. And they didn’t.

gingerly-writing:

“We get a victory out of this teamup. What do you get?”

The supervillain didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Target practice.”

Been sitting on this one for a while - finally had the chance to finish it up! Thanks for a great prompt @gingerly-writing!

CW: horror movie levels of gore

The hero made it two thirds of the way into the enemy base before it was too much. They grabbed for the the wall and emptied the contents of their stomach across the dirt flagstone floor.

“Protein spill?” laughed the supervillain behind them and smoothly beheaded the remaining creature dragging itself over the other body pieces across the floor. The hero clenched their eyes shut and willed themselves not to heave again. “No wonder [Superhero] needed me to do the deed if you’re the toughest she’s got.” 

The hero wiped their face, kicked dirt over their sick, and picked their crossbows back up. “Yep,” they said hoarsely, swallowing against the taste of bile in their throat. “You’re right, tough guy. Let’s get you to today’s bad guy, so you can go back to being the worst bad guy and we’ll all be happy again. Yay.”

They stepped carefully over the remains of the poor brainless creatures who’d had the misfortune to be guarding this corridor and stomped deeper into the necromancer’s lair, leaving the supervillain to bring up the rear. If the supervillain was offended, they showed no sign, their footsteps sauntering along behind their guide.

“I’ve always wondered,” the supervillain rumbled as the hero led the way, eyes wide for any other nests of minions and ears perked for the sound of the superhero’s decoy attack up above. “How someone with your particular skill set wound up on [Superhero]’s side and not mine.”

“What skill set is that?” the hero sighed, gesturing the supervillain’s attention to a tripwire. They both stepped over it, the hero having to give a little extra hop.

“The sharpshooting, darling. Putting that bolt or bullet or dart anywhere at will? I’d kill to have that power on my side!” the supervillain enthused. “You ought to be one of the most lethal persons in this whole cape business. Yet you languish on the B list with your silly little trick shots and joke ammo. Heads!”

The hero whirled and fired. The bolts of their crossbows punctured flawlessly through the - no. They forced their brain not to process. Two clean shots center head mass; two targets down one shot each. 

The supervillain whistled their approval, lowering their own weapon to guard stance as the hero reloaded, eyes anywhere but on the bodies. “Case in point. Damn,” they said, nudging at the downed zombies with their boot. “All this time I imagined you reined in by your allies. Chafing at the bit to unleash your full potential. Never, never did it occur to me the white hats’ little assassin can’t stand the sight of a little blood.”

“I don’t have - !” The hero stopped, caught their breath. The supervillain tilted their head and gave their sword a playful little twirl. Gore flicked off the end. “Not an assassin. And I’m fine with a little blood, thanks. This has not been a little blood.” They hoisted their bows pointedly, stomped past the supervillain. “Anyway, great talk but let’s keep it mission-focused, eh?”

A hand grabbed the back of their shirt. A sharp sword point rested against the back of their neck.

The hero dove forward with a twist that snapped them free. They landed in a shoulder roll with a tuck and a half, came up on their knees, both crossbows aimed at the supervillain’s head, center mass.

“Whoa, just a slip in the muck, friend!” the supervillain exclaimed, hands raised innocently. “Goodness, someone’s jumpy. Keep those things aimed somewhere else -” 

Abruptly the supervillain swung. The hero flattened themselves as the sword sliced through, came back up - to be smacked painfully across one wrist, grabbed by the other. The crossbows sprung into the floor and the wall, and the supervillain took the hero down to the ground. 

“God, would you look at that?” the supervillain purred, easily pinning the hero’s empty hands above their head. “Had me dead to rights and still didn’t fire. It breaks my heart, to see a gift like yours go to waste.”

“I’ll break your damn head, you traitor!” the hero yelled, thrashing furiously. “I didn’t ask for this fucking curse!”

The supervillain grabbed their dagger and the hero froze, the blade razor sharp against their neck.

“Interesting,” the supervillain said, breathing a little hard, staring into the hero’s eyes as if trying to bore their way right to the brain. “That does explain a lot. Makes the easy way a little easier, the hard way much harder. But oh…” The supervillain ran the dagger tip down the hero’s throat. The hero’s breath caught at the heat in that gaze. “Oh, so much more fun.”

And then just as abruptly the supervillain stood, dagger away, sword back in ready position. The hero floundered to their feet, breath heaving, crossbows unsteady in their hands as they grabbed them up.

“Oh calm down,” the supervillain said with an eye roll, taking the lead without being asked, turning their back easily as if nothing had happened. “You’d think you’d never heard of sparring before.”

“You’re insane!” the hero gasped, not lowering their weapons from the supervillain’s upper rib cage area.

The supervillain stopped. Looked back over their shoulder. The hero took a step back. “I assure you,” the supervillain said. “I’m very, very sane. I’ve got what I need here. It’s time to focus on today’s target, mm hm?”

“You got what?” the hero asked.

The supervillain twirled their sword again, gave the hero a smile. “Target practice. Keep up now.”

And they walked off towards the fight.

Just a little snippet…

“I’ve found, in my extensive experience, that panic is really rather effective in helping one shake off minor indispositions.”

“Hmm, it never seems to work for me,” said Tristan. “Although, to be fair, it usually isn’t me doing the panicking at the time. It’s mostly the telephone ringing and Siegfried bellowing at me to answer it, neither of which make one feel particularly full of vim and vigour and eagerness to greet the new day.”

“Well, you know, early to bed and early to rise, as they say. A healthy mind in a healthy body and all that.”

“Hmm, yes, quite.” Tristan grinned. With the arm that was not around the Doctor’s shoulders, he reached across, detached another of the less wilted parts of the celery garland and passed it to the Doctor, who took a bite.

“This is also working wonderfully well as a restorative. Not quite as good as Gallifreyan celery, but eminently fit for purpose. And in any case,” he said, his voice becoming a little higher. “It wasn’t necessarily the wine that had this, um, adverseeffect. Certain substances that are harmless to humans can provoke unexpected reactions in the Time Lord constitution. Some of our biochemists have studied this phenomenon in detail, but it’s impractical to carry a list of all their publications on the subject around with one all the time. Particularly when one is wearing…” he looked down disapprovingly at his rather flimsy tunic “…a garment without any pockets in it.”

“Are you feeling better now?” asked Tristan, affectionately.

“Very much better, thank you. And now we must address ourselves to the problem.”

I feel the need to apologise in advance for this chapter.

“I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls…” Vera could hear Tristan singing softly in the courtyard as he walked towards where she was sitting. It was one of his most endearing habits, this tendency to break into song on the flimsiest of pretexts. He had a pleasant light tenor singing voice and a seemingly inexhaustible repertoire of show-tunes to match any occasion.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” said Vera, taking his hand. Tristan looked around, ascertained that no-one was watching and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “I dreamt sweet dreams of you,” he said. “Actually, I didn’t. I was out like a light. Wine, women and song are clearly good for me.”

“Women?” said Vera, with a mock-disapproving expression.

“Woman. I have eyes only for you, my sweet.” He gave her his most charming smile. 

“I suppose you say that to all your girlfriends.”

“You malign me.”

“Where’s the Doctor?” asked Vera.

“I haven’t seen him so far. He has the room next to mine. Shall we go and see if he’s awake?”

They called him softly and, receiving no reply, went into the room. The celery garland lay, somewhat tattered and wilted, on a small table beside the bed. On the bed itself was a rumpled, inelegant pile of covers. Somewhere deep within it, with only one hand and a little hair showing, was the Doctor.

“Doctor?”

“Mmmhhh.”

“It’s morning.”

“Urgghhh.” Another groan, at a slightly different pitch from the first.

Tristan and Vera exchanged puzzled looks. The Doctor was was usually an enthusiastic advocate of early mornings, vigorous country walks, fresh air and other wholesome things that were approved of by of society in general and schoolmasters in particular, and therefore inflicted on unfortunates such as Tristan, whose constitution objected in the strongest possible terms to these impositions.

“Doctor? Are you all right?” Tristan tapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Mmmhhh.” The Doctor turned over, pushed back the covers, winced and looked at them through heavy-lidded, unfocused eyes, a rather tragic expression on his face.

It’s odd, thought Tristan. He looks just the way I feel the morning after a heavy night at the Drovers’. In fact, he looks very much how I do when I look in the mirror on those mornings…

The Doctor reached one hand into his tousled hair, grabbed a handful of it and ruffled it as if this would help him bring his wits into some kind of order.

“We had a rather long and, um, detailed discussion last night,” he said at length. “Sadly I have very little recollection of what we actually talked about. It’s all rather, ah, hazy. But it was so interesting at the time that I, er, neglected to pay attention to how often they were filling my wine cup. I don’t usually react quite this badly to alcohol. Perhaps there was, ah, something in the food that had adverse effects on my constitution.” He rubbed the back of his head again. “They told me something terribly important, something that troubled me deeply. I must – try – to remember…”

“You need a cup of coffee, Doctor. It’s the best thing by far for getting the old grey matter firing on all cylinders, particularly when you’re feeling a little on the delicate side. Absolutely the cat’s pyjamas, in my humble opinion. It’s only a shame that it won’t be available in Europe for a couple of millennia. I wonder how they managed in the mornings without it. I could go back to the TARDIS and get some for you. We could even teach the Greeks how to cultivate it. Perhaps it could speed up human progress. We might have space-flight by the 1930s…”

The Doctor gave Tristan a look that seemed to say “Your irritatingly cheerful prattling is making me feel as if a team of carpenters has come to rearrange all the fixtures and fittings in my head. If you have any affection whatsoever for me and any concern at all for my well-being, do be quiet,please.” Of course, he didn’t actually say that, because the effort of retrieving all the necessary words from his mental dictionary and placing them in the right order hurt his brain far too much. He hoped that the sentiment would be conveyed eloquently enough with another moan.

“Ssshh, Tristan,” said Vera, whose knowledge of the varieties of mornings-after experienced by the humanoid male had been greatly expanded by attendance at 9 o'clock painting classes at art college. (The general rule was, just smile sympathetically and do not even attempt conversation until after the first tea-break.)

“How can I have forgotten?” the Doctor berated himself. “That’s the trouble with being a Time Lord, there’s so much to remember and only one small head to put it all in(*). Think! Think!”

“Oh!” he said presently, sitting upright with a start and adopting a different type of anguished expression. “It’s all come back to me! They think we’re Castor and Pollux, and they want our help.”

(*) I liked this line from a deleted scene in Frontios so much that I had to put it in!

lesmisholidays:

First Names by maraudeuse [AO3]

Chapters: 1/1, Words: 4515

Characters: Enjolras (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Combeferre (Les Misérables)

Additional Tags: Kid Fic, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Triumvirate, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Courfeyrac appreciation, Slightly hinted Enjolras/Grantaire (sometime in the future), Sensitivity

The Triumvirate’s first official gathering was not as epic as you might expect.

It’s February 14, 2003, the start of the winter holidays for the sixth graders in Paris.
“Le Frunkp” has been topping the charts for two weeks, ice cream parlours are no longer free of serenading, Courfeyrac is the only one who can properly handle a Harry Potter video game, and Enjolras doesn’t like his best friend’s idea of inviting the new kid in class over at all.
Might be true that outsiders should stick together, but the two of them don’t need anyone to intrude and make things complicated and awkward, right? Except Courfeyrac apparently does.

So I took part in the Les Mis Holidays Exchange and this was my gift for AO3 user TheRussianKat, beta’d once again by the amazing shadowy-andata. The exchange was really fun and also well-organised and if I have the time, I’ll definitely participate in the next round!

INTO THE LIGHT, a reincarnation fic

Part I:The Leader In Red
Part II:The Revolutionary Who Remembers His Past Lives
Part III:In Which R Is Already Someone
Part IV:Speaking On The Cuff
Part V:A Ridiculous Man
Part VI:Permission

They don’t have trouble finding each other. By chance, or by instinct, they both end up in Paris at the same time this time. Everything else, however, takes a while. And apologies. And a paper hat.

Recognizing someone from a previous life proves more difficult than expected when you’re both not the same person as before.


Words:8721,Chapters: 6/6 (complete), Language:English
Tagged as: Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Slow Romance, Stupid barricade lovers taking much too long to recognize each other and get together, Also maybe some Amis de l’ABC
on AO3

They don’t have trouble finding each other. By chance, or by instinct, they both end up in Paris at the same time this time. Everything else, however, takes a while. And apologies. And a paper hat.

Recognizing someone from a previous life proves more difficult than expected when you’re both not the same person as before. (OVERVIEW)

Enjolras was coiled up, his head resting in R’s lap, dizzily looking up to him. R had expected it to take at least two hours to convince him that he needed rest, but surprisingly he did not seem to mind at all.

Adrien was coiled up. R seriously needed to stop this.

Unfortunately,Adriendidn’t make the impression that he was about to let that topic go.
“Enjolras?”, he asked in a faint, but oviously determined, voice. R could tell from the way he puckered his lips.
R sighed. “It’s just a name that has been stuck in my brain like forever and spontaneously came to my mind.” And I regularly dream about getting shot next to someone of this name. Nothing to worry about, I’m fine.

Adrientried to recline on his ellbows, but failed, which seemed to bother him for a second, but then R could tell he was about to go all in.
He braced himself.

“So you wouldn’t agree if I suggested that we’ve met previously? If I also suggested that previously meant about two hundred years ago?”
“And by meeting”, R said, numbly, “you mean something like getting shot?”
“At a barricade, yes.”

A barricade…the word somehow seemed to fit. A barricade. Why on earth would he be on a barricade? And why was this the first question that came to his mind, instead of Is it possible you hit your well-formed head when you decided to faint?
He could answer both of them: Because he would believe in Enjolras, and because he knew immediately that it was true. In fact, he had known for a long time, but decided that it wasn’t something he wanted to spend his life thinking about.

“I think”, Adrien…oh whatever, R just liked to call him Enjolras, went on, “maybe, if your last thought in one life is something extremely…intense and…moving, you might remember it in the next one. Or something like that. I’ve spent so much time thinking about it, but it still makes me woozy.”
Suddenly sounding unsure of himself, he eyed the ceiling intensely.
R couldn’t help but smile a little. “So you’re saying you’re some sort of revolutionary spirit that is drawn to this world to fight all of its injustices?”
Enjolras glared back at him. “We’re not going back there, are we, Taire? You know very well that I refuse to believe that things cannot be changed. But this has nothing to do with this…stuff about…previous lives.” His voice trailed off again.

“So this is how you get yourself to learn the symptoms of glandular fever?” R couldn’t resist to tease him a little, maybe still a bit dizzy about the fact that he had just been called Taire, which felt right, even though he didn’t know where it came from. “You tell yourself that it’s a sacrifice you bring because the world will benefit greatly?
"It’s just a different approach this time”, Enjolras said huffily. “Also, if we consider the fact…or maybe better the impressionthat I remember three lives, maybe we can rule this revolutionary spirit thing out for this one.”
“Three?”, R said, taken aback, but quickly recovering. “Okay, how many times were you a girl? I can totally imagine you with long, fabulous hair and…”

There was the death glare once again.
R loved it.

“I think”, Adrien said in a dignified tone that left him again after the first two words, “that maybe I was…looking for you.”

There was a short silence, during which R could only look at Adrien’s face, at Enjolras’s face, feeling incredibly soft. He ran his fingers through his hair, smiling.
“Looking for me in order to pass on whatever disease you’ve been carrying around because you’re to stubborn to admit you’re sick, right?”
Enjolras frowned once again. “You’ve just ruined the moment.”
“I proved that a moment can’t be ruined when I’m with you”, he objected.
“WhenI’mwithyou.”
“Shut up, you sicko, or I’ll draw a two times two meter painting in your bedroom called The Leader In Red About To Throw Up.”
“I’m not sick”, Enjolras protested, “I just forgot to eat while I was studying.”
“Then why don’t you get up?”, R teased him.

Enjolras blushed slightly, biting his lower lip.

“You’re not very good at sign language”, R reminded him.
“You’re just oblivious”, he objected. “I just blushed, that’s enough of an answer. Why do I always have to be the one stammering about my feelings?”
“Because you’re horrendously bad at it, which is extraordinarily cute.”

Their fingers met, intertwining.

“This is just as vague as I was”, Enjolras protested, his voice suddenly a bit hoarse.
“Did your ability to argue in a precise manner suddenly desert you”, R replied mockingly. “Should I get you your notes for the speech you surely prepared a while ago?”

Enjolras interrupted him by reaching up, placing his hand gently around R’s neck, pulling his head down toward his own face.

“Do you permit it?”, he asked, just a breath away from R, his lips nearly brushing against his own.

Grantaire smiled and finally closed the distance between them.

They don’t have trouble finding each other. By chance, or by instinct, they both end up in Paris at the same time this time. Everything else, however, takes a while. And apologies. And a paper hat.

Recognizing someone from a previous life proves more difficult than expected when you’re both not the same person as before. (OVERVIEW)

It wasn’t as if Adrien didn’t like the rain, but he did mind the fact that he had forgotten his umbrella even though he had precautionarily left it on the kitchen table earlier. However, as he had spent the afternoon at R’s and R didn’t have a single functioning clock in his appartment, they had left in a hurry, Adrien hadn’t remembered to bring the umbrella and was now in an irritatingly damp state.

R, on the other side, had just put on his hood and didn’t seem to mind getting soaked on their way to the Métro station at all.

They were going to spend the evening with Adrien’s Amis group, informally, of course. Adrien had thought about asking R to come to an official meeting exactly once, and after thinking about it for seven minutes (in which he had organised his thoughts in a mind-map, which was, embarrassingly, something he did quite often when it came to interpersonal relationships), he had come to the conclusion that R would either refuse more or less politely or that he would come for Adrien’s sake only. Which, of course, Adrien didn’t want. Plus, R already helped him by listening to his lines of argument and tearing them apart, and by mimicking Adrien’s gestures when mockingly reciting his speeches by heart – he could memorize them almost immediately – in his now barely noticeable Irish accent. (Aside from the fact that R refused to put the stress in problème on its last syllable, he had adotped quite a Parisian dialect in less than seven weeks.)

Okay, maybe Adrien was a little bit impressed.

It did, however, bother him how utterly nihilistic and how mercurial R could be. How he would just decide that something wasn’t worth his attention and never think of it again. They had known each other for five weeks now, during which they hadn’t talked for five days straight when R had announced midway through one of Adrien’s lectures about humanitarian aid that he “simply didn’t care” and they had both been too stubborn to apologize for what had happened afterwards.

R made Adrien feel more balanced, that was true. Somehow, they had made it a habit of spending their breaks together (mostly at Adrien’s appartment because at R’s you couldn’t be sure not to trip over some paint pot when he decided that his hallway needed to be black or that he should build a giant cockade out of book pages in his kitchen) and Adrien had to admit that despite of their arguing, it relaxed him. Somehow, seeing that R didn’t seem to mind anything that he found out about Adrien filled him with confidence. He would tease him about it, but never over the top, and Adrien liked the feeling that someone knew about his mind-maps, his habit of sticking way too many post-its in a single textbook and the fact that he secretly was a bit of a picky eater.

Then, however, they would argue for hours, either about a bagatelle or the big picture or about how R would lie on his couch for an entire day and ignore everything and everyone, making acid-tongued remarks about all that Adrien said and did until he would explode and accuse R of things he didn’t even mean. And Adrien would ask himself whether R had been right that day when he had expressed his doubts about them being able to have a healthy relationship.

Adrien had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice how R had steered him, hand on his back, into the Métro until their station, Passy, was anounced. They followed the bulk through the tiled hallway, past a man playing “La Valse d'Amélie” on his cello (Adrien hadn’t seen the movie, but he had heard Émelie playing it on the piano for about 500 times) and up the stairs. Which was when Adrien remembered the rain and stopped, making a face.

“What’s wrong?”, R asked. “We’re not going back. You agreed to go two days ago even though you were fully aware that most people would be drunk, there would be loud music and you would look like you brought your boyfriend with you.”
Adrien didn’t know what to make of the last part, so he ignored it, a tactic he admittedly used quite often, especially with R. To prove that he was fully capable of enduring a night out with his friends, he stepped out into the rain, automatically hunching his shoulders. Maybe he didn'tlike the rain, after all.

He had walked about ten metres when he realised R wasn’t beside him anymore. He had added three points to the pro and con columns of waiting for him when R caught up with him again, holding an issue of Metronews in his hands. He only realised that it was in fact a paper hat made from the free newspaper when R placed it on his head.

Adrien stared at R, having the strong feeling that he could’t conjure up the death glare at that moment.
He removed the paper hat.
R took it out of his hands and placed it on his head again. “This will save your precious curls from getting ruined”, he stated.

“I don’t even carehow I look right now”, Adrien protested. “But this thing is ridiculous.”
“You’ve justcontradicted yourself. Come on, doctor, you can pull this off. You can wear anything, even tight red jackets.”

Adrien didn’t know why, but when they arrived at Fréderic’s and Marian’s collocation at Square Alboni five minutes later, he was still wearing the paper hat. Maybe it had something to do with R giving him this look when he had presented it to him.
It still looked ridiculous, of course. Fawza had a fit of hysterical laughter as soon as he walked in and he had the strong impression that several photos had been taken before he had the opportunity to fold it and put it in his pocket. Adrien didn’t like being the center of attention when it wasn’t professional, plus the laughter made him nervous, so he made use of death glare again. This time it worked on everyone except Fawza, who was still giggling and in response tried to pat him on the shoulder, saying: “Hats up, Adrien.”

The Death Glare deepened to a Don’t You Dare Make Physical Contact With Me Glare, which would have done the trick, if it hadn’t been for R who was obviously delighted to meet Fawza again.
“That was beret funny”, he complimented her with that grin Adrien still found slightly annoying.
Fawza beamed when she turned to R: “I appreciate your cap-ital effort, but that wasn’t even remotely funny.”
“I think I can do the top hat pun”, he objected.
“Hats more like it”, she grinned.

A fist bump happened. Adrien made a mental note to either make sure the two of them would never be in talking distance again or to stay far away from them.

“Can we please stop with these horrible puns and just sit down somewhere?”, he said. Fawza steered him towards the living room, where most of their friends had gathered. “Hatters gonna hat”, she said.

R snorted.

Jean was very touchy-feely when drunk.
Adrien didn’t know how he could have manoevered himself into this situation, but two hours later, he found himself sitting on the couch, Jean curled up halfway in his lap, occasionally checking for Adrien’s pulse, while Émelie sat cross-legged on the coffee table across from him, ranting about how Heathcliff should be considered a force of nature rather than an avenger. Due to this unfortunate choice of words she then switched topics mid-sentence to ramble on about Marvel comics. Her knowledge was way too detailed for someone who usually emphasized how mediocre they found them.
Adrien hated it when people gave disjointed speeches. It was something that annoyed him about R, as well: He would start off with the Rennaissance and end up with the production of maccaroni.

Adrien didn’t drink because he didn’t like the feeling of losing control. Additionally, he got drunk almost immediately and every time he had tried, everyone had made fun of him for ages. The story of “How Adrien Got Drunk At New Year’s Eve Three Years Ago At Trocadéro” was still recounted at every possible occasion. Even though they had all agreed to never bring it up again.
On occasions like this, Adrien would normally watch everyone get drunk and act ridiculous together with Fawza, but this evening, she was talking to R over in the kitchen.
Adrien was annoyed by this.
Adrien felt stupid for being annoyed by this.

“I told you so!”, Jean said, all of a sudden alarmed. For the hundredth time, Adrien thought that it probably wasn’t such a good idea for Jean to get drunk, but every time he had an opportunity to talk to him about it, he didn’t know how to start with the topic.
“What did you tell me?”, he asked calmly.
“Your pulse is unstable”, Jean muttered with closed eyes. “You have three days to live.”

Émelie was talking about why Angel, not Alec, was true antagonist in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, which almost made her seem like her normal self, if she hadn’t periodically interjected her speech with exclamations about how she wanted to punch mysogynistic, double-tongued asshole in the face every time she watched the BBC Miniseries.

“Émelie”, Adrien interrupted her, “could you help me get him to bed?”
A clearly defined problem obviously had a sobering effect on Émelie, and she immediately stopped with her lecture to get one of Jean’s arms around her neck. Together they hurled him into Fréderic’s room and on his bed.
“I’ll look after him”, Émelie said, “You should check on your friend. He might feel a bit overwhelmed by all of us.”
“I don’t think so”, Adrien muttered, but he nevertheless closed the door behind him and made his way to the kitchen. He found Fawza, alone, sitting on the counter and eating cereal with milk (which she tried to hide behind her back when Adrien came in).

“Seriously?”, he said, frowing.
She quickly stuck her tongue out at him, then continued with her snack. “Capital A, you didn’t just try to make a pun, did you?”
“Where’s R?”, he asked as a reply.
“He went home about thirty minutes ago. Was feeling sick, I think, but he wanted to go alone.”

Adrien’s frown deepened. “Was he drunk, or something?”

Fawza squinched up her face. “I don’t know, I thought I heard somebody throw up in the bathroom, though. But let’s not jump to conclusions. Why do you care, anyway? Did you plan on doing something with him later?”
Adrien ignored the subtext in the last remark. “He has this exam tomorrow”, he said, already a bit angry. “He said it was important and that he would take it seriously.”
“Okay, but it’s his exam and not yours”, Fawza reminded him. The look in her eyes was way too understanding. “Go easy on him, Adrien. This is not your business.”
Adrien just shook his head and went to get his jacket. “I’ll just check on him, okay?”

After having worried about what he’d find at R’s appartment the entire way there, the fact that R opened the door with red and green paint in his hair, seemingly perfectly fine, humming English Civil War again, threw Adrien off course.

“You’re okay!”, he said almost accusingly.
R just raised an eyebrow. “…nobody understands it can happen again, hurra, tala”, he sung without much enthusiasm.
“So you’re really okay?”, Adrien repeated.
“Yeah”, R said. “I was feeling a bit queasy earlier, but maybe it was just the stale air. That, and I had started to feel a little bit weird all alone with your friends, and then I had this really awesome idea of how to install those water bottles over my bed, and so I texted you”, at this point he glared pointedly at Adrien’s pocket, “that I’d go home earlier.”

“Oh”, Adrien muttered. “I didn’t see that. I just heard you didn’t feel and had thrown up or something so I thought…”

R bit his lip before turning away. “So you thought I was drunk and irresponsible as always and you’d show up here to make sure you could drag me to that goddamn exam tomorrow. Yeah, I get your point, Adrien. It’s just sad that I wasn’t the one to throw up but the one to pull back the hair in the process. I don’t even drink, did you know that?”

There was so much accusation in his voice that Adrien just went for the easiest thing to respond to: “You don’t?”

“Well, now that I’ve come to think about it, I guess it would be an awesome idea to be drunk all the time, considering the fact that I’m such a jolly, totally stable person when I’m sober”, R snapped. “But that’s not the point, I’d rather know why you thought it would be your job to rush in here like a knight in shining armour and…”
“…because I was worried about you, obviously”, Adrien said cooly.
“Well then you better stop trying to take care of me, because I can make my own choices”, R said in a flat tone before turning away. In the last second, Adrien slid his foot into the gap and pushed the door back open, following R into the hallway.

Then he stood there, R still with his back turned towards him, waiting.

Normally, if Adrien knew what he wanted to say, the words would just fly to him. He would instinctively know which ones to pick and how to place them. With R, his talent seemed useless, because there was always this heap of vague words and feelings that he couldn’t even interpret, let alone express toward someone else. All he knew for sure in this moment was that he liked R exactly as he was, in all of his messy, unpredictable, devil-may-care ways, because even if he could, he wouldn’t change a thing about him.

Maybe he just had to let go of whatever was holding on to him that made him so angry seeing how R didn’t live up to what Adrien thought was his full potential.
Maybe – if he really liked him the way he was – he just had to full-heartedly let R be the way he was.

He reached out for R’s arm, trying to make him turn around. “I’m not trying to take care of you”, he said silently, “I do care about you.”

R slightly turned his head to look over his shoulder, searching for Adrien’s eyes.

They met.

“You’re my opposite. You balance out my flaws. You point them out. This is why you can annoy me beyond measure, but I love being annoyed by you.”

R made a sudden movement, turning around, grasping Adrien’s other arm. All at once, they were just a few centimeters apart from each other.
Adrien heard himself, like from afar, breathing heavily.
And then, somehow, everything seemed to get grey and wobbly and the walls tilted. As he was collapsing, like in slow motion, the following chain of thoughts took place in Adrien’s head:
- When was it that you last ate something?
- I don’t recall.
- This is probably why we can witness a beautiful circulatory collapse right now. Watch out…

Adrien held on to R in order not to fall, burying his face in the soft transition from his neck to his right shoulder.
His knees buckled.
“Enjolras!”, he heard R cry, and, as he slid to the ground: “You’re the one that needs to be taken care of, you ridiculous man.”