Work Text:
It’s not as though Hilda hasn’t almost died before, is the thing. That’s just part of being a superhero, especially one as visible as she is; her wings, broad and bright, catch the light and the attention of the people they’re fighting, and more often than not she’ll distract their targets while quieter members of their group get hits in. It’s nothing new at all.
Still, she thinks, huddled under a blanket in the basement-base, DS in her hands but not on, it’s never fun, and always terrifying. Her throat and nose ache, and she still feels the chill of the ocean even after a hot shower. She hasn’t even looked at her wings since Elena pulled her out of the water. She has a photoshoot in the morning, shit. She should be sleeping.
Hilda turns on the DS, then turns it off again. On the other side of the basement, Chanty is conferring with Waxwing over the portrait— of Gale Green? Of Goldfinch? Hilda turned away from the painting the moment she walked in, but she can feel its eyes boring into her back. It’s been trying to meet her eyes, she’s pretty sure, because that’s the type of bullshit you run into as a superhero. She’s been doing this for a while now, so she knows at least to not give into it.
Even that feeling, though, is enough to make what’s left of her wings droop, shoulders tense under the blanket Chanty had grabbed when she was finding bandages for Franklin. Wouldn’t it be easier if she just called and cancelled the photoshoot? If she stopped doing this altogether? People look at her so much , and she only ever encourages that. She turns the DS on, then off again. It was low on battery when she picked it up; she should probably plug it in.
The games they brought down to the basement chirp loudly around her; Franklin has taken up playing one, and she’s pretty sure he’s getting blood on the controls. His shoulders are drooping, too; Hilda wonders if the painting has the same effect on him. Then again, maybe it was just losing that fight.
Maybe it’s just Hilda that the painting has seen, and decided is unworthy— is freakish, is weird. It’s about time that someone noticed that, probably. Even back in London, most people loved her, and she’s been in Bluff City for what feels like forever. It’s about time the other shoe drops.
“Hey.”
Hilda looks up, fingertips pressing into the edges of the DS. Elena is standing in front of her, strands of hair sticking wetly to the sides of her face, hoodie drawn up and hands in her pockets. She’s shifting on her feet, brows furrowed.
“Hi,” Hilda replies, voice quiet and scratchy. She shifts, leaving room next to her behind the arcade machine she’s been leaning against. Elena glances at the space but doesn’t sit, moving her weight to her other leg.
“You okay?” she asks. “Warmer?”
Hilda shrugs. A few metres away, Franklin cheers— automatic, she glances over, and the painting catches her eyes again. “M’fine,” she replies absently. She pulls the blanket closer around her shoulders.
The girl on the swing glares back at her, judgemental. Hilda’s never fit into what a girl like her is supposed to be— she’s too different, too unsure, too—
“Hey,” Elena says again, and Hilda’s view of the painting is blocked as she sits down next to her. Up close, Hilda can see the wear and tear of their fights on her face: a long cut from her chin to her ear, a fading bruise over her eye, a nose broken one too many times. Her mouth is set, eyes open and concerned. “Seriously, Hilda. You good?”
Hilda breaks eye contact but lets herself lean just a little into Elena’s warmth. “Tired,” she replies. Her eyes have been burning, too, and she doesn’t know if that’s the seawater or something deeper. She closes them, and wiggles a little closer to Elena. The other girl stiffens for a moment, then relaxes.
“Yeah,” Elena sighs, “me too.” Her fingers twitch against Hilda’s side. When Hilda looks up at her, Elena’s face is cast in her wings’ light.
“Thanks,” she says after a moment. “For— I would have drowned, probably. You — you saved me.”
Elena flushes and looks away. “Yeah, well,” she says, “we’re a team or whatever, I guess.”
Her hand twitches again, and Hilda draws her own out from under the blanket to grab it. She curls their fingers together, and Elena sucks in a quick breath next to her.
“Cold?” Hilda asks, because Elena had jumped into the ocean right after her, had dragged her out without hesitating. At least Hilda had only been half-conscious by the time she hit the water; she could only remember the cold, sharp sting with a vague sort of pain.
“No,” Elena says. “Not… not now.”
Hilda hums in agreement, because she’s right— with Elena’s firm shoulders and soft warmth at her side, she can’t feel any remnants of the ocean’s chill. She puts her DS at her side and shifts away from Elena for a moment, letting go of her hand.
“Here,” she says, holding open a side of the blanket. “We can share.” The movement allows more of the light from her wings out, and she can imagine it shining on the painting, the girl’s disdainful look.
But she isn’t looking at the painting— she’s looking at Elena, the way the light, fractured as it is, dances in her eyes and her hair. It’s beautiful— not in the way people always call her power beautiful in their comments and compliments, but soft. Personal. Vulnerable. Elena is shocked into a smile, and that’s beautiful, too.
After a moment, Elena moves closer, and Hilda wraps the blanket around her shoulder before withdrawing her arm and leaning into her side again. She rests her head on Elena’s shoulder, this time, and her firm muscle isn’t the most comfortable pillow but Hilda doesn’t care. She takes hold of Elena’s hand again, and this time the other girl’s grip is firm and sure. Elena rests her cheek on Hilda’s head, and Hilda smiles.
“Thanks,” she says again.
“Anytime,” Elena replies, and maybe it’s stupid— they’re teens, after all, and who knows what’s going to happen in the next few weeks or months or years— but she believes her. Deep down, in a butterfly-swarm part of her heart, she believes her. If anyone’s going to help her when she’s down, it’s Elena Florez— The Champ, strong and steady and endlessly loyal. Her friend.
“Same,” Hilda mutters, and maybe she doesn’t know what she’s promising either, but she’s going to promise it anyway. She blinks, and settles in a little more comfortably. She should go home, get some sleep, but she won’t, not yet.
Instead, Hilda leans not-quite-comfortably into the dip of Elena’s shoulder, and sits, as near her Franklin plays a game and ignores his wounds, and just to the other side of the room Waxwing and Chanty talk quietly, and that painting stares and stares and doesn’t stop. She sits, and Elena reaches up and wraps an arm around her, drawing her close, and she breathes in and lets herself feel safe, feel secure.
And maybe, here in the arcade basement with her team around her and Elena beside her, she is.