Chapter Text
“Something to say, kid?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Wilbur hisses, as he struggles desperately against the hand that’s wrapped itself around his throat.
He claws at it, uselessly. The Blade is unflinching, not even seeming to notice the weight of him as he’s held aloft. The world goes foggy around the edges, and Wilbur thrashes until he can’t, anymore -
The world starts to dim around the edges, and he goes limp as the Blade chuckles and lowers him to the roof.
To his knees, slumped at the villain’s side as the Blade buries his fingers in his hair and holds him upright like that, painfully. He’s barking something at the cops arrayed on the ground below - a threat, probably -
There’s a thump as Arc Angel lands beside him, wings folding with a snap, and Wilbur should be scared.
“Hey, Reverb,” the villain murmurs quietly. “Having fun?”
Wil lets out a little snarl, throat too hoarse to speak, and the villain chuckles easily. “Don’t worry - this will all be over in a minute -”
There’s a blast, deep below them, and Wilbur hears screams.
He’s tossed forwards on the roof by a shockwave, landing hard as he scrambles to his feet, snarling and whipping around to lunge at the Angel. The hybrid catches him with a laugh, trademark gauntlet taking the blow meant for his chest, and Wilbur throws up a shield of his own just in time to catch the Blade’s axe as it swings for his own.
It rings out with the force of the blow, a moment of distraction - but the Angel is fast.
Fast enough to land a kick to the back of his leg, and they’re playing with him. Toying with him, and he hisses as he’s forced down onto the tar-paper of the roof -
Another kick has him sprawling - but he turns it into a roll, narrowly dodging another blow from the Blade as he flips up onto his feet.
“Fuck you,” he growls, and the Angel catches him by the wrists as he lunges. And Wilbur, for a moment, jerks, helpless, as electricity courses across his chest -
And dissipates as he goes stiff in the Angels’ grip.
“Everyone got out,” he murmurs, under his breath, and something in Wil’s chest goes limp in relief as his whole body sags.
“You’re sure?” he hisses back, mustering all his strength to wrench himself away before the avian can shock him again. “You’re -”
“Nimue was escorting the last few out when I left the building. You did well, today.”
He aims a punch at the villain’s head, and the Angel dodges. And - maybe it isn’t quite as vicious as his blows from before, but -
But he’s done his job. SBI are going to escape, but they haven’t killed anyone, this time -
He knows why they haven’t. It’s why he’s here.
They’re humoring him.
It’s the same reason they haven’t killed him yet. They could - he knows it, they know it, everybody fucking knows it. He’s a mid-level telekine with mediocre force projections - they’re the two most feared villains in L’manburg, with body counts carved on monuments and memorials all across the city -
But the Blade slings an arm between him and the Angel and dunks him back-first into the pavement, and if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.
He takes the pain, and struggles to his feet. Whatever they wanted, it’s theirs, now, smuggled out of the burning, half-collapsed building below them. He’s not going to be able to get that back out of them, but that was never really the goal.
He sets reasonable goals. They haven’t killed anyone yet. They’re more interested in toying with him than they are in terrorizing the civilians below, or duking it out with the cops, or causing massive property damage.
And as long as he fights, he knows, they’ll stay that way.
Then the Blade picks him up again and tosses him off a roof, and he has a brief, terrifying moment where he thinks that this is it -
-----
Mercifully, he slams into another roof, instead of plummeting to his death below. The Blade lands beside him with a thud a moment later, and there’s an awful crash as the building behind him gives way.
Screaming, below. Sirens wailing. The crackle of a fire grown rapidly out of control.
The Blade looms over him, and raises his axe, but there’s no air in Wilbur’s chest to do more than throw a useless hand in front of his face, clawing for the focus to raise a shield -
The axe thuds into the roof next to his head, so close that he can feel the air move as it passes. It sits there, for a long moment, and then is drawn out with a creak as it pries free from the rain-warped plywood sheeting -
Then the flat of its head is pressed against his throat, forcing his chin up so his eyes meet the Blade’s.
“You okay, kid?”
He lets out a helpless, rasping groan - he’s pretty sure he’s at least got a couple bruised ribs, maybe worse - and the Blade’s eyes soften, just for a moment -
Then the Angel gets slammed face-first into the ground next to the pair of them with the force of a thunderclap, and everything starts to slide sideways.
“Blade.” There’s a low rumble of threat in the Captain’s voice as she hovers over the scene. “Let him go.”
The Blade laughs, and suddenly, the flat of his axe is replaced by the sharp as the Angel drags himself to his feet, lightning twining around his hands like a living thing. “You’re not going to stop us, Puffy,” he rumbles, and only experience lets Wil hear the amusement in it through what should be grinding terror. “Leave, and maybe I’ll let the kid go home, tonight.”
Wilbur sees the way Puffy falters, because -
He gets it. They’ve always let him live before - that doesn’t mean that there’s any guarantee that they’ll spare him this time, though. No promise at all, and Puffy is tough, but she isn’t as good a flier as the Angel, or as physically sturdy as the Blade, or fast enough to intervene before the razor-sharp axe at his throat could slit it -
“You’ve got what you came for,” she tries, instead. “Let him go. Please.”
It’s not quite begging, but they all know it’s close. The Blade considers her, for a moment, unreadable -
And then glances sideways at the Angel with the confidence of someone who knows that Puffy isn’t stupid enough to attack him while he’s distracted. “Angel?” he says, and the villain snorts.
“I’m in a good mood. We can go easy on the kid today, I suppose,” he says, after a moment’s show of contemplation. Something glinting garnet flicks between his fingers, just a flash as he snaps his fingers and the lightning around him dissipates - it’s whatever he’s stolen, Wilbur is sure - and the axe pulls away from Wil’s throat.
Puffy isn’t stupid. She doesn’t try anything as they let him drop to the roof, and step back, and the Angel leaps into flight as the Blade runs faster than a man his size should be able and leaps off the edge of the roof onto the streets below. They’re already gone by the time she moves, hurrying to kneel over him -
“Shit,” she murmurs, as she presses lightly on his chest and he lets out a choked sob. “Yeah, that’s broken - one sec - Nimue -”
She scrambles at her belt for a flask, pouring out the water on the tar roof, and there’s a bubbling hiss as the nymph drags herself out of the puddle, skin faintly glowing as her eyes flash gold.
“Shit - ’verb -”
Her hands brush his face, and he shudders as cold power floods his veins. It’s - relief, mercy that’s cool and gentle and familiar, and he whimpers as it pours through him -
The vigilante doesn’t let go until he can feel his bones knit and his bruises boil away into nothing, and sags to the roof in blessed relief.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, and it’s Puffy’s strong hand that wraps around his wrist and helps drag him to his feet.
“Thank you,” she tells him, her own relief obvious in her voice. “You’re okay?”
“They weren’t trying to kill me,” he tells her. “Blade was -”
He gestures at the collapsed building behind them, and she nods.
“Yeah, I figured. Still,” she grins. “Better not to let them kidnap you, if we can help it, right?”
“Not on a broken rib,” he snorts back, and Nimue laughs.
“You want an escort home, or…?” she offers, and he shakes his head.
“Should be fine,” he tells her. “They’re not going to have another go at me tonight, or they wouldn’t have let Puffy chase them off.”
“Fair enough,” she tells him. “Get out of here, then. Me and Puff can handle this.”
“Thanks,” he grins back, and the ache in his ribs is blunt and soft as he runs for the edge of the roof himself and leaps -
And this time, he’s ready for it, so he catches himself on a shell of invisible force and flings himself upward - flips, in the air, as he drops, suddenly, perfectly weightless -
And lands lightly, his power bowing under him to catch him and propel him up again, and again, as he leaps away over the rooftops of his city.
-----
“You smell like shit,” Tommy tells, him, pulling himself up from the couch as Wilbur shoves in through the front door. “Holy - you smell like ash, Wil -”
“Yeah,” he snorts, keys jangling as he tosses them down on the counter with a heavy grunt. “You didn’t see the news about midtown?”
“You were -” Tommy is scrambling upright. “Fuck, Wil, are you alright?”
“Fine,” He grunts, grabbing a glass of water and sloshing it in his mouth before spitting in the sink. It comes away… a little black, yeah, even if he hadn’t noticed the greasy soot through his focus while he was fighting SBI. “I got there pretty well after everything had calmed down. My boss had me hauling some coffee and water bottles up for the first responders - little bit of community service, you know -”
“Fuck,” Tommy echoes again, and Wilbur laughs and ruffles his hair. “He pay you, at least?”
“Yeah,” Wilbur lies. “The FD tipped, too. ‘S all good.”
Tommy reaches up, brushes a hand over his cheek, and Wilbur can see the little flicker of concern in his gaze. “You were bleeding?”
He - was he? “Just a scratch,” he says, reaching up to touch the flaking patch of what is, yeah, dried blood. The scuff under it is already healed by Nimue’s power, and he scuffs off what’s left, deliberately casual. “Nothing major.”
Tommy looks at him, and there’s the wariness in his gaze that he always gets when he thinks Wilbur might be lying to him - but it breaks after just a second, and Tommy is wrapped around him, face buried in his chest.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, but - you’ve gotta stay safe, Wil -”
“I’m fine,” he tells him, and rubs a little circle on his brother’s back. “It’s all good, Tommy. I didn’t see much - what happened?”
“Reverb showed up to save the day,” Tommy tells him, letting go only to grab his hand and drag him over towards the couch. “Sit - By which I mean, Reverb showed up to get bounced off the pavement until the Captain and Nimue could rescue him -”
“That bad, huh?” He lets amusement curl his voice as Tommy reaches for the remote.
“They keep replaying it - here.”
Oof. It’s… a definite highlight reel of his own embarrassing manhandling. He flinches, involuntarily, as the news plays a slowed-down helicopter shot of him getting thrown off the bank’s roof, and Tommy, besides him, makes an exaggerated motion with his hands -
“Vwwwwoooooo-PLAT!” He smacks his arcing fist into his hand with a laugh. “Holy shit, that had to hurt.”
“Yeah,” Wil agrees, because it sure had, but he can’t keep the grin off his lips as Tommy’s eyes light, following the fight eagerly -
He rubs his brother’s back as they watch, and laughs as the commentary continues.
“And then the Captain comes up - watch this, watch this - POW!” Tommy jerks animatedly as Puffy rockets across the screen, landing feet-first right between the Angel’s shoulders and knocking him, wings crumpling, from the sky. It’s a brutal hit - but nothing’s ever managed to kill the Angel, and common wisdom among metas is that nothing will.
And the avian had managed to get up quickly enough -
It’s always fascinating to see their battles from another perspective. Like he would if he was just another civilian - it’s… different. Easier to be afraid, in some ways, when the adrenaline’s worn off, and he can see the snarl on the Blade’s face without the flicker of humanity in the villain’s eyes -
But he’s home now, and he doesn’t have to be a hero, or stop any villains. He has to be a brother, and that means -
“Bossman gave me an extra fifty bucks for working late,” he lies. “You want to do something fun for dinner?”
“Yeah!” Tommy answers, and grins. “P -”
“Not fucking pizza,” Wilbur tells him. “Chinese?”
“Fine,” Tommy grumbles, but there’s the flicker of a smile on his lips. “I’ll eat a vegetable -”
“Broccoli chicken, then?”
“I want spicy -”
“Kung pow?”
“Sure -” And Tommy grins. “And wontons -”
“Only because I love you,” Wilbur grins. “And because I might have to work late again tomorrow. We’ll get a quart -”
“Fine,” Tommy groans, again. “But you owe me a movie or something this weekend. Tell your boss he owes me a movie, if he’s going to keep fucking with your schedule -”
“We can do that,” Wilbur agrees, with a laugh. “Yeah - I’ll let him know. Saturday - it’ll be good.”
And Tommy is a warm and wonderful thing, curling into his side as he places the order, and half-dozing by the time there’s a knock at the door. He scrambles for silverware as Wil answers, and is back at the coffee table with two cans of coke and a half-dozen napkins by the time he returns with the bag -
And Wil mutes the TV, and listens to him ramble about his latest school project, and - it’s good. The ache in his ribs - everything - is just… good.
He brushes his fingers fondly through Tommy’s hair as he starts to clear the table, and by the time he settles on the couch again, legs folded under his laptop, Tommy is slumped on the couch’s arm, hands curled under his chin like a cat as he starts to doze again -
He works on his writing quietly, for a while, until Tommy’s eyes slip shut, and tosses a blanket over him before heading up to his own room.
His work isn’t quite over for the day, after all.
-----
He hauls his suit in through the window, first.
It’s not in great shape, but he has an in-suite bathroom for a reason. He fills the tub, unhooking the handful of electronics before lugging the whole rest of it in to soak with a couple pumps of detergent.
Then he logs into his work account, and -
Messages, first of all. Lots of casual congratulations - Dream’s trademark :), a “Well done, kid,” that makes his chest glow a little from Sparkelz, a few other words of consolation or pride. He replies with a little thank-you message to all of them, a reassurance that he’s fine, his own thanks to Nimue and the Captain for the save -
Then, of course, there’s the paperwork.
Fortunately, someone’s already uploaded the videos for him - he’s caught in 4k, screenshotted little snippets of him being injured, clear face uploads for the Blade and Angel. All that’s left is to write up his own mission notes, which is easy enough, just a page to back up the media narrative of the fight and certify that he’s the hero actually present in the shots -
He gets a confirmation ping a moment later, and it’s - $1500. Which - not bad, for a job where he can go out again tomorrow.
Maybe he’ll let Tommy get popcorn at the movies.
He shoves the computer away, and drags himself back into the bathroom. He’s got a spare suit, fortunately, because this one’s - not fucked beyond repair, this time, but there’s a huge gouge in one shoulder where he’s scraped it thin on the tar, and he fingers the edge of the panel, weighing the hassle of repairing itself over the fifty bucks it’ll cost to have someone handle it properly. It doesn’t look too bad - he can remove the panel, replace it - and so he dunks it back into the foamy water, sloshing back and forth until the tub is grey with loose ash.
He drains it, and fills it again, the process so familiar it’s almost meditative.
There’s a shuffle, and a knock on his locked door - “Wil?”
“Yeah, Tommy?” he calls back, turning off the water so he can hear.
“I put your leftovers in the fridge,” Tommy tells him. “Gonna go to bed.”
“Sounds good,” he calls, and waits until Tommy’s shuffled off to start filling the tub again.
Fill, wash, rinse. Fill, wash, rinse. By the third time, the water’s running clear, and he wrings the suit out as best he can and tosses it over the sink as he steps into the shower himself.
The heat is enough to cook out the last soreness from his ribs, and slough off the few bits of dried blood where he’s scraped himself up, but - it’s not bad. The water is grey from soot and sweat, but his bruises are faded to pale yellow, nearly-healed -
He looks at the tangle of electronics on the toilet seat as he dries himself off, and - tomorrow.
By the time he tosses himself down onto the bed, he’s more than ready to sink into sleep.