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Rationality says it’s probably cold out, but Malevola's skin is an impenetrable furnace. Her father, when he still wanted her, would say she had flames in her blood, firelines embedded in her like a second nervous system.
Cali cold is, of course, not truly cold — neither is Aussie cold — but there goes her mortal genetics cozying up to the prospect of being a thin-blooded little bitch. Her body is warring on what reaction it wants to relish in, the shiver or the dismissal.
Maybe on her own time, she can be freezing; but after a good brawl she’s usually heated enough to go without sleeves, as per the norm. It’s the least of her concerns anyway; not that she regrets swiping the nasty wound off Waterboy’s person, but it still throbs like a bitch and keeps her anchored to the present in the way a buzzing fly owns a room.
Malevola manifests one of her signature portals to the right, snagging an unsuspecting soda can out of a convenience store some two blocks back — she’d make the trip herself, but something tells her that her current companion would prefer the company.
If men could win awards for Most Pathetic, Waterboy would certainly be nominated — at least in his current position. He’s the poster child for defeat: hunched over, knees meeting his upper chin, his spindly arms hugging his shins so snug it’s like he’s binding himself. Outside of his costume he looks like a run-of-the-mill pathetic teen, which would be fine if he wasn’t in his mid-twenties.
His posing shelters her view from the black metal shirt he’d been proudly sporting. Malevola crimps a lip, can’t help but feeling bad for the guy; if her night out at a concert got disrupted by a petty villain brawl, she’d be feeling under the weather too.
“Here.” She’d toss him the Coke can but it’s already so sweaty with condensation that it would definitely slip right through his fingers. “Nice shiner, by the way.”
Waterboy takes the offering like he takes anything, with this degree of restraint that Malevola often finds unbecoming. Granted, she’s less tolerant of the human male species in all ways, albeit cowardice is probably something she’d prefer over than inflated egos.
“Oh, th-thank y…thanks.”
He presses the cold can to the busted side of his face with a wince, then a sigh follows.
Malevola leans against the wall, monitoring her companion as he remedies himself. She keeps her weapon docile against her side — might be someone worth mauling later, should the perps responsible for Waterboy’s busted face make an unruly comeback.
It was a coincidence that she was summoned to the scene: a mosh pit gone wrong, chaos stirred up by some unruly wannabe remnants of the Red Ring. Malevola had agreed to go despite it being so late, on the premise that she adores the music the concert had been playing, and was hoping to get a free listen.
The only things that greeted her were a thrum of discordant bodies fleeing the scene, panicked screaming, and an after-hours Waterboy on the scene. He was pleased to see her, of course; the stupid gang had roughed him up before he could alleviate the fight.
A few slashes and punches later, Malevola evacuates them both outside, where the police have already gathered and were filing away the perps as they stumbled out of the wreckage, blemished with new wounds. She wasn’t thanked; can they not see her wielding this giantass sword, saving folks left right and center?
Ugh. And the nerve of some people, to say that demon prejudice isn’t a thing.
Now, though:
The night finds them in this damp alleyway, sits on them both like a blanket, giving the environment this weighted heft that Malevola can’t appear to shake, no matter how much nonchalance she’s purposely exuding. No, the world seems content to let this moment simmer, and now it’s stretching into discomfort. She’s bad with conversations — never really been introduced to a normal one outside of Sonar, who never asked about her appearance or race or beliefs — but this situation currently demands one.
She brings a hand to her hair, brushing down the disturbed locks; the only aftermath of the brawl is the need for a hairdo.
Then she casts a line: “Didn’t peg you for the type to like Pentagram. You keep surprising me, wetboy.”
Waterboy actually releases a string of chuckles. “Heh, y-yeah, I uh– I don’t give… I love them! They’re one of… my favorite bands. I-I got posters and everything...signed, too! They’re great. D-do you, um, like them too?”
Melavola’s grin goes lopsided. “Yeah, big fan. You asking me that because of the way I look, or.”
She revels in how the kid’s face totally blanches. He starts up on his usual spiral, interspersed with ‘well’s and ‘I just’s before Mal reels him out of his misery. “Relax, dude. Just taking the piss. It’s a vicious stereotype, yeah, but in this case…meh, accurate.”
It takes a minute for Mal to receive a sheepish smile in turn, though it looks less comfortable on him, making him look kinda constipated. She’s still got some ways to go with this guy — his fighting style is…remarkable, given everything (like, look at him), but if that’s the only key to their dynamic, the well of compatibility is gonna run dry real fucking quick.
“Favorite album?”
Waterboy blinks, looking up. “Uh, sorry?”
“Favorite album,” Malevola repeats, fingers twitching idly on the pommel of her weapon. “Mine’s Day of Reckoning. It’s got good tracks.”
“O-oh! That’s a, uh, good…great choice! Mine’s…hmm,” Waterboy thinks, letting his face sink further against the can. “I think– it’s a little basic but I think theeee first one? Relentless? Their debut is just…it’s unmatched, really.”
Somewhere a key fits into a lock. Another file to stuff away until further notice, regarding her partner in crime (when Sonar’s not available, of course).
“So we got a pyromaniac, a cryptobro, a rock, and a popstar,” Malevola lists off the dome. “S’bout time we got a metalhead in our ranks.”
Waterboy’s smile is definitely more genuine this time around. “Y-you too. I mean, about…being into m-metal, not just– you being– it’s not about your demon…self.”
“I gotcha,” Malevola says, perking an ear when she feels her phone vibrate. It’s probably Sonar or Prism asking about her whereabouts; she’s honestly surprised Robert’s not yapping in her ear, since she’s technically still on the clock.
(She’d tell him she just got done saving Waterboy’s ass from a mosh pit gone wrong, and to maybe take a chill pill, quote Visi.)
She was correct on the former; Sonar types, bro you out or what
W/ waterboy. I’ll tell him you said hi
I didn’t though.
Still telling him.
“Sonar says hi,” she informs Waterboy.
He looks…unimpressed. “Yyyou don’t have to not…to lie.”
Malevola snorts, the sound reverberating in the thick of her throat. Waterboy says to fuck off, she tells Sonar.
Goddamn.
“Right,” Malevola puffs, clicking her phone off. “I’m bored. You wanna ditch? I know a superhero bar ‘round the corner. Drinks on me.”
“Oh, a s-superhero bar…club?” Waterboy somehow tucks his legs even closer together, clashing kneecaps. The wave of self-consciousness grows as palpable as the oceans drooling off of him. “Agh, I dunno…you think it’d be…y-you’re still on the— working, right?”
“Meh, Robert deals with us going off the radar like, every day. That’s Visi’s profession,” Malevola hauls herself off the brick wall, cracking her abused back. “I’ll tell Boss I’m helping a citizen overcome…aftershocks. Some shit like that.”
Waterboy still hesitates, frozen in place.
“Dude,” Malevola lends him a hand expectantly. She quirks a brow. “You gonna say no to a free beer?”
A little moment longer, and she prepares another quip for leaving his sorry ass out in the Cali chill, but then he takes her hand. It comes away sopping wet, like always, but she’s used to it.
“Atta boy,” she says, slapping his back. “I didn’t say it earlier, but: sick shirt.”
“Thanks.”
“C’mon,” a rift opens up beside them, slicing the brick wall behind them open to present the interior of a warm-looking pub. “Let’s take a shortcut.”
She doesn’t frequent this place often, for the primary reason that she gets ogled more here than she would at a typical villain hangout. Some heroes haven’t gotten the memo that demons don’t have to be inherently evil, or at least this gal isn’t — not anymore. It’s harder to shed the past around do-gooders who claim equality and peace, but still perform double-takes when she walks into a room.
Mal knows she’s an eyesore, the easiest for biases to fall upon in any environment. It doesn’t dissuade her from embarking out with her biggest sword, with her sharpest stilettos, with her darkest lipstick. If they’re going to look, she might as well give a performance. And sure, she’s not maxed out on charisma like Prism, but she’s got grit. The type that festers under you when you’ve been told since day one you’re a monster, act like it.
All this to say, a part of her twinges a bit because Waterboy is appearing to duck behind her, like that’ll spare him the looks they’re receiving. They do make quite the pair, but if he’s looking for mercy away from passing judgment, he came with the wrong girl.
“I didn’t know— I haven’t, uh…been here before,” Waterboy murmurs towards her. He could clear her height by a couple inches, but he’s sunken so low his mouth is against her earlobe (kinda weird, but Sonar’s nibbled her enough times that she’s used to a freak getting all up in her business, sans any sexual tension).
“It’s not like we’re not allowed in,” Malevola assures him, leaning back some and jutting a hip. She gives a scan of the room, scouting out potential seats for them. There’s a table in the back that she spots, free of any graveyard of empty glasses or bottles, so she’ll stake a claim there. Or, Waterboy will, since she gives him the directions to where she’s eyeing the spot in question. He hobbles over as uncomfortably as he announces himself in any room, and she leaves him to it.
With her foreboding and loud declaration of a stature, Malevola easily flags down the bartender for some drinks. She scans the room as he takes his time concocting her order; the place is packed, and she’s not yet in the position to feel like she’s earned her placement here. When she first migrated to the States, it was near-hell (pun indeed intended) to find a bar that would welcome her. If she couldn’t find her place in a villain’s mixer she sure as hell is getting the weirdos amongst the so-called ‘good guys’.
Malevola gives him a wink when he passes her the liquor: an intimidation tactic rather than a come-on. Unless he decides to sport a pair of tits, he ain’t her type.
Waterboy’s put her Coke on the table, hands resting beside the can and threading anxiously together while he waits. Mal watches him glance around for her a moment longer, finding the gesture endearing — it’s a small thing, to be looked for in a crowded room — before she struts into his line of sight. She takes note of how he lights up some.
“On the house,” she announces, clapping down their glasses. Her tail wraps around the neck of the stool so she can scoot it closer to sit properly.
Waterboy tilts his head a bit — Malevola’s instinctive analogy is that he looks like a puppy. “I was…you said…promised beer?” he squeaks.
“Eh, I lied. Here. Put some hair on that chest of yours.” She slides him the drink she does not in a million years expect him to catch — or at least when he does, he’s going to fumble it with his slip-n-slide palms.
He nearly breaks the damn glass open on the hardwood below (called it) before getting a secure grip on it. Malevola’s eyebrows instinctively raise when he gulps down a fair portion of the liquor. Her reprieve in not immediately catching up with him comes from the scrunch of his expression when he swallows, like he’s got something bitter under his tongue.
“We’re not in a rush,” Mal tells him. “You can, like, chill.”
Waterboy has the sense to look a little embarrassed, which is the norm, so his next sip is a lot more timid.
“Atta boy,” she clinks their glasses together sloppily before rushing to meet his halfway mark, scorching a familiar path of flame down her arid throat. The liquor is not good, nor is it meant to be; she’s here to just assuage the burn of wounds and get her head fuzzier.
Malevola asks, “This part of your powers? You can chug some booze no problem?”
“Well, I’m not...I haven’t really had the outl— oppor…opportunity to give it a test r— a try,” he admits. “I don’t go out very m— often, since my grandma…she needs me. So I can’t just…drink all the time.”
Mal clips short a hum. She’d been out on enough calls with Waterboy to get some of his deal, but he always spoke highly of his grandmother, grateful to be providing for her and her surplus of needy felines. It’s one of the tamer hero origins she’s heard while out on the field, and it explains some of Waterboy’s…softer edges, so to speak. He's definitely more gentle with the elderly, where Malevola has only ever scared them, had them whipping out rosaries and crosses. His compassion is definitely helpful, picking up where she falters; not even Sonar can swoon the masses like he can.
“Never been t-to…somewhere like this,” Waterboy says. He looks around like he’s about to get his head cut off, shrinking in his seat when a bulkier superhero’s mech arms nearly have him toppling out of his stool. “Do you guys— do we frequent here pretty often?”
“Flambae does,” Malevola says, clapping her drink down after a swig. She makes a breathy ‘ah’ as the burn slams into her throat. “Punch Up definitely. I just get more looks at bars like these so I don’t swing by unless I’m with someone that can, y’know, better play the part.”
“The part of…?”
“A real hero.”
“Oh.” Waterboy clutches his drink closer, swirling the melting ice cubes around the crystallized glass. His lashes are long, barricading a portion of his expression so Mal can’t tell how much of her implication he received: that he deserved to be here and she didn’t.
He’s got such a glossy complexion, Mal half-expects that if she were to trace a finger down that pale skin she’d come away with a thick coating of fresh paint on the tips; it’s near-impeccable, to a rather offensive degree. Suppose when one keeps their skin that moisturized, they’re bound to the fate of eternal prettyboy.
“So, your grandma,” Malevola starts. “She your only family? I haven’t heard you mention anyone else.”
Waterboy sits up straighter, more activated. The overhead light is cruel to his facial wounds, painting them in these horrendous shadows that accentuate the cuts and bruises, making them look worse than they probably are.
He looks— intimidated, cornered; like when they were first dispatched together and he couldn’t stop spewing water every time she looked at or spoke to him. She’d pegged it, initially, for the usual gawking she received from stupid (and let’s be real, cishet) guys, but the longer she worked with Waterboy the less he fit into that criteria.
Now, there’s no excuse for him to look like she’s going to bite his head off.
“Relax, dude, this isn’t an interrogation,” Mal snorts. “I’m not gonna curse your family, or whatever the fuck you nerds think I can do. I mean, I could, but it’d kinda put our partnership in a weird place, yeah?”
Waterboy’s mouth wiggles a bit, cresting upwards. His eyes are gentle, even when they’re so pale they’re unnerving. As a girl with no pupils, Malevola wonders if Waterboy’s part of the ‘gets labelled as creepy sometimes just due to their eyes’ club.
“Does your grandma know you went to see Pentagram?” Malevola asks, switching gears.
“She knows I went to...a concert,” Waterboy says. “But I don’t kh-keep it a secret or…anything.”
Malevola makes another noise of affirmation. “My mom and stepdad definitely weren’t big on my music growing up, they said it made their ears bleed. Typical metalhead hate, you know. Like they don’t get it.”
“It’s more than screaming,” Waterboy agrees, straightening up like he’s suddenly activated. “It’s about the—– what it represents. It’s cathartic. It’s how— what it all represents, you know?”
“I do know.”
“My parents, before they…” he coughs, filtering the absence of an adjective with a short swig of his drink. “My dad had all these records. I s-sold most of them, they weren’t…really my typ— my thing, and I…at the time, I needed the money.” He sounds a touch guilty.
“Were you close to your parents?” Malevola asks.
He nods, mouth going thin.
“Lucky,” she says grimly, then explains when Waterboy looks at her inquisitively, “Demons are weird. At some point you just…lose interest in your kid. It’s some dumb biology shit, back when demons who killed their young was more ‘the norm’.” She uses massive, bitter airquotes here. “And call my dad traditional, but…yeah. Eventually, he just…stops showing up to birthdays, rehearsals, ceremonies.” It’s been a while since the gravity of her father’s choices got a hold on her — she’s in her thirties, she’s gone on fine without him, but when you’re half-human you’re born with this vicious ache. Some dumb, innate state of pain that can only be tempered with time and support, but one that digs its claws in you regardless.
She was raised on that pain, the suffering she inflicted on her classmates, occasionally barking at her mortal parents to prove she still had the voice, the maw. It could be demonic traits, but…something about fighting for a space to crawl into, about jumping into hurt teeth-first and tugging out arteries…that feels more like the human side of her.
But Mal keeps this to herself, because Waterboy isn’t Sonar just yet. He hasn’t earned her introspection on growing up different, surrounded by a tribe that always expected the worst from her. And yeah, sometimes she relished in that – lurking in bodies of water to jump out and scare children, because if she was a bunyip she might as well fucking act like it — but sometimes, she wanted someone to stare at her like Waterboy currently was: soft eyes, a lowering expression just shy of sympathy.
“That’s...” he fishes for the right term, coming up with, “rrr-rough.”
She nudges his tiny body, nearly sends him reeling halfway to San Fran with the strength of it. “Hey, I’m not inviting you to my pity party. That’s life. And I’m, y’know, a hero now.” She takes a long sip till it becomes water from all the ice. “It’s a pretty solid backstory for one. Daddy issues and all.”
“I guess,” Waterboy says, nursing the glass close to his chest. “I-I knew my dad for…when I was twelve. But he got— there was a-an accident, and they couldn’t– pull them out of the r– rubb– they were at temple, and I w-was sick that day, so they went alone, and…”
Malevola frowns. She leans in closer, elbows on the table, arms crossing. “You better not blame yourself, no martyr complex on my watch, kid.”
Waterboy actually reflects on this. He comes to some forgone conclusion that Malevola can only interpret through the anxious stimming of his fingers, how Waterboy hunches over more than usual, his gaze going astray and slipping his features downward.
“Besides,” she says, drawing back. “At least your dad left your life still loving you.”
He perks up, really looks at her with those big doe eyes. His mouth ghosts along words that the tongue cannot fully conjure. His pity strengthens, hardening into a warmth and comfort Malevola only finds in her closest friends, and he actually– the fucker, he reaches out and takes her hand and squeezes.
Mal can only crack a joke, because otherwise she’d feel too much, or she’ll chase whatever’s sinking into her stomach with more booze. “Making a move on me, hotshot? I don’t put out on the first drink, and you’re not exactly my type.”
And Waterboy actually chuckles. It’s thin and reedy, and Mal half-expects it to be carried out the door by the wind. His demeanor loosens considerably when he pulls away so she can wipe her palm on her jeans. “No, I’m just…I appreciate you sharing that. Thank you.”
Malevola veils any blooming fondness beneath a half-baked snarl, eyes glowering when Waterboy doesn’t flinch, just keeps smiling like a loon. “Enough of this shit, s’not like we’re gonna fuck. I don’t have to keep showing you my ass and expecting you to kiss it. You want another drink or are we just gonna trade more sobstories?”
“I’m— I wouldn’t mind either,” Waterboy says, examining his glass; the ice has all but conglomerated into the amber, diluting the drink into a watery mush. He doesn’t seem to want any more, though, so Malevola decides not to pressure him into letting loose.
“Let’s keep you sober for your granny,” she elects, smiling a little. “If a six-foot-six demon came to her door with you totally rat-arsed, I think she’d get a coronary.”
“Hah, maybe.”
“Excuse me,” an orange-clad superhero ambles forward, balancing two pints in one hand – based on everyone’s iron-level tolerance, Mal’s got no clue if the beers are for him and a buddy, or if he’s just going to down them all in one breath. “You, uh, you folks realize this is a bar for heroes, right?”
Waterboy makes to say something, Malevola halts him with a steady hand.
“Haven’t you seen the news?” she challenges coolly. “Ever heard of the Z-team, asshole? We kinda saved the world last week.”
The man has a mask so Malevola can only fantasize about the spark igniting in his eyes – if he wants to go then let’s fucking go, she’s itching for a beatdown – but his tone remains level as he explains, “I’m only asking because everyone here is in uniform. This young man,” he nods towards Waterboy’s direction, “looks like he just got into a nasty mosh pit, you expect me to believe he’s part of that group?”
“Well, y-you hit the nail…the hammer– on the nail, uh, sir,” Waterboy confesses, raising an index like a dork. Malevola ignores him, her glare glued to this pretentious douchebag who thinks every hero needs a dumbass cape and mask.
“I didn’t realize we needed a goddamn dress code to chug a couple whiskeys,” she murmurs, tempering her growl. The low timbre of her voice grows dangerous, a matchstick on wet tinder. “You want me to call up my supervisor, tell him we got a problem? Because it’s getting late, and I don’t think he’d be too happy hearing that we’re not being treated like the saviors we are.”
He’s still not persuaded, because men like him — who puff out their chest, broaden their shoulders in the presence of women — all too often aren’t. “I’m just asking, because if he’s a hero, where’s his uniform then?”
Malevola sneers freely. “Probably still on the floor of your mum’s bedroom, prick. Now beat it before I snatch those pints outta your hand and smash them upside your weak little cranium. No, wait — how’s death by hoof stomp sound?”
The hero’s posture tenses like he expects a brawl, and Malevola twists her fingers around the grip of her sword. She’s used to being dangerous, exuding a presence that screams trouble if given the wrong glance or comment. So she’s unsurprised when he yields, lowering his shoulders and walking back to whatever hole he scurried out of.
“Dick,” Malevola grumbles, then turns to check in with her companion. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Waterboy murmurs, unconsciously clenching his fingers harder around the useless liquor. “Thanks. You’re… I’m happy you f— that you’re the one who found me, Malevola.”
Goddamn, this kid’s got a shortcut right to her shriveled heart. A warmth pools rather uncomfortably from her chest, spreading like some fucking sepsis. Affection and joy, despite herself, happens in her body. Curling her tail closer to him like a secondary shield.
“Call me Mal, Herm,” she says, and doesn’t water down the fondness in her tone. She cheers his unopened Coke, prompting a startled chuckle, and it’s at this moment she thinks that this is more than a work buddy. That there really could be something here, off the clock; should she want that, should Waterboy — Herman — let her in.
And he appears to, with how he brings a wet hand to her shoulder, grins, and lets go before it insinuates something deeper, more lecherous. It’s safe. He’s safe.
He looks uncertain for a moment, then presses, “...Do you?”
Malevola's brow raises. “Do I what?”
“Do you…hooves, do you— have them?”
Malevola blinks, then just scoffs. “You’re cute.”
“Nnnot…that doesn’t— answer m—”
She punches him this time, and it’s affection that restrains her true might. “Didn’t peg you for a feet guy. Nah, you gotta sign up to see whatever I got underneath these heels, Wet Willy.”
“Okay, that is not— th-that’s not sticking,” Waterboy says, and the disapproval in his tone so deep and pervasive that Malevola actually holds back a shot of laughter.
“Relax, pretty boy,” she snorts, and ruffles his hair. Even when she tamps down her strength he still wiggles around in her hold. When she pulls back her palm is moist from his eternally-dampened hair. “I’m fuckin’ with you. A little tip: when Z-Team is hard on you, it usually means they like you. Means we see something in you. Diamonds and pressure.”
Waterboy crimps the side of his lip, and Mal’s impression of his attitude is upheld by the dominance of his consideration, like her words have weight.
“You still live with your grandma, yeah?”
He nods.
“Cool. Gimme the address,” Malevola stands with conviction, her heels sharp like a crackle of thunder against the floor. “We’re bailing.”
Waterboy perks up. “Y-you paid, right?”
“Sure.”
He has the gall to look displeased when she’s offering him a quick ticket home.
“Hey, I said free drinks, didn’t I?” she scoffs, but can’t restrain her grin. The kid’s too innocent for this line of work, she swears. “Now you want me to lug you out of here like a sack of potatoes or what?”
“Uh. M-maybe?”
Malevola pauses, then snickers. “You really are a weirdo.”
“Is that…bad?”
“No,” she says, leaning over to pick him up with a grunt before summoning a portal, “it just makes you one of us.”
The place is located more on the outskirts of the city, away from the blaring lights and traffic pileups. It’s quaint, precisely the type of spot Mal can imagine human grannies enjoy — bland, no bells and whistles, but comfortable. Somewhere you can rest.
Waterboy’s definitely earned the badge of being cool as hell with how often he puts up with her shit. With everyone’s shit, really; he’s not bogged down with their constant jabs for long, and Mal admires that if she’s honest. A lot of people like him would fold the second they fail a mission, or lose a fight. Not him.
Nice little bugger. Harmless, ultimately. It's eye-opening, to say the least, to be around someone like him, someone good without strings.
She decides not to meet Herman’s grandma tonight, not when there’s whiskey brewing in the back of her throat and tainting her breath. She wants to give the right impression, and hopefully being a faceless coworker dropping Herman off safely after a disastrous mosh pit would earn her some brownie points.
“Put some ice on that monster, yeah?” are her parting words, referring of course to the bruise that only gets nastier in the low moonlight. “Everyone’s gonna have questions when you get back to work Monday, so think up something badass for why you got that shiner to begin with.”
Waterboy dares to grin at her, red eyebrows curving. “Is the mosh pit thing not already impress– badass?”
“Touché. You sure you don't want me to..."
He waves her off. "T-take care of yourself first, Mal."
"Whatever," she sniffs, "I'm just saying, I'd rock a black eye way better than you."
"I'm sure." His grin hasn't wavered once. He waves goodbye as she turns away, leaving him to answer to his poor grandmother on why he’s sporting a work-related injury.
Malevola’s halfway out of the neighborhood when a voice crisp and clear is conjured right into her eardrums, making her startle and nearly hiss before she catches herself.
“You’re awfully quiet for someone who just bodied a shit ton of rabid Red Ring members,” Robert says casually, like they’ve been chatting it up this whole time. “I’m not surprised about the victory lap, just didn’t expect it to end on the outskirts.”
Malevola exhales, unnecessarily bringing two fingers to her earpiece – it just feels right to do so. She asks, “You spying on us creep? Is your Friday night that pathetic?”
“You didn’t make it back to the station, just checking in that you’re okay. Thanks for the OT, by the way.”
She rolls her eyes, even when humans can’t tell; exasperation without witnesses. “So what’s up, nerd? Need another grandpa walked across the street? A coffee run, maybe?”
“Think bigger. How’s Operation: Bedtime sound for you?”
Malevola scoffs. “You tucking me in, boss? Like a toddler?”
“Think of it more like a supervisor trying to keep you in shape for the next shift,” he says, smooth as he delivers any quip, like it’d been on the tip of his tongue all day. “I get it, don’t listen to the old man on a Friday night—"
“We’re the same age, dick.”
“—but if you got no plans, I’ve learned it’s best to just…take care of yourself. Prep for the next big bad thing.”
Cynical, but fair. She’ll always have trouble barking at her heels; always peering into the shadows till they blink. It’s not an unattractive lifestyle, but she’ll admit, it’s been a long shift and if she’s getting the all-clear to mosey on out, might as well take it.
“This all coming from the guy who didn’t even have furniture till, like, yesterday,” Malevola retorts, but without a trace of malice.
“You got Waterboy home safe?”
Robert’s tone goes soft in the way it always does when discussing Herm, Malevola notes. That bugger is contagious in his pathetic vibes, she reasons. Like a sopping wet baby animal you just wanna rub fiercely with a warm towel.
“Affirmative,” she says. “The duckling’s been safely returned to the nest.”
“Congrats on not using ‘ugly’ in that nickname.”
“It was hard for me.”
“I know,” and now Robert sounds softer, sincere. “Get home safe, too.”
“Aww, you’re a sap,” Malevola teases. “I’m turning off the comms now before you start saying cheesy shit.”
“You miss a hundred-percent of the shots you don’t take.”
“Yep. That’s my cue.”
She debugs the chip that’s ever-present in her ear without much thought, and for a reason she doesn’t decide to examine, she finds herself smiling, her heart a couple pounds lighter.
To ensure maximum security, for Robert and Herman’s sake, Malevola takes the long way home.