Chapter Text
My sunroom.
That was the first thing Wemmbu had thought right after he blanked back in — three out of the.. however many glass panels, were broken. The very expensive glass panels, that would give him a headache just thinking of the cost. Damn it.
But no words could've possibly explained the absolute magnitude of his bewilderment when he realized what broke the windows.
No words other than "What the fuck." To which he breathed out after a second.
Because tell him why the Top One Villain — The Immortal Demon, Hellhound — was on his floor, and apparently the reason of his sunroom breaking. As to how, and why, he doesn't know.
But what he does know, is that the repairs are going to be fucking expensive.
His eyes flick around — nothing but trees and open fields, how this guy ended up crashing into his sunroom, he didn't know. His house was somewhere much farther from the city— where the heroes, villains, and vigilantes alike were located at.
After remembering that there was a literal villain on his floor, he looked back down — definitely passed out. And.. definitely staining his nice mahogany floors in red.
He ponders for a second.
If he brought in and helped the villain to heal up he might get murdered. If he didn't help the villain and instead report him like a normal person, he will get murdered.
Wow, what a variety.
..But against his better judgement — and lack of either care or motivation to even take care of someone else when he's already struggling to take care of his own high maintenance self — he drags the villain into his home.
Which took an embarrassingly long time, so he won't talk about that.
Figuring out where to put the guy was actually pretty hard — he didn't want to set him on a bed he wouldn't be able to carry him to, the couch was a no-go because that thing is horrible to clean in general, getting him on a table would damn near be as impossible as getting him up the stairs, considering his stupid 6' built like a tank and heavy as one wouldn't let Wemmbu do such things.
He hated this guy, he decides.
Wemmbu settles on putting the guy on the rug. He was meaning to throw the ugly thing away, anyway.
First step — cleaning whatever wounds were left in the wake of whatever the hell happened before the villain decided to crash into his wonderful home. Wemmbu walks off to grab a wet rag from the kitchen.
Why was he helping this guy? He doesn't know.
Look, everything's going pretty fast, he can understand it's a bit overwhelming to take in all at once, but he'll try to at least calm down, and think properly.
He finds a rag from the cupboard under the counter, washing it once for safety, and wetting it again with just water for the wounds. He also grabbed one of the many, many medkits around the house, and a bowl of water.
He comes back into the living room to see that the villain had not woken up yet, cool. Setting everything down on the floor next to the passed out man, he starts cleaning up whatever wounds he had going on.
Why was he doing this? He asked himself again, and yeah — why was he helping out someone who could one-tap him in a bright, hot instant.
Maybe it had something to do with fear, but he knows that it wasn't the case — he felt nothing on the line of such feeling. Ever, really. Something about trauma, or memory, or whatever the hell — he'll ask his psychologist friend about it later.
Maybe it was sympathy — definitely not.
Or maybe it's just that more human part of his brain itching at him to help. Probably the most likely explanation he was looking for.
Locking back in for a second, he dunks the very blood stained towel into the bowl of water after cleaning up the visible skin the villain had. He wants to try and take off the villains shirt, because there's obviously some sort of massive injury on his torso, judging by the massive slash across his chest that Wemmbu had glossed over earlier.
..Yeah, he's really out of it right now.
Anyway, after a moment of consideration, he decides that yeah, making sure this guys injury doesn't get an infection would be a good idea.
He grabs the scissors from the medkit, before realizing that it wouldn't work, because the villain probably had modified clothing to fit his way of fighting — and that kind of modified clothing meant that it would be difficult to cut into with normal, civilian tools.
..So he's obviously using his wonderful eight inch, heavy duty shears.
Cutting the clothing was harder than expected — but he got through after a while. And damn was the damage worse than he though it was.
Not only was the slash an insanely deep cut, there was more. God dammit there was more— FUCK.
Sighing heavily, he prays he zones out fast enough to not even be bothered with the amount of damage the villain actually had.
And zone out he does.
But his head wasn't totally empty that entire time — he had thoughts. First off, why the hell was the villain sent here- not even why, how was he here? Unless he was thrown really hard, there shouldn't be a reason as to how he was here.
Second, if sending him here was on purpose, then why here? And even if it wasn't planned to send him here — did the gods hate him so much as to send someone who, again, can one-tap him in a bright, hot, and painful instant?
Lastly, and most horrifying of all — who could've possibly damaged The Immortal Demon so badly? Last he remembered — Hellhound had the ability to instantly regenerate through fire, which was a constant for him. So it's either that the rain was coming down hard enough that it puts his fire out faster than he could regenerate it. Which, again — his fire was constant, and strong.
Or, it's someone way stronger than Hellhound. Which is pretty difficult to be, because not even the Number One Hero — Glassfeather, or Feather for the kids to remember easier — could barely stand a chance against him. Only reason how the city held up for so long is because they overwhelmed Hellhound quite a bit with multiple high power heroes.
So.. yeah, quite scary.
Anyways — lock in, Wemmbu. Blanking right back into action, he's already halfway done into doing the last stitching-up process — had he really zoned out for that long? Damn. Anywho— those stitches weren't going to do it themselves, so, after a few more loops around skin — and a bit of panic as he realized he skipped a stitch — he successfully sewed all big injuries shut.
And after a bit of bandaging, and a few more checks — he deemed the job good enough, and backed off.
..Before realizing he could've just set the guy on fire and he'd be good as new. For fucks sake.
Ah well too late now. He'll just have to move forward since it's obvious that setting the guy on fire would probably be pretty redundant at this point of helping him out.
Sighing, he braces his arm on his knee before pushing up from his crouched position — which was a pain in the ass. Or his joints, to be more specific. Laugh. You know you want to.
Anywho— Wemmbu steadies himself, before picking up the supplies he had used back to the kitchen — he had to decide whether the wanted to throw the bloodied water into the drain which would probably be suspicious if it ever went through the city drain — then again, he is a few miles away from the city, so it wouldn't be too bad..? — or to throw it outside his window and into the grass, which would attract bugs.
Into the drain it is, then.
..Wemmbus head is still cloudy. And he doesn't know why.
Even after cleaning the bottom floor of the house while waiting for the villain to wake up. Even going as far as to clean the living room twice. Even after endless thoughts going through his head the entire time. Even after all that — nothing was clearing up the fog in his head.
He helped the villain, why? He's asked himself that question multiple times, and he's getting sick of it. There's a part of him that understood why he did what he did, but that part of him didn't fully front it to him. Like knowing information in the back of your head, but you're unsure if it's correct.
But at the same time, that part of himself kept that specific information down. Again, like information at the back of his head — but this time it's trauma, and his brain is automatically pushing it back.
Or.. something— he can't name it properly, but the thought was there.
"You think really loudly."
The voice spooks him into throwing the mug, which he was washing for ten minutes while lost in his head, up into the air.. and to which it shattered into his sink.
"My mug..!" He yelped, as he covered his mouth, while staring at the shattered ceramic in his sink. The most emotion he's shown today, ironically. Over a mug no less. But to be fair it was one of his favorite mugs.
The voice scoffed behind him, cautious and amused at the same time. "That's what you're worried about?" They asked, and Wemmbu feels the temperature rise. Welp.
"If you're going to kill me, at least make sure nothing's getting stained.." he grumbled, but he didn't turn around — he already knew who it was, but for some reason, he didn't panic. He did, however, pick up the broken pieces of his beloved mug.
"Yeah, sure bro." Hellhound huffed, sword materializing in his hand in an instant. "What do you want from me?" He asked — which was.. a valid question, coming from him. 'Cause imagine getting your ass beat, passing out, and suddenly waking up in a random civilians home, fully bandaged. And you have two options circling your mond; kill the person who most likely saw your face, or two, spare them, and risk your entire identity.
So yeah, reasonable. Except for the big fat plot twist that Wemmbu doesn't even remember if he took the guys blindfold off. His memory is genuinely fucked— it's a miracle how he hasn't forgotten his own name at this point.
"For you to not kill me and stain my nice, white painted cupboards, and my wonderful, beautiful, polished marble islands with my bright red blood." Wemmbu grumbled as he picked up the pieces of his mug, wincing as one of the sharp edges poked at his skin. "..Or to burn this entire house down."
"You're suspiciously calm about all this." Wemmbu feels the scalding heat of a fire solidified into a sword against his neck. Wemmbu simply huffed at the words, throwing the shattered pieces of porcelain into his trash can.
"I don't know why, either." He admits, his tone not exactly vulnerable, but it was definitely casual — like talking to a friend. Which was absurd, because this was a villain and a civilian talking, here. In his kitchen, while he throws away one half of the matching mugs he had.
"..Why'd you patch me up?" The villain asked, not moving the sword where it hovered dangerously near Wemmbus neck, singeing the black hair that it nearly touched.
"Dunno, you tell me— also you're burning my hair."
"I don't care."
"Thanks, I figured. Asshole."
"You didn't really answer me bro," Hellhound basically rests the edge of the fire sword to his neck, burning the skin there. Wemmbu winces at the feeling.
"'Cause I don't have an answer for you." Wemmbu feels his brain fogging up again— words and thoughts mixing together in the same instant that Hellhound pressed the burning blade against his skin. He fights against the feeling, which doesn't really help, because it feels as though that the fog was fighting back.
Whatever that meant.
"If it helps, I didn't look at your face.. not that I remember if I did, anyway." Wemmbu provides, hoping it helps his situation in any way. By the way the blade shifted a singular millimeter off his neck, it probably did help.
"You're either brave or stupid, and honestly there's a really fine line on what separates those two." The villain huffed, but eventually pulls the blade off of Wemmbus neck. Mercy, or reluctance to kill someone who saved him?
Well— save is a pretty generous word for someone who just patched someone up, but the thought was there.
Wemmbu lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, the sting of the burn on his neck lingering. "..Thanks for not killing me," he mumbled half-heartedly, almost sounding disappointed if you didn't know how to read emotions too well.
"Yeah well.." the words die in the villains throat as Wemmbu turned his head.
"Ah fuck— wrong side."
Wemmbus left eye had a plaster patch over it, the tape peeling off slightly from sweat. "You're half blind," Hellhound notes simply.
"That I am," Wemmbu confirms. "Which would be pretty bad if you killed a half blind, defenseless guy in his own home."
Hellhound huffs, towering over the civilian — random ass guy with a house miles away from the main city, not to mention the house was too big for just one person. Half blind, no one around to help with whatever he had going on that needed an entire box of pain killers.
..And for some reason— he saved him. Again, saved is a generous word — but still.
He owed the guy something.
Wemmbu stared up at the villain warily — debating if grabbing a knife would be smart, but he couldn't get himself to actually reach out for one. He knows he has at least two of them sharpened to perfection, but that stupid part of him again doesn't want to do it.
It would be useless anyway, his brain so helpfully provides.
"..I'm one call away, if you need anything."
The words felt hesitant — bitter, even — as it escaped the villains mouth. To which Wemmbus expression reformed into confusion.
"..Huh?"
Hellhound huffs, ears flicking slightly, his tail lashing at the ground in embarrassment — "A favor. I owe you one, after.. fixing me up." He mumbled, bringing his hand up to look at the bandages around his knuckles, before clenching it into a fist. "So, either you accept that, or I kill you right here."
Wemmbu just stared up at the villain, before a small smile broke out from his confused expression — a soft, almost inaudible, but definitely amused huff escaping his lips. "Sure bro, thanks." The agreement was easy, too familiar, coming from a civilian who had probably never seen either a villain or a hero up close.
"Yeah, sure." Hellhound backs off — wary and suspicious.
"Don't tell anyone."
"Wouldn't dream of it.."
Wemmbus head cleared up around thirty minutes after Hellhound had left — he looked up at his clock after remembering it existed, and promptly realized it was a little past dinner. He can probably just order something instead of cooking.
His mind lingers on the thought of how bad his brain fog had been when Hellhound had been here, before quickly thinking about what to order from his favorite restaurant.
A favor.
Sure.