#27
“How’s your food?”
The hero wouldn’t know. Their food is currently going cold in front of them, untouched. The villain, on the other hand, has more or less inhaled theirs.
“Oh, don’t be so dour,” they continue through a mouthful of their dinner. “Agency’s paying for this.”
That much is true. The superhero more or less forced their hand in this, first with promises of time off and a payrise, second with threats of getting fired when the hero didn’t immediately agree. So here they are, in a restaurant they didn’t like the menu of, staring at the food in front of them that’s long stopped steaming, sitting across from the person they want to punch most in the world.
The hero turns their gaze to the doors idly, disinterested. They hope they can go home soon.
“I can’t believe people actually believe you want to help us,” they retort flatly, and the villain frowns innocently.
“I do—that’s why I offered my help.” They say it like it’s obvious, and the hero tuts in annoyance. “That fucker—[Supervillain]—owes me. I’m just getting my own back.”
“He owes you so much you’re trying to set heroes on him,” the hero says disbelievingly, and the villain nods. They train their eyes on the door as well, expectant.
“You think too much, god. Have a drink, loosen up, for both of our sakes.”
The hero glances down at the wine glass on the table, just as untouched as the rest of their dinner. They didn’t like the menu—and honestly this pasta looks wrong somehow—but wine is wine. Hopefully they can have a little faith in something that got here already made.
They swill it in the glass thoughtfully for a moment, staring into the tiny current the movement causes before taking a test sip.
“How is it?” the villain asks hopefully. Their answer comes as the hero tips half the glass into their mouth in one go. To say they look ecstatic would be an understatement. “Oh, wow, must be good.”
It’s okay. It tastes a bit weird, but they imagine everything does here. They don’t care too much – they know they’re meant to be on business, but if they can forget most of the time they’re being forced to spend here it might make it a little better.
They set the glass back on the table with a sigh. The villain watches them eagerly as they lean back in the chair. “Any better?”
“I don’t get drunk off half a glass of wine,” the hero snaps, but they’d be lying to say they don’t feel a little dizzy. “I’m not that much of a lightweight.”
“Shame. Would’ve made for an interesting night if you were.”
The villain goes back to shovelling food into their mouth as the hero heaves a deep breath. They’re feeling worse by the second, the whole world starting to spin nauseatingly, and after a couple of minutes they feel like they’re going to be sick. They lurch to their feet rather suddenly, pulling the villain’s gaze to them in surprise.
“Bathroom,” is all they have time to say before they stagger away from the table and in the vague direction of the signs they saw earlier.
The door bounces off the wall as the hero shoves it open, the clatter it makes against the tile emphasising the headache assaulting them. They stumble to the sinks, shakily turning a tap on and slapping water over their face. It’s refreshing, and it’s only when they feel the cool water on them that they realise how unbearably hot they feel. They have to lean all their weight on the counter to keep themself standing, desperately blinking away the unconsciousness slinking up on them.
They’re barely aware of the door creaking open behind them. There’s movement in the mirror in front of them, though they can barely bring themself to look up beyond the rising sickness. “That wine must’ve been strong,” a familiar voice says from behind them, the sound dulled slightly as if it’s coming from underwater. “You look rough.”
Something—no, that’s someone—touches their shoulder lightly, pulling them away from the counter. They sink to the floor, their support gone, and the villain follows them down worriedly.
“You have a phone, right?” They rummage through the hero’s pockets uninvited. “I’ll call [Superhero]. You really need to go home.”
“Ugh,” is all the response the hero can give them. They can see, somewhat distantly, the villain frowning at their phone in their hand, presumably looking for a contact they can use. They turn away as the door swings open again, and they lean out of the hero’s vision as they get back to their feet.
“What the hell are you doing here?” they snap coldly, and the supervillain hums a laugh.
“Picking up the trash. I knew you’d try to do me in,” he says simply, and he shoves them back to come more into the room. “You’re not the most original criminal, are you?”
There’s a moment of silence, and the lack of anything to concentrate on makes the hero realise how close to passing out they are. “You did this?”
“Who else? You’re too weak to do anything that matters.”
They know it’s not aimed at them, but the last of the hero’s attention is trained on that one sentence as the arguing fades into fuzzy nothingness. You’re too weak to do anything that matters.
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