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[yueyimold]

two tone bathroom runners mold

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[writerly-blonde]

Heyo again, I loved this prompt and what a perfect prompt for another pair of superheroes hm?? @gingerly-writing thanks for the awesome prompt! ❤️

Also, it's set in the Unnaturals universe for anyone who's been keeping up (but you don't need to read the others, these guys very much have their own story)

@booksaremymeth @keithkohgane u might like this

A warning! This got a bit long (2K) words and mobile isn't letting me add a read more link. Scrolling ahead!

~~~

It was an accident. Amber had planned on the building being empty. The lights were out with only the moonlight to illuminate the interior. There was dust on the bookshelves and the gutted couches dark with something she cringed to think about. The building hadn’t been touched in nearly a month and he should know, he’d been sitting outside of it for most of it.

    Damian wasn’t coming back to it. That was as much a fact as the sky is a clear blue on a summer day. So Amber had walked in. It used to be Damian’s base as far as she knew, so there must have been something left behind. A secret liar, a weapon, maybe even remnants of a regular life though Amber didn’t think he could stomach that. Villains didn’t deserve to have a regular life. They gave that right up as soon as they harmed someone else.

    But the building was...abandoned. For seemingly longer than a month. Mold creeped up the walls with spiderwebs enthusiastically chasing them. There were hints of a living room, of a kitchen, of a bathroom, but it seems to have stepped from the past, an alternate reality, and pieces of them had been left behind. The sink wasn’t working, the bathtub lined with cracks. The kitchen had the bare essentials but the cabinets were missing, leaving a skeleton of what was. The living room, or what Amber had guessed was a living room, had piles of dust and dirt, of broken concrete from the ceiling above. There was exactly one couch and one broken bookshelf.

    There was nothing. There was supposed to be nothing. Something like anger and relief sank into Amber’s skin. She hadn’t wanted to find anything. But she needed to. She needed to know that Damian lived somewhere. That he was alive and not some ghost, some illusion that Amber chased. Damian didn’t deserve to live like a whisper of the wind, and he didn’t deserve to live a normal life, but he needed to live somehow. Without proof of one or the other, Amber was left in the dark just like everything else does, just like everything Damian does, and damn it, she’s had enough.

    There was supposed to be something. Something in nothing and nothing in something. She's not making any sense but neither does anything else. Damian had swiped the rug out from under her again. A villain with the upper hand over a hero, over her. The public believed in her, the mayor depended on her, she needed this. But Damian is a ghost and Amber is a whisper of what was and the building is still mockingly quiet, still, empty.

    Amber’s body reacted before her brain ever sent out the order. She slammed her fist into the bookshelf. Sent it rocketing back into the wall. Heard the crack in the concrete as the wood folded against it, cracking like thunder before collapsing in on itself. The echoes didn’t last, but Amber’s harsh breathing did.

    Between one breath and another, her anger left her. It knocked the power out of her stance and brought her swiftly to her knees. She was tired. So, so, tired. She wanted a normal life. A quiet night. She wanted this to be over.

    It was an accident breaking the bookshelf. Just like it was an accident hearing the soft voice from several rooms over. They didn’t hear the crash, or didn’t care to. A squatter perhaps. Someone homeless. Or kids just looking for a night out. Amber got to her feet. She should tell them to go. It isn’t safe. But as a peal of laughter echoes back to him, she found herself hesitating.

    Letting them stay wouldn’t be the worst thing.

    She fixed her jacket. Dragged a hand through her hair. Not to look better, but to look more like them. Like she didn’t have inhuman strength flowing through her veins. She took a deep breath. She’s just like them. A civilian.

    Heroes deserved a night off, didn’t they?

    She braced herself, hardly breathing, until she reached the other end of the building where the hallway opened up into a large room, too large for her to readily guess what it might’ve once been. She poked her head inside. Rubbles of concrete, of dirt, of wood and metal lay haphazardly on the floor. The ceiling had chunks missing and a corner of it was gaping open, a remnant of a past fight with Damian. Now, it showed something beautiful; the night sky while the city was dark. The supports, thick large beams of concrete, were cracked. Unstable.

    But despite the chance of it all crumbling, a group of three people still gathered in the middle, around a crackling, makeshift fire pit. Orange danced across their faces and clothes, illuminating ash and impossibly wide smiles. They each held a cup and one had both of their hands wrapped around the metal, shivering slightly. She inched ever closer to the fire until her gaze was consumed with it. The other one, a man with long hair, was gesticulating wildly, his drink almost spilling as he spun a tale. The third, another man, was quiet. Reserved. He watched the two of them laugh and joke and warm themselves with a small, shy smile.

    Amber bit her life. Blew out a breath. “Hello?”

    They paused. The quiet one found her first, hidden in the shadows. He tilted his head but she couldn’t make out his features. The second one went still, his arm still raised in a retold victory.

    “Oh, hello there! I didn’t realize there was anyone else here,” he said and she could only just make out his friendly grin.

    “I just came in.”

    “That explains it.” And with too much trust, too much openness, he waved her forward. “Come on in, you look cold.”

    The girl stared at her as she walked closer and sat herself down at the other side of the fire. Her gaze was warm even as she said, “You look like hell.”

    Amber managed a brittle smile. And before her thoughts could catch up, could inspect her surroundings and see the exits, the man began introducing them.

    “I’m Kyle, this is Vic,” the girl waved, “and the broody one is-”

    “Just call me D.”

    Amber turned to study the “broody” one, who seemed far too light to be broody. His hair was messed up, the product of him running his hands through it one too many times and as she stared, he did it once more. A nervous tic. They all seemed nice enough. Squatters no doubt. Their clothes were torn, dirty, ashen and their bags rested behind them. Amber wouldn’t know them.

    But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d met “D” before. She studied him, and he...studied her. And came to the same conclusion.

    “Have we met?” He asked in a voice that seemed to be naturally quiet. Calm, composed. A voice that she wouldn’t have attributed to him.

    His question sank in and she shifted uncomfortably. Even with her mask during the day, even with the costume, it wasn’t unusual for people to recognize her. But tonight, she wasn’t a hero. She was a civilian just trying to make her night better. Trying to ignore the storm raging within her. So she shook her head. “No, but you look familiar too. I must’ve passed you on the street one day?”

    He considered it, then shrugged. “Perhaps.”

    Vic cleared her throat. “Darlin’, you’re supposed to tell us your name.”

    Right. Amber swallowed thickly. Her gaze darted to D. “Uhh...just...just A.”

    A dark eyebrow shot up but he said nothing. Vic chuckled and a heartbeat later, Kyle burst into laughter. “Everyone has their secrets I suppose.”

    Wasn’t that the truth? But they accepted it like they seemed to do everything. Vic handed her a spare cup, nearly sloshing over the rim with something that was a cross between hot chocolate and coffee. It was warm though, and it was good enough. They accepted her with open arms and loud stories. Kyle continued on with his tale of how he rescued people from a crumbling bank after the supers fought.

    “Nightquake showed up a couple minutes later, poor guy looked like he was going to puke, but I had already gotten them out.” Kyle winked at them. “Who says ya need powers to be super?”

    Amber laughed like she wasn’t one of them; like Nightquake wasn’t taking over her territory that night. Amber laughed because as the stories continued, she wasn’t Amber. She was A. And A laughed easily, A was normal, A wasn’t so tired, so hurt, so consumed that she thought she would break.

    The night soothed her like nothing else could. The warm drink in her hand, the company by the fire. Perhaps this night wasn’t a total loss. If she hadn’t come inside, she never would have found this little piece of normal. She had been looking for something and here it was.

    Vic told her stories with Kyle, but Amber, like D, stayed quiet. Perfectly content with watching them, laughing, or questioning when the need arose. She and D had a good system. They were surprisingly good at communicating with just a look. They’d share a look at a lie, to check in on the other, and simply to acknowledge that there was another outlier, and where there’s another outlier, there’s a small alliance.

    Or at least, Amber thought so until the conversations got heavier and heavier. Buildings that crashed because Amber fought Damian. Explosives that never got disarmed. But in these stories, Amber wasn’t a hero. Neither was Damian. She shifted uncomfortably as Kyle began to take a view that was too solidly in a grey area she didn’t like to acknowledge was there.

    She was okay with staying quiet and she thought D was too, but when Kyle prompted him to tell his story, impossibly...he did. Amber blinked. Once. Twice. And against her better judgement, she scooted a little closer to hear better. What would he say? How would he weigh in? She gripped her cup and watched as D took a breath.

    “My story didn't start today, though it left it's mark” he pointed at his side, lifting up his shirt to brandish a bandage for Amber’s sake, “thanks again Vic.”

    It started light-heartedly. But it slid downhill. D spun a tale of betrayal and confusion, of how he ended up where he was, how he lived in a grey area and didn’t know what to do, how he got injured while he was trying to do what’s right or maybe what was wrong, he didn’t know anymore. He needed money, he needed freedom, he needed to help someone. He needed a break.

    It started light-heartedly. And then his tale turned to one of fear. One of running away from the super, Amber. Of fights and injuries, of right and wrong, of desperation and tiredness, of how sometimes he wonders what would happen if he extended a hand out to help her up, rather than continue the fight. Of how that choice was often made for him. His tale was one of fear, and one that revealed who he was. Kyle and Vic didn’t even blink.

    But Amber….Amber felt the world shatter. She was rooted in place. Couldn’t even dream to move. He was Damian. She should do something. She found him. Why wasn’t she moving? Why wasn’t she catching him? She could end. Why. Wasn’t. She. Moving?

    Instead, she listened. It was impossible not to. She knew that D was Damian and Damian was D but around the fire, the line vanished. D was Damian and she was Amber but she couldn’t remember where the line that separated enemy from friend, from ally, was supposed to be. Especially not when he continued, when his grip around the cup tightened until his knuckles were ghost-white, when his voice trembled.

    Amber listened to Damian as he clutched at his wounded side. As he talked quietly - almost like a churchly confession - about how afraid he really was of the hero. Amber bit down on the inside of her cheek, feeling an ache tear through her chest.

    Because she was the hero. She might not have put those injuries there, but how many others had she left before? Without a thought, without remembering that Damian was only a human? How much had she hurt him to make him so afraid?

    Bile rose in Amber’s throat. She stayed long enough to let him finish his tale. Stayed until the morning dawn lightened the sky. Until their fire died. Until Kyle and Vic were fast asleep and Damian and her sat quietly together. He had to know who she was. Or maybe he didn’t. But she couldn’t look at him.

    How could she? He was a villain. But now she only saw D. Villains don’t deserve regular lives. But how could she look at him when the very thought made her want to be sick? How could she stay stable when her entire life was ripped out from under her? How does one stay stable when they see the fear that they placed in someone else?

    And afraid he was. She could feel it radiating off him just as much as it radiated from her. How often had she sat in her bathroom, terrified and shaking because what if next time she didn’t get up fast enough? What if next time the bomb landed in a crowd? What if she hurt someone? What if next time...he won?

    Would that be a bad thing?

    Would it be good?

    Is there such a thing when they’re both terrified and hurt and human?

    Amber fled.

It was an accident. She hadn’t meant to hear Damian’s story. Hadn’t meant to witness any of it; it wasn’t for her to listen to. She’d wanted to find something in nothing and nothing in something but she didn’t think it’d be like this.

    All she could see was the fear in his eyes, the knuckles turning pale, a tremble in strong shoulders. The flames and how they lit up Damian’s scars, the ones she left.

    All she could see was herself in him.

    Amber barely made it home before she threw up.

Prompt #738

The ‘civilian’ listened to the wounded villain talk quietly -almost like a churchly confession- about how afraid they really were of the hero with an ache tearing through her chest.

Because she was the hero. And she might not have put these injuries there, but how many others had she left before? Without a thought, without remembering that the villain was only human? How much had she hurt them to make them so afraid?