#shoutout to the anon who asked for this like 1000 years ago lmao

[raineandsky]

Ouroboros

#78.2 (part 1) (part 2)

“Chicken noodle soup?”

The henchman brandishes a bowl at the hero like a weapon of healing. The hero begrudgingly takes it, and the henchman gives them his classic lopsided smile in victory.

It’s been two weeks since the hero woke up in this cosy little room. Two weeks since they tried to stop the villain unleashing chaos on the city. Two weeks since they disappeared off the agency’s radar.

The henchman settles in the chair next to the bed as the hero gets comfortable, the bowl balanced carefully in their hands. It’s delightfully warm against their skin, the smell absolutely divine; they’re two seconds away from either falling asleep or devouring the entire thing.

“Any news about the agency?”

The henchman clicks his tongue. The hero’s been finding more and more roundabout ways to ask the same question, but the henchman knows what they mean by now.

“They have another hero out dealing with [Villain].” He averts his gaze to the window awkwardly. “They still haven’t acknowledged that you’re gone.”

The agency’s a self-absorbed little corporation. The hero knows that. Still—a search party would be nice. A memorial, even. Something to say that they noticed the hero disappeared.

“They’re probably busy filling the gap I left,” the hero says with forced disinterest, and dips into their soup to keep their mouth from saying too much.

They crave for someone to notice—a colleague, their higher-ups, anyone, anything to prove they cared even a little bit. They’ve already told the henchman that the agency looks out for them. It’ll be awkward if it turns out they lied about that.

The two of them sit in silence for a while, the henchman reading a book as the hero inhales the soup. It’s amazing, as always, and fills a gaping hole that they wish could be filled by more legitimate means.

The henchman looks up when the bowl rattles against the bedside table. His book gets flopped page-down on the table next to him in an instant. “Let’s get those bandages changed again,” he says simply, and the hero groans.

They don’t see the point. They feel fine, but the henchman won’t even let them look anymore. The last time they’d seen the gash it’d looked much better, but the henchman insists that they must’ve done something to tear it again. What, they’ve no clue—all they do all day is roll around in bed. How they’d tear a wound open enough to need another week of healing and close inspection is beyond them.

The henchman shuffles closer armed with a roll of bandages. The hero rolls their eyes and lifts their shirt in defeat.

The henchman’s touch is as soft as ever, of course, and the hero watches him for lack of anything better to look at.

His brow furrows in concentration, his hands steady, his tongue caught between his teeth. His hair is still wet from what the hero assumes is a shower. His usual black clothes—that the hero has come to guess are a uniform for the villain—are abandoned in favour of a baggy t-shirt and a pair of well-loved joggers.

They don’t flinch under his fingers anymore. He’s pleasantly warm against their skin, forever gentle despite the hero’s repeated “I’m fine!” When he’s done he leans back and graces the hero with the slightest of smiles.

“It’s still looking a little rough,” he says like he read the hero’s mind. “We’ll give it a couple more days to make sure it’s definitely good before you head out.”

“You say that every day,” the hero points out. They can’t keep their tone from being exasperated.

They love it here, sure—the cooking, the comfy bed, the being doted on—but they want to kick the agency’s ass for apparently forgetting about them.

“A couple more days,” the henchman repeats, and with a sigh he grabs the old bundle of (bloodless?) bandages and leaves the hero to themself.

A couple more days. The hero’s getting restless stuck in this tiny room. They need to sink their claws into the agency, show them what they’re missing.

They can always come back once they’re done.