#WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HOW WE FEELIN LADS

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw: guns, death

“Just tell me,” the superhero spits, and the villain laughs in his face.

The hero is free. The hero is free, and nothing the superhero does to the villain can change that. The villain admitted too much whilst the superhero was listening in, and they’ve rectified it. The hero will never have to see him again, and the villain will die here to make sure of it. The superhero has nothing.

“You’re such a piece of shit,” he continues, as if this is a new and particularly heartbreaking insult. “Tell me where they went.”

“Out, I’d presume.” The villain’s face twists into a snarl. “Do you really think we laid out exact plans in the middle of a prison break?”

The door squeals open behind the superhero, and he whips to the entrance with a growl before remembering himself. “What?” is the nicest tone he can manage.

“You, uh,” the guard starts uncertainly. She doesn’t look particularly happy to be the one bringing him news. “You might want to come see our… visitors.”

And with a bark of orders and a step of raw fury, the superhero is gone. The villain is left with only silence for company.

The silence only lasts for a couple of minutes. Gunfire, far off. Running footsteps. The villain swallows nervously and twists their hands testily in their cuffs.

They were prepared to die to keep the hero safe. Kind of. They wouldn’t have liked it, and they’d probably have embarrassed themself by going out crying and begging for mercy, but they would’ve died with the hero’s safety in their hands, and that’s all that would’ve mattered.

This, though. This isn’t the hero. A bullet plinks off the door loudly and the villain flinches. Gunfire sprays closer. They pull at the cuffs a little more desperately. Please, please, just break—

The door is flung open with a strong kick, smashing a hole into the opposite wall. A breath of a whimper escapes their mouth before they can think to stop it. They screw their eyes shut and wait for the feeling of the bullet searing through them. They’re trembling, but they can’t find it in their last moments to care.

There’s no feeling of metal tearing their flesh. No blinding flash of gunfire. Low voices exchange incoherent words. The villain doesn’t want to open their eyes in case the people here are cruelly waiting for them to face their killers. They can’t. They won’t.

Something touches their arm. They flinch a lot harder than they thought they could.

“[Villain],” says a familiar voice. Soft, worried. The touch on their arm solidifies into a gentle hand. “You’re safe now. You’re with us.”

The villain opens their eyes slowly, as if this is a trick they don’t trust. The hero throws them a lopsided smile, genuine and exhausted. This is definitely a trick. The hero isn’t stupid enough to come back.

That doesn’t mean the villain can take their eyes off them, though.

“Let’s get these cuffs off,” the hero continues after a moment. They set their gun on the table to root through their pocket.

“Yes, please get those things off,” says someone from the doorway. Also familiar, less tight than they recognise. “I would like to leave as soon as possible.”

The villain’s gaze snaps to the supervillain, lounging in the entrance with her own handgun pointed into the hallway beyond. The slightest hint of a smile sits at her lips, something the villain hasn’t seen in years.

The hero jabs the end of a knife into the villain’s cuffs, earning a second startled flinch. “Sorry,” they say shortly as the cuffs click open. “I don’t have the key. We’re mostly improvising.”

“You’re telling me,” the supervillain says with a huff of a laugh, and once the villain is on their feet she’s off ahead of them into the corridor.

“Are you okay?” the hero asks as they swipe the gun from the table and set off after her. “Did that bastard… do anything to you?”

Of course he did. That seems to be the superhero’s thing. They don’t want the hero to worry about them any more than they already have, though. The idiot came back.

So they give them a smile that’s blatantly, tragically forced, and simply say, “Nah.”

The hero clearly doesn’t believe that but they’ve no time to question it. The two of them follow the supervillain into the corridor. Round a corner. Up a flight of stairs. The supervillain shoots someone and the top and the villain hates that they flinch at the noise.

The main doors are so close. The three of them waste no time running across the foyer. Something clatters to the floor and the hero yelps. The supervillain and the villain turn to find the superhero behind them, an arm around the hero’s throat and a gun to their temple.

“Now,” he says. His breath is short, panting. “Let’s not be stupid here, hm? Anyone tries anything and I’ll blow their head off.”

The supervillain hesitates. The villain’s stomach clenches with familiar fear. 

The superhero smiles, blood soaked into his teeth and staining his lips. “We’re all going to be good people and allow the law to win, aren’t we?”

The hero wriggles in vain in his grip. “[Superhero], please, you’re not—”

“Shut up,” the superhero spits. “I made you. You really think you’re better than me? You gave criminals information on us, you traitor.”

His grip on them tightens, delighting in the choked gasp that tears from their throat. He’s distracted. 

The villain lurches for the supervillain, earning a surprised yelp and snatching the superhero’s attention. He turns his barrel on them but it doesn’t matter. The villain tucks the supervillain’s gun under their own chin.

“Let go of them,” they say fiercely, “or I swear to god I’ll fucking kill myself.”

The hero’s eyes are wide with horror. “[Villain], no—”

The superhero’s grip on them stops them. His own face is contorted like he’s nothing more than vaguely pissed off. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The villain’s hand is shaking. They can feel that this thing is loaded. Their finger is hovering precariously close to the trigger. “You need me,” they say like it’s obvious. “If I die, you’ll never figure out what all my paperwork says. I’ll die with all that information and you can’t do shit about it.”

The superhero scowls, kind of. It's a much more enraged expression than the villain can put a word to. His gaze flits obviously to the supervillain. “She won’t tell you shit,” the villain continues. “Less than I would, in fact.”

The superhero’s arm loosens slightly on the hero, the reality of his predicament clearly catching up to him. The hero is only looking more grieved by the second.

The villain meets their eye. They let their gaze flick down, hoping to convey a semblance of a plan, to the hero’s abandoned gun on the floor. Back up. The hero’s own gaze follows theirs, almost subdued, and nods ever-so-slightly.

Everything happens so fast. The villain tips their gun down to the superhero. He doesn’t have time to react before they set it off with a deafening clap. He shrieks as the bullet buries into his thigh. His grip on the hero loosens and they burst free from his hold. They scoop their own gun from the floor, kicking the superhero’s out of his hand. 

The supervillain leaps forward to grab the superhero's gun before he can think to snatch it back, and suddenly he’s defenceless, surrounded by three armed people who hate him more than anything in the world.

No one needs to speak to know what the plan is. The superhero’s gaze snaps up at the loud click of a magazine disappearing into the hero’s gun.

A laugh bubbles out of his throat, the sound choked on fear. “[Hero], come on,” he says softly. “You’re not a killer. You’re better than that. You’re better than them.”

The hero glances to the them they’re supposedly better than—the supervillain, paralyzed by fear, scared for herself for also for her own; she who had leapt to her feet when the hero came to her with a way to fix things. She who grieved the whole way here that she couldn’t have saved more of those she cared about so much.

And the villain. The villain, who’d had a perfect opportunity to make themself something to the supervillain and let their humanity win. Who’d let the hero stay as a cruel joke and let them leave as a survivor. Who’d threatened their own life for the hero despite their terror of what lays on the other side.

The hero is no better than them. They don’t want to be.

The gun angles at the superhero in their hands. Defeat doesn’t even seem to cross his mind. Only painfully familiar frustration. “[Hero],” he says a little harsher. “Look at what they’ve made you into. You can be so much more than this.”

The hero sets their jaw and tilts their head up defiantly. “I don't want to be anything more.”

The gunshot rings in their ears. None of them have time to watch the superhero even drop to the floor. No time to mourn—no grace to even think about him. The hero is thankful for that as they burst through the front doors and into freedom. Freedom, freedom, freedom.

The supervillain, free to really grieve her losses. A new superhero will be put in his place, of course, but she can gather the villains around her and rebuild everything she’s lost.

The villain, free of the bindings of the superhero’s torture. Without the supervillain's fears hanging over them. Without their own.

And the hero. Free to live without their puppeteer tugging the strings. Finally free to live.

(last part!)

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