Thoughts of a Conspiracy Theorist

She would answer all my unspoken questions

The process of waking up is tiresome. An oxymoron in almost every sense of the word. Perhaps one of the worst aspects of upkeep the human body needs to maintain itself. Hence why I avoid sleep when at all possible. In addition to it being a hurdle in my pursuit of information.

But waking up typically doesn't hurt this much.

I come to already in motion, my arm draped around a set of shoulders that feel familiar, with a hand pressed against my chest holding me upright. I know this hand. I've studied this hand whenever possible. Her thin fingers, strong and gentle, can form the most beautiful fist I've ever seen. Helena.

My mask is still intact thankfully. I would hate for Helena to see me without it as bad as I feel. One of my eyes feels swollen and I can feel blood congealing around my busted lip. My mask has many purposes, including intimidation, and secrecy, but a hidden purpose is it keeps blood from showing. The bad guys can hurt me, sure, but they don't get to see my nose bleed when they break it. I hear Superman. Or I think I do. My ears are still ringing, and I can't open my eyes to double-check. My sense of smell is somehow the most operational of all my senses.

Peppermint. I smell...peppermint.

And suddenly I'm not barely holding onto my consciousness. I'm back in the car with Helena after our almost-not-quite-date. Before everything went wrong. I'm driving her back from dinner and a movie to her apartment. I know the roads easily, so my mind wanders over to the passenger seat as Helena shares a story about a fight she stopped. She told me this already. It occurred 18 days ago, at 1 am, outside the movie theater we just left. She told me the day it happened. But she tells it so vividly, and the smile she wears as she describes shattering the perpetrator's clavicle is enchanting. She looks more beautiful than anything in the world. Like every piece of art would pale in comparison to her eyes alone. Or all the love songs should be rewritten for her. And perfume isn't enough to wear anymore, or for her to leave faint traces of her body wash lingering on my sheets and pillowcases. I could drown in the smell of her conditioner. Her peppermint conditioner.

Helena leads me somewhere, away from the shaking of the fight I can only imagine between Captain Atom and Superman. I should have known to consider the Captain a flight risk due to his lawful nature, he was never one to think for himself when met with a figure of authority. I noted that in his file to J'onn, but didn't follow the lead back far enough. It was stupid of me, but not one I'll allow myself to make again. The room shakes and we fall once, twice, maybe three times before we turn, left, then left again, then right. Who designed this facility?

I hope the shakes are Kryptonian in origin, otherwise, I severely underestimated the Captain. I would need to submit a new file on him, and prepare a new list of ideal teams that include him. We pass a threshold and Helena sets me against something...metal. She keeps a hand on my chest. I feel my legs shake as they bear my weight for the first time in hours? Days? I go to speak and feel my voice crack from disuse.

"You shouldn't have come for me." I don't know why I said that. But I do. I don't know why I don't thank her, but I do know. I have...too many questions in my head. How do I tell her I could have ruined everything? How do I tell her I dont know if I broke in torture? How do I tell her the very man fighting to save our skin might kill the president?

How do I tell her I love her more than the very air I breathe?

"You shouldn't have snuck away without me." is her only reply.

I don't know why I hoped she would answer all my unspoken questions. But suddenly her hand is gone and my skin aches for her touch to return. I hear the grunting of her fighting and feel the proud warmth flush my face under the mask. She fights like she dances, all legs.

I hear her grunt in frustration. My ears have thankfully returned to near full capabilities, and my legs feel more like mine by the minute, so through the power of sheer human will I stumble towards her as she works. Seeing is still off the table, and I know this mask has got to come off soon. The inner visor affixed behind the mask had broken and was making it impossible to see out of. But without my jacket, I was helpless to remove it. I could only hope Helena could break into my apartment to get another jacket, or my room on the watchtower, or even from the pocket of the jacket she is holding hostage.

I turn my face to another crash, and Helena leads me away from the center of the fighting. We stop and I look up, between squinting through my mask and hearing the echo of questionable acoustics I can only guess the way out is up. Up is not something my body can do. But I don't have to.

Praise be to grappling hooks.

I hear her argue with J'onn over a comlink. This martian should know by now to not try and stop her, but no one ever accused him of doing the smart thing. I feel the uncomfortable feeling of being teleported to the watchtower, and suddenly Helena is no longer holding me up.

The smartest thing the martian ever did was employ doctors on this forsaken excuse for a base. And then Helena is allowed back in, and I feel a lot less up to being a bad patient. She brings my jacket, and I tell her about the aerosol.

"You were right, I am the ugliest guy of all time."

"Not in my eyes."

And that's all I need. All the answers I need. No I love you's, no grand display of romance, not even dinner and a movie. Suddenly I feel more invincible than Superman. No more ants or boots. Just the sheer stability of being known, and loved anyway. The quiet kind of love. That's enough.

But not enough for Superman. He comes in to disrupt our quiet king of love with his loud impossible morals. Apparently trying to murder someone so he won't isn't the welcome gift to the man of steel. I lay the pieces out of Luthor's quest to invoke vengeance in the alien until he rages beyond human durability and only gets in return his loud exit. You're welcome, Clark.

Helena returns long before five minutes are up. Despite my face, the medical hum and thrum of beeping and doctors, and even though I've been wearing the same clothes for more than the recommended amount she climbs in next to me. The domestic bliss of a post-rescue cuddle is not lost on me. And I entertain a ghost of a smile that my face can stretch to without ripping stitches.

I understand this kind of love. The kind that smells like peppermint.