Super

22 - Cool As A Fucking Cucumber

"It's hard to tell who has your back, from who has it long enough just to stab you in it...."

– Nicole Richie

Recap: 

When she turned to me, my face heated up. Oh no wait... That was just residual pain from Gold Thrush FUCKING PUNCHING ME IN THE FUCKING FACE.

Her lips parted in confusion as she squinted at me and then her eyes flickered to my body, drinking it all in, and at first I thought she was checking me out as she'd not-so-subtly done so many times in the past, but then I realised she was just staring uncomprehendingly at my spandex. Shit! My mask! Annie had seen my face and then my spandex and had obviously pieced it together. I watched as her eyes grew watery, shining like bottle glass in the reflection of Arson's flickering flamem and her cracked lips parted to croak out my name.

And then everything went dark.

Annie's P.O.V.

Slowly, he blinked open his eyes, squinting against the harsh light. A groan escaped his chapped lips as he brought a tentative hand up to caress the bump on the back of his head. With a bump like that, I knew his vision was probably blurry and his head must have hurt like hell. Good. I chuckled a little, remembering the way Mist had roundhouse kicked him in the back of the head.

Without his mask, the super villain in front of me looked a lot less threatening. He also looked a lot younger. Two paper-thin cuts sliced his cheeks like war paint and his black hair was plastered to his forehead, sticky from sweat. A large tear in his smoky spandex started at his left shoulder and extended across his chest, revealing a strip of pale, porcelain skin and a little dried blood that was caked to the edges of the fabric.

As his vision came into focus, he swallowed hard. I sat back on my haunches, regarding him with a look of contempt, lips curling into a grimace. My disgust was replaced by nervousness as I tugged a hand through my tangled hair and asked, "how's your head?"

"Oh, uh, it's okay," he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as he struggled to sit up, surveying his surroundings. We were on the floor in my room. Gold Thrush had kindly volunteered to fly us back and then dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. I hadn't protested. Other than a small, purple bruise on the bridge of his nose and two cuts on his cheekbones from where his mask had obviously been ripped off, the Invisible Hand otherwise looked fine. I handed him an ice pack silently and he shot me a grateful look before tucking it behind his head.

"How're you feeling?"

"Better."

"Oh good," I said overly cheerful and before he could respond, I slapped him hard across the face.

"I guess I deserved that," he admitted as he rubbed his jaw and watched me curiously, his intrigued eyes bluer than ever.

"I'm not going to punch you again," I rolled my own blue eyes and watched him watch me. "How's the ice?"

"Um, cold I guess?"

"I mean is it helping? How's your head?"

"Oh just grand," he snorted. I opened my mouth to protest, but snapped it shut again. He didn't even notice. "No really, it's cool as a fucking cucumber."

"No need to be sassy..." I mumbled bitterly, but he didn't notice. Instead, he was moaning and turning a little green.

"I think I've got a concussion," he said feebly.

"Oh you definitely do," I mused and handed him a bucket. IH snatched it, doubled over, and retched. I turned away as the sound of his gagging filled the still room. He continued to throw up the contents of his stomach and even after that, he continued dry heaving for several minutes before wiping the back of his gloved hand sloppily across his mouth and stumbling into the bathroom. I followed behind quietly, watching as he turned on the faucet, running it until it was cold before splashing it on his face.