Painted Red- (Young Justice)

|Chapter-Four|

[a/n] I'm tired and my legs are sore as fuck. I am upset and hungry and sleepy but I told myself I'd do a daily update for any of my books so fuckin take it.

Superboy sent a distasteful glance at Gore, watching as the assassin tapped his feet obnoxiously against the wall.

The red-eyed-male was laying on his back on the ground, legs up and kicking awkwardly on the wall. The assassin stared Connor straight in the eye, and then winked.

A bitter snort from the hero. "Don't you have something better to do than act like a child?"

"Sir, I'm plotting..." Drawled Gore, finger-gunning him, though it looked like a mess because of his upside-down position. "...A verrrry ungrateful death for youuuu."

Connor hissed, attempting to block out the younger's aggravating, careless voice. God, why was he the one that was supposed to look over him today?

Still, the metal collar around Gore's neck gave Superboy a bit more confidence. It was meant to be a tracker; just in case the assassin tried to escape. In his opinion, Batman should've given him a shock collar.

It would've been a lot more practical.

"My eyes are up here Supes.~" Purred the assassin, catching the hero's gaze on his neck. "I know it looks good, but no biting!"

Connor didn't know what he meant by that, but it still irritated him. "Could you just—." His hands gestured wildly, looking for the right words to say. "—shut up? For the rest of your existence?"

"Ah, a challenge!" Chirped Gore, eyes sparkling. "I accept!"

The clone snapped his mouth shut, a suspicious glare settling on the villain. Was... was he serious? Was he actually gonna try to stay quiet?

Shrugging, he decided it was probably for the best. As long as he could have his peace and read his book without anymore distractions from the usually-noisy little shit.

He glanced up, watching as Gore walked out of the room, slipping into the kitchen. Connor paid no mind to it, having hidden all of the knives and other sharp objects.

At least, that's what he believed until a sharp crash made him jump in his seat.

Connor was met with the sight of a cabinet— a whole fucking cabinet— pulled from its bolts and screws on the wall; splintered wood and broken plates and bowls in one specific place on the ground.

Gore smiled at Connor's flabbergasted expression, almost laughing. He was the clear culprit of the wreckage, and proud of it.

"What— what did you do?!"

The assassin blinked at the hero, looking down honestly sort of sadly at the torn-down cabinet, and then up at the wall where the screws had been pulled from. He stared back at Connor.

The clone hissed, frustrated, not knowing what to do with his hands, so he wrung them behind his back. "I know what you did— but why?!" When all he got was a slow shrug, Connor growled. "I can't believe— I hate you! Clean it up!"

Something like disgust passed by Gore's face, and he held out his hands expectantly, as if asking Connor for the cleaning supplies.