Him, unfortunately. (2)
Pairing: Adrian Chase (Vigilante) x (metahuman) fem!reader
Summary: He declared you his archnemesis as soon as you joined the 11th street kids, but one night he gets shot and you're the one that has to help him.
Chapters: (1) (2)
Word count: 4.5k
Warnings and tags: mentions and descritions of blood and wounds, extremely light swearing, Adrian being unhinged like usual. 3rd person, no use of (Y/N). Enemies-to-lovers (him being delusional, her being reluctantly softer now if you squit your eyes hard enough to see it.)
A/N: The first part worked so good and I saw so many of you liking, reblogging and some comments that I got convinced into writing a second part!! Thanks a lot for all your support! Do we want a third?
(English is not my first language so if there's some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry!)
Police sirens and ambulances wail down the street outside her apartment by the time she closes the last stitches by Adrian’s hip. They rattle her old windows and murder the eerie quiet inside even if just for a couple seconds, blue and red flickering through her dimly lit living room, across the walls, over her face.
Her brows are softly furrowed (one of the most common expressions on her when Adrian is around) while she wonders, silently, if those cars head towards whatever massacre the unconscious disaster in her couch participated in. She doesn’t wonder what was this time, though— a cartel, some skinhead’s group, child traffickers, a miserable drug dealer…
She doesn’t care either. Not really. Whatever it was, the only trace left of it will be the corpses all around a dark alley or a now destroyed warehouse because even if shot and annoying and as easy to distract as a fucking fly, Adrian’s deadly and leaves no witnesses.
It’s kinda difficult, even after all this time, to wrap her head around the fact that this… this— this human golden retriever with the energy supply of an angry chihuahua high on cocaine is one of the most skilled murderers she’s ever met.
A heavy, deep sigh leaves her chest, blindly reaching a wet towel to clean herself, even if just a bit. Her eyes are half-lidded, more relaxed now, as she straightens her back and studies her handiwork.
It will do.
As long as this bastard doesn’t push it.
Which is a very real possibility.
He hasn't moved for almost half an hour now.
His chest rises and falls slow and shallow, just the way it should. Not the frantic rhythm from before. Real breathing. And she knows it because she couldn’t stop checking. Not when she left for 30 seconds to grab a towel from her bathroom and pull it over his chest to keep it from freezing and to dry the cold sweat sliding down. Not when she rolled him onto his side to reach the bullet hole on his lower back. Not when she cleaned and stitched it before doing the exact same with the two by his left hip.
The lamp in the far corner gives off a low, amber light that doesn’t reach half the room. It pools around the couch, slips across the rug, catches the edge of his glasses, askew, and the now messy and bloody metallic tray and hundred cotton gauzes she used before.
The smell of iron had ease, even if just a bit. Now almost all she can feel around is antiseptic and sweat, hands gently pressing folded pad against Adrian’s side one last time before securing it down with scotch and start bandaging his abdomen with the kind of practiced movements only someone that does this on a daily basis owns.
God knows how many times she had to clean and stitch herself.
Another exhale through her nose, then she glances toward the window, street lights barely filtering inside.
Her fire escape is right there.
It’s tempting.
It would be easy to drag him by the shoulders, open the latch with her foot and maneuver his dead weight just far enough that he would no longer be her problem. He’d wake up outside, sore and confused. But not dead. Not cold either. She would throw a cover on top of him— she’s not a monster.
She hates his ass, yeah, he forced her with all the rivalry and archnemesis bullshit he pulled since the minute they met, so kinda not her fault.
She never agreed to it, either, he just started this war and made it everyone’s problem. Openly. Insistently. Just like he does everything else.
Still, and even if he deserves it— she’s not a monster.
Her eyes shift back to his face, and the word that comes to mind is ‘’wrong’’.
No nonsense babbling. No smug smirk or grin so wide it must hurt his cheeks. No annoying commentary. No inappropriate thoughts slipping past his mouth. No movement except the slow swaying of his chest and the occasional twitch of his fingers by his sides.
Unconsciousness doesn’t suit Adrian Chase.
But then again, she’s grateful for it.
He doesn’t look like a problem right now.
It’s the first time she’s ever seen Adrian like this. Hopefully also the last.
His face is relaxed, peaceful, stripped of all that restless, uncontained energy he carries even when standing still. His curls are a mess, all over his forehead. His jaw’s unclenched, his lips almost pouting.
A thin smear of that damn web is still stuck at the corner of his mouth, almost completely dissolved by now.
Knowing him, he’ll eat it in his sleep. And poison himself.
Like an idiot.
She brushes it away with her thumb before she can think better of it, gentle without meaning to be, and immediately irritated at herself for it, a quiet curse of absolute and total disapproval exhaled through her lips.
And in a very reluctant line of thought, her hand reaches for the cover by the armrest of the couch, that fluffy one she loves, and pulls it up over his now bandaged ribs. Slowly, though— she likes the quiet too much to ruin it waking him up.
And even if her fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary over his collarbones, once again, almost obsessively, checking his stable pulse, a quiet smile curls her lips— the idea of throwing him outside her window still so damn entertaining.
The only comfort she has for this whole shitshow, truly.
°°°
Adrian wakes up like someone dropped a brick on his skull.
A deep, throbbing ow squeezes his brain behind his eyes; his body is somehow numb and aching at the same fucking time (which feels illegal), his eyelids glued shut, his limbs weirdly heavy. Too heavy. Like gravity upgraded to premium just for him.
It sucks, with all due honesty. And he’s a very honest man.
His first thought is:
Ow.
His second:
Is this a hangover?
Except he doesn’t remember drinking. His mouth doesn’t taste like liquor and impulsiveness at all, tongue thick and throat dry like sandpaper, saliva pooling uselessly in the back where it won’t even swallow. Disgusting. Uncomfortable. And the sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears makes thinking feel optional.
I’m probably dying.
Maybe I’m already dead.
But if I’m dead this is definitely Hell because it’s dark and cold and a force ghost slash super cool hallucination of Peacemaker is not here to greet me.
Totally not fair.
He coughs like a terminally ill Victorian child, brain running a slideshow of half-formed thoughts, none of which make sense, and when he tries to move his head? Instant regret; his skull throbs like he spent the night headbutting a tank for enrichment.
But his senses slowly come back to him, one after the other:
He tries anyway, following advice has never been his personal brand— pain detonates under his ribs and burns his nerves the moment he even dares to roll to his side, a sharp intake of air tearing the silence around him wide open.
He feels a cover on him, soft, fluffy. It tickles his skin.
He’s not laying on the floor. Is he on a couch?
And also— something tight’s wrapped around his ribs. Too tight it seems to scream at him to not move.
‘’Fuck! Ow, ow— nope, bad!’’
And with that, memory rushes back in like cold water from a bucket:
Being shot (twice, rude).
Stealing a car just to get somewhere.
That somewhere being her couch.
The whole humiliating fiasco comes back in a vivid replay, complete with sensory details that made his skin crawl.
Her warm hand over his chest.
He shoots upright on instinct—
Her tweezers pulling a bullet outside his fucking body.
Her furrowed brows.
Her angry voice threatening him every time he squirmed and trying to keep him there when he started to slip into unconsciousness.
Her mouth moving and his brain going oh wow, I'd marry her right now if I wasn't actively dying.
—or tries to.
He barely gets two inches off the couch before reality punches him in the spine. Hard. Again.
He didn’t learn the first time.
“Gah— fuck—” he wheezes, folding like bad origami. “Nope. Nope. Nope.’’
But his eyes are open now, and they dart around the now completely dark room. Her living room.
Even through the pain, his lips curl into a shit-eating grin the moment he realizes she didn’t throw him out the window while he was out cold. That tastes like victory and helplessly reinforces his delirious crush.
She’s totally into me too.
She must be embarrassed as fuck.
His hand pulls back the cover over his torso before his brain registers the movement, green eyes immediately squinting to focus in the sight in front of him— his very much naked chest, his carefully bandaged abdomen. No blood, no open bullet wounds, no cold sweat sliding down his skin.
It was all her.
Did she stitch me too when I was completely out?
Totally soulmate behavior.
Under his back there’s also a towel, he notices while fumbling around, hissing through gritted teeth as he turns, and the thought of her caring so much about his well being she couldn’t bear to let him sleep over his own blood?
Chris would tell him to calm down and stop being delusional, that ‘’it’s not a big deal’’. But rival vigilantes cleaning each other up is definitely not very common. It does not happen all the time. Definitely means everything. Definitely means she stayed after he passed out to make sure he didn’t die in her living room like an asshole.
Adrian lies there for a few seconds, staring at the bandages in —for once— quiet awe, trying to decide whether standing up will kill him or simply make him wish for death.
He needs to find her.
His ribs throb. His back aches like someone used it as a warm-up punching bag and he still feels like Swiss cheese, but the distant rectangle of warm light leaking from what he guesses it’s the kitchen doorway pulls at him like a summoning spell.
And his brain—well, his brain is doing its usual thing: sprinting laps.
She really didn’t throw me out. (Empathy, love.)
She patched me up. (Did she attend nursing school between patrols? Sexy.)
She touched me. (Bonding experience.)
She saw my organs. (Extremely romantic)
Conclusion? We’re basically married.
He inhales slowly. Too slowly. Each breath reminds him about his injuries. But hey! At least he’s alive.
Silver linings.
He half-sits, half-slides into an upright position with a low groan, bracing his elbows behind him. His fingers tremble. His head spins.
He tries again. Undeterred; Adrian Chase’s not familiar with surrender.
His abs cramp? He’s been through worse— a man possessed by an alien butterfly almost cut his pinky toe once. His stitched wounds pull at his skin? It could end in disaster, yeah, they could open, he could lose even more blood and he's not sure how many litters remain inside his veins. But she would be there to fix him again.
Radical positivity.
“Okay—okay— this is fine,” he mutters to himself, voice hoarse, cracking like a teenager’s as he swings one leg off the couch.
White-hot pain shoots from his hip straight up into his chest, and he hunches forward, gripping the edge of the couch like it’s a lifeline. Sweat beads instantly across his forehead. His curly, messy hair sticks to his temples.
Bad idea.
Horrible idea.
Catastrophic idea.
But he does not stop.
Persistence is his default setting, so Adrian forces the second foot to the ground, boots thudding softly against her rug. He wisely chooses to give himself a minute, palms pressed to his thighs, the roughness of the kevlar reminding him about his suit for a second.
Not exactly top of his priority list, but still deeply annoying. The suit is ruined. Completely, aggressively ruined. And he’s going to have to replace it with a busboy salary.
He exhales through his nose.
He is in urgent need of Beanie Babies to skyrocket in value.
His gaze drifts, unfocused at first, then snags on the upper half of it, dramatically forgotten over the back of a nearby chair like the exhibition of a crime scene. It’s torn clean from hip to neck, the cut uneven where the scissors gave up before she took over. The image of her bare hands destroying it flashes through his brain without any kind of mercy.
It makes his head spin.
Just how hot it was. Not the fact that he lost enough blood to paint an offensively overvalued contemporary painting (like those of the guy whose surname rhymes with bollocks). Or that he’s dehydrated.
Details. Adrian’s not that weak.
A normal man would lie back down, yeah, but he is not a normal man.
Kitchen.
Light.
Her.
He pushes himself upright fully, legs wobbling like a baby deer with a concussion for a panicked second before he heads towards the kitchen. His knees threaten mutiny. His side complains. His eyes sting, forcing him to blink way too much to try to save them from lethal dryness.
But his brain?
His brain is thrilled.
This is so intimate I might actually pass out again.
I’m still alive because my nemesis has morals. Hot morals.
Is she gonna be mad? Is she gonna be impressed? Is she gonna yell?
I kinda want her to yell.
Not in a weird way.
Maybe in a weird way.
Shit, I’m dying again.
Am I dying again?
I can’t almost die twice in her apartment, that’s so needy.
The strong scent of coffee hits his nose before he even pushes the door open with a quiet groan and a subtle stumble, and there she is.
Sitting at the counter. One leg tucked under her. A mug in front of her. Her web shooter open between her hands. The kitchen light edges her profile—jawline ticking, mouth slightly pouting, hair a weird, hot mess, and she’s leaning forward in that shrimp position that somehow makes his heart do cartwheels.
She looks up the moment he crosses the threshold, eyes narrowed, assessing, already clocking his posture, the way he’s leaning too much on his right leg, the way his hand keeps drifting toward his bandaged side like it might fall off if he doesn’t hold it there.
Her expression doesn’t change.
Unimpressed. Tired. Irritated.
Comfortingly so.
They stare at each other for half a second.
Then Adrian opens his mouth.
“Hi!” he says immediately. Too loud. Too fast. Too enthusiastic. Voice rough though, throat still dry as the Sahara dessert. “Very good news. I’m alive.”
Her brow arches, head tilting unconsciously as she tries her best to see past the way his hand keeps pressing against his bandages. To check if he’s still bleeding?
Oh, she loves him, he thinks.
I’m going to kill him myself, is what’s truly crossing her head at the moment.
“You’re not supposed to be standing.”
Adrian nods. Earnest. “Yeah. That tracks. But consider this—” he gestures vaguely at himself, immediately regretting it as pain lances up his side, stupid grin still plastered on his lips, unrepentant. “—I wanted to see you.”
Her jaw tightens, reluctantly accepting her peace ended way too soon.
“You want to lie back down.”
“I do,” he agrees instantly, all resistance futile. “Emotionally, spiritually and physically but I also wanted to confirm all that from before really happened and was not a blood loss induced hallucination.”
Her eyes close. She takes a moment to breathe. The sigh that slides past her nose could level all Evergreen and Central City combined.
‘’Back. To. The. Couch.’’
But of course he ignores her and takes another step in, hand braced on the doorframe now, muscles tensing, strained. And she notices how his breathing’s heavy, deep, quiet and slow, like he’s actively trying to keep his cool and not look weak in front of her. He’s paler than usual, too, the freckles and moles along his collarbones and biceps popping out. His mouth keeps going anyway—brain dumping at full speed.
Like usual.
“You did a really good job,” he praises her. “Like, medically. Very clean stitches. I assume. I didn’t look. But I can feel them. In a respectful way.”
Silence.
She just stares at him.
His grin widens, crooked and exhausted. “Also, minor detail, but you definitely saved my life. Which is kind of a big commitment if you think about it, and you know what would be an equally big commitmen—”
‘’Adrian’’, her interruption’s too sharp to ignore it a second time, but not aggressive, neither loud— it’s so damn calm it feels uncanny coming from her. “It’s safe to assume that if you’re strong enough to limp from my couch to my kitchen and stand there talking so casually,” she says evenly, “then you’re strong enough to call a taxi and get out of my apartment, right?”
His face contorts in something that can only be described as great offense, his chin retracting to his neck, his nose scrunching up ever so subtly, his brows furrowing. His weight shifts from one foot to the other, his shoulder drawing in slightly in crystal clear discomfort— he doesn’t know how to properly react for a couple seconds, totally like a kid being scolded.
For a moment, he just stares at her.
“First of all,” he finally says, his voice adopting that petulant tilt she’s so familiar with. “You didn’t see me limping. I didn’t limp. Like— at all. Did I relocate from your couch to your kitchen taking strategically slow steps? Yeah, I did. Doesn’t mean I was limping, though. I was just… taking care of the extremely thoughtful handiwork you did on my body.”
She doesn’t react, just blinks, web shooter forgotten, coffee already cold over her counter.
It just makes him more nervous.
For whatever reason.
“Second,” he adds after clearing his throat, shifting his weight again, less subtle this time, “I’m not calling a taxi. It’s expensive and not safe at this hour at night and I—”
Adrian takes a slow, deep breath, his eyes widening as he looks for a believable excuse to give her so she’ll relent and let him sleep on her couch. Or her rug. Her floor would be okay, too, as long as he can steal one cushion for the head.
‘’I don’t carry my wallet with me when I’m outside on patrol,’’ his shoulders shrug, his hand gesturing in the air in a way that says ‘’there’s nothing I can do about it’’. ‘’It’s risky, you know? I could lose it mid-epic-fight and someone would pick it and see my diver license or my Fennels Fields identification and my whole identity would be exposed and I would have to go on a rampage and kill that person and everyone they’ve ever interacted with and that’s like a lot of people.’’
A beat. His brain probably didn’t need it but his lungs definitely appreciate the break.
‘’So yeah, you’d have to pay the ride for me. And I would never ask you to do so.’’
Totally nailed it.
10/10.
Inhumanly fast improvisation, perfect execution.
She doesn’t stand a chance.
Just— she does stand without a word and he straightens reflexively, a little bit intimidated when she takes a step towards him, half-expecting her to kick his sorry ass, half-wishing she would just kiss him instead.
“Oh cool, you’re standing. That feels like a turning point.”
Her hand rests over his sternum before he has the chance to drive her (more) mad with all that nonsense babbling and his usual brand of Adrian Chase’s bullshit. It’s not gentle nor harsh. Just firm, grounding, softly pushing him back to the kitchen door.
“I’m not gonna repeat it a third time, Chase: go back to the couch or I’ll call that fucking taxi and throw you inside myself. I’ll even open the door for you and give the driver a very generous tip.”
His brain short-circuits, and he’s sure he didn’t register more than 70% of her threat, too busy focusing on the tired tilt of her voice and the smell of coffee coming from her breath.
And her hand.
God, her hand.
Is warm. Solid. Real.
And it presses against his skin just right.
And he’s not bleeding now, not squirming in distress and fighting against unconsciousness.
His pulse jumps. Adrian’s sure she felt it but doesn’t allow himself to thrive in that thought.
Not now.
“Yes,” he says immediately, swallowing, very visibly struggling to gather his bearings. “Okay. Couch it is then. Great plan. Love that for us.”
Her head tilts, questioning, of course doubting his not very believable word. And the way she’s looking up at him? All quietly irritated and weirdly protective? Like a lioness imposing herself to her stubborn lion?
To die for.
I’ll never be the same after tonight.
I’ll totally kill whoever she asked me to right now.
Except Peacemaker.
Still— fuck, I would love to kill for her.
Her hand doesn’t move from where it is until he regains control over his own derailing brain and nods again, slower this time. His feet take him back to the living room with exaggerated care. Every step weirdly forced, calculated, poorly hiding his exhaustion, dizziness, and the pull of his stitches every time he so much as breathes.
A complete contrast to the way he doesn’t think about them when he flops onto the couch even if his ribs cry out in agony and his skin crawls. He also winces when he sprawls his legs over the cushions and towards the armrest and the muscles of his left hip burn under his clean bandages.
A quick look is enough to check he’s not bleeding, didn’t pop her stitches, and she’ll likely not murder him in his sleep.
But just to make sure?
He’ll praise her interior design skills. It’s the most logical thing to do during these kinds of occasions.
‘’Absolutely love this couch, by the way. Where is it from? IKE—’’
The very soft cover he had over his chest before waking up collides with a dull 'fwump' against his face; she has a knack for shutting him up immediately without ever asking him to.
And by the time Adrian untangles it from his blond, messy curls, glasses askew and sliding down his nose from the impact, she’s already walking away towards the corridor, making sure to turn off the lights of the kitchen.
‘’You have three cereal bars right there,’’ her face turns towards him over her shoulder, chin pointing to the table in front of the sofa. The street light that filters through the window by her fire escape’s dim —cold, distant, interrupted by the stairs— and almost hides the way she indubitably shows him once again she cares.
Extremely reluctantly.
But his lips are already curling into that insufferable, childish smile everyone around him knows. The one that beams by itself, that pushes his cheeks against his green eyes and makes him look 10 years younger.
She doesn’t need to see it to feel it in the air.
Like her spider-sense for danger but the version that makes her skin crawl when something annoying is less than 10 meters away from her.
And Adrian’s probably too caught up in her gentle, caring gesture (and how he didn’t notice those cereal bars before—not that food was his priority) to say anything before she exhales, turning away once again.
‘’I don’t wanna hear a single sound tonight,’’ but her tone lacks any real bite, just quiet, tired resignation. ‘’If your stitches pop open, bleed silently and let me sleep.’’
As if he knew how to be obnoxiously loud at all times.
Even when he’s not talking at all.
“You really think I can bleed silently?’’ his voice cracks in disbelief, grin faltering. “…Do you even know how much effort it would take? I’m basically being asked to invent a new human skill right now. I—”
He’s talking too much for someone that didn’t drink a single sip of water for hours, so obviously an ugly cough interrupts him, dry, rattling. He presses a hand over his covered stitches instinctively, grimacing.
“…Fine,” he adds after a beat, voice lower, relenting for once. “Fine, I’ll try. I’ll be very, very sneaky. Silent as a ninja. Ghost mode. Maybe I can train for it. Is there a medal? A ribbon?”
But she doesn’t answer, and he would swear his narrowed, tired eyes catch the way she shakes her head before disappearing through the corridor, some door closing a couple seconds after that.
‘’Sweet dreams!’’ he whisper-calls from the couch, lowering himself fully into the cushions, one hand still hovering instinctively over his side, like his body doesn’t quite trust itself yet.
The apartment settles into quiet again. Not complete silence—there’s the distant sound of occasional traffic bleeding through the windows, the faint creak of the building shifting under its own weight, some dog barking down the street—but quiet enough that Adrian feels himself drowning in his own thoughts. Not uncommon.
She left me snacks.
She let me stay the night.
She cares, she cares, she cares.
He grabs one of the cereal bars. Turns it over. Tries to read the label. Surrenders halfway.
The smile creeps back onto his face anyway, smaller this time, lopsided and tired. He peels the wrapper open with his teeth because using both hands feels like too much effort, chews slowly, thoughtfully, crumbs immediately threatening to betray him onto her couch.
He freezes.
Carefully brushes them into his palm instead.
Progress!
His eyes drift toward the dark corridor she vanished into and opens his mouth—clearly about to say something deeply unnecessary and definitely too fucking loud—then remembers her warning.
He clamps his lips shut; he knows better than to poke the woman that’s, without the shadow of a doubt, his rightful soulmate.
Not now, at least. Sometimes he knows when to shut up for good, too.
A long beat passes. The couch creaks as he shifts just enough to get comfortable, head tipping back against the cushions, a long breath filling his lungs. The pain is still there—dull, heavy, constant—but manageable. Controlled. Fixed.
By her. And that thought—quiet, persistent, dangerous— along some other ideas (are they rivals with benefits now? how can he respectfully ask her to marry him? was this fate from the start? has he been playing right into the hands of Love™?) carries him the rest of the way down into sleep, the smile still there, faint and stupid and impossible to wipe off his face.
