The Thaw That Counts
@bliizzardofhell liked for a starter
This, Saitama’s reasoning went, was in setting a good example for Genos more than for anything else. First off, the reasoning said, you did not fight other people’s battles for them, not unless they needed it. You didn’t - not even if the person you were wanting to go at had a douchey hairbun and wore a bodysuit that went far enough up their ass to be considered solo pornography when they walked.
Even then, you didn’t.
And you really didn’t do it when your unnecessary fighting involved people who were better left... well, uninvolved. Sometimes those people, the ones caught in the crossfire, had all kinds of their own shit on their plates. Sometimes they were stuck at shit-buffets, but not the kind of buffet where you went up and got the shit. No, this particular buffet establishment was a really bad buffet, and whether you wanted it or not, shit was going on your plate and you were going to have to take it.
The metaphor had stopped there because Saitama was confusing himself. Either way, once the ninja was incapacitated for the time being and Fubuki had explained herself, Saitama felt pretty bad for her. It was a new experience for him, genuine concern for someone else. Probably it had come from giving Genos a chance, so in a roundabout way this was all his doing, but the kid was still reckless with his power and way too impulsive.
He was at his doctor’s, now, and Saitama was preparing to make amends with the Blizzard in his stead. He was on his way home from the grocery store (walking back alone felt strange now without an overeager teenager beside him like a well-trained puppy), and despite having exhausted nearly every yen he possessed, at least it meant Fubuki would have a satisfactory apology-slash-sympathy meal, as soon as he cooked it.
A light shone around the corner, a headlight followed by the distinctive black car which loped down the dilapidated street like a jaguar at hunt. Damn, the woman was probably used to eating out every night, reservations at fancy restaurants, chauffeur service, wine with unpronounceable names. The carefully-chosen vegetables in Saitama’s bags felt as though they wilted back in shame.
He waited for the car to purr to a stop next to him, although he couldn’t see through the blacked-out windows. “You’re... pretty early.”
