There will always be something to do, someone to fight, a noun to verb, and as long as you own the suit you’ll have to stop the evil deeds. For the most part, you don’t really mind—it’s your job, and though it doesn’t pay the bills, it brings you a sense of personal satisfaction on those days that breaking General Terror’s nose is a better stress reliever than any squeeze ball.
Being a superhero has its downfalls, probably more than the average career in your opinion, but the satisfying crack that lets you know a plan is on its way to being foiled is the ultimate perk. You don’t even think it’s borne of a sense of justice—you just like fucking with him.
You’re pretty sure the feeling is mutual, or he wouldn’t shout your name expectantly every time you show up. He knows it’ll always be you and you’re, for this one thing, happy to indulge.
Even when the two of you tussle today like any other, your sword forgotten on your belt and whatever stupid new gun he’s stolen too far across the way to reach, it’s still an electric feeling that makes you wonder just how much you like being in control.
He pounces, getting the first swing right into your chest—your breath falters, but you’re experienced enough to recover when he thinks he’s got the upper hand to take him to the ground with a punch and a sly foot to trip him up. The little noise he makes—a breathless oof upon impact—curls the corner of your mouth into a smirk.
You don’t waste time, though. He’s pulling himself up so you come right down, shoving his shoulders back into the concrete. Blinking hard, he dispels the temporary darkness that comes from the accidental blow, and you have to give him credit for the quick recovery—you hear his boots scraping over the ground behind you and you misjudge his intentions. Rather than trying to get up this time, he just distracts you long enough to push your arms and slip away when your gloves skid unprepared against the ground.
All right. No harm done. You slide as easily as possible back into a standing position, but naturally he’s waiting for you and his fist connects perfectly with your jaw in a maneuver that even you have to admit was well-planned.
Though by his surprised reaction when you focus on him instead of the numb feeling that the contact brought, he didn’t plan it.
You take his moment of shock to twist your fingers into his by-now bloodied shirt and he struggles, trying to shake you or hit you again—but you’re wise to his methods this time around, so you catch the wrist of his dominant hand.
You keep a straight face and a smart tongue despite the blossoming sting in your face. He, of course, flails with no grace or form but passion (a passion for the sport instead of the psychology), and though you’re loathe to end it you have things to do, so you wipe the blood from your mouth and step, practically disappearing behind him to curl your arms under his and hold him.
“Game over, GT,” you whisper, chest heaving. He got you pretty hard earlier, maybe bruised your ribs, but the ache makes you feel alive in the way that just thinking about it doesn’t. “Or do you want to put in another quarter and start again?”
Fuck yes. Great metaphor. You’d clap yourself on the back if your hands weren’t busy.
“Agh.” He wrestles away to face you, sniffing to try and clear his nose of the smell of copper. “Damn it all, you’re such a smug douche.”
It’s that kind of familiar reaction combined with everything else that keeps you in this line of work. You could not give less of a shit about the true spirit of heroics and you’re pretty sure everyone around you knows it, but there’s something—something that makes you want to break bones and pride in equal measure.
