Part 3 - Of Glass Shards and Vodka
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Masterpost here.
CWs: shrapnel wound, alcohol
Vlad stumbles off his motorbike, dropping his helmet on the ground as he staggers to his door. Each step sends pain ripping down his back as the glass shards embedded there shift.
Stupid Shockwave, he thinks, vowing never to work with him again. The idiot panicked when a low level hero interrupted their robbery, and blew out all the windows. Vlad just managed to cover his head before the shards went flying everywhere. The hero managed to block himself behind a door anyway, so the only one hurt was Vlad. He finished the job anyway, fighting off Stronghold and ensuring Nightsky got away with the stolen goods. He is definitely demanding part of Shockwave’s cut.
They all scattered after, as is usual, and now Vlad is alone. His thick gloves at least protected his hands and head, but he was so close to the blast that even his reinforced jacket didn’t spare his back.
Even getting his door unlocked is a struggle, with the adrenaline from the fight and pain sending tremors through his hands. He gets it done and the door open with only a bit more force than necessary. He flips on the light, and stumbles into the kitchen.
He can’t hold back a groan as he lands heavily on his kitchen counter. He’s used to coming home a little bruised, but this is more than he’s used to, this is bloody and sharp and fucking painful. He pulls open a drawer, digging blindly for the painkillers he’s sure are in there somewhere. He feels his fingers close around the box, pulls it out, and chucks it on the counter. He pulls vodka out of a cabinet, unscrewing it with one hand and drinking several mouthfuls. It tastes like shit, but the pain in his back is starting to dull just the slightest bit, so it’s worth it. He reaches for the box of pain meds, and only notices the scrap of paper stuck underneath it when he grabs it.
He unsticks it, and starts to crumple it before familiar handwriting catches his eye. He recognizes the little slip. It’s Icarus’s phone number.
Vlad freezes, staring at the paper in his hand, the memory of Icarus handing it to him feeling fresh despite it happening two weeks ago. He didn’t have a plan for dealing with his injury besides getting home and dulling the pain, but now he’s done that and there is still glass in his skin. In places that he is pretty sure he cannot reach on his own.
Still, the thought of asking for help, from anyone, sparks an immediate feeling of revulsion. He has to try to get through it on his own first, he has to. He takes a few more swigs of vodka, swallowing down painkillers with them. Then he reaches for his back.
As soon as he starts to try to reach his arm back, a wave of agony rushes over him, the shards twisting with his skin. With no one around to hear it, he can’t resist the sharp cry of pain that escapes him as he continues trying. Sweat pours down his brow as he finally gets his gloved fingers around a shard. To his horror, his arm starts to shake from exertion before he can grasp the glass, and it ends up falling back to his chest before he can make even a bit of progress.
“Fu-uck” he yells, word breaking on another swell of pain from his back. His harsh breathing is the only sound left in the room.
His eyes lock back onto the paper on the counter.
It doesn’t have to be Icarus, of course. He has the contact info for many of the city’s villains, including multiple who he’s worked with many times and knows could stitch him up easily. But there is an unspoken code, that you call to do business, nothing else. A favor can be done, but it will mean an even greater favor owed. Icarus, at least, Vlad is pretty sure wouldn’t hold this over him. And his job tonight proves he’s certainly made dumber alliances.
He pulls out his phone and dials the number on the paper before he can change his mind. He can’t tell what he is hoping for more: that Icarus will pick up or that he won’t.
The dial tone rings for a short time before a familiar voice answers.
“Hello?” comes Icarus's groggy voice, and Vlad belatedly realizes that it’s near one in the morning.
“Uh, hi…it’s Vlad,” he responds, wincing slightly at his own awkwardness.
“Oh! Oh, hi Vlad! How are you?” comes Icarus’s reply, his voice more alert.
“Uh…been better. Are you free right now? I need to use that favor,” Vlad says bluntly.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m free,” Icarus says quickly, followed by the unmistakable sound of him getting out of bed. “How can I help?”
“It’s uh, kind of hard to explain. Could you just come to my house? Just bring yourself. Low profile.” The last thing he needs is a superhero seen visiting.
“Yes, of course, I’ll be right there!”
“Ok, um, see you,” Vlad says, and hangs up before Icarus can reply. Only then, does the reality of what he’s done sink in, and he curses under his breath.
Livewire’s distinctive motorbike is hidden in the garage, but Vlad is still in his suit. He makes his way to his bedroom, and hastily strips off his gloves and pants, trying to bend his back as little as possible. The jacket is last, and most painful, but he manages to get it off with only a few seconds of blinding pain. The glass went right through it, and now the shards protrude from his white undershirt. He kicks the recognizable clothes under his bed and goes back into the kitchen in his shirt and boxers, too tired and hurting to bother changing into anything else.
He grabs his first aid kit from the pantry and digs out tweezers, then takes several more drinks of alcohol to numb the newly aggravated wounds. There’s more to do, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. A cursory glance around the living room reveals only customary mess, nothing “villainous.” It’s good enough, he thinks to himself as he slumps onto a stool at his counter.
He props his forehead up on his hands, and focuses on breathing, retreating to a place in his head where his senses are dull and pain can’t reach him. He’s not sure how long he stays there, before the sound of a car door slamming and footsteps rushing up his front steps snap him out of it.
He lifts his head as he hears a knock on the door behind him.
“It’s open!” he shouts. He hears the sound of the door opening and Icarus’s questioning “Vlad?”
“Over here,” he replies, taking another long drink.
He knows Icarus sees him when he hears his sharp intake of breath. He smiles sardonically. “That bad?”
He looks behind him and his smile drops. Icarus’s face has paled a couple shades, and his expression is horrified.
“Oh my god, we need to get you to a hospital,” he says.
“Can’t afford it,” Vlad lies.
“I’ll pay,” Icarus offers immediately.
“Well I hate hospitals, so still a no.”
He frowns. “I really think-”
“I’m not going to a hospital. You said you’d do anything I needed right? Did you mean it? Cause this is what I need,” Vlad cuts him off, turning back to face the counter.
There’s a pause, and Vlad kicks himself for scaring off his only help.
“…You’re right,” Icarus responds, and Vlad looks back at him in shock. His face is still pinched in concern, but there’s a determined look in his eyes. “I did promise you that, and I still mean it. If I can’t convince you to go to a hospital…”
“You can’t,” Vlad confirms.
“…then of course I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“Well, if you could get the glass out of my back that would be much appreciated,” he says dryly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Icarus mumbles, approaching Vlad with a concentrated look. “God, Vlad, how did this even happen?!”
Vlad stares at his hands. “I was walking home when all of a sudden all the windows on the block blew out. I think it was some villain nearby, but I had my back to a shop window and, well, this happened.”
“I heard something about Shockwave wreaking havoc nearby…God I’m so sorry you got wrapped up in that,” Icarus says, appearing next to Vlad to grab the tweezers off the counter, then moving out of sight behind him.
Instinctively, Vlad tenses in anticipation of the pain. Still, he startles when he feels Icarus’s warm palm on his shoulder. He turns his neck slightly, to see Icarus studying the mess that is his back, eyebrows furrowed. Vlad can see now, up close, that Icarus's shirt is inside out, and he doesn’t know what to do with the realization that the hero must have rushed over just because Vlad asked him to come, or the way that emotion burns warm in his chest.
He would never do this if he knew what you really are, a voice whispers in his head, and that does the trick, hitting him like a bucket of cold water.
He turns back around, his eyes blinking a few times, and steadfastly focuses on the counter in front of him and nothing else.
He knows the second Icarus grasps the first piece of glass, his nerves alight. He curls his hands into fists and grinds his teeth as Icarus carefully removes the piece, but he can’t hold back the slight hitch in his breath when it’s finally pulled free.
“Sorry,” Icarus says softly, discarding the piece in the trash.
“You’re fine,” Vlad replies through clenched teeth.
There are at least a dozen more pieces left in him, and each is as painful as the last. Vlad bears it with harsh breaths and the occasional stifled grunt. Through it all, Icarus’s hand remains steady on his shoulder, even giving a comforting squeeze after one particularly jagged piece rips a groan from Vlad’s throat.
Finally, he hears the clatter of the last piece landing in the trash, the soft clink of Icarus setting down the tweezers. He can’t help the sigh of relief that leaves his chest, even though he knows they are not done.
“I need to clean these,” Icarus says, his tone apologetic.
Wordlessly, Vlad slides the vodka bottle into his view.
Icarus gapes at it. “With antiseptic, you maniac,” he says. “You surely have some—no you do, I, I remember,” he says, his voice catching a bit as his mind reaches back.
Vlad blinks sharply at the reminder of that night, then quickly shakes off whatever feelings could follow.
“Uh yeah, I guess so. It’s in the bag on the counter,” he says, gesturing.
Icarus fetches it without needing to be asked, which Vlad appreciates, as he is feeling more and more like he could comfortably spend the night slumped against the counter. His eyes lazily track Icarus as he makes his way back carrying the first aid kit.
“Your shirt…” Icarus trails off.
“Is trashed,” Vlad confirms. “You can cut it off—”
Rip.
He closes his mouth abruptly, a peek over his shoulder showing that Icarus has indeed opted to rip the remaining shreds of fabric from his back. The hero looks unfazed, eyes darting over the cuts on Vlad’s back as he pours antiseptic on a cloth. Vlad’s eyes automatically dart to the corded biceps peeking out from the hero’s shirt, before he catches himself and looks away.
“…or that, I guess,” Vlad mumbles, hoping the tips of his ears aren’t burning as pink as they feel.
Then the cloth is pressed against his wounds and he can’t hold back a surprised grunt, all the muscles in his back tensing as his spine straightens. He forces himself to breathe, the first few breaths coming out harsher than he intends. He squeezes his fingers into fists, only just remembering to let go of the bottle in his hand before it shatters under his grip.
“Almost done,” Icarus says under his breath.
When he’s finished, Vlad dares to ask, “Do I need stitches?”
“No,” Icarus says, and Vlad feels his chest lighten in relief. He has already asked enough of Icarus.
“I’ll bandage them, and they should be ok, but I want you to keep an eye on them, and be alert for any symptoms of infection ok?”
Vlad shifts in his seat. He is not used to being mothered like this.
“Yep,” he says, hoping his voice sounds more casual than he feels.
Icarus fetches butterfly bandages from the first aid kit, and for a while the only sound is the bandages peeling away from their protective paper, the gentle press of them being applied, and the slightest hitches in Vlad’s breathing at the pressure.
Vlad presses his fingertips against the cool linoleum counter, mind spinning aimlessly until he remembers that, by now, most people would have said thank you. He is so unused to uttering the phrase that he almost didn’t notice its absence.
“Thank you,” he says, trying not to sound resentful of the words coming out of his mouth.
Icarus’s hands stop moving.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Icarus murmurs softly, resuming his careful placement of the last bandage.
Right, the favor.
“You’re right, we’re even now,” Vlad says with a pragmatic nod, turning around to face Icarus.
“No that’s not—I didn’t mean—” he breaks off with a huff, and Vlad’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “If you ever need help again, you can still call me. I’ll be there.”
Vlad frowns. Why would he do that? For him? It makes no sense—
Oh.
“Right. Superhero,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Icarus.
Icarus frowns, and his mouth opens like he’s going to say something before he shuts it again.
“I…yeah, I guess that’s it,” he says finally.
It’s nothing personal, Vlad reminds himself. And truly, it’s best that way. After all, this should be the last they see of each other, that Icarus knows of.
“It’s really late,” he says. “You must be tired.”
Icarus seems to snap back into himself, always trying to please.
“Yeah, uh, you too, I bet. I’ll just, uh, go?”
A small, ridiculous part of Vlad that sounds like his mother tells him he should walk him to the door. His back tells him that is not an option. Instead, he pulls the vodka bottle off the counter, and holds the neck between his fingers, shaking it in front of him.
“Parting gift?” he asks, his tone half joking.
Icarus pauses, his eyes darting from Vlad to the bottle and back. Then, to Vlad’s surprise, Icarus takes the bottle from his hand, his eyes fixed on Vlad’s. He tips it back and presses his mouth to the lip of the bottle, swallowing a small sip. He doesn’t wince at the burn, his cool brown eyes looking steadily at Vlad, the movement of his Adam's apple the only sign he even drank.
Vlad swallows reflexively.
The alcohol sloshes slightly in the bottle as Icarus hands it back to Vlad, and he takes it without comment.
“Take care of yourself, ok Vlad?” Icarus says. His smile does little to hide the sadness in his voice, like he knows that Vlad has no plans to ask for help again.
“Yeah,” Vlad says, his voice rougher than he expected. “You too.”
And then he watches him walk away.
taglist: @stuck-in-this-mortal-form, @the-blind-one-speaks, @whumpsday, @kira-the-whump-enthusiast, @annablogsposts
UPDATE! There is now art of this chapter!! Find it here :D
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PROPAGANDA
Katsuki Bakugou
trust me bro
Dark Pit
PS: THIS IS ALL ONE PROPAGANDA
Most of Dark Pit's mischaracterization comes from the fact that he's in SSBU- everyone assumes he's like every other nintendo clone; evil and just a 'bad' version of the original. But he's not!! Even the characters in his own game think he's just cruel by nature, when he's never actually done anything wrong. He's a dick, yes, but wouldn't you be a bit pissy if you kept getting dragged into a war you want no part in, called a name crafted specifically to belittle your own existence?
Dark Pit was created when Pit, the original, was on a mission to destroy a mirror that would copy anything that stood before it, since the villians were using it to create an army. It's incredibly important to note that it does NOT create 'evil' versions or even just copy the body and leave the personality at home. It's a 1:1 conversion. Unfortunately, the villians also knew Pit would destroy the mirror quite directly, standing in front of it (or more accurately, flying kicking towards it) and triggering the copy to be made. It was shattered midway through creation, creating Dark Pit- something the villians were hoping would happen, as Pit is the last angel to exist and they REAAAALLY want their own angel.
Immediately everyone assumes Dark Pit is just evil by default- even the villian is gloating about her new minion, but he immediately rejects that and punches the villian and helps you in the fight. He steals her power and flies away after, but its important to realize that Dark Pit could've just allied with the villians for the same result, and instead chose to be alone. Sure, he's kinda a dick to Pit, but he hasn't done anything outright evil. Just took a dead god's power in order to fly and left.
Cue the next mission where Palutena calls Dark Pit 'twisted' and 'inherently corrupt' like ma'am where??? Hes just an asshole cmon, you would be too if your birth parent is a reflective piece of glass. You go off on a mission to try and KILL him, and he obviously defends himself- once again, he's done nothing outright wrong. He's rude and aggressive, yes, but he literally doesn't want ANY part of all this war between gods shit, and here you are killing him for merely existing. During the final battle of the mission Dark Pit tells Pit that he is his reflection, and that they're the same person- Dark Pit is just more than willing to say the things Pit refuses to admit to himself.
AND HE'S RIGHT. Dark Pit believes the gods are selfish, are using Pit as a tool for their own gain, and that the world would be better off without them since all they ever seem to do is cause war and destruction. If you pay attention to how Pit reacts to the world around him, he DOES share these beliefs but instead of acting on them, he just buries it. Pit will even snap at the gods about half-way through the game, telling them outright that its THEIR war that is destroying the planet and that THEY'RE all at fault. Dark Pit is NOT an evil clone; he's an inversion. Everything Pit hides away, he wears on his sleeve, and interestingly, everything Pit openly is, DARK PIT STILL IS TOO. He, just like Pit, hides it away instead of admiting it.
After the fight Dark Pit runs away, and shows up mainly as an ally to Pit going forward. The game mentions further how kinda fucked up Dark Pit's whole situation is- if Pit's soul is removed from his body, Dark Pit just DOESN'T EXIST during that time. If Pit dies, Dark Pit dies, and he has no control over it. He never even gets his own name- its either Dark Pit, or his nickname of 'Pit two' (Pitto). If Pit ever attacks Dark Pit and tries to kill him, there's little Dark Pit could ever really do; In the game he'll defend himself and try and kill you, but at that point he's dead either way. His life is barely his own.
Worst part is, SSBU confirms Dark Pit allied with Viridi after the events of Kid Icarus Uprising. I cannot STRESS how horrible that is for his characterization so far. Viridi is the god of nature and hates humanity for even existing, with her first appearance being her dropping NUKES onto towns and cities to purge humanity. And Dark Pit now works as a commander under her. Either Viridi has to mellow out REAL damn fast and stop nuking medieval humans, or they accidentally wrote Dark Pit to be a Human Murderer (we specifically know Viridi sends her commanders to kill off anyone who survives her nature nukes). Really hope this stays in the realm of 'not canon' because holy shit there's so many better options to pick from than the 'little girl god with a hit list and a factory of bombs'.
(Not even sure WHY Dark Pit, who thinks gods are selfish and use angels like tools, would want to ally with a god. Yes, he can't fly without a god's help, but even then why ally with the most vindictive and murder-happy god that isn't Hades??? Poor dude really just needs a break from all the gods to sort out who he is and to start building his own life independently from Pit)
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