abc prompts; k+s: superheroes

[fishie]

Kirsten couldn't decide whether to be grateful or uneasy about the fact that she was completely alone.

Her shoulders were throbbing, burning, as her weight slowly wrenched them from their sockets. She couldn't feel the pain in her wrists anymore, but the slow tickle of blood making its way down past her elbows told her the situation there wasn't good, either.

There were fourteen tools on her utility belt that could get her out of this mess, but she couldn't reach a single one of them. Maybe if she'd been conscious when she'd been strung up, she could've pulled her feet up over her head, but it had been too long already. She barely had the strength in her arms to lift herself the few inches she needed to breathe comfortably.

With a soft cry, she pulled, raising her body just high enough to suck in a deep breath of air before she dropped again, the cuffs around her wrists digging in and sending a fresh sluice of blood down her arms. Her eyes stung.

There was no one here to see her like this, and that was a cold comfort. It wouldn't change the headlines in tomorrow's paper — Beloved Heiress and Heroine Slain, East City Suffers Devastating Loss. No, wait: Dynamite Blows It.

She laughed, feeling her lungs squeeze tighter. Too bad she couldn't write the article herself.

But if someone were here, she might stand a chance at getting out alive. Or, with the way her luck had been going lately, she'd have a quicker, more merciful end.

It didn't matter, really, how she felt about it. The fact still remained that she was alone, and that she was dying.

Taking another harsh, scraping breath, Kirsten hauled herself up, but she couldn't stay there long enough to even take a full breath. Her arms gave out and her shoulders screamed. She dropped her hazy gaze to the tiny magnetic explosives on her belt. If she could just get one of them up onto the chain, she'd be home free.

The world was starting to darken around her when she heard the sound of boots on metal flooring, and a flashlight beam crossed her body. She pried her eyes open and struggled to focus.

"ECPD," called the voice behind the flashlight. "Are you alone?"

She knew that voice. Officer Shane Thompson, the charming, arrogant thorn in her side. As much as she wanted to respond, she had no air. The only sound she made was a slow wheeze.

He swept the light across the room as he approached, sidetracking to grab an overturned chair on his way. Then his arm was around her waist, raising her up, and she gasped. Her vision started to clear.

"They're long gone," she half-whispered, unable to raise her voice. "Left me for dead."

"Well, they'll get a hell of a surprise when you catch up to them," Shane answered grimly. He was fighting with the chain or the cuffs, she wasn't sure which.

"On my belt," she breathed, "that row of metal balls. Take one and throw it up on the chain. High as you can."

Eyeing her skeptically at point-blank range, he reached between them for her belt and came up with one of the magnetic explosives. "What are they?"

Somehow, she summoned up a grin, though she knew it must be tired. "What's my name, Officer?"

The tiny bomb clinked against the chain. Kirsten breathed deep, her ribcage aching. Three seconds passed before sparks and heat flew above them, and the whole room spun dizzyingly as she fell into Shane's arms.

On the cold metal floor, Shane held her upright, his hand cradling the back of her head. Her arms were down in front of her again and the pain was coming back faster by the second.

"Shit," she hissed. If he hadn't been holding her head, she'd have tossed it back, and her hood as well. Lucky her.

"I'm calling an ambulance," he said, shifting her weight in his arms to reach for his radio. She couldn't move fast enough to stop him.

"Wait, no, wait," she begged, voice rising. "You can't."

"You're in no shape to argue."

"Listen to me!" Kirsten caught onto his uniform shirt with swollen fingers that could barely feel the contact. "If I go to the hospital, not only will they unmask me, but the city will see their heroine — like this."

His frown was audible in his voice, though she couldn't see it. "If you don't go to the hospital, you could sustain permanent damage."

"And if I do go to the hospital, I could sustain permanent damage, and so could this city."

There was a long silence before he asked, "What do you want me to do, leave you here?"

"Take me home."

"Isn't that the same as unmasking you?"

"With you. Take me home with you."

Shane's body language spoke resistance. "What makes you think I don't have a wife and kids I'd have to explain the girl in spandex to?"

Kirsten's head spun. "What makes you think — look, it's your civic duty. Take... take me home with you and... when I'm cleaned up, I'll see myself to a doctor."

She meant to say 'promise,' but the word never came out. The darkness beneath her hood seemed to spread, taking the whole room with it.

When she came to, it was only marginally brighter. Her hood draped over her eyes, leaving slivers of light to creep their way beneath. Before moving, she took stock of herself and her surroundings.

Her arms were in dull agony from fingertips to shoulders, but she could move them stiffly, and her wrists were neatly bandaged. There was still an ache in her ribcage whenever she breathed deeply, but she could breathe.

And the room smelled like — fresh laundry, and something more pronounced. Cologne, maybe, or aftershave. It smelled like Officer Shane Thompson, she realized, her heart leaping in a combination of relief and anxiety. Had he seen her face while she was unconscious? Did he know who she was?

She sat up slowly, recognizing a throbbing pain in her head to match the one in her arms. Her utility belt was missing, and she located it on the dresser nearby. Shane's dresser, if she had to guess; it didn't seem like a guest bedroom. He could use an interior decorator, but the furniture and the condition spoke of him. She could imagine him sitting at the desk, head bent over some files, the desk lamp lit like some delightfully melodramatic noir detective flick.

"Hungry?"

Kirsten's instinct to whip her head around and face the unexpected voice was quickly quelled by her pain. She turned slowly to regard Shane, standing in the open bedroom doorway.

"How long was I out?" she asked.

"About nine hours," he answered. "It's noon."

She swallowed against a dry mouth, then nodded slowly. "Food would be nice."

While he was gone, she retrieved her utility belt and gazed at herself in the mirror behind the dresser. Her hood shadowed the upper half of her face, just as it was meant to, but she could see the splits in her lower lip, the dried blood there. Her face hadn't been cleaned up like the rest of her had.

When footsteps and the clink of dinnerware caught her ear, she said quietly, "You didn't take my hood off."

Silence was the only response for several moments. Finally, Shane said, "No, I didn't."

"You could've."

"Don't I know it. Would've been easier."

She turned around and looked at the bowl he'd set on the bedside table. "And that line about your wife and kids was bullshit," she added, coming back to sit on the edge of the bed. "If you were married, your curtains would be better coordinated."

He snorted as she picked up the spoon. "Good to know East City's stalwart heroine is just as invested in interior decorating as the next girl."

"Maybe more," she acknowledged, savoring the salt and spice on her tongue. "I'd believe your wife made the soup, though."

"Family recipe," he offered with an audibly wry smile.

She wanted to sustain the banter, keep the back-and-forth going until she left, because it was easy, familiar. She didn't have to acknowledge how close she'd come to dying, not while she was busy mouthing off to East City's finest. But there was a question weighing on her mind, and she couldn't shake it until it was answered, or at the very least, asked.

"Why didn't you unmask me?" she said finally, when the silence had stretched too long for her to turn back. "It would've been easier."

"You didn't want me to. You never have." He shrugged, leaning back. She watched his long legs stretch from wall to carpet. "Never really got why. We're on the same side." There was a pause, quick and unsure, before he added, "Unless you don't believe that?"

"I do," she said in a rush, raising her eyes to his face. His intense expression relented, relieved. "I have," she amended more quietly, "for a while."

"Then why so secretive?"

Habit was the easy answer, caution came second. She was used to fiercely protecting her identity; that, he might buy. She wasn't the cautious type, though — he knew it, she knew it, and last night proved it.

But neither of them were really accurate, and she was afraid he'd know that, too.

Dynamite had Shane's respect. She was clever, endlessly brave, tirelessly determined. Kirsten was clever and brave and determined, sure, and she was motivated, charismatic and cultured, but she was also reckless and brash and inconsiderate and judgmental and shallow and petty and worst of all, she was Kirsten Harper, the Paparazzi Princess of East City.

She was a pampered, spoiled brat.

Of course she knew how to work for what she wanted; her father had taught her nothing if not that. Of course she could take care of herself; years of gymnastics and self-defense from private tutors had ensured it. Of course she was more than just another rich girl, but the world didn't know that.

Her best defense against being found out had always been to separate Dynamite and Kirsten as much as she could. Dynamite was the fighter, the one with the heart, the savior of East City. Kirsten was the wayward heiress of Harper Imports, the girl who wrote trashy gossip columns and blew all her money on wine and salon visits. She knew that both halves were a part of her. She was just afraid that Shane wouldn't understand.

When she found her voice, thirty seconds too late, she managed a wry smile that threatened to split her lip open again.

"I'm better like this," she said, stirring the soup slowly. "You wouldn't like what's under the hood."

"So, what, you're not even gonna give me a chance?" The anger in his voice surprised her; she raised her eyes to him. His brow was creased, his dark eyes sharp.

"Give you a chance to what?" she asked, feeling increasingly small. "Hate me? Decide you can't trust me? Write me off? Laugh me off?"

His gaze clouded with confusion. "Why? What... could you possibly do or say or — be that would invalidate everything I —" She watched him hesitate, holding her breath, before he said softly, "Everything I know you are?"

Her heart slammed into her ribcage, and she dropped her gaze, setting the bowl aside. Her appetite hadn't subsided, but she couldn't eat now. Shane was still looking at her, incredulous, expectant.

He was perfect, she reflected, blinking fast. As much of a hero as she was. Maybe more, because he didn't hide behind a mask. He wore a target on his chest every day; he put himself on the line not for the glory of being East City's savior, but just to save lives. Her life, last night. She was wrong to think he'd write her off when he learned her name.

Heart pounding, she raised her hands to her hood.

"Dynamite," he began, and she cut him off.

"Kirsten," she corrected, pulling her hood back. It was a shame her hair was a wreck and her face was black and blue the day she finally chose to unmask herself. "Harper."

She watched his face as all the details caught up to him — Kirsten Harper, spoiled media-magnet daughter of Henry Harper, heiress to Harper Imports, trashy gossip columnist, shallow-minded multimillionaire. Maybe he was thinking about how pretty she was, too, and reflecting on how much they'd touched in these past six months, how many times he'd had his hands on her or her body up against his, how many times their breath had mingled, close enough to kiss — but probably not.

"Kirsten Harper," he finally said, and she was alarmed to hear his wry smile in his tone, "defender of East City."

"Don't laugh," she said, already defensive, and then he did. She bristled. "It's not funny!"

"No, it's not!" he agreed, but he was still chuckling. "I just wouldn't have guessed... but that's probably how you wanted it."

"It works best that way."

She picked up the soup again, still feeling wounded, and nursed it as he pulled his desk chair into the middle of the room. He straddled the back of it, folding his arms over it and watching her.

"Did you seriously think I was just going to write you off as some rich girl, after everything I've seen you do?"

"I've heard you talk about the one percent, okay? You can't blame me."

His expression softened a little, but his amusement didn't abate. "I hate rich people who give nothing back. That's not you."

Kirsten's heart wasn't going to be able to take much more of this. It was already soaring, racing, and he was looking at her with some kind of affection, almost a smile. She blew out a breath, turned it into a laugh.

"You realize I still do all the things you hear about in the tabloids? Okay, not all of them," she revised hastily. "But the big spending trips, the partying, the gossip column — that is all me."

Shane studied her a moment, then shook his head slightly. "So I won't hang out with you on the weekends. But a person can't pretend to be selfless and courageous. Maybe the rich girl is you, but so is the girl I saved last night."

Just when she thought her heart might actually burst, he swung his leg off the chair and stood up, disappearing through the door again. Disappointment and relief warred inside her, and Kirsten let the battle rage while she ate her soup.

She'd nearly finished the bowl when he returned, hands full with alcohol, cotton balls, some Neosporin and a box of butterfly bandages. Her face must have been worse than she realized. She set aside the last of her soup as he perched on the bed beside her.

"That bad?"

"Better than I expected," he said, scattering medical supplies across the bed. He started with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball, which didn't sting until he got past all the dried blood. Even then, she only winced.

But he was sitting close, leaning closer, and it was hard to focus on the mild stinging when she had his dark eyes and lashes to focus on instead. She searched his face, took in every inch of it that she could. With the hood in her way, she could never see his face when they were this close; leaning back far enough would unmask her. This was the first time she'd gotten a really good look at him, and what she'd thought was attractive had turned out to be captivating.

As he applied a bandage to a cut above her eye, hands careful, she saw his eyes drop to meet hers. Their gazes locked and lingered, her heart picking up with every passing second.

"Don't."

The word was quiet, but it startled her all the same. Her focus narrowed to his eyes as he looked back up, wiping excess ointment away from the cut.

"Don't what?" she asked, an offended note in her voice.

"Don't kiss me."

Her mouth was open for a few too many seconds before she realized it. Snapping it shut, she tried to ignore the flush creeping into her cheeks.

"What makes you think I was going to kiss you, Officer?" She made her tone as derisive as she could and hoped it would cover her embarrassment.

Shane smirked, his eyes never leaving his work. "What makes you think I haven't seen that look on a woman before?"

There was no way he hadn't noticed the color her face was turning by now. She gave up the charade.

"Why shouldn't I kiss you?"

That question at least gave him pause. It lasted a split second, but she didn't miss it.

"Because you're injured," he answered, eyebrows arching. His eyes met hers again for an instant, and hers narrowed.

"That's such a bullshit answer."

"Because... aren't you supposed to be seeing a doctor?"

"I will. Do you even have an actual answer?"

He started to gather up the medical supplies. "Because I'm leaving."

"Oh, no, you're not." She caught his wrist and was immensely grateful that he didn't try to pull away. Moving that fast had been painful enough without any resistance from him. "What's the real reason you don't want me to kiss you? Come on, all my cards are on the table, here."

Raising his eyes to her again, he searched her face the same way she'd been searching his just a minute ago. She willed her heart to slow down.

"Because I... would end up kissing you back." The words spilled haltingly out of his mouth.

She gravitated toward him. "That sounds like a reason I should kiss you."

"It's a bad idea," he said, but he didn't sound like he believed it.

"So stop me," she murmured as she closed the gap.

He didn't.