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The knock at the door is completely unexpected. My place is not… conducive to unexpected visitors, and no one has asked to come by tonight, well no one who isn’t already in my apartment. There is one nuisance who makes it in uninvited, but they certainly don’t knock. I open the door with some caution and a lot of curiosity. In the small lobby between the elevator and my door I find the nuisance who should in no way be knocking at my door. She’s on the floor, and appears to be unconscious nearly in the fetal position.
“What is this Scarlet? I don’t even have anything ready at the moment, let alone in the works,” I tell her, leaning against the door frame. I move a hand to the pulse gun at my waist before kicking the woman at my feet. She truly seems limp, and as her head falls back her eyes are closed.
“Damn it,” I mutter. Keeping a hand on the gun I lean down to check on her. A slap to the face does nothing, and when I bring her hand up and release it, it drops down to her body. I check her pulse next, which she does have thank God. I sigh and pull her into my arms, “Damn you.”
“You left me alone,” a naked man whose name I can’t currently recall says from the threshold of my bedroom.
“And now I’m kicking you out,” I tell him curtly, heading to the couch.
“We didn’t even finish,” he complains. I roll my eyes, not even glancing at him as I continue on my path.
“Doom!” I yell, and a moment later my sidekick materializes at my side.
“Yes?”
“Get the himbo out of here and call a doctor please,” I request, laying my charge down on the couch.
“What did he do?” they ask, eyes beginning to glow a fiery red.
“Nothing, our least favorite do gooder simply decided to fall unconscious at our doorstep. I need a doctor to get her conscious so I can figure out what is happening,” I explain before the nameless himbo can become ash.
“I’ll call my father, he practiced before his interests became more… broad,” they say with a cackle that has the himbo jumping. As Doom approaches, he begins to move and soon enough the himbo is out the door. They disappear a moment later, as I anticipated. They say call, but I don’t believe they’ve ever even owned a cell phone. Only a few minutes later, they return with their father.
The resemblance between the two is striking. They’re both short with pale skins and pale eyes. Dr. Doom has the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen while his child has milky white eyes, until they heat up to red of course. They both have white hair, Doom’s chopped at their chin and Dr. Doom’s down past his shoulders.
“I’m told I have a patient,” Dr. Doom says with his typical off putting smile. I’m accustomed to it, since his child began working for me he’s come to be my primary doctor. It’s a fucked up arrangement, while he practiced once he’s no different than me now. His impressive skills in biology are now used to create super rays, and human experimentation. That said, he hasn’t killed me yet.
“Yes, and if she dies we’re all fucked,” I tell him, falling into an armchair to watch.
“You don’t think crimson blood will look pretty on a scarlet suit?” he asks, studying the woman intently.
“She has powerful friends, as in literal super powers. I didn’t kill her, but if she dies in my apartment I don’t think there’ll be much reasoning with her friends,” I tell him. I doubt he has any intention of killing her. That said, he is legally insane, so I put a hand on my pulse gun.
“Be a buzzkill then,” he mutters, setting to work. Doom brings me a robe and a cup of tea which I happily accept, though I watch their father the entire time. After nearly a half hour, he declares she is nowhere near death’s doorstep. He sets some broken bones, tries to convince me to let him try some experimental medication, and screams at me about keeping an eye on her since there was a head injury before Doom returns him to his lair.
It’s morning before my unexpected and frankly unwelcome guest begins to stir. I stay up the entire night watching her, waving off Doom’s offers to take a shift. When I see her eyes flutter open I raise my hands rather than my gun. A pulse will do nothing to her, and she can survive the chill.
She blinks several times as she wakes up, her brow furrowing. Her expression quickly turns to one of pain followed by her retching over the side of the couch. I sigh, not at all excited by the prospect of cleaning up the mess. The noise finally draws her attention, and she looks over to me.
“What?” she only gets out the one word before she’s puking again. I consider calling for Doom, but decide the mess can wait until I’ve talked to the messy person.
“You showed up at my doorstep and passed out. Despite my better judgement I decided to keep you alive. I’d appreciate some enlightenment on how this situation developed,” I explain.
She takes a few minutes to compose herself, and thankfully stops puking. She looks to me then and takes a very deep breath, “I got attacked.”
“You go looking for trouble,” I remind the superhero currently laid out on my couch.
“They got into my apartment,” she tells me, and my sympathy for her increases ever so slightly.
“Which landed you here how exactly?” I ask.
“I needed to be somewhere I could trust,” she murmurs out, rubbing her forehead.
“How exactly have I topped that list?” I ask her in complete shock. Usually arch enemies are not friends, certainly not a safe place to land.
“Cause you’re pretty and you don’t kill me,” she replies.
“You are definitely out of it,” I tell her, looking away as I try to hide my blush.
“Maim, tie down, but not kill,” she continues on, making me groan.
“You are going to regret this when you don’t have a concussion,” I tell her, putting my chin in my hand and looking back to her.
“Because you’re straight,” she says miserably and I bark out a laugh.
“Of all the names you’ve called me Scarlet, I think straight might just be the most insulting,” I tell her.
“You are!” she accuses excitedly. “I’ve seen you, there always men in your bed.”
“I am heterosexual, however I am biromantic. And when a woman holds my attention, well they are some of the best partners in so very many ways,” I explains, trying not to look over her figure that is on full display in the tight costume.
“Hetero is straight,” she declares and I sigh. I briefly wonder why I am attempting to explain a concept everyone struggles with to someone with a brain injury.
“Sexual and romantic attractions can be separate. I am sexually attracted to men, I fall in love with both men and women. And when I love a woman, I sleep with her and very greatly enjoy it,” I tell her, while telling myself this will be my final attempt.
“So I could kiss you?” she asks, wide eyed and nearly breathless.
“After you just vomited? No thank you. You also are a little less than a hundred percent. However, I will give you a toothbrush and a soft bed. If you still want that kiss the next time you wake up… well, that might be the first thing I give you willingly,” I tell her, walking over to the couch. I avoid the vomit pile and help her up to her feet, leading her to my bedroom. This is likely the start of one of the worst ideas of my life, and yet I am smiling as I tuck her into my bed, giving her a kiss on the forehead.