A/N: This was originally going to be posted when it was finished, but I got way too excited over it. Expect angst, because I'm more than capable of it.
The sides of the structure are cracked in some places, falling apart in others. Exposed pipe runs down the length of a wall, rusted and riddled with holes from both weather and whatever else the world can, and has, thrown at it. Looking into the distance, most windows are nothing more than shards clinging onto steel beams by a single thread, glitter and sparkle lying at the base, scattered, but untouched. To anyone on the outside looking in, it's a series of buildings long since abandoned and due for demolishing. For them, it's the perfect cover.
It's hard to tell, from where they lay in wait, if there's more debris inside of the structures or outside, one peek through what's left of a window rivalling all they see strewn about but, if it comes down to it, they've decided there's enough for them to make use of and in the end, it's all that matters. The space outside is nothing more than a nightmare to journey through—promises of cuts, embedded glass and worse for anyone who takes a misstep and it is with naive hope that it will slow down the pain in the ass who decided this is where they'd take refuge, or at least give them a trail to follow because the alternative has too many unknown variables at play.
A little over an hour later, and they're no closer to apprehension. Plan B it is then.
He sits perched on the edge of a building, crouched low, as his eyes scan the area to their left in search of their target, her comfortably next to him, in search to their right even as her head snaps back every one minute or two, checking their six. It's getting dark, what's left of the evening sky falling beyond the line of the structures and they know once it's gone, their chance is gone too. His ear twitches when he hears something to his far right and his head snaps in that direction. He is met with the back of her head, long since turned. Heard it too, then.
They wait, paralyzed by silence, on the off chance it was nothing more than some rat braving the terrain. Bangs, clangs and a series of sounds that are not at all possible by anything less than a full grown something throws the less than believed theory right off the same edge they sit on. "There the fucker is," he breathes, his words carried to her by the wind that flows by. He sees how her shoulders ease when she nods, and doesn't mind how the corner of his lip turns. She's grown comfortable in her position and her quirk, making pro after him with the sheer force of nothing less than the cosmos pushing her forward and it shows.
Their target comes into view, taking a part of a less than structurally sound wall with it and on instinct he falls off the edge and onto the rooftop while she crouches low. It's unlikely they are seen, save for their shadows cast by what's left of the sun and the beginning of the moon, but they are careful, precise, as they always are. "Remember the plan?" Of course she does, he knows she does because she is the one who came up with it. Her nod is curt as she waits for his next move, glancing over her shoulder.
He peers over the edge, guesstimates the distance to the ground and from the ground to their target. It's a long shot, but he has a force of nature on his side. "Don't overdo it," he tosses her way in an afterthought and when he looks to her, expecting a mix between offense riddled in amusement, he's thrown to find a smirk that could rival even his. There is a shudder that he holds onto because she is a force to be reckoned with. This, he knows firsthand. "Like you're one to talk, King Explosion Murder."
Fuck, was he naive back then.
Her palm crosses his shoulder, swift and, at first, painless, but it doesn't take long before the fleeting sensation of needles prick his skin. There's a curse on his tongue, one he is hard pressed to bite back because what the fuck was that for, Round Face, until he has to look down at her and the duality in her motives. Open palm, full contact he guesses because he's no longer at her side, slowly rising over the edge. He watches her as all fingers touch save four, arms pushed downward slow. He's falling, at a speed of her own design and its then he's reminded how far she's come, and just how much further she could still go.
When he's halfway down the building, he closes his eyes and breathes. There is no sound except the racket caused by the Nomu they're after, every instinct that drives him honing in on it. There is a pause, and he wonders if by chance he was spotted. He is not in any line of sight, his shadow all but swallowed by those cast from the buildings around them, so he tosses the idea, thinking it impossible until he's damn near kissing the ground, feet away from his target, a blank expression across what he assumes is its face.
There is a pregnant pause, a single moment where neither body moves—weightlessly suspended thanks to the manipulation of her quirk, of which again he is reminded the sheer level of badassery she is capable. Fight or flight; in all reality of the situation, it is what it comes down to. He waits, as does she he notices, for it to make its move because everything, his move included, depends on what it decides to do next.
It decides to flee, so he decides to fight.
Blasts are firing off from the palm of his hands well before she relinquishes her hold on him, a far off release sounding between the ring of his quirk and the sound of heavy steps. When his feet touch the ground, he's already at an impossibly quick start, able to right himself only because it's so often that he jumps the gun and so often that he's used to it how it tosses him forward. He is quick and precise in his movements, expecting everything and nothing all at once and for good reason; he doesn't underestimate what this Nomu is capable, hasn't underestimated many since his youth—time after time being so incredibly wrong and suffering because of it, scar after scar as permanent reminders.
A blast to its back sends it forward when it wants to turn and it recovers quickly, the only proof of any impact at all is charred skin that sways with its movements but does little to nothing to affect him. It's tough, incredibly so he admits and he wonders idly if that is why she created the plan she did—because she is many things: a rescuer, a fighter, a strategist and a force but above all she is human, kind and compassionate, and if she can avoid a worst case scenario (which two parts brilliant and insane this plan surely is), she undoubtedly will.
In the distance, he hears quick steps above and for a moment switches focus to listen to her movements. The heel of her boot is nonexistent against the terrain, steady and quick on the balls of her feet. She has learned much from being at his side, from watching the way he works and has adapted. He is proud, even when he won't say it to her face.
A large claw and a hell of a swing clips the side of a crumbling building, and brings it down damn near on top of him in his musings. There is little time to plan, to think and with hands behind him, he releases two simultaneous blasts that propel him forward and has him kissing the ground just as the remains of the building finds rest. He's spared, but only by the skin of his teeth, or his lip, feeling the split and the distinct taste of iron on his tongue.
"Damnit, " he curses, shaking his hands off as they begin to sting and pushes forward. In the back of his mind where he allows himself to think freely, he hopes she wasn't on that building, quick steps once heard long since drowned out by the sounds of battle and fallen debris. He doesn't dwell long because she can handle her shit, and it's with this thought he catches up to his target, newfound anger boiling just beneath the surface on the off chance that maybe she didn't, this time.
For a moment, he forgets the plan completely. He's angry and it shows—fingers twitching, sparks crackling in his palms as he begs for a reason, any at all, to burn what's left of its skin into nothing more than ash. You're overdoing it again, he hears from his past, as she so often finds herself telling him, but he ignores it as he always does. He corrals the Nomu into a corner, conscious decision or sheer dumb luck he's not sure, and gives it no cracks to slither its way out of now that he's cornered it.
When it turns its back to him in an attempt to flee up the wall behind it, he fires a warning shot across its shoulder, daring him to even try. When it reaches towards the side, claws gripping the gaps in wall, it's met with smoke and ash that trails off his sparks as it fills the spaces in between stone and concrete. When it surges forward, angry and sporadic, it is met with an equal amount of power that pushes it back, the force of the explosion ringing in its ears and drowning out its inhuman holler. His palms sting, and as he shakes one off he fires another when the Nomu even thinks to move.
All is quiet until first pebble drops, marking the spot and he's ashamed he thought she might not have been in the position to handle it. When the second pebble falls, he's not the only one who knows she's there. It looks up, confused, and as it sees what is laid out for him in an array of sizes, shapes and edges, it curls in on itself. He thinks, for a moment it's ready to give in and, with what he sees when he too looks up, he wouldn't blame the damn thing.
He is wrong.
It jumps high, forcefully and leaves a small crater in its wake. She sees him coming but does not move—it's not time, it's not where it should be, I can't release, not yet. But she's not scared and she stands firm because she knows, he can do this, he will do this. An insurmountable amount of faith she has for him, and for good reason. Even as it creeps dangerously close to her with a speed that would send anyone running, claws out and aimed for her, she stays put, in place, and watches.
It's quick, but he is quicker, shooting himself forward and towards the Nomu with no regard to the spread above. She'll hold it , because she always does. He has faith and this time, keeps it. A rocket powered fist stops the Nomu before it can hope to reach her, sending it careening towards the ground, with the same speed that launched it, if not more. (Definitely more, he would argue later.) Another sends him dodging to the side, breath knocked from his lungs as he collides with what's left of a building just as the first piece comes crashing down.
When he is safe, albeit winded, he watches in awe at the way she works—all fingers pressed together, arms locked and thrust downward, eyes alight with a blazing fire that has him burning where he stands. One by one, a maelstrom of rock, metal, building parts and whatever else lie waste falls from the sky, once suspended but impossibly fast as it finds its target.
At first it stands in place, swatting away the projectiles in what could be annoyance, but then there are more than it can defend against, larger, sharper.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
When he covers his ears to shield from the inhuman screech, he feels the heat that radiates from his palms and the sting, dulled over for now. Overdid it, he hears her say like he knows she will, but he is entranced by the display and, like the pain in his hands, her words dulls out too. He's unsure of what's louder, the sound of its scream or the sound of her assault, but when the dust settles and the air clears, all is silent, buried beneath a buildings worth of debris, he thinks.
Slowly, she comes down from her perch as all remains still, her eyes firmly locked on the pile in front of her. Neither moves when her feet finally touch the ground, muscles still tense, still coiled and ready to spring at a moment's notice. It's much too quiet, she thinks and then the first pebble shifts, following a trail made by others until it reaches the ground. For a second, she looks to him and in that second, the Nomu bursts forward, away from him and towards her.
She is calm, hardened as it charges with terrifying speed, claws out and teeth barred because in no time he is there, two parts shield and weapon, ready to attack and defend.
There's more light than fire.
More sound than ash and smoke.
Because he too has evolved beyond what was thought capable of him—years of practice and manipulation and many, many failures among many more triumphs. She can see every crease in his skin, rigid shoulders as he releases his blast, both flash bang and deterrent and once trained claws retract to shield its eyes. Their moves are in sync; a dance many times practiced and many times perfected as he side steps her towards the back, her towards the front.
It's close, so very close and it's only when it towers over her does she act—palm open when she thrusts forward, hand to the hardened skin and when all movement comes to a stop, she knows she made solid contact, tightening her fist until it's white. He reaches for its arm a breath later, bringing the paralyzed Nomu over his shoulder (well over her) and down to the concrete with a resounding thud . "You alright cheeks?"
She doesn't answer right away and his eyes snap to her, impatient with (though he'll never say it out loud) worry because she's too damn quiet.
Then he gets a look at her.
Look who overdid it this time, he wants to say but doesn't because the tired smile she gives him is more than enough to placate the nerves that settle in him as he calls for backup. She's okay, he's okay, and everything is okay .
He waits with her, on top of what's left of the closest building, watching from the corner of his eye how her hand shakes in her lap, knuckles white as she holds onto the invisible chains she's wrapped around their target. His fingers twitch at his side, aching to help relieve the tension in each finger because he knows it's there, but make no move to grab onto hers despite how desperately he wants to. Still, he's damned impressed by the way she holds on, even when it tries to wriggle free, to no avail.
It's not long before authorities catch up to them, taking the agitated Nomu and only when it's secure inside an otherwise impenetrable box, well on its way to detainment does she release. Her fingers finally peel apart, hand shaking and she hisses from the discomfort. When he finally reaches for it, she doesn't stop him. His palms are battle torn; there's a lecture on her lips, he knows it, she knows he knows it, but she says nothing because they are so unbelievably warm and, little by little, it soothes the pain that stretches through each finger.
She's pale, winded but otherwise unharmed, he notices. He's spent, tired, and ready for a damn nap nothing short of twelve hours. He wants to berate her, like she wants to berate him but they leave it for another battle, another day. They are successful.
They always are.
Because in some off handed way, she is Mother Earth and he the molten lava that shifts far beneath her feet—they are abundant in power and strength, flow and continuity; a force that goes on and on and on when by all other reason they shouldn't be able.
When he rises to the surface, he erupts.
And when she rains, she pours.