She stares at the ceiling as she hears the bedroom door squeak him in. So all-powerful she thinks to herself, and he can’t even oil a damned door hinge.
She flicks a glance at the green numbers on the alarm clock—4:15 AM—and hears the sleek whistle of his costume fabric as he gets undressed. Then it’s the ritual prayer, the soft green flaring and dying of the lantern as he hangs the suit in the closet. Green used to be her favorite color, she remembers, and she fingers the emerald engagement ring he gave her so many years ago. She pretends to be asleep
He slides in beside her smelling like gasoline and smoke. There’s a new cut on his cheek. She pretends to awake.
“How was the battle dear? ” Her tone neutral, devoid of emotion.
“We won,” he says carefully, unsure about the lack of anger.
“I saw a bit on CNN,” she says. “Who all was there?”
“The Flash came by and helped,” he says, warming up to the subject a bit, feeling his way to safe territory. “We were fighting Incendior, starting at the UN building and ending at Rockefeller Center. It was pretty dicey but he’s in custody now. ”
‘Incendior? Is that the same guy who burned a lot of the Lower East Side last year?”
“No, that was The Flame,” he says.
“Mmmm…” she says, and she lets him talk a bit, filling in details. This, she knows, is what brings him back to the real world after an episode.
“Incendior,” he says finally. “God, I hate that being.”
“No, you don’t,” she says, as they both lie staring at the ceiling. He shifts onto his side, elbow bent, facing her. “Explain?” he says.
“You love him. He gives you purpose, more purpose than I ever could. You could live without me, but not without him.”
He stares, trying to process what he’s just heard. “Not true!” is all he comes up with.
“What is it, ten battles with him now?”
“Eight,” he says, feeling the hiss of blood pressure in his ears. Deep within his brain, he hears the battle switch flick on. Neither of them is afraid. There are walls, barriers.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says. “You need to choose. Your monsters or me.”
His face hardens, the cheeks and jaw chiseling into full fight mode. His eyes burn green into hers. “I can fix this,” he says with the voice that stilled Manhattan a few hours earlier.
She thinks of the door hinge. And rolls over to sleep.