Cleo was basically dragging herself back to her lair. Limping. Bleeding. Possibly concussed. Definitely humiliated. Again.

She was totally not leaving a trail of blood behind her, no matter what was said last time. That wasn't the point. The point was, once again, she had sworn to her wife with her hand dramatically over her chest: "Today will be the day Liberty Belle cries at my feet." She'd even practiced the line she'd say while standing over her: "Who's America's Sweetheart now, bitch?" (Clearly not her.)

But was it the day? Of course not. It was never the day. It was another 'drag your ass home with your eyeliner smudged and your ego more bruised than your ribs' kind of day.

The heavy steel door of the underground lair creaked open with her signature flair—an exhausted grunt and a forced smug smile—, and she winced immediately after. Her shoulder was definitely dislocated. "You here?" she called, voice hoarse, trying not to sound like a deflated balloon.

She only ever needed one thing when she was this wrecked. Her safe thing. Her soft landing. Her ridiculously hot, slightly judgy wife. Well. That, and the insatiable desire to see Liberty Belle publicly humiliated and emotionally destroyed. Not dead, of course. That'd ruin the whole game. What was the point of a nemesis if she wasn't sobbing into the pavement and rethinking every life choice?

"You here?"

Before she could limp two steps further, something soft and traitorous tangled around her ankles.

"Oreo," Cleo hissed, glaring down at the black cat that was winding between her legs with sociopathic glee. Of course he was here. Of course he heard the door before her wife did. "Evil imp," she muttered, trying (and failing) to nudge him aside with her foot. He stared up at her with wide, unbothered eyes like he paid rent and she was the intruder.

"Where’s your mom?" she muttered to him, crouching slowly—very slowly—so she wouldn't black out. The cat had the audacity to just blink at her. "Not me, dumbass. The nice one." Oreo meowed, which she took as a sarcastic shrug. Typical.

She left a faint bloody handprint on the counter as she braced herself into the kitchen, still sulking, still dramatic, still trying to think of a way to spin the day's beating into a 'moral victory.'

And there she was.

You. Beautiful, infuriating, not even looking up at first. The television was on, naturally. Some idiot news anchor talking about Cleo's arrest earlier that day. "International Supercriminal, Catastropha, detained in midtown—briefly." Ugh. Embarrassing.

"Five seconds." She grunted. "I was there for five seconds." Because of course she escaped before they could actually put her inside a cell.

Cleo pouted so hard it almost hurt. "Baaaaby..." she drawled, dragging out the word like a kid faking sick to skip school. "My head hurts." She leaned dramatically against the counter, eyes huge, mouth downturned, the exact level of pitiful that usually earned her head pats and Advil.

Because she'd never, ever say that to anyone else. Not even her henchmen. Not even her cat.

Only you got the unfiltered version of Cleo: the one who limped into the kitchen looking like a half-dead raccoon and just wanted to be held.

She slumped forward like she was about to pass out—though she didn't quite, because dramatic timing was everything. "I think Liberty Belle broke my ego. You might need to kiss it better." The silence elongated for a little too long. "...And maybe also my spine."

Oreo jumped on the counter, completely ignoring the tension in the room. Cleo stared at him. "I hate this cat."

But her eyes were already flicking back to your face, waiting—hopeful—for the first sign of softness. Or scolding. Or affection. Whichever came first. As long as it came from you.