Flea

Chapter Forty Six

He was surprisingly well-muscled in spite of that. Yet another check against her if it came to a fight. Why had she not listened to people, taken precautions? This didn't make any sense, however. Originally, Maeve thought he'd gotten plastered and had decided to visit her in the spur of the moment himself for some 'fun.' Yet given as soon as Dabi realised it was Maeve he sprang backwards with impressively colourful swearing, that was looking less likely.

So why had he appeared in her bed, clearly off his face and in nothing but boxers?

"YOU MAKE ME SICK, I WAS RAPED THREE DAYS AGO AND NOW THIS? EVEN FOR THE LEAGUE OF VILLAINS THAT'S-"

Dabi finally made a move.

It involved bringing an index finger to his stapled lips and shushing her. Maeve swelled like an extraordinarily skinny pufferfish, inhaling for another torrent, so he just struggled to his feet, pulling on the bed to get himself upright, and staggered out of the room muttering something about 'garroting the bitch with her own shitty perm.'

Maeve waited for a few moments, heart-pounding, and pressed the panic button for good measure. She then hurried to a chest of drawers on the other side of the room and opened the bottom one with shaking hands. Sifting through a few other possessions, the girl found what she was looking for. It felt so wrong in her hands Maeve almost dropped the thing, but tightened her grip just in time. She checked the cartridge.

"You should take this, just in case. D-don't hurt any of them too badly, but... Please help me. I can heal them afterwards but I just need to get away; she's already so drunk and it's a Friday night."

The difference between then and now was that the police had supplied her with bullets. She wasn't a little girl anymore.

***

He was going to kill Psyche. Seriously, not just an expression. As soon as he woke up Dabi was going to grab a portal into her apartment, torture her until the witch properly broke the seal, and then incinerate the brothel owner without batting an eyelid.

The tricky part was what to do until then. Stuck in an unfamiliar place, with a hysterical (and probably hormonal, who knew what was going on in there) teenage girl who'd just been screaming something about strawberries, less clothing than was ideal, and the hangover to end all hangovers. His entire world was spinning and any noise, no matter how tiny, reverberated around in his skull until he thought he might die. If Dabi did kark it at that moment, death would be welcomed with open arms.

Wherever they were, it was the complete opposite of Maeve's bedroom. The place felt like one of those cliched 'depressed yet wealthy' bachelor pads you saw in movies, with an open floor plan and floor to ceiling glass windows at modern angles. The only vaguely personal touch he could spot was a pile of cardboard boxes Dabi tripped over on the way to a door he hoped opened into the can. Not that it made a difference, because the stupid 'aesthetically minimalist' plank wouldn't budge even when he slammed it with his bare shoulder. Said impact triggered a pressure behind his skull so unbearable the scarred man nearly vomited on the carpet.

Fuck it.

Dabi stumbled over to a pristine kitchen unit and flicked on the light, then the tap. It worked. Interesting; the scarred man wasn't expecting running water. He shoved a plug into the sink, flicking on a fancy kettle for good measure, before leaning against the bench and forcing the last dregs of his wits together.

That was when Maeve emerged from her bedroom. His back was to the entrance, so Dabi needed to twist his head to see her. She'd clearly been scrambling to get herself in order as well; her hair was pulled back, glasses were on and the girl had pulled an oversized sweater over her pyjamas. This was the first time he was seeing her in the trademark gloves. Dabi really wasn't sure how he felt about the glasses because it made it harder to see her eyes. The sweater was obviously Aizawa's. Dabi had never seen her in anything except men's hand me downs that were five sizes too big. Did she even own women's clothing?