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Justice Never Sleeps

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Some nights felt dead and because the (Evil) Lair was closer to the station than her flat, she would just go there instead of heading home. On nights like that, sometimes she would come in and see him slumped over something he’d been working on, his soft snores floating on the deafening undertone of silence. It had become routine to wake him and watch him stagger off to bed before going to the futon in his workshop.

Tonight was different. He absolutely would not relinquish his grip on her hand when he tumbled onto his mattress. He was already mostly-asleep, and in his state of fatigue was either unwilling or incapable of letting go (it was most likely both). Under normal circumstances, she would beat him off with a stick so she could go to the futon, but she herself was so tired tonight that she painstakingly removed her hand from his just to put on the nightshirt and shorts she wore to bed when she was there.

It didn’t feel odd or wrong or uncomfortable as she slipped under the blankets. His bed was soft and warm, even warmer with him in it, and above all else, she felt safe. Sighing contentedly, she closed her eyes.

Movement behind her and arms suddenly wrapping around her waist just as she was on the brink of falling unconscious startled her. She forgot where she was for a second until she caught a glimpse of the hands holding her against the skinny, yet well-muscled body behind her. She smiled. Apparently her super villian-turned-hero was a cuddle-fiend in his sleep. There was no way he was going to live this down.

First, though, she wanted to sleep. As she gradually passed from reality into the world of dreams, she thought fleetingly that never had she ever felt so secure in a man’s arms.