Chapter Text
There is a crumple of purple on Derapchu’s doorstep.
At first it announced its presence with a series of sluggish knocks, dropping off after the fourth. Derap had answered it— and now he’s standing in his open doorway, staring at a clearly out-cold villain, fully clad in his suit, draped across the steps to his home.
This is not the first time Wemmbu’s been here. This is one out of many, in fact; not the first and not the last. What this is the first of is how Wemmbu’s plainly out cold (probably passed out mid-knock, Derap figures), and is dripping very fresh blood all over Derap’s stairs. Wemmbu has never shown up half-dead before.
Derapchu takes one glance around, just in case. He knows what he’s doing, by draping Wemmbu’s arms over his shoulders, by lifting him gently up and into his house. He knows that there’s a wanted criminal lying on his couch. He knows that if anyone knew he did this, he would probably be just as wanted as the villain in his living room, with wanted posters of his own to be put up right next to Wemmbu’s. An accomplice, they would call him.
It doesn’t matter much to him, anyways. Because it’s Wemmbu, mask or not.
He takes the mask off— Wemmbu wouldn’t care, they each know what the other looks like well by now— and Derap cleans the blood off, slowly, patching him up (there’s a giant cut in his side, he discovers) until he looks stable enough. Derap sighs, leans back, and stares for a fleeting second.
And then he gets back up. Wemmbu’ll be hungry when he wakes up.
When Wemmbu stirs, Derap’s lounging back in a chair he’d pulled out, staring at his phone. Derap glances up at Wemmbu, blinking his eyes blearily and sitting up, ever-slowly.
”Yo,” he says.
Wemmbu says, “Yo.”
“Do you mind telling me what happened?” Derap thinks he deserves a little bit of an explanation after Wemmbu showed up passed-out on his porch. If Wemmbu would tell, of course.
Wemmbu rubs his eyes. “A 3v1,” he snorts. “I’m lucky I didn’t die or get knocked out mid-fight. Tried my best to make it here. Aw, shit dude, my side’s burning…”
What Wemmbu does not include is why he chose to come here in a state so vulnerable, but Derap knows the answer well by now. What it is is unspoken words, of I trust you with my life, and Wemmbu knows too because he’s sitting in Derapchu’s house right now.
”I tried my best to patch it up…they ambushed you?”
”Well, at first it was one. And then the two others came when they were called, I guess, but I had to run.” Wemmbu lays his head back and sighs. “I wish I got them. Would’ve been really funny if I won that 3v1.”
”It would’ve been all over the news. I’d be hearing about Nightrider all day, bro.”
Wemmbu laughs. “Did they mention me on the news? Or— wait, don’t tell me. I probably got humiliated on live television.”
”Well, I wasn’t watching anyways, so…” Derap hums, and then gestures to the table next to the couch. “You’re hungry, right?”
Wemmbu sits up and looks over, grunting at the movement. “Oh. Chocolate bar. Thanks, bro.”
Derap nods sheepishly. “I ran out of groceries— this is okay, right?”
”Oh, definitely.” Wemmbu unwraps it and starts chewing almost immediately. They sit in silence for a couple of seconds, before Derapchu checks his phone again. It’s almost the morning of the next day, and he hasn’t slept, having kept an eye out on Wemmbu and if he was even alive for the entire night.
It is funny, because the man aside from him chewing on chocolate and gossiping on his couch is gossiping about being in a life-or-death encounter between villains and superheroes. And Derapchu couldn’t care less about that, because to him this is not Nightrider, but Wemmbu. And he trusts Wemmbu.
Wemmbu stays for a couple more hours, before reassuring Derap that he was fine and could hobble the way back to his apartment. He watches him leave, after Wemmbu had firmly refused his offer to help him back. And then Derapchu grabs the remote and turns on the news, and indeed, the person who just left is staring right back. They don’t know where he went after the fight, though, and that brings him solace.
Wemmbu knocks on his door one day. This time, he’s not all dressed up, instead without a villain mask and in casual clothes. “Hey, bro,” he says.
Derap raises an eyebrow. “Hey,” he says back. “You can come in if you want. I’m making some food, but there might not be enough because I was only making it for myself—“
”Nah, it’s cool,” Wemmbu interjects, and then fishes something out of his pocket. In fact, Derap doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it sooner, because the thing was sticking right out. “I got you something to show my gratitude for you saving me. Here’s my beautiful flower.”
And indeed pinched between his fingers is an orange tulip— the brightest shade of orange he’s ever seen on one of them, actually, and Derap blinks at him, briefly, before smiling. “Aww, you got me a flower? Did you grow it yourself?”
”Nah, I pulled it from my neighbor’s garden.” Wemmbu yawns. “She won’t miss it anyways. But I thought to myself, this would make a beautiful gift for Derapchu, so I’m giving it as a gift to Derapchu.”
”Oh!” Derap takes it from his outstretched hand into his own. “That’s still nice either way. Thank you—”
”I know it is. You’re welcome, by the way.” Wemmbu says breezily. “Anyways, I’ve gotta do more things after this. I just wanted to make a quick stop.”
Derap nods. He knows not to ask a lot of questions, especially not outside like this. “Good luck.” And then, as a little tease: “Don’t let last time happen again!”
Wemmbu throws him a quick grin, already walking backwards and onto the sidewalk. “My evil deeds have no time to waste, Derapchu. And don’t worry. I’m not that weak.”
Wemmbu does not visit after that. For months.
Derapchu switches on the TV sometimes (“sometimes” because he can walk out into the city himself and see what’s happening half the time) and sees Wemmbu, in his villain alter-ego, displayed on the news always after doing some crazy shit. The news says his villain name— Nightrider, Wemmbu had always liked that name (even if it was a little corny), but among the watchers tonight Derapchu’s the only one who knows the Wemmbu underneath, or even knows of the name.
It turns into a year. May is rapidly approaching its end. The original orange tulip, the one he’d stored in a vase, is long dead now. Derapchu had went out and bought more seeds, and now the result of them stands on his windowsill. Just one singular one, to mimic how lonely the first felt. The first petal fell off this morning.
Derapchu wonders how much Wemmbu remembers him. The two circle each other in uneven orbits; close, but never touching, far at some times and near at others. Derap has seen Wemmbu bloodied and hanging onto his life by a few threads. He has seen his face, knows his name, has been given enough trust to know who he is beyond Nightrider.
Derap pulls a chair up to the window and kicks his feet up on the windowsill, careful to not knock the pot over. He stares outside, into blue skies. There are people fighting distantly. He wonders if one of them is familiar.
He comes to this conclusion: Derapchu, ultimately, knows next to nothing about Wemmbu. Where he lives. What he does in his free time other than be a wanted criminal. What he likes, his hobbies, any of his other friends— to Derapchu, Wemmbu is a mystery.
I guess I know he likes flowers, Derap thinks, and then chuckles at himself because of how absurd it is. The scary villain likes flowers, and that is the only thing he knows past surface-level. Yet Derapchu trusts Wemmbu with his life, and he knows the vice versa is true. They are mysteries to each other, and Derap doesn’t know if he would have it any other way.
But he misses him. Who else does he have, really?
And then: a knock. And then three more— exactly four.
Derapchu snaps his head up, suddenly thrust out of his thoughts, and kicks his seat back. Through the window, in the slight angle he has of the porch, he stares at a faint glimmer of purple. So he was one of the ones fighting.
Derapchu opens the door. Wemmbu, or Nightrider, still clad in his suit, stands as casually as ever, waiting politely. This time, there’s only one trickle of blood, and Derap can see it trailing down from his lip and as Wemmbu reaches up to wipe it away. “Yo.”
“Hey.”
Wemmbu says: “Do you have anything to eat? I’m hungry.”
And of course it is the first thing he says to him after months, so simple, so casual, like they’ve been talking all this time and nothing’s changed. Derap doesn’t know what else he expected, because it is so Wemmbu that it makes sense. It makes sense in a weird little way. Derap doesn’t know anymore. “Oh, of course, man,” he nods, stepping aside to let Wemmbu in.
Wemmbu looks around briefly. Derap’s still closing the door behind him when he hears: “Oh, dude, you actually kept my tulip?”
Derap turns. Wemmbu’s standing by the windowsill, feeling the petals between his fingers. “It’s not the exact one,” Derap replies sheepishly, “I just bought some more seeds after it died and planted another.”
”That’s cute.”
Derap hums. It feels like nothing’s changed, and that the year in between was something Derap had made up in his head. Familiarity hangs in the air, because Derapchu knows nothing except that Wemmbu likes flowers, and that there is a wanted criminal in his house that he trusts with his life. “Thanks,” he says, and then adds, “what do you want to eat?”