Chapter Text
He’s screaming, the man, and it rises in pitch as his shoulder dislocates with a sickening sound somewhere between a crunch and squelch.
Thomas feels nausea rising in his throat, chokes it down and pushes the man—some low ranking WICKED member in a cheap suit that is now more of an alleyway brown than grey—to the ground. A knee on the small of his back and then zip ties around his wrists.
Thomas pushes the man away, his screams turning to sobs, and then collapses against the rough brick wall, his cape and kevlar keeping the rough surface from scratching his skin.
Minho stands at the mouth of the alley, arms folded in front of his chest and a little smirk on his face, his domino mask tilted at an angle.
“Good work, T,” he says, entering the alley to approach Thomas. He could’ve stepped over the sobbing man, when he reached him, but instead kicks his legs out of the way and comes to a stop in front of Thomas.
“Jesus Christ,” Thomas says, bracing his hands on his knees as he regains his composure. The right side of his face is aching, and he knows that it will bruise, be hard to cover if he’s required to attend any social events this week. He should probably get some ice on it, to prevent the swelling that’s sure to come. But he can’t do that now. Can barely stand. He’s sick and his face hurts and.
And shit.
He just dislocated a man’s shoulder. With his bare hands.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Minho hums in the back of his throat.
“The sound?” he says. Thomas glares at him. He’s far too composed, and he doesn’t know if that scares him or makes him sad. “Yeah, it’s a little harsh at first. Newt still hates it. Guess that’s why he prefers the long range approach.”
Thomas just grunts, vaguely files away that tidbit of information, and then promptly vomits on a nearby trashcan lid, speckles of breakfast and stomach acid flying onto his boots and pants.
Minho doesn’t offer any comfort, but neither does he laugh or sigh in frustration. He just lets Thomas kneel for a few more minutes, and when the brown haired man rights himself, Minho is looking at him with a steely determination in his eyes.
“Puke if you want, T,” he says. “But you’re gonna have to toughen up if you plan on going through with this whole crimefighting schtick. There’s a lot of bad guys out there, and that’s not the last time you’re gonna hear ‘em crack.”