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There are times when he knows he's made the right decision. Sipping on his coffee, the newspaper in front of him, nothing to do that day but maybe a bit of light gardening and run down to the market on the corner to get some fruit – it's kind of nice to know that there's nothing he needs to do in the future, no demands from anyone. No one's breathing down his neck, asking why he's not at the meeting, or why he hasn't taken care of business down at the docks, or frantically calling him at 3 a.m., asking him what to do when everything's on fire.
But Valentin does miss the scorpions. He knows The Horror Moth is taking good care of them – she's texted a few really nice pictures of them and they look happy and well-fed, but it's still a shame the Coterie wouldn't let him take them into retirement. For Pete's sake, they let Captain Skull take his skull snakes and they're banned in every state but Florida.
They're just being petty, he figures, because he didn't give them a 90 day notice, didn't pose for pictures for the website or let them throw a party where they all said meaningless things about how much they'd miss him, none of which they'd remotely meant, considering how many times they'd tried to overthrow him from a position he never asked for in the first place.
Nothing shows that pettiness more or the need for him to at least install a trap door in front of his house than the ringing of his doorbell at 7 a.m. precisely on a Sunday morning, right when he's just stumbled into his kitchen and turned off his Keurig.
He walks to the door, not ever bothering to try to look for any of his gear, because he has no idea where the hell he packed his bracers and if it's anyone that wants him dead, they're far more likely to come in through the window or crash through his roof.
The bell rings again before he has the chance to open the door.
“I'm coming,” he says, sliding out the chain lock and opening the door. “Just hold your--”
He slams it shut.
“Hello?” The voice comes muffled on the other side. “Did you forget something?”
Just my common sense, Valentin wants to snarl. Why else would he open the door to fucking Solar Flare? He should just go back to bed, pull the covers over his head, and hopefully fall asleep long enough for the nightmare that is a supremely cheerful hero to go away.
Still, he reluctantly opens the door again. He knows better than to assume that Solar Flare would go away – if anything, he's come to really loathe and understand how irritatingly persistent the man is .
Sure enough, Solar Flare is standing there, blinking in the sun before his eyes lock onto Valentin and he smiles politely. “Sorry to wake you up so early,” Solar Flare says. “But I've found it's always best to get unpleasant things over with as soon as possible.”
“Unpleasant?” Shit. Valentin's already reaching into the umbrella stand and rummaging around in it while he keeps Solar Flare firmly on his doorstep. Cane, sword cane, umbrella, sword umbrella, ah--
“No need for that,” Solar Flare says, unfazed by the sudden appearance of a laser rifle in his face. “I'm not here on nemesis business.”
Valentin doesn't lower the rifle, just eyes Solar Flare suspiciously. “You'd better not be,” he grumbles. “I'm officially retired. Turned in my keys, reassigned my outstanding missions, and did all the damn paperwork for it.”
Solar Flare's smile widens and Valentin really wishes that there was a clause for using weaponry against people who irritate you on a weekend. “About that...”
“You have to be kidding me,” Valentin says. “There's more of this shit?”
Solar Flare doesn't react, just swigs from the cup of coffee he poured himself and Valentin bites his tongue to keep from yelling in frustration. It could be poisoned, Valentin thinks. What kind of self-respecting enemy goes around drinking something his enemy prepared out of a mug that says “World Series of Villainy Champions 2017?”
“I signed everything I had to months ago.” Valentin flips through it, growing increasingly angry as he scans the lines of each form. Sign here, date here, fill out what you made from morally science there, unless it was doomsday in nature, in which case, skip box K and use supplemental form 1249-G.
“The Department thought so too,” Solar Flare says apologetically. “Apparently, there was a miscommunication, however, and they didn't give you some of the updated forms.” He shakes his head. “You'd think there'd be some consequences from that, but apparently, it's a common thing there.”
“Well, someone needs to be stung with scorpions for this,” Valentin mutters.
“I was thinking more an official reprimand,” Solar Flare says faintly. He looks a little concerned, but it passes quickly and he's smiling at Valentin again. “You look good, anyway, Count Scarlet.”
He'd already swallowed his coffee, so he's glad he's not sputtering at that. “What?”
“I mean,” Solar Flare says, his cheeks turning pink. “You look like you're doing well. Getting healthy. Not you know, dying.”
Oh, okay. Valentin lets out a mental sigh of relief. For a second, it sounded like—but no. Solar Flare's a hero, after all, a bonafide member of the Order of Blessed Light. Of course, he'd be glad that one of his enemies didn't actually die. “It wasn't that bad,” he snaps. “It wasn't even in the top three of things that nearly killed me.”
For some reason, that doesn't take the concerned look off of Solar Flare's face. He's never really known how old he is – even if they're humanoid, alien races are really hard to judge based on looks alone – so he's not sure if Solar Flare's giving him the whole “I'm an ancient immortal who can't be killed so the fragility of humanity is of great importance to me” look or the “please don't tell me that one day I'll be having to use a cane like you.”
“It was pretty bad,” Solar Flare says quietly. “They should have checked before they--”
“Blew up the building. Valentin laughs coldly, watches to see if it stings Solar Flare in any way. “Yeah, I guess you guys really should have. Well, you got what you wanted. I'm out of the game now and once I fill out these damn forms, you won't have to ever hear from me again.”
“That's not what I meant,” Solar Flare says, and his eyes are actually big and round as they stare at Valentin. It makes him uneasy in his chair, squirm slightly. “It's just—it shouldn't have ended like that.”
“Well, that's the way it goes,” Valentin says, shaking his head. His knee still aches and there's more metal in it than bone. Tech can only do so much and when your reflexes start slowing down, well, sometimes you gotta know when to pack it all up and go home. “Anyhow, you can come back in a couple of hours and I'll have these signed for you.”
“Take your time,” Solar Flare says, standing up and cracking his neck. “I'll be back next Sunday. I have to run out to The Crystalline Caves for a--” He snaps his mouth shut, his neck turning red. “Oops,” he says. “Hey, it's not like you haven't kicked down the doors there before.”
“Have fun,” Valentin says and once he hears the door shut, he looks down at the pile of papers and gently rests his head on top of them.
True to his word, Solar Flare does show up on Sunday, bright and early, though this time he's carrying a tray of coffee and some muffins. He's in civilian clothes this time, a soft cream sweater and brown pants, but there's no mistaking that blinding smile.
Valentin squints at the cup as Solar Flare passes it over. “Steven? Stefan?”
“Evan, actually,” he says. “It's not the worst way I've seen my name spelled.”
Valentin tips his cup towards Solar—Evan. “Try Valentin,” he says. “Everyone wants to add an E on the end.”
“Valentin,” Evan says. “Huh.”
“Don't play coy,” Valentin says, as he savagely bites into a muffin. Chocolate chip, so the world will live another day. “You knew that. It was on the paperwork.”
“It was,” Evan says. “But it's nice to hear it properly said.”
Valentin has the distinct feeling he might be turning red and he chalks it up an expected hunk of cinnamon in the muffin. “Well, don't go spreading it around. I could sue for invasion of privacy and bankrupt you lot.”
“You could,” Evan agrees, taking his own muffin, which appears to be blueberry. “But then think of al the paperwork that you'd need to fill out to do that.”
Valentin groans. “Speaking of which,” he says, passing the stack over to Evan. “It's all done, triple checked, every I dotted and t crossed.”
Evan flips through it and Valentin decides to ask the question that's been at the back of his mind. “Just why are you doing the errand boy for the department anyhow? I thought they usually sent one of the junior heroes along to do the dirty work.”
He watches Evan shrug and tries not to look at the collarbone that slips out from the too wide collar. Solar Flare has always looked his best in the sun, dark hair and golden skin gleaming and Valentin has definitely never been distracted enough by it to fuck up a countdown or two. The sun loves him just the way the people do and he soaks it all up, smiling something that's equally as blinding as the rays that shoot out from his hands.
Valentin, on the other hand, has always preferred night. It's pretty common for supervillains to prefer it, since it gives them better cover for certain activities, but also, mornings are just terrible and he's never been able to get used to them.
“I volunteered,” Evan says. “Your branch of The Department is undergoing a minor... coup at the moment and staffing is a bit limited.”
“Damn it,” Valentin says. “Don't tell me Irene finally made her move?”
“I thought you were retired,” Evan says, the amusement on his face all too clear. “You keep up on office politics?”
“I do when it concerns me,” Valentin says. “If Irene goes down, then that means Barry will be in charge of licenses and I've been trying to get my fishing one for the past month.” He takes another gulp of his coffee. “Well, whatever. I'm not really in the mood to fill out more forms anyhow.”
A look crosses Evan's face. It's a guilty, sheepish one and--
“There's no way,” Valentin says, but Evan's pulling out more neatly stacked, stapled sheets of paper and setting them on the table.
“Same time next week?”
The shadow passes over him and Valentin looks up from his azaleas to see Evan standing over him, haloed in the sun. He blinks and glances down, pretending it's from the glare rather than him checking on another part of him to make sure that it's making it's response to Evan's presence known.
If he can be grateful for anything, it's that cargo pants hide a hell of a lot more than spandex.
“What time is it?” Valentin asks.
Evan checks his wrist. “Eight a.m.”
“Late for you,” Valentin says mildly. He dusts off his pants and starts to stand up, ignoring Evan's outstretched hand. I don't need your help, he wants to say, I can do this on my own, I'm not--
His muscles choose at that very moment to lodge a formal complaint with him over being in that position for so long and he almost buckles to his knees before warm hands catch his shoulders and carefully pull him upright.
He stands there, looking into Evan's concerned brown eyes, and it takes him far too long to remember that there's a superhero almost hugging him in the middle of the garden while his neighbor pretends not to be looking at them.
“Good morning,” she calls out. “It's going to be a lovely day.”
“It truly is, ma'am,” Evan says back, still smiling at Valentin, his hands gently rubbing Valentin's shoulders. Valentin's half-tempted to snap back about personal space but the magic in Evan's fingers extends beyond just shooting rays of light, evidently, because he's doing some quality work at getting out a few knots.
“Don't encourage her,” Valentin manages to get out. “If it gets back to her book club, we're done for.”
“Oh, I'm sure—” Evan pauses as his brain finally catches up to where Valentin's been all this time. It's actually kind of a shock to see it. “Wait, wasn't she Ruth Lessheart?”
Valentin raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you know your villains well. Should I be jealous?”
Evan's hands drop away but his gaze remains firm. “You know I only have eyes for you,” he says.
It—it has to be a joke, right? Valentin can't stare into men's souls, as sadly only The Silent Spectacle can lay claim to that ability, but he's certain that Evan must be attempting some form of humor. Because otherwise—well, there's just no way.
“Right,” Valentin says after a moment. “That's good to hear.”
“Besides,” Evan adds, “I don't think I'm her type. Didn't she get married to Faye Tallflawes?”
“It is truly disturbing that you know that.” Valentin shakes his head as he steps onto the path leading out of the garden. “I'm beginning to suspect you had all of the trading cards back in the day.”
“No,” Evan says, already pulling out a sheaf of papers to hand over to Valentin. “Just one.”
Valentin nearly trips over a stone he's avoided a hundred times in a row and once again, Evan is there to catch him
“I don't understand why there's so many forms,” Valentin says as he exchanges the completed stack for the fresh one that Evan's brought. By his estimate and the date on the calendar, they've done this little routine eight times in a row and yet somehow there's always a new batch that has to be filled out. “Do they just set them on fire over there to keep themselves warm?”
“Maybe,” Evan says, passing over a cruller this time. “I wouldn't know.”
Valentin gazes resentfully at him. “I should have just stayed in the game,” he says. “At least when I was villaining, the most I'd have to fill out were requisition forms.”
“I always wondered where you got that hot air balloon from,” Evan says. “It looked vaguely familiar but I couldn't place it.”
“Duke Revenge,” Valentin says. “He had it on lockdown for about a year until they took it away from him for neglect.”
“I'm kind of glad you don't have it anymore,” Evan says. “It was a bit... intimidating.”
“I'd imagine so,” Valentin says, but he allows his voice to get a bit wistful. “Still, it was nice to fly.” He shakes his head, irritated at himself. Age has made him too soft. “Not that you would know,” he says, watching Evan's face to see how he reacts. “You've always been able to reach the sky.”
“Not always,” Evan says. “When I was a kid, I could only lift myself a few feet off the ground.” He grins at Valentin. “You should have seen me, so proud when I was able to clear the trash cans.”
Interesting. Earth background, Valentin thinks, possibly urban and definitely modern. He files it away, just in case. “Well, you can certainly do more than that now. Why else do you think I got the hot air balloon?”
There's that blush again and Evan's looking way too happy about that statement. Valentin checks it, can't find anything that would cause him to give him that blinding smile. “For me, really?”
“Of course.” Valentin leans back in his chair. But tell me, who are you annoying these days? Hopefully they've found a better match for you than me.”
“Than you?” Evan's grin drops, to be replaced by a look of genuine confusion.
“You know,” Valentin says. “I'm guessing they just sort of assigned me by default to be your nemesis until they could find a proper one.”
“What are you--”
He should stop, but it's still damn early and there's a lifetime of bitterness and resentment built up inside him and retirement has only changed his weapons, not his will or his anger. “Maybe you're just coming by because you think it's the heroic thing to do, but it's really not. The coffee, the conversations, the croissants, all of it's unnecessary. You don't have to pity me or feel responsible for my leg. It's the hazards of the job and if you can't accept them, you should be going into the Neighborhood Program, where you can get senior citizens their groceries and pluck cats out of trees.”
It's gratifying to see Evan crumble at that, or it would be if Valentin felt anything other than a bone-tired, empty sort of exhaustion after saying this. His leg hurts like hell, he misses his scorpions, and every time he turns on the TV and sees Doctor Phorus or Catastrophe running around and causing mayhem, he wonders just what's left for him now. He's not going to learn to whittle, he's not going to join a book club, he's just going to live each day as a quiet, dull thing and it's only now that he's realizing just how much he misses--
“I'm not doing it out of pity,” Evan says and Valentin blinks. He must be getting rusty if Evan was able to sneak up on him like that. “But I'm sorry if it makes you feel bad. I think this should be the last stack.”
“Evan--” he starts to say and then Evan kisses him. Nothing deep or fierce, just a soft, shy one that's gone just as quick as Evan is, leaving nothing but the vague impression of warmth.
It lingers far too long for Valentin's peace of mind and not long enough for his heart.
Evan doesn't come by on Sunday to pick up the papers, nor the next Sunday and it's only two weeks later that Valentin concedes that he has truly fucked this up.
But being terrible at relationships isn't enough of an excuse for the Department, especially not when bureaucracy is involved, and so he dials the number reluctantly and waits for about thirty minutes, listening to the world's worst hold music.
“Department of Villainous Licensing, how may I assist?”
At least it's Irene. Valentin allows himself to be mildly happy about this. “Irene,” he says. “I'm sorry about turning in the papers late, but--”
“Can you hold on a moment?” she interrupts and a second later he hears the unmistakable sound of an explosion, followed by some shouts before there's breaking glass. “Sorry about that,” she says, coming back on. “We're having some issues here. Labor relations dispute, nothing too serious but it's a pain in the ass and if TED WOULD JUST DO HIS DAMN JOB AND PICK UP A LASER, IT WOULDN'T BE A PROBLEM.”
Valentin winces. “I see,” he says. “Well, Solar Flare was supposed to pick them up and drop the last batch off to you, but he seems to have gone AWOL.”
“Solar Flare?” There's genuine puzzlement in Irene's voice. “We didn't send him over.”
“You didn't?”
“No, of course not,” Irene says. “You know I wouldn't have marked you off as complete unless you'd filled out all the necessary forms.”
“But the--”
“Shit, hold on again,” Irene says and there's the sound of another scuffle and some screaming. Valentin waits patiently, even as his mind whirls in confusion. It makes no sense, he thinks. Why would--
“Well, that takes care of Ted,” she says with a great degree of satisfaction in her voice. “You'd think he would have learned better than to try to backstab me, but kids gotta learn sometime. Anyways, no, you're all good. I'm still working on getting you that fishing license, but otherwise, I don't see why we'd need anything else from you. Oh,” she adds, and he can hear the rustling of papers again, "unless, huh--looks like this one never got a second signature. If Solar Flare's using that as an excuse to harass you, we can file a grievance." Her voice drops an entire octave and he can hear the bloodthirsty delight in her voice.
“No, must be a misunderstanding, you know how these things happen. Good luck on your coup,” he says and he hangs up the phone.
“That absolute fucker,” he says and if he looked at himself in a mirror right now, Valentin might have been tempted to take a selfie of one of the most diabolical smiles to ever cross his face.
And just like that, everything slots into place so perfectly Valentin would have suspected someone was doing some Level 3 tampering with fate.
It's not hard to track Evan down, especially with the news team already on sight. It's major news that Solar Flare got ambushed by Bonestealer and Catastrophe, and a few of the anchors are already worriedly speculating that one of the top five heroes in the League might be in real danger.
Not yet, Valentin thinks and it's child's play to sneak past the cameras onto the roof, especially with the jet pack he requisitioned. Why he didn't look into seeing the kind of equipment retired villains can access is beyond him, but no time like the present.
And the jet pack does do wonders when he descends from the ceiling to give him the element of surprise. Perhaps it's not as intimidating to swoop down in his standard black skinsuit instead of the full Scarlet Regalia, but it's worth it to see the look on Evan's face.
“What are you--”
“Sorry about that,” Valentin says. He's got a mask on for some deniability and luckily, these two are some of the dumber villains he's ever had the misfortune to run into. “But you've got something that belongs to me.”
“Belongs to you, old man?” Bonestealer snorts. “Didn't you retire?”
“Yeah, you shouldn't even be here,” Catastrophe chimes in. “This isn't any of your business.”
“Except that it is,” Valentin says and he smiles, letting his teeth show. “You see, I've learned a lot about paperwork over the last few months and one thing I've come to realize is that you always have to make sure you've done it correctly or else you're going to run into a situation like this.”
“Situation?” Bonestealer splutters. “Just what the hell--”
Valentin reaches into his pocket and he can see them already bracing for a weapon, but instead he pulls out a piece of paper and holds it up. “You never got the approval for change of nemesis,” he says. “As per regulations, ambushes are not permitted unless you're on file as being an official nemesis. Which neither one of you are.”
“Neither are you,” Catastrophe says, practically spitting out the words. “They filed the--”
“Well, it turns out Solar Flare never did,” Valentin says, smiling down at Evan who's already working himself loose from his bonds and refuses to meet his gaze, likely out of sheer embarrassment. “Looks like some paperwork fell through the cracks. I blame Ted.”
“Ted?”
“In any event, if you leave now, you'll be liable for nothing more than a fine and a note in your file.”
“And if we don't?” Bonestealer snarls. “If we decide that a washed-up old has-been needs to learn his place?”
Valentin reaches into his other pocket.
“What? You got another piece of paper to show us?”
“Oh no,” Valentin says. “Just some scorpions.”
He presses a button and the screams that follow as his pets rush in is music to his ears.
“It was a clever plan,” Valentin says. Evan's got a few bruises around his wrists and a slight ringing in his ears that should go away, but other than that, he's bounced back pretty quickly. “Distract me with paperwork and hope that I won't notice that I'm filling out the same forms with minor variations. You might suggest it to your League the next time as one way to take down a villain.”
“I wasn't doing it to--”
“I know,” Valentin says and he tugs Evan closer to him on the couch before tipping his head up so that he can kiss him properly. None of this brushing and teasing shit, he's going to take Evan's mouth and let him feel what it means when a villain claims you.
After a few moments, Evan breaks away panting. “I can't believe you brought scorpions,” he says. “You're not going to get into trouble?”
“Of course not,” Valentin says. “They're permitted self-defense weapons for retired members per the new union contract.” It's a minor annoyance that the Skull Snakes are inexplicably also allowed in Alaska now, but oh well, it's a small price to pay for getting his loved ones back. Speaking of which...
“Well, thank you,” Evan says and his hand creeps into Valentin's shirt, warm and rough. It rests just above his heart and Valentin thinks he'll allow it. “For saving my life.”
“Just returning the favor,” Valentin says.
“I didn't save you.” Evan's face is wrinkled up in confusion and Valentin has no choice but to kiss that look away and maybe slip his hand down Evan's pants.
You did, Valentin thinks. So be prepared.