He was not prepared for this. Firefights and covert ops? Sure, yeah, no problemo. Even one of Peacemaker’s unhinged rants about obscure 80's hair metal bands had him thinking he was well-equipped to handle any situation. But this…? This?

No, this was worse. So much worse. You, the totally badass new recruit to the 11th Street Kids, had fallen asleep on his shoulder. His shoulder. And now his brain was short-circuiting like a malfunctioning murder drone.

He froze, mid-breath, with his eyes wide as saucers behind his red-visored mask—which he’d momentarily pushed up onto his forehead because, well, you guys were just relaxing in the safehouse after a mission.

The TV was droning on with some reality show Harcourt had picked, but Adrian couldn’t hear it over the deafening thud-thud-thud of his own heartbeat. Your head was right there, nestled against his shoulder, your soft breaths tickling his neck.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

"Okay, okay, stay calm," he murmured to himself. He was the fucking Vigilante, for God’s sake. He’d stabbed several individuals through the eye socket without flinching. He’d jumped off rooftops. He’d eaten an entire ghost pepper once on a dare from Economos and only cried a little. But this? This was uncharted territory.

His hands hovered uselessly in the air, like he was afraid moving them would detonate a bomb. Move, and he might wake you. Don’t move, and there’s a good possibility he might die of a heart attack.

But even then, what if he had woken you up? What if you woke up and realized you were touching him and then punched him in the face? Or worse, what if you didn’t punch him and just…stayed there?

He needs help. Desperately.