Her colleagues hated them for ordinary, commonplace reasons - halting the subways before practice, for example, or crushing buildings with no regard for those inside. Worse still, they composed dramatic monologues that would make Hamlet look concise. If it wasn't the Wizard warping reality, it was Artemis shooting down an entire block or Roulette siphoning heroes for her underground gambling rings. Crew members down to the lowest rung had had their own brushes with the rogues that plagued New York City.
Yet Sharpay hated them more for catapulting her husband into the spotlight. She and Tommy worked opposite schedules before accounting for his heroism, and now, there were almost whole weeks before they would see each other's face.
("That's why Mom and Dad got divorced," Maxine had admitted, when Sharpay had asked how her parents had handled the life. "Dad couldn't take the pressure, so he went back to his hometown in Japan, and took my brother with him.")
Even practice - her favorite part of the week - had felt lackluster. Her dance steps felt rigid, like she was pulling on her invisible strings and jerking herself around to move, to do something other than worry about her stupid Wildcat. He had thrown himself into the metaphorical fire for years before they'd met. He would continue to throw himself into the path, even at the cost of his own life and sanity.
His time wasn't up yet, he would tease her. He still had eight lives, and he intended on living them out to the fullest.
Those eight lives were going to be awfully short if he kept fighting in the spotlight of the press, though. Sharpay's google alerts had been vibrating almost non-stop this week with mentions of the JSA growing larger and larger by the hour. The NYT, the Washington Post, the Gotham Times, the Daily Planet... all of them headlined the JSA.
Their stories didn't give her much hope either, with articles like "Our New Saviors? Meet the Legacies Devoting Themselves to Our Country." or worse, "Who would win: the JSA or the JLA?"
In this heated, confusing, contrary political climate, the average (stupid) American clamored for a home-grown team rather than their previous media-darlings. Out were the JLA, in were the JSA. Who it benefited, Sharpay didn't know. Batman and Superman knew the risks, knew the outcomes. They drew the media away from those working in the shadows, acting as a beacon for the littler guys.
Wildcat had never meant to be more famous than her - and in any other circumstance, she might've been jealous. Now, she was worried. Frustrated. Tempted to phone in her performance and call in sick. Let Rachel Berry take over for her again.
The world may be a stage, but she couldn't be a bit player on its stage. Not like this.
Then the set behind her had tumbled to the ground as Wildcat - her Wildcat - and the director wrestled on the wooden floor. He was snarling, with those yellow eyes reserved for the rogues, with his claws sharp and his teeth gnashing, and -
"Everyone!" Sharpay stood to attention, turning towards the emergency exit. "Hurry up! We need to get out of here!"
The other actors in her current number didn't hesitate. They stumbled towards the red EXIT sign, tripping over their legs, tripping over each other, tripping over props and empty air alike. They hustled out of there as Sharpay ran in the other direction. If Tommy was here, the other JSA members wouldn't be far behind - and her director had to be in cahoots with someone else.
So she ran. She shoved past the awkwardly-placed clothes racks; she ran past the fire extinguisher before looking back and pulling it out of its place; and she kept moving forward.
"Go! Go go go!" She yelled at the interns, tossing their coffee into the trash. "There's a supervillain, and he's not playing around!"
She snarled at the costume designers and hair and make-up people; she pointedly called for the sound and lighting techies to leave; she insisted on the assistants' not staying with the sinking ship.
"But what about you?" Rachel had asked, her brow furrowing as she turned towards the emergency exit. "Are you going to be okay?"
Sharpay flipped her hair, hiding the beads of sweat running down her forehead, and flashed her understudy a blinding, bright smile.
"I'm Sharpay Evans. I'm always going to be okay."
"And baruch hashem for that," Rachel called, returned that smile before she followed the crowd outside, her fingers already wrapped around the cell phone. "Help should be arriving any moment."
Once Rachel - once everyone, from the interns to the other stars - had headed out, Sharpay allowed herself a breath before turning back towards the stage. Tommy may be more famous than her, and he may be fighting so often that his entire body was shaking from exhaustion, but she would still do what she could.
Even if that meant stepping back when the wall collapsed in front of her, and both Tommy and the director kept tossing and turning to gain control. When the director was on top, pinning her precious Tommy, Sharpay lunged, knocking the fire extinguisher on the side of his head.
He fell, slumping onto the hard concrete.
Wildcat let out a breath, his shoulders sagging with relief. Then he glanced up at her, and his expression melted into one of concern.
"Shar?" His voice was uneven, shaky. "Are you okay?"
"Couldn't be better." A complete lie, but Tommy didn't need to know that as she flung herself at his arms and clung to his fur, burrowing her head in his shoulder. God, she hated that she was starting to see him more on the job than in their actual home. "Don't you know? Not all heroes wear capes... or fur."
famous - Tom Bronson / Sharpay Evans | wordcount: 985
Her colleagues hated them for ordinary, commonplace reasons - halting the subways before practice, for example, or crushing buildings with no regard for those inside. Worse still, they composed dramatic monologues that would make Hamlet look concise. If it wasn't the Wizard warping reality, it was Artemis shooting down an entire block or Roulette siphoning heroes for her underground gambling rings. Crew members down to the lowest rung had had their own brushes with the rogues that plagued New York City.
Yet Sharpay hated them more for catapulting her husband into the spotlight. She and Tommy worked opposite schedules before accounting for his heroism, and now, there were almost whole weeks before they would see each other's face.
("That's why Mom and Dad got divorced," Maxine had admitted, when Sharpay had asked how her parents had handled the life. "Dad couldn't take the pressure, so he went back to his hometown in Japan, and took my brother with him.")
Even practice - her favorite part of the week - had felt lackluster. Her dance steps felt rigid, like she was pulling on her invisible strings and jerking herself around to move, to do something other than worry about her stupid Wildcat. He had thrown himself into the metaphorical fire for years before they'd met. He would continue to throw himself into the path, even at the cost of his own life and sanity.
His time wasn't up yet, he would tease her. He still had eight lives, and he intended on living them out to the fullest.
Those eight lives were going to be awfully short if he kept fighting in the spotlight of the press, though. Sharpay's google alerts had been vibrating almost non-stop this week with mentions of the JSA growing larger and larger by the hour. The NYT, the Washington Post, the Gotham Times, the Daily Planet... all of them headlined the JSA.
Their stories didn't give her much hope either, with articles like "Our New Saviors? Meet the Legacies Devoting Themselves to Our Country." or worse, "Who would win: the JSA or the JLA?"
In this heated, confusing, contrary political climate, the average (stupid) American clamored for a home-grown team rather than their previous media-darlings. Out were the JLA, in were the JSA. Who it benefited, Sharpay didn't know. Batman and Superman knew the risks, knew the outcomes. They drew the media away from those working in the shadows, acting as a beacon for the littler guys.
Wildcat had never meant to be more famous than her - and in any other circumstance, she might've been jealous. Now, she was worried. Frustrated. Tempted to phone in her performance and call in sick. Let Rachel Berry take over for her again.
The world may be a stage, but she couldn't be a bit player on its stage. Not like this.
Then the set behind her had tumbled to the ground as Wildcat - her Wildcat - and the director wrestled on the wooden floor. He was snarling, with those yellow eyes reserved for the rogues, with his claws sharp and his teeth gnashing, and -
"Everyone!" Sharpay stood to attention, turning towards the emergency exit. "Hurry up! We need to get out of here!"
The other actors in her current number didn't hesitate. They stumbled towards the red EXIT sign, tripping over their legs, tripping over each other, tripping over props and empty air alike. They hustled out of there as Sharpay ran in the other direction. If Tommy was here, the other JSA members wouldn't be far behind - and her director had to be in cahoots with someone else.
So she ran. She shoved past the awkwardly-placed clothes racks; she ran past the fire extinguisher before looking back and pulling it out of its place; and she kept moving forward.
"Go! Go go go!" She yelled at the interns, tossing their coffee into the trash. "There's a supervillain, and he's not playing around!"
She snarled at the costume designers and hair and make-up people; she pointedly called for the sound and lighting techies to leave; she insisted on the assistants' not staying with the sinking ship.
"But what about you?" Rachel had asked, her brow furrowing as she turned towards the emergency exit. "Are you going to be okay?"
Sharpay flipped her hair, hiding the beads of sweat running down her forehead, and flashed her understudy a blinding, bright smile.
"I'm Sharpay Evans. I'm always going to be okay."
"And baruch hashem for that," Rachel called, returned that smile before she followed the crowd outside, her fingers already wrapped around the cell phone. "Help should be arriving any moment."
Once Rachel - once everyone, from the interns to the other stars - had headed out, Sharpay allowed herself a breath before turning back towards the stage. Tommy may be more famous than her, and he may be fighting so often that his entire body was shaking from exhaustion, but she would still do what she could.
Even if that meant stepping back when the wall collapsed in front of her, and both Tommy and the director kept tossing and turning to gain control. When the director was on top, pinning her precious Tommy, Sharpay lunged, knocking the fire extinguisher on the side of his head.
He fell, slumping onto the hard concrete.
Wildcat let out a breath, his shoulders sagging with relief. Then he glanced up at her, and his expression melted into one of concern.
"Shar?" His voice was uneven, shaky. "Are you okay?"
"Couldn't be better." A complete lie, but Tommy didn't need to know that as she flung herself at his arms and clung to his fur, burrowing her head in his shoulder. God, she hated that she was starting to see him more on the job than in their actual home. "Don't you know? Not all heroes wear capes... or fur."