Welcome to Gaia! ::

As far as summers in Manhattan went, this one was a beast. Climate change was wreaking its havoc after encasing the entire city of ice for three months over the winter, it flipped the switch and now was doing its best to burn it out. The concrete island absorbed and radiated the heat day after day, relentlessly, all throughout July and into August.

If Chris didn’t work in a shaved ice truck that was required to maintain a constant temperature in order not to melt the product, he probably would have died. He had already gone down to wearing only a long-sleeved t-shirt and his aviator jacket, opting to leave his sweater at home. A 92 degree day was a bit much for the turtleneck. Even after his sacrifice, by mid-afternoon of his shift, when his blond curls dripped with sweat, the truck owner, a pixie-sized woman named Ellen Gatherty, smacked him upside the head, wiped her hand off, and demanded he remove the jacket, too.

“It’s hot as balls out here. My god, aren’t you dying?” she complained, scraping her fingers through the short ends of her black hair, making them stand out in spikes.
“It’s air conditioned,” he pointed out reasonably.

She gestured to the open side of the truck. “Barely! I’m going to kill that burrito truck driver for jacking the spot in the shade.” She plucked at her tank top uncomfortably. If she shed any more layers she was going to get arrested for indecent exposure. Chris was uncomfortably aware that she had foregone a bra. Half their clientele were children, for goodness sake!

He adjusted so that one of their fans hit the back of his neck, cooling the sweat that had broken out there.
“No. Jacket. Off. Now. You’re going to sweat into the shaved ice we serve, I’m going to get slapped with a fine, then I’ll fire you, I won’t pay the fine and they’ll shut me down, and you’ll resort to selling your body on the street corner for cash, and with your baby face...honey. Let’s just not go there,” she declared sassily.

While he knew she was mostly kidding, he still reluctantly shrugged out of his aviator jacket and hung it on a peg in the back of the truck, tugging at his sleeves to make sure they covered him all the way to the wrist. Up at the window, Ellen was half leaned out of it, giving the stink eye to another passing food truck as it puttered along slowly.
“Goddamn falafel guys are trying to poach on our territory again. Yeah you better keep driving! Ain’t no parking space left here, you wankers!”
“You’ve been watching BBC again, haven’t you?” he commented as a group of sweaty teenagers flocked up with dollar bills in hand, checking out flavors and prices.
“Hey, I know a good insult when I hear it and the last thing this corner needs is a falafel truck. What even is falafel?”
“Falafel’s delicious.”
“Well, if that guy tries to park anywhere near here, I’m cutting his brake lines. I give you first dibs on his falafel when he crashes and dies,” she muttered, petite nose scrunched.

Chuckling, he began scooping ice into plastic cups and paper cones and adding flavored syrup, per the request of the gathered teenagers. Lines of sweat continued to dribble down his back, barely fended off by the fans within the truck.

After the teenagers had paid and were gone, Ellen opened the freezer and fanned herself with it. “Have I mentioned how much I hate the heat?”
“Not for at least…” He checked his phone clock. “...twenty minutes. You don’t want us to go back to three feet of snow again, do you? As much as I liked all the snowmen…”
She snorted. “You would.”

Chris turned his attention out the side of the truck where a man wandered close, folding his shirt sleeves up to his elbow and mopping sweat off his brow. He was tall, probably even as tall as Chris, with similar dark, blond hair, although his was worn too short to show much curl. He looked the type to just be getting off work, tired and stressed from a long day.

Beside him, Ellen’s eyes brightened and she leaned out the side of the truck with a welcoming grin. “Hey, you want a nice shaved ice to cool off? We’ve also got frozen lemonade in a couple different flavors. You look like you could use something cold.”

He veered toward them. “No, thanks. Actually, I could use directions. I think I got off at the wrong subway stop and my phone is dead and this four foot tall Ukranian woman who was present for the birth of Christ bitched me out when I asked her which way Broadway was.”

Her eyes deadened with immediate disinterest. She only had love for paying customers. “Whatever. Where do you need to be?”
“I’ve got a phone charger, as long as it’s not an Apple,” Chris added helpfully, heart going out to the lost puppy look the guy was giving off.

He blinked. “Uh, yeah, if you don’t mind. I have enough time to let it charge a little. I don’t need much battery, just enough.” He passed over an older model smartphone.
“You want something cold to drink while you wait? On me.”
“Chris!” Ellen huffed.
“I’ll pay for it,” he assured her. Down the the man, he asked, plugging the phone in into his charger, “So you’re new to New York? What flavor?”
“Cherry. Thanks. And yeah, I’ve been here two weeks. It’s been a...well, it’s been a transition.” He shrugged, glancing downward.
“You got friends or family out here?” Ellen asked distractedly, staring past him at a group of adults herding children, squinting slightly as if to implant the idea of getting shaved ice directly into their brains. Iceception.

The man shook his head. “Nope, none here. I guess I’m that cliche. Move to Manhattan, work a shitty job, live in an apartment the size of a lunchbox I can still barely afford...”
“So why’d you come?”
“The shitty job was better than no job. This is where they wanted me so here I am,” he sighed with a rolling shrug, accepting the cherry ice Chris handed him. He struggled up a smile. “But how about this weather?”

Chris appreciated the turn to optimism, giving him an encouraging little nod and smile. “Blue skies all the way across. The city isn’t so bad once you learn its tricks. Hey, I’m off in, like, ten minutes. I could get you where you need to go and give you the unofficial New York tour, maybe help you get off on the right foot.”

Perking, the man slowly nodded, as if still considering it even as he agreed. “I...yeah. If you don’t mind. I mean, I don’t know if I’m going your way…”
“Don’t worry about it. I’d be happy to help! Tour Guide Chris, at your service!” he declared cheerfully.

Ellen just rolled her eyes. “Incoming,” she warned as a swarm of school age children wearing matching soccer uniforms buzzed in, clamoring for something cool to follow their game up with. Chris was busy after that until Megan Lund hopped into the food truck to relieve him of his shift. There was still plenty of daylight left and Ellen would squeeze every bit out of it before closing up. She would sweat it out in her truck until she died and he admired that tenacity, but he didn’t particularly want to join her for every second of it. Megan scooped some ice into a cup for herself and set to work filling others without much chatter, muttering something about, “oven-baked ballsack.”

Chris grabbed his jacket, phone charger, and passed the half-charged cell phone off to the man once he hopped out the back of the truck. He used it to check the location of where he needed to be, gnawing the corner of his cheek and finally sagging in exasperation.

“I did hop off the subway a stop early. Dammit.”
“It won’t be hard to get to from here.” Chris peeked around his arm to the map, getting an idea of where he needed to go. “Oh yeah, no problem at all. Come on. I’m Chris, by the way.”
“Cole.” He pocketed the phone. “Thanks for doing this, man.”
“It’s really no problem. Here, this way. How much time do you have before you need to be where it is you’re going?”

Checking his phone, he said, “About a half an hour.”
“Great. Enough time to stop in and grab some pastries from the single best bakery in all of New York, which just so happens to be around the corner. If you’re going to be a New Yorker, you have to know the best places to eat in all categories.”
“As long as they don’t bankrupt me along the way.”
“Are you on Groupon?”

His eyebrows raised a fraction. “Uh...no.” His answer indicated that was the obvious choice.

Cheeks lighting up, Chris hunched. “Well...you might consider it…” he muttered, eyes turning downward.

Cole dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Groupon. Is that like an app…? Where do I find it? I thought it was just some coupon spa fad from the way those women back home talked about it, but s**t, I trust your endorsement.”

His face flamed brighter red, blotting out his freckles. It could at least be excused by the heat of the day and the fact he was still wearing his aviator jacket. He helped Cole navigate downloading Groupon while he simultaneously guided him into PANdemonia. A wall of freshly baked morsels greeted them just across the threshold, as well as a steady streamer of chilled air that cooled the sweat on his face and neck. Cole gave out a small sigh of relief just within the door, either from the aroma, the AC, or a combination of the two.

“So what’s good here?”

Before he could reply, the portly hispanic man working the counter threw out his arms with a cry of glee. “Christian, hombre, why do you not visit me so often? I wait for you to give me the money for my art and you never drop by. And when did you get a twin?” he asked in a heavy accent.

“Hola, Señor Gutiérrez. How are things??”
“It’s a hot one, hombre. I see you in your ice truck selling that sugar water crap to kids and it actually looks good. Business is good?”
“The hotter it gets, the better it gets.” He motioned to his companion. “This is Cole.”

José Gutiérrez eyed him starkly. “Ah, a brother, a cousin? You two put a crick in my neck,” he complained. Indeed, they both towered over him.

“Nah, neither. He’s new to New York and needs the best concha this city has to offer. Naturally, I brought him here.”

Stabbing his thumb at Chris, the old man whispered loudly to Cole, “This is why I like this guy. Flattery will get him everywhere. So what do you say, two conchas?” He did a little dance behind the counter, moving surprisingly gracefully for his age and weight.

“Three,” Cole requested, fishing for his wallet.

Chris jumped, motioning for him to put it away. “No, wait, I’ve got it.”
“You already paid for my slush and are giving me directions and a tour. I’ve got the pastries,” he insisted, passing over a few bills to José in exchange for a paper bag full of conchas.

“You like that concha, you tell your friends, no? Tell them about PANdemonium. Maybe I give you a discount for it.”

The man flashing a small grin. “I would, except I don’t have any friends yet.”
“What about Christian?” He threw a hand toward him with a little, affronted huff.
“I hate to break it to you, but I think he already knows about this place. But sure. I guess I have one friend here. Friends let friends use their phone chargers, right? Isn’t that a thing?” he joked amicably.
“If it’s not, it should be,” he replied, delighted Cole already thought of him as potential friend material.

They got their conchas and left the tantalizing air conditioning and spitfire company of José Gutiérrez. They munched as they went, Cole making a little, impressed noise as he got into his, flashing him an affirming nod as he chewed. There wasn’t much conversation to be had while they were busy eating. The conchas lasted them about two blocks. The third remained in its paper sack, top folded over to keep it fresh for later.

“So can I ask, what’s with the coat? Aren’t you dying?”

Chris shrugged, hunching a little further. “Nah, it’s not so bad.” Deflecting further questions seemed like the best way to go. “So, uh...best Vietnamese delivery is Pho Hongs, but if you walk in, you get better service. Don’t order off the menu. If you’re lucky, the owner will take your order, and he’s always there so the odds are good. Just tell him what you’re vaguely in the mood for--what kind of meat, soup, noodles, rice, veggies, that sort of thing--and he’ll bring something out, you won’t be able to pronounce it, but it is guaranteed the most amazing thing you’ve ever tasted. And then when you come in next time, he will literally remember who you are and what you ordered every other time you’ve been there and he’ll just start bringing food out as soon as you show up and it’s always good and reasonably priced.”
“So just, ******** choosing your own food? Let this old Vietnamese guy do it for you?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” he confirmed.
“Huh. Sounds cool.”

Up ahead, they passed a panhandler propped up against the side of a building. His sign said HOMELESS VET. ANYTHING HELPS. Chris paused as they neared, fished out a dollar from his pocket, and handed it to the guy before they moved on, accepting the old man’s wheezing thanks with a cheerful grin.

“So is it worth putting effort into doing touristy things like visiting the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island and s**t? Not that my budget supports anything with an entrance fee at the moment, but you know, if I like won the lottery or something. Theoretically.”
“Oh sure!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “You have to experience all that stuff at least once in your life! It would be a shame to live in New York City and not actually do the things you do in New York City. Eventually. If your budget gets a little friendlier, of course. But you have to walk through Times Square in the dead of night sometime, and that’s free. They don’t call this the city that never sleeps for nothing! And if you can, catch a Broadway show. They’re worth the price of the ticket.”
“Yeah, I have the feeling I’ll be starting a Broadway fund so maybe I can afford to see one sometime in the next fifteen years,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.
“Tell you what, since I’m your unofficial New York tour guide, once you have the desire and budget to go do touristy stuff, you give me a call and I’ll take you. You don’t have any friends to go with and it would be kind of awkward by yourself. Well, of course, you might make friends by then, but if you don’t, and you still want to, I’d love to show you around.” Of course he would probably make friends by the time he got the money together for any of that stuff, but Chris valiantly extended the offer anyway. What if he ended up not making friends? Or what if his friends turned their noses up at doing the tourist-trap rounds?

Instead of sneering down the idea, Cole perked a little. “Thanks, man. I might take you up on that.”

A man wearing a bright red apron passed out fliers on a street corner advertising for SUPER TOURS! Tour cars that sped around New York City listening for superhero activity and rushed wide-eyed gawkers to the scene in hopes of catching a glimpse of something or someone amazing. It really wasn’t Chris’ cup of tea, so he politely took a flier and dropped it in the nearest garbage can. Cole simply declined to grab one, hand held up defensively, a terse frown tugging at his mouth.

“People are going to get themselves killed doing that,” the man grumbled.
“People have gotten hurt doing that. They tried to bring up a lawsuit against the company but it didn’t go anywhere. Nobody can find a legal way to get those guys shut down.”
“Thinning of the gene pool,” Cole snorted.

That seemed a little harsh...but at the same time it was morbidly true and he supposed kind of funny, so he gave it a little chuckle.

A blessed, fluffy cloud passed over the sun, although the concrete around them continued to radiate heat. Sweat dribbled down the sides of his face and, uncomfortably, down the middle of his back, but he ignored it. Things could always be worse and the happy little cloud was taking pity on him. He mopped sweat out of his face when it started dripping in his eyes, thinking he might stop at one of the many corner Starbucks and grab an iced coffee.

“Ah, this is the block I’m looking for. Right on time,” Cole announced, checking his wristwatch. “Here, hang onto this.” He passed him the paper bag with the remaining pastry.

They building he approached was brightly painted yellow and orange with DELIA’S DAYCARE written in bold on the sign. Parents were flocking forward and signing kids out at the front door, leading away toddlers and carrying babies. Cole bounced up the front steps, signed the sheet while exchanging a few cheerful words with the broad latino woman standing guard there. Then he stooped just inside the door and when he straightened he had a grinning toddler planted on one hip. The girl was a little darker complexioned than Cole with brown hair done in a ponytail and the same wide, hazel eyes as the man carrying her. She was dressed in a yellow sundress with little white sandals with flowers on them and toted a pint-sized Dora the Explorer backpack. She was busy gabbing, telling Cole all about her day while he struggled to get a matching yellow hat on her head.

“Chris, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Rosemary. Rosy, this is Daddy’s new friend Chris. He brought you something yummy called a concha. Maybe you heard of it on Dora before.”

Chris’ face lit up in a grin as the girl waved shyly before accepting the paper bag to get her sweet from. She was almost too adorable to handle.

“This,” Cole continued, “is the money-sucking black hole of love I work so hard for.”
“Why didn’t you mention her before!” he exclaimed in delight, almost too enthusiastic.
He shrugged. “She’s kind of overtaken my entire identity. Sometimes it’s nice to get to be known as Cole before I’m known as Rosemary’s Dad. She’s kind of the reason I don’t have many guy friends...or friends, even back before we moved here. You know, singles don’t want to hang out with the guy with the kid, third wheeling with married couples is usually super awkward and generally comes with a contract of overbearing, unsolicited advice, single dads are even more neurotic than I am, and single mothers…” He gave a shudder.

Chris took a time-out from the spontaneous game of peek-a-boo he was currently having with Rosemary. “What? Oh. I don’t mind! Kids are awesome. I know some great places you can take her for free. I’ve done some babysitting and nannying, so I pretty well know the ins-and-outs. God, she’s adorable! How old are you, Rosemary?”
She ducked her head shyly.
“Come on, Rosy. Tell Chris how old you are,” Cole coaxed.
She held up three sticky fingers.
“And how old is that?” he prompted, stealing a nibble from her concha.
“Free. And a half!” she declared with quiet pride.
Chris could have happily died.
“So we were going to do a barbecue later this week...except I don’t actually have a barbecue. Or a place to put one even if I did. So basically hamburgers on a George Foreman grill. Maybe you’d like to hang out? Catch a baseball game on TV?” Cole frowned suddenly, pointing a look toward Rosemary. “Or...possibly Frozen.”

Chris wanted nothing more in the world than to be the guy friend Cole lacked and found himself nodding vigorously.

The girl perked. “Frozen?” she repeated excitedly.
“Yeah, we’ll go home and watch Frozen. After sweating my butt off out here, maybe I’ll appreciate it this time.”
“And I can wear Elsa dress?”
“Yep. You can put on the Elsa dress.” To Chris, he asked, “Friday, seven o’clock?”
“Yes, definitely!”
They did a quick number exchange with their cell phones.
“Okay, say goodbye to our new friend, Chris!” Cole sang.
Rosemary wiggled her fingers at him. “Bye-bye, Chris!”

The transformation was impressive, Chris reflected as he waved them both goodbye. His first impression of Cole had not been that of a struggling single dad, but a sarcastic but friendly, overwhelmed-by-the-big-city, twenty-something. He figured Cole was into bars and skirt chasing, not Disney flicks and bedtime stories.

Smiling to himself, he turned and strolled away, detouring through the nearest Starbucks for a white chocolate raspberry mocha frappachino with extra whip to keep him cool while he caught the subway uptown toward home. On his phone, he started making a list of the best kid-friendly places in New York to give to Cole the next time he saw him. They were going to love New York.

Chris liked being a dog walker. He thought it fit his personality well. Dogs were fantastic, friendly, and picking up their little messes wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It was no more or less smelly than cleaning out Goose’s cage. Dogs weren’t made for such city living, either. The unadulterated glee they garnered from taking tours around the nearby dog parks perked his whole day up, too, feeding off their energy. They loved the fresh grass and he loved that they loved the grass.

The long walks with non-verbal companions sometimes gave him opportunities to call his brother to catch up, holding four leashes with one hand and carrying his phone with the other. Who knew what Aldrin was up to these days, but he was more than happy to report on the positives in his life. He ended up telling him about Cole and Rosemary. So he juggled his phone and four ecstatic dogs shuffling down the New York sidewalk on the last day of August, grateful the weather had broken, yammering about his new friend and filling Aldrin in on everything.

“So does this guy have other friends? Like friends with kids?” his brother finally asked quizzically when he could get a word in.

“He says he’s basically a pariah to single people, married parents are either too busy for him or make him feel like an awkward third wheel and try to hook him up with their single friends, single mothers terrify him, and single fathers are kind of in short supply. He has a few he mingles with because his daughter is friends with their kids, but overall keeps to himself.”

“And how old is he?”

“Early, maybe mid twenties. I don’t think he was very old when he had Rosy.”

Aldrin grunted noncommittally.

“He had to cancel on me last Saturday when we were supposed to hang out because Rosy has a cold and an ear infection she picked up from daycare. I haven’t seen them in a while because...well, you know how easily I get sick. He hasn’t gotten any sleep in the last week either because he’s been up with her all night, but he says he scored some baseball tickets from work and is desperate to get out of the house and wants me to go with him.”

“Since when did you watch baseball?”

“Since I started hanging out with Cole,” he replied sheepishly. “He tries to explain it to me sometimes, but usually he just talks about other things with me while he just half-watches the game when it’s on at his house. I don’t think he likes watching alone, but I’m learning. He told me it’s way more fun to go to the ballpark than to watch it on TV anyway.”

Chris regularly did research to try to keep up, but so far retained almost none of it. One thing he did learn was that baseball season ended in the fall. Only about one more month and it would all be over.

“So you’ll watch baseball with this guy but not with me? I’m a little jealous, bro.”

He flushed crimson, hunching instinctively. “I’d watch baseball with you if you wanted to,” he assured him quickly.

“Next time,” he promised.

It was time for a safe change in subject, he decided, gushing into the nearest segue he could think of. “I’ll have to send you a picture of Rosy. She’s to die for. I bought her some new shoes because she’s starting preschool next week. I hope Cole doesn’t mind.” He walked past a person passing out fliers for Super Tours. With his hands full, he avoided eye contact, hoping they wouldn’t try to shove them on him. He managed to squeeze by safely. “She really likes Frozen, so I got her light-up Frozen shoes. She named her turtle Elsa and everything.”

“That’s some commitment. So how soon before you announce to Dad that you’re in a committed relationship with this guy?”

He choked, unable to conjure an articulate reply at first. “You know that’s not…!”

Aldrin’s soft chuckle rumbled through the speaker. “Yeah, but it would sure make all of our lives a lot easier. He could stop bothering you about dating in general, and me and Court about reproducing if he had cute little Rosy to spoil rotten.”

He waited at the walk signal with a dozen other people. The dogs criss-crossed on their leashes to sniff ankles, briefcases, and purses, but were well behaved enough not to be too bothersome. Cars whizzed by recklessly, lunging forward to make the light in time. The traffic wasn’t quite bumper-to-bumper, which was honestly a lot more dangerous than when they were all deadlocked in with nowhere to go.

Struggling to come up with an answer, he made a somewhat inarticulate noise, which was mostly just a whine. He didn’t want to bring up that bringing Cole and Rosy into Roger’s circle of influence was such a bad idea because he promised not to tell anybody about their powers. Including Aldrin. Especially Roger.

“You don’t have a crush on this guy, do you?” Aldrin teased.

“No,” he scoffed. “But I like being friends with him, and he doesn’t have very many of those. It’s…” How did he explain this right? It was nice to be needed. Cole always made him welcome. He never asked him to leave before he was ready. At first, Chris thought Cole was doing him the favor by reaching out, but the more he thought about it, the more he was starting to think that it was really the other way around.

“You’re a weird kid. It makes sense you’d have weird friends,” Aldrin finally concluded for him.

Suddenly, he grinned. “Except I’m going to be the cool uncle to Rosy.”

“Starting with Frozen shoes for preschool?”

“Exactly. And her birthday is in December. I’ve got to think of something good.”

Again, Aldrin chuckled with an agreeable grunt.

Up ahead, a street musician was hitting drums in an agreeable rhythm. Chris was going to get caught by another red light, so he paused long enough to juggle the leashes and phone enough to get his wallet out and a couple of dollars to drop into the donation hat the drummer had set out.

“So where’s the kid’s mom?” he asked, nearly drowned out by the drums.

“She’s...uh...it’s kind of a long story. Cole didn’t know about Rosemary until after she was born. The mom abandoned her at the hospital she was born in, but gave the people there Cole’s name, so they called him. He ended up taking her, but he’s had no contact with the mom since the time they...you know...made Rosy,” he stuttered out with a blush.

His brother grunted an acknowledgment.

“His grandmother talked him into keeping her.”

“So he was just a young, single guy, living it up, suddenly he gets a call, puts on his Dad hat, and runs to the rescue? Sounds like a superhero.”

“I guess so,” he agreed lamely, hoping he didn’t give anything away in his tone.

He was approaching the first house one of the dogs belonged to, a Cocker Spaniel named Duffy.

“I’ve got to go. Dogs are almost home.”

“Thanks for the call, bro. Have fun at the baseball game.”

He ended the call, walking the dogs up to the apartment and pressed the buzzer. Duffy’s owner was laid up with a broken leg, unable to get him the exercise he required. After dropping Duffy off, he took the Labrador/Irish Springer mix, a squat-legged, incredibly friendly hound named Tess, back to her elderly owners, a retired school teacher and nurse who just didn’t get around like they used to. Last it was just the twins; beautiful, award winning Whippets named Fitz and Hubert. They were the most well-behaved of the bunch, sleek and groomed and proud.

Just as he reached their home, using his key to get inside to drop them off, as their owners were rarely home during the day, his phone started buzzing from Fitz and Hubert's owner.

"Hello, Mr. Donnelly, I'm just dropping off the dogs..." he began cheerfully.

"I know, I can see you on the security cameras. I have a special favor to ask you. I need the dogs across town in twenty minutes and I don't have the time to pick them up myself."

"Oh, I..." he began, but Mr. Donnelly cut him off briskly.

"You can take my Hummer to transport them. It has everything they need already loaded in the back. The keys are hanging on a hook in the kitchen. I'll pay you two hundred dollars to get them over here on time."

"But I..." he protested frantically, but the line had already gone dead.

The words caught up with him. Dogs. Transport. Hummer. Two hundred dollars. Twenty minutes. He choked, unsure what he was going to do. He didn't need the money, but Mr. Donnelly obviously needed his dogs. Pronto.

"Oh jeeze," he groaned, breaking out into a nervous sweat and scrubbing his hands anxiously through his curls as the dogs stared up at him expectantly. When was the last time he actually drove?

He recalled he was also on camera. Heart thudding painfully, he slouched to the sterile, stainless steel kitchen where he tracked down the keys, psyching himself up. It wasn’t that he couldn’t drive. He just hadn’t done it in a really long time. And he didn’t have a license. But that was only a problem if he got pulled over. But honestly, who owned a Hummer in New York? They could barely fit in a single lane!

Despite his apprehensions, he retrieved the keys and hustled the twins out to the Hummer parked next to the curb outside. It was blindingly yellow, bigger than Cole's apartment, and intimidating enough to spin him into a full panic attack. The dogs loaded complacently, so Chris took a page from their book and got behind the wheel, frantically reminding himself about things like road rules and turn signal locations.

When he twisted the key in the ignition, the engine roared furiously, pulling a startled noise from his mouth he was grateful no one was around to hear except for Fitz and Hubert. They weren’t about to tattle on him, at least. He got his foot on the break and reached for the gear shift, blanching when he realized what he was looking at.

The Hummer wasn’t an automatic. He had never bothered to learn how to drive a stick!

When in doubt--Google. He typed in a how-to guide on driving a manual. He frantically scanned over how to use the clutch and switch gears. It couldn’t be too hard, could it? Mr. Donnelly sent him the directions, so he plugged that into the map. In current traffic conditions, it would take him thirteen minutes. He sounded like he really needed those dogs on the phone, so darn it, he would try! In a burst of insane bravery, he started pushing the pedals hopefully and put it into first gear. The Hummer lurched forward unexpectedly and the engine immediately died. Chris let out a slightly shriller scream than before, mashed the brake, put it back into park, and removed the key.

He didn’t have time for this!

Getting out of the car, he decided his only option was to flag down a taxi, load it up with the stuff in the back and the dogs, and admit his shame upon arrival--hopefully on time. Rounding to the back, he opened it up and immediately let out a strangled cry. How much stuff could these dogs need? There were boxes and crates, all labeled for each dog. Some of the things were costumes, grooming supplies, treats, and holding crates. It was too much to transfer. There was no way this was happening.

Just before he could decide to rock in the fetal position in the back seat between the dogs, his phone buzzed with a text message from Cole, celebrating the fact that Rosy was finally symptom-free. Panicked, he called him back.

"Cole, help me!" he shrieked into the phone as soon as his friend answered.

"Woah, what's going on? What do you need?"

“Do you know how to drive a stick shift?”

“Uh...yeah. Sure.”

He started to gush a hasty explanation about his situation. "ThedogownerswantthemtransportedacrossthecityandtoldmetodrivetheirHummerbutIdon'tknowhowtodriveaclutchandit'sreallyimportantandGooglecan'tteachmeintime!"

There was a beat of silence, and then, "Where are you?"

"Only like six blocks from your apartment. I'll text you the address! Hurry! I have less than twenty minutes!"

"I can drop Rosy off with the old lady downstairs. I'll be there in a minute."

He breathed a sigh of relief. This would all be okay.

Every minute that passed was excruciating. He sat in the passenger seat, jogging his long leg up and down anxiously while gnawing his fingernails to shreds. In another moment of insanity, he wished Cole had super speed instead of his power-cancelling power.

Then he felt like a horrible person, because he knew Cole would rather he didn't have any powers. What kind of rotten friend wished something he didn't want on him? Not all powers were welcome.

Except he had less than fifteen minutes and Mr. Donnelly needed his dogs! And according to his phone it was going to take thirteen minutes to drive there in current traffic conditions!

Footsteps slapped the pavement, alerting him to an oncoming approach. Cole sprinted up, sweat soaking the collar of his t-shirt. His face was flushed red and had clearly run the entire way there.

“Keys?” he called, pausing when he fully registered the Hummer. “Who the hell drives a Hummer in New York?” he cried in outrage.

Chris passed him the keys and climbed fully into the passenger seat, buckling in. Cole flew into the driver’s seat, bringing the monster to life.

“You got directions?” he asked.

“Yep, and we’re almost out of time!”

“Let’s get on the road.”

When Cole pulled away from the curb, the Hummer stayed rumbling and moving steadily forward. He was a little rusty shifting gears at first. He didn’t have a car here in New York, having sold it before moving to cover the costs of getting across the country and because the city was so easy to walk everywhere or use public transportation. They got going, though, and he hit a groove.

“Our ETA is twelve minutes, but we only have eleven left before I need to get the dogs there,” he moaned.

“Hang on to something,” he warned, and suddenly lurched forward.

“You know what you’re doing, right?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you want to get there versus obey road laws?” he asked, blowing through the tail end of a yellow light that he probably should have stopped for.

He was sincerely glad Cole hadn’t.

“Um...don’t run any body over and don’t jump the curb and don’t hit any cars. Other than that, get us there. He sounded really urgent on the phone. Take this next left.”

Cole cut somebody off making the left. Horns blared. He used his middle finger. Chris clutched the edge of his seat on his left and the door on the right. They broke out of traffic briefly. Changing gears, he roared down the road, blowing past stop signs without stopping and taking the next corner nearly on two wheels. Then they hit traffic again. Cole wove between cars, forcing his way into gaps he had no right squeezing into just to gain a single car length.

“I feel like such a douchbag driving like this in a big yellow Hummer,” he grumbled under his breath.

“You’re a good friend for doing this for me.”

He flashed him a sidelong grin. “You’re paying my ticket if I get pulled over.”

Chris nodded fervently.

Deadlock traffic didn’t stop him. He used the Hummer’s bulk to his advantage.

“You need to change lanes, but there’s no room,” he groaned.

Cole just clutched the wheel tighter and drew his brows together. “If they value their cars, they’ll move. Because mine is bigger.”

Chris decided to be safe and take a huff from his inhaler. Breathing became a trifle easier. He decided that his sudden inability to breathe had more to do with the doggy dander in the Hummer than their mad race through downtown.

Even if he had been able to drive the car, there was no way he was aggressive enough to make it through traffic. He would have been two hours late, following every road law and busy being courteous for other drivers. At first he was conflicted. They were causing a road hazard...and for what? Because some guy said he needed his dogs pronto. But on the other hand, he sounded so insistent. Mr. Donnelly was relying on him. He didn’t want to let the old man down.

“Cop! Cop! Cop!” he shouted, pointing frantically out the window where he spotted the corner of a cop car rumbling at a cross street.

Cole slowed down. He used his blinker. He gave the car in front of him some cushion. “You might have just saved our asses, man. I hate doing this in a car so goddamn conspicuous.”

“I hate doing this at all,” he grumbled.

They had seven minutes to reach their destination and five minutes to go according to his phone’s GPS. He bounced anxiously in his seat as they got past the cop car and out of sight. Suddenly, traffic gummed up. They found themselves stuck at an intersection, lights green, nobody moving.

Cole leaned into the horn. “Come on! I have dogs to deliver! Why is nobody moving?”

Just then, a car tried crossing. It was intercepted by a ball of blue light as a man stepped into the street. Using the light, somehow, he picked it up and smashed it into a nearby building. People and debris went flying. The man in the intersection was stark a** naked, floating, and there was a high pitched tinny noise that was starting to make the entire Hummer vibrate. The dogs whined, digging their paws over their heads.

“s**t, we don’t have time for this.”

Chris looked to him with wide eyes. “Are you going to…?” he began, unsure how to finish.

“Way ahead of you.”

The naked man in the street cackled like a lunatic, waving his arms about, and pointing to one of the cop cars that arrived.

No blue light. No more tinny noise. He even dropped to the ground from where he floated.

“I’ve seen this s**t before. I can’t believe they made more and got it shipped. All right, let’s get out of here.”

Before anyone else could realize that the mayhem had stopped, Cole charged through the intersection and between vehicles, leaving the cops and any other supers who could show up to deal with it. Except, it occurred to him, that if supers showed up, they might fall under Cole’s umbrella.

“How far does your...like, how does it extend…?” he began.

“Not as far as I’d sometimes like,” he grumbled.

Casting one last look over his shoulder, he settled back into his seat with a slow exhale. Crazy things happened in New York and people would move on. The minor blip of the naked man's powers would probably go unnoticed in the rest of the mayhem.

“So...what did you mean by you’ve seen that before. And they got it shipped?”

Cole glared out the windshield. “The people who took me were trying to ship a drug that gives supers temporary, additional powers. It also makes them manic, compulsive, short-sighted...or, to simplify, really, really high. There was a group of supers trying to shut them down. The bad guys were the ones who got a hold of me, using Rosy as blackmail, so I could help them get rid of the supers opposing them. Ultimately their plan failed. The good guys got a hold of me and they agreed to help me get Rosy back if I helped them take out the place the drugs were being manufactured. Things worked out. I thought we had killed their operation, but apparently we missed a spot,” he grumbled.

“Were the...uh...good guys. They weren’t with the government?”

“Private group, thank god. They understand I want to keep my name off the registry and they agree it’s for the better. Maybe some of them actually believe that. The rest just hope to recruit me someday.”

He hunched in his seat a little bit, gut clenching as he thought about the various faceless factions, all of them own and control Cole and Rosy. “I’m really glad,” he muttered. “I’m really glad they’re leaving you alone.”

“Thanks, man. Me, too. I’m glad I don’t have to give you this advice, but if you had powers, don’t ever take those pills. They’re awful. They were kind of a last resort for us, but if I could have found another way, I would have.” His hands clenched the steering wheel tightly, squeaking against the leather. “People shouldn’t ******** around with powers, try to make them bigger and better or give themselves more. It won’t end well. Not for anybody.”

He found himself nodding, grateful he didn’t have to think about that stuff. His dad was always disappointed he didn’t manifest any kind of power, but life was easier without it. He didn’t have to wonder about doing the right thing or how and when to use his gift. Instead he just had to worry about getting a couple of show dogs across the city on time. Wedging his long legs and arms around the spacious inside of the Hummer, he barely kept from hitting his face against the window as Cole took another hard corner.

By the next block, the subject changed. “Rosy’s feeling better. You want to come over for dinner one of these days? She wants to show you the hats she made Elsa while she was home and bored.”

“Only if you let me cook.”

“How about you pick something simple and teach me? She likes your cooking way better than mine. It’s an embarrassment,” he groaned.

Chris gasped ecstatically. “Really? You want to do that? We can do that! I can teach you tons of really simple things that won’t take you very long, will taste amazing, and Rosy will love. Do you have cast iron? Cast iron is the best to cook with. What’s your cookware?”

“Goodwill,” he snorted.

“You’re going to need some cast iron…”

Out of respect for his friend, he tried not to take over his kitchen unless invited. On the few times he was allowed to get in there and whip together a masterpiece meal, he made due with Cole’s despairingly lacking utensils and just improvised to make it work. He could get him some proper cast iron, a real spatula, and some other things as a belated “housewarming” present. Cole wasn’t the type to accept without a reason, so he would just come up with valid excuses. He could hit up the late summer farmer’s markets before heading over, bring them some farm fresh groceries…

“How much farther?” Cole asked, interrupting.

“We’re almost there. Looks like we’ll make it in time!” he exclaimed.

The convention center they were directed to was packed with cars and people. Cole determinedly muscled his way to the front steps where Mr. Donnelly rushed down to meet them. He was a man in his seventies, but had immaculate posture, tailored suits, and a two hundred dollar haircut.

Cole killed the engine and passed Chris the keys.

“Good, you made it!” Mr. Donnelly exclaimed as he opened the back door to let the dogs out. “I’ll worry about parking later. Good work, Mr. Powers. You saved the day.”

He passed him over four fifty dollar bills, as promised. Rounding the car as Mr. Donnelly and a swarm of assistants rushed forward to unload the Hummer, he passed the cash over to Cole.

“What’s this?” he asked, accepting it before he could realize what it even was.

“He said he’d pay me two hundred for making it here in time. Since you drove, you earned it.”

He frowned down at the cash. “How about we split it?” He tried to pass two of the fifties back to him.

Chris threw his hands up and backed away quickly. “No, no, no. You saved my bacon. I don’t need the money anyway. Keep it. I insist!”

“It doesn’t feel right. It was your job…”

He thrust his hands behind his back. “It’s yours. Buy Rosy something with it. That’s what I’d do with it, anyway.” Which was pretty much true. The shoes would make a good present, but he was thinking of adding to it with some other essentials, like the biggest box of crayons he could find and some new nail polish she could paint Cole’s toes with and a chinchilla plushy.

The chinchilla plushy was definitely on his to-do list.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking about right now, but stop it,” Cole grumbled, arms folded, cash still in hand.

He beamed happily. “I’m not thinking about anything,” he lied.

“Come on, I have to go rescue my kid from Mrs. Grenkowicz. Rosy is not into fig newtons, and apparently Mrs. Grenkowicz is. She’ll hate me forever if I abandon her there too long. We’ll pick up a pizza from that one place you showed me on our way back.” Casting one last little frown down at the money in his hand, he stuffed it away in his pocket.

“Giogio’s?”

“Yep, that one.”

They took off away from the convention center on foot.

“You should really know how to drive a stick shift. It’s a good skill to have,” Cole remarked about a block away.

He shrugged. “It probably doesn’t matter. I don’t have a driver’s licence anyway.”

“Ah, I forget how common that is in New York. You should get one, though. It’s good to have. Just in case.”

Chris found himself hunching a little further.

“If I hadn’t sold my car to get out here, I’d let you practice with it.”

“I have access to cars if I want to. I just don’t think I need it,” he muttered.

It wasn’t worth fighting his father on the topic. Besides, public transportation in New York was great. He got everywhere he needed to go without any trouble. This was the only instance where he could have actually used the knowledge...and a license.

“All right. I just thank god I have thirteen years before I have to worry about that with Rosy. Maybe I can convince her not to ever get one. Maybe you can, being a prime example of someone who doesn’t need it. Actually...that’s not a half bad idea…” he mused.

“There will be other things to worry about in thirteen years, too. How are you going to feel about her dating?” he wondered, seeing an opening for a change of subject.

Cole whipped toward him, visibly blanching. “Da...what? Date? No. That…no. She’s never allowed.”

He grinned, needling him a little further. “She might want to someday.”

“Well. She can’t,” he huffed.

Chris shuffled along, smothering his grin.

“I’m buying a gun. She’s not allowed to date ever. Crap, why did her mom have to be so pretty? I know she’s got to take after Madeline because she doesn’t take after me and she’s already beautiful. What am I going to do?” he wailed.

He patted his friend consolingly on the back. “She’s so smart, though. I’m sure she’ll make good choices.”

Throwing his head back, arms covering his face, he made a despairing noise. “I can’t. Not yet. She’s my baby and she’ll always be little…”

“Starting preschool in a week. How long until that’s high school?” he prompted.

They continued on like this. It was unusual. Not a whole lot made Cole squirm, but this had him practically clawing off his own face. Chris took advantage with some good-natured digging as the other man continuously died a little.

He gave him another pat. “She’ll always have Uncle Chris to give her good advice.”

“You better give her good advice. Because I don’t have a good history with good choices, and neither does her mother, evidently. So it’s all on you. Give my little girl good advice when the time comes, man. I’m counting on you,” he groaned miserably.

Chris liked the sound of that. Cool Uncle Chris, master advice giver. Cole even expected him to still be around by the time Rosy was a teenager.

They dropped by Giorgio’s, getting a pizza from the master Giogio himself and then headed back to the apartment to fetch Rosemary and head upstairs to eat. They made a bet on the way there on whether Mrs. Grenkowicz had gotten her to eat a fig newton and the winner got to pick the TV show to watch that night. Chris ended up winning, saying that he bet Rosy would have been talked into eating not one, but two of them. They settled in on the couch with pizza and Downton Abbey.

Sitting between them, Rosy turned to him and fanned out her fingernails to show him. They were purple and sparkly.

“Ooh, pretty!” he exclaiming, looking past her to Cole. “So are your toes…?”

“You bet. Let’s watch the TV show now, sugar bunny. You can paint Uncle Chris’s toes later.”

Next time he came over, Chris promised himself he would bring over new cookware, groceries, and the light-up Frozen shoes, ready to teach Cole how to be a culinary master. It was going to be great.

Did pizza count as Thanksgiving food? Maybe he could stack mashed potatoes on top of pizza. Turkey pizza with cranberry dressing. Why wasn’t this a thing? Maybe he should start his own company. Holiday themed pizzeria. Except he couldn’t cook. Maybe Chris could help him.

These were the thoughts that buzzed around Cole’s mind while he stared at the backs of people’s heads. Rosemary towered high above, standing on his shoulders where she could see the parade supposedly happening somewhere in front of them. His arms were dead from holding her there for so long, but her delighted cries made the pain worth it. Since she was up there, he had her take his camera and snap a selfie of them, misty-breathed and bundled up in coats, hats, and scarves to brave the biting weather. He was constantly amazed at how adept his three-year-old was at managing technology. She took about ten selfies before he convinced her they had a good one to send to Uncle Chris.

“Okay, sugar bunny, sit down for a second while I post this,” he called, encouraging her to sit on his shoulders so he didn’t have to support her. She whined about not being able to see, but at least he didn’t have to worry about her toppling off and breaking her head open on the sidewalk in the meantime..

Stripping off the glove of his right hand with his teeth, biting it there, he pulled up a text to his friend.

“I’m so terribly sorry, but that doesn’t say Chris Powers, does it?” a man asked in surprise at his elbow.

Cole thumbed the send button and glanced over where a tall, immaculately dressed blond man stood, crammed up next to him in the crowd. Real tall. He actually had to tip his head back to see the man’s surprised face. No wonder he was able to creep on other people’s texts. He probably saw everything from up there. The guy, older, looked inexplicably familiar.

“Uh...yeah. Chris Powers,” he confirmed.

Looking him up and down, his face bloomed with sudden delight. “I can’t believe this! You must be Cole. And your daughter, Rosy.” He thrust out his hand. “Can you imagine, in all of New York, we happen to bump into each other. I’m Roger. Roger Powers. Delighted to meet you, at last! I’ve heard so much about you!”

It was a test of will and commitment of bodily function that Cole’s sphincter didn’t drop open and deliver a load straight into his pants.

Roger. Freaking. Powers.

What were the odds?

“I don’t normally stop to watch the parade, but I had some business to attend this morning away from the house and I work only a few blocks from here.” He gestured vaguely. “I thought I would see how this year’s measures up. It’s always better in person than on TV.”

“My parade expert agrees,” he blurted, gesturing vaguely to Rosy.

He would have slapped his forehead if he could. Parade expert. Cute. Except that was in conversation with Roger Powers, whose name was a little more than self-describing. He always knew he would probably have to meet the big man eventually. He was Chris’ dad, after all. He just figured he would have some time to prepare not looking like a gaping idiot when he did.

“So, big dinner plans this evening?” Roger asked amicably, seeming wholly invested in learning what special day Cole had planned for his little family.

“Oh...uh...um...”

Cole was officially the master of articulation. He should get that printed on a business card.

And all he could think about was his brilliant plan for mashed potatoes and gravy on pizza.

“Not really,” he finished lamely. “It’s just Rosy and me, so a whole turkey is kind of overkill, and I’d probably screw it up anyway. I was thinking we’d do italian.”

Roger’s smile broadened. It was the kind of sunshine-beam that must have delighted most folks, but there was something about the man that rubbed Cole the wrong way. His reputation aside, his entire bearing, his expression, even the way he arranged his hands...it all seemed…Well, to be honest, something about his whole demeanor reminded Cole of his mother. That revelation sent a jolt of ice down his spine.

“You will most definitely be having Thanksgiving at my house with my family, then,” Roger declared, beaming. He reached up suddenly, plucking Rosy down off his shoulders and swinging her onto his hip. “Hello, my dear. And how did you enjoy the parade?”

“I saw Spongebob! He was huge!” she exclaimed.

Cole couldn’t believe the ease with which Roger parted him from his daughter. Spluttering, he was left no option but to tag along as the tall man cut an easy path through the crowd away from where the rest of the parade trudged on. The older man produced candy--candy!--from his jacket pocket to offer Rosy.

“Do you mind?” he asked Cole.

“No, not at all,” he replied mechanically.

Before he could comprehend what he agreed to, Rosy had three chocolates divested from their wrappers and her cheeks stuffed like a greedy chipmunk’s.

They only went a couple of blocks before they reached Roger’s intended destination. A sleek, black limousine idled at the curb in a No Parking zone. The driver emerged at their approach and had the door open the second before his boss ducked in. Cole wondered if he would have smashed into the side of the vehicle if the driver hadn’t been quick enough, determined to charge forward no matter what the obstacle.

“A limo, Daddy, a limozoom!” his daughter squealed.

“I see, sugar bunny.”

“Just for you, my dear.” Roger bopped her on the nose, seating her next to him on the leather upholstery. “Would you like a drink, Cole?”

“No. Thanks. I’m good.”

“Rosy? Would you like something? Perhaps an apple juice?”

“Sure!”

“Polite words,” he admonished automatically, still trying to wrap his head around what was happening.

“Sure, please,” she amended.

Roger happily opened a cooling box and pulled, of all things, a juice box sporting Frozen designs on its packaging, opening the straw and getting it situated before serving the toddler seated next to him. What kind of limo carried juice boxes? Cole gave serious consideration to pinching himself.

“So, Cole, how are you settling into New York? You’re from Seattle, right?” His face was nothing but open and caring, like Cole’s journey to the city was the most important topic in the world.

Sitting rigidly in his seat, he couldn’t shake his weird feeling, but he did his best to relax. It would be best, he knew, to make a good first impression with Chris’ father. His friend had a weird relationship with his family he rarely spoke of, but he knew that Roger was powerful and cutthroat. If he bungled this meeting, it could mean an end to their friendship.

“We like New York, don’t we Rosy? The city has been good to us so far. Thankfully we have Chis to help us navigate.”

“I’m embarrassed he didn’t think to invite you to our Thanksgiving earlier. He clearly knew you had nowhere to go.”

He and Chris had discussed Thanksgiving plans. His friend alternated between glum, because his family was a contentious lot and gatherings weren’t usually full of happy memories, but more like a well-rehearsed play where everyone played their role, things looked perfect, and nobody deviated from the usual steps, or they risked imploding the mirage. At the same time, he got to show off his kitchen prowess and eat a mountain of amazing food sans guilt. He promised to pack to-go containers full of leftovers they planned on enjoying together tomorrow.

He realized that he was now part of the play. Except he didn’t know the steps.

“Oh, I’m sure he was distracted with orchestrating your dinner. I hear he’s cooking up a storm.”

“They truly do. I’m so happy you get to see it first hand.” His grin widened. “So your decision to come to New York in the first place. You left your family back in Seattle. Everything you knew. Quite the bold move.”

“Things weren’t working out in Seattle. I had a guy offer me this job…”

“What wasn’t working out? Were you in some kind of trouble?” Roger couldn’t have sounded more concerned if he tried.

“Oh. Well. I was kind of floundering, struggling to get ahead, you know. This job was offered to me on the condition I move across the country, and when I looked at it, I hadn’t made a step forward in a few years. This afforded me some opportunities. So yeah, we moved.”

He left out the part where his daughter had been kidnapped by drug traffickers who blackmailed him into using his powers for a group of villains trying to push out drugs that affected supers, and that while their plans had foiled, he wanted to be as far away from them as he could get. Cole merely smiled.

“I really respect that,” Roger expressed earnestly.

A few more minutes of small talk delivered them to the large, grand apartment building that the Powers family resided in. A doorman greeted Roger as “Mr. Powers, sir,” and nodded politely toward his guests. They called the elevator to take them to the twenty third floor where Cole entered the intimidating domain his best friend called home.

Once again, Roger appropriated Rosy to carry while she sucked on her juice box, leaving Cole to trail awkwardly behind them. A huge, ornate fall wreath decorated the front door. Inside, he craned his neck looking around the massive foyer and the generous display of wealth in the hardwood flooring and black walnut end tables topped with priceless vases. Vaulted ceilings gave the impression of space and openness, punctuated noticeably with chandeliers. He almost lost sight of Roger with his ogling as the man strode further inward. He scurried to catch up, the soft lilt of chattering voices drifting to him.

“Dad, did you kidnap a kid?” a high, twangy voice shrilled from room Roger had disappeared into. “Because that’s so uncool on Thanksgiving.”

Cole suddenly regretted not sending out an SOS text to Chris to let him know what was about to happen.

“Of course not, Courtney. This is Rosemary.”

Rosy subsequently squirmed to get down, eyeing a buffet table full of hors d’oeuvres to attack. They stood in what was probably a dining room, but Cole thought of really as a banquet hall. A full, ornately decorated dinner table dominated most of the space, but his eyes were drawn to the tall, picture windows that displayed a jaw-dropping view of the Chrysler Building. A buffet table had been set up off to the side full of snack foods; a precursor to the main meal. The curvaceous blond nibbling on crackers and cheese looked at the toddler dubiously as she raced up, boosting on her tippy-toes to reach a platter of chocolate covered strawberries.

“Not too many,” Cole warned.

The blond’s attention speared to him. “Well hello,” she purred.

“Courtney, this is Cole Eccleston, a friend of Chris’. I bumped into them enjoying the parade and invited them to join us.”

She twittered a laugh. “You’re friends with that big lunk? Please tell me you’re kiddin’. Was one baby not enough for you?”

While he tried to devise a response to that, she scooted the plate of chocolate covered strawberries closer to the edge of the table and Rosy’s reach, then approached him for closer scrutiny, actually circling him once. He jumped when a fast hand gave his butt a squeeze.

“Well, Chris could do worse. Has done worse.”

“Why don’t you show Cole to the lounge?” Roger suggested.

“Why don’t you show him to the lounge. He ain’t my guest.” She tossed her bobbing curls and resumed perusing the buffet, passing sweets down to his daughter like a partner-in-crime.

He decided to intervene before she could eat herself sick, plucking her away and appropriating one of the strawberries from her sticky fingers to eat himself. It was half-mushy from her grip, but not bad. He grabbed an embroidered, cloth napkin from the end of the table to clean up her sticky hands and cheeks.

“Maybe we should go say hi to Uncle Chris, huh?” he suggested. “And I bet you Goose is here somewhere, too.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here. I need to go ask my wife what we have in storage from when the kids were little, so I’m headed his way. I’m sure we can find something fun for Rosy to do while you’re here. I’m afraid we have no grandchildren running around she could play with.” He sighed grievously, eliciting a massive eyeroll from Courtney as she reached the end of the buffet, plate stacked high with treats.

“Okay. Sure. Good idea.” Lord knew his daughter didn’t have much of an attention span and was known to descend into chaos without something to occupy her.

“Courtney. Take him to the lounge.” This time, it wasn’t a request.

“Come on, cutie pie,” she sighed, and he knew she wasn’t using the pet name on his daughter.

They didn’t have far to go. A room down the hall appeared to be “the lounge.” It was a comfortable space with big, plushy leather furniture, bookshelves occupying the wall space that didn't contain art. A giant, mounted television playing the rest of the Thanksgiving Day parade on mute and the room also contained a pool table and a full bar off to the side with what appeared to be a print of a Monet hung above it. Or, knowing this family, and actual Monet. The room was more intimidating than it was inviting.

Only one armchair was occupied. A tall man sporting trademark blond Powers hair sat there. One long, long leg crossed over the other at a right angle, his attention fixed on a magazine. He barely glanced up at Cole’s entrance, eyebrows raising a fraction of an inch. He nodded once, slowly, then returned his attention to the magazine. He wore a custom tailored gray suit, blue patterned tie, and socks with embroidered turkeys on them tucked into his shiny leather Oxfords.

“This is Cole, Aldrin. He’s Chris’s friend. And this is his kid, Rosalie.”

Green eyes pulled away from the pages once again, sweeping over Cole with what might have been renewed interest. It was difficult to say from the non-expression on his face.

“Rosemary. Or, just Rosy,” Cole corrected.

“Dad abducted them from the parade. You want a drink, Cole? You look like you could use a drink.”

“It’s kind of early…”

“It’s Thanksgiving. Everybody drinks early on Thanksgiving. How d’ya think families tolerate each other?” she snorted, going over to the bar and sorting through bottles.

As if indicating his agreement, Aldrin lifted his sugar-rimmed martini glass to his lips and took a measured sip.

“Fine. I guess I’ll take a beer. Rosy,” he warned when she reached for a fragile looking figuring of a horse on one of the end tables. “Look but don’t touch.”

She wilted. “Sowwy.”

He got his beer and scanned the furniture for the ideal spot to sit in when Chris entered, eyes practically bugging out of his head as he confirmed for himself that Cole and Rosy had gotten roped into his family festivities. He wore an apron patterned with orange and red leaves and there was a little flour on his freckled cheek.

“You’re here!”

Feeling rescued, Cole rushed forward to give him a half-hug and slap on the back. “Yeah, man. Your dad bumped into me while I was taking Rosy to watch the parade. It was super weird. Then he invited us to spend the day here.” He figured Chris might pick up on his context. “Invited” was a liberal term to use for the situation.

Chris, understandably, laughed nervously. “Well. How about that? I see you’ve met Courtney and Aldrin. Food won’t be ready for another couple of hours. Goose will want to hang out in the kitchen where the food is, but I bet we can tear him away to play with Rosy...ooph!” He grunted as the toddler knocked into his legs, nearly pitching him off balance.

“Uncle Chris! Uncle Chris! Uncle Chris! Up! Up!” she shrilled.

Obligingly, he swung her up and perched her on his shoulder. She held onto his hair for balance.

“I saw Spongebob!”

“You did?” he gasped. “I’m so jelly!”

“He was benormous.”

“Cool! What else did you see? Did you see Santa Claus?”

“No. Where was he?” she asked.

“We didn’t make it to the end of the parade. We’ll go see him when he starts hanging out in malls,” Cole promised.

“Hate to break it to ya, but you’re a little big for Santa’s lap, Chris,” Courtney drawled from where she mixed her own drink at the bar.

A blush crept into the corner of his cheeks from the jibe, as did most confrontations Chris had.

Cole did his best to maneuver him out of it. “Hey, maybe your costume guy has an extra red suit and white beard lying around!” He glanced at his daughter still astride Chris’ shoulder. “I’d kill for a Santa house visit, don’t you think?”

His friend lit up. “Yes! Of course! How fun would that be? With a big bag of toys. Lots of toys! All for Rosy!”

He realized the trap he fell in. “Well, maybe not too many toys…”

“Barbies and dinosaurs and blocks and books and robots!”

Now he’d done it. He accidentally gave Chris special permission to buy everything at Toys R Us to give to Rosy in the guise of Santa Claus. He surrendered, in no mood to shut down the Christmas spirit on either his friend or daughter, who began jabbering excitedly when it became clear that Santa wanted to pay her a special visit.

“Does Santa know our new address?” she fretted.

“Santa knows everybody’s address. The elves have a big book they keep it all in,” Chris assured her.

Behind him, Courtney muttered, “Am I evil for wanting to ruin this by mentioning Santa isn’t--”

“Yes,” Aldrin interrupted.

“Here we are!” Roger boomed, also entering the room toting a plastic storage bin. “Some toys when the kids were little.”

“He’s officially lost it,” the young woman sighed.

“He just really likes kids,” Chris reminded her reasonably.

Christmas came early as toys and books were pulled from the bin. Since he had a willing babysitter, he followed Chris back to the kitchen where dinner prep was in full swing, affording him the opportunity to meet Cindy. She was regal, her eyes kind, lighting up electrically the second he walked in and introduced himself.

“So good to finally meet you, Cole! We’ve heard a lot about you. Is your daughter here?”

“Roger appropriated her. They were looking at a serious game of Candyland when I left them,” he replied, shaking her powdery hand.

The woman tossed him a wink before turning back to her pie crusts. “Well, that’s Roger for you. He tried to talk me into having five or six kids. Can you even imagine?” she laughed.

Cindy put him more at ease than her husband ever could. Given his issues with mother figures in general, he counted that as a serious bonus in her column.

He stood back and watched the proceedings next to the chair containing Goose, who chowed down on tidbits of this and that. He was pretty much worthless in the culinary department, but according to legend, so was Cindy. Eventually Chris put him to work stirring things. He would be hard pressed to screw up stirring, just as Cindy was hard pressed to screw up pie crusts. Eventually Courtney joined back in, tackling a pasta salad with fervor. For it, Cole and Cindy were allowed to chop, but chop only.

Eventually he ran out of things he was helpful for, so retreated back to the lounge for another beer and to check on Rosy. Roger got a call almost the second he stepped in, so he tagged-in on toddler duty as the older man strode out of the room, phone pressed to his ear. Apparently business didn’t stop even on holidays. And with a potentially nefarious empire to run, he shouldn’t have been so surprised.

Meanwhile, Rosy grabbed one of the books out of the box and scurried it over to Aldrin, climbing up into his lap with some difficulty, positioning herself once she made it and mimicking his posture how he read his magazine. She looked up plaintively at him after a minute, and asked him politely to help her read it. He silently set his magazine aside, plucked her book up, and turned it to the first page.

“Winnie the Pooh...” he began with absurd seriousness.

Satisfied that she was taken care of, Cole meandered back to the buffet in the dining room to grab some snacks.

When timers in the kitchen began going off, Cole got roped back in to help carry platters into the dining room to set the feast out in full spread. The family gathered, putting on a good show for the sake of making things run smoothly. Roger praised the look of the feast, making Chris blush an interesting shade of vermilion. Dishes began circulating and food liberally dispersed.

“I'm so glad you could join us, Cole,” Cindy expressed as she handed him a bowl of dinner roles. “We should have had you over much sooner.”

“Thanks. I would have probably missed you, though. Chris says you've been doing a lot of work in Paris lately with a large client over there.”

“Oh, yes, but it's good to be home. It's nice to have a proper holiday here.”

Cole dished a large helping of green beans onto his plate, and then a smaller one onto Rosy's.

“Have you been on Chris’s YouTube channel yet? I hear it's gaining a cult following.”

He chuckled. “Not yet.”

“How many followers do you have now, Chris?”

He muttered a number into his mashed potatoes.

“I can't believe people actually waste time out of their day to watch you squeal at CGI monsters. I'm seriously losing my faith in humanity,” Courtney declared.

Aldrin put in his two cents. “I watch.” He seemed taxed of words after that, though.

“Didn't you get an invite to an upcoming con?” Cole prompted, hoping to help derail her sass.

“Uh...yeah.” Embarrassed, probably by the attention at the table, he seemed to mechanically shovel food. That wasn't like Chris. He was a savorer. Food was one of his biggest pleasures. “I don't know if I'm going to go. They want me to do a panel. In front of people.” Clearly the mere thought gave him anxiety.

His sister cackled. “Oh god, now that I would watch!”

Interestingly, it was Aldrin who threw the attention elsewhere to rescue him. “I just got back from a ski trip. Mt. Hood. Beautiful state, Oregon.”

“I thought you usually went to Utah,” Cindy said.

“Better culture on the west coast.”

Cole focused on getting food in Rosy’s mouth rather than down her shirt. She first declared she would only eat white meat from the turkey, but after two bites, recanted her opinion and demanded dark meat. After rectifying the meat debacle, she didn't touch it because she had discovered cranberry sauce and only wanted that.

“Cole, do you mind if I ask about Rosy’s mother?” Roger asked partway through the dinner. “Is she in the picture?”

“Never has been. She split right after Rosy was born. I haven't seen or heard from her.”

“You never looked for her?”

“We get along fine without her.”

“She should be responsible for child support.”

“From what little I know about her, I doubt she has the means to provide it anyway.”

They got onto the topic of schools and Rosy's upcoming birthday, but the conversation was quickly hijacked by Courtney and some drama in her life.

Rosy, instead of growing laden and lethargic from the meal like he did, wound up like a top and couldn't find it in her to sit still for the rest of the meal. As dessert rolled around, she took it upon herself to run circles around the table, playing a nonsensical game of tag where she evaded the reaching hands of the adults. All but Aldrin and Courtney indulged her, making half-hearted swipes at her as she raced by. She shrieked and dodged, clumsily tottering out of the way, lest she be captured and endure a hug.

On her last round about the table, with most dishes cleaned of their pie, Roger jumped out of his chair in front of the sprinting girl to catch her in front of him. She shrieked, but her momentum carried her forward, and Cole, in the matter of a split second, recognized the mutinous expression that crossed her angelic, little face. She got that same expression every time she meant to use her powers when she knew she wasn't supposed to.

Cole reacted out of panic, throwing out his own power and shutting her down. She collided bodily with Roger, who swung her up. Her yelp of surprise and subsequent shriek at being helplessly tickled was punctuated by a loud clatter. Down the table, Aldrin rocketed out of his chair toppling it backward.

“What the hell?” Courtney complained.

Aldrin threw out his arm to steady himself, nearly pitching off balance. He looked around at all of them, toward his father and Rosy where they both hollered, locked in a squirming battle, and to Cindy where she watched on in delight, cutting herself another piece of pie. His hands raised to his head, but he nearly smacked himself in the face.

Rosy noticed and pointed. “Daddy, look, he's a giant!”

“Are you having a stroke?” Courtney snorted.

Cindy raised an eyebrow. “Aldrin?”

The sentence he tried came out disjointed and garbled.

“He is having a stroke. Jeeze, I didn't think you were that old.”

Cole’s heart thundered. Roger settled Rosy safely on the floor and he released his suppression on her powers. Aldrin immediately steadied, taking in a calming breath.

“Aldrin?” Roger asked, catching into unfolding drama, snapping to attention. “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”

“I'm fine. Headache. Let's clear these, Chris.” He gestured to the dishes as if nothing had happened.

He continued to struggle for a minute, his movements a little jerky. He and Chris began gathering plates. Unconvinced, Roger watched until his son seemed to have shaken off the spell entirely.

“Should we call a doctor?” he asked.

“Don’t be absurd,” Aldrin retorted, hauling a load of plateware toward the kitchen and motioning for Chris to follow.

Placated, for now, he took Rosy by the hand to escort to the lounge, promising to find her Frozen on TV and musing that he could probably download a copy for her to watch.

Cole caught his breath, grounded himself, and then followed the brothers where they disappeared into the kitchen. By the time he caught up, Chris was talking about a hundred miles per hour, explaining frantically.

“...had a bad experience with people wanting to abuse their powers, and nearly got Rosy hurt and Cole killed, so he keeps it a secret, but I don't know why he decided to use it back there, and we've been working so hard not to let anything slip to Dad, because you know how what he's capable of, and all they want to do is live normal lives and not be bothered and I’m afraid what Dad’ll do if he finds out!” He was forced to stop and breathe, out of breath and red in the face.

“She was going to use her powers. I could see it in her face. I had to shut it down, because Roger would have definitely noticed,” he interjected, making Chris jump.

“Sorry, Cole. Aldrin’s power doesn't turn off. He noticed when you shut it down.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that,” he replied wryly.

Aldrin peered down at him from his looming height. He said, “Roger can't find out.”

“I know.”

Chris shuffled his feet, staring down glumly. “I tried to keep him off Dad’s radar. I've never had Cole over for a reason.”

Aldrin gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“We didn't have much of a choice. He kind of ambushed me this time. Can we trust you?” Cole asked, his own anxiety bleeding through.

Aldrin nodded.

He exhaled slowly. “Thank you. I need to lecture my daughter about revealing her powers when we get home. Again.”

Aldrin gave a terse nod, then added. “Roger is suspicious of you.”

“Suspicious of what?” Chris squealed.

“I don't know. He watches you. Warily. He might suspect something.”

Before they could get into that conspiracy, Cindy entered with a stack of dirty dishes, bustling over to the sink. “We should do this more often. It’s so nice to see everyone all at once,” she mused.

“Yes, definitely!” Chris agreed, trying to act casual and appropriately enthusiastic and bungling the attempt.

“Are you okay, honey?” His mother turned from the sink.

He nodded vigorously with a plastered smile. “Yep. Good. Very good. Great meal, huh? Good job on the pie crusts! They were delicious. The pie crusts.”

Cole clapped him on his back. “Hey, where’d Goose get off to?” he wondered, desperate for any subject change.

“Oh.” Chris pointed. “Food coma.”

Sure enough, still on his chair from earlier, the rotund chinchilla snoozed off his own personal feast.

“Smart. I’m about ready for my own nap. Here’s to hoping Rosy passes out soon.”

“Thank you for sharing her. Especially with Roger. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t renew pestering Aldrin about settling down.”

Aldrin made a noise in his throat that might have been disdain.

The others entered the kitchen, armed piled with plates and platters of leftovers. Rosy seemed to have abruptly lost energy and slugged listlessly, toting dirty silverware to contribute to the cleanup endeavor. Her energy spikes never lasted. Cole recognized her subsequent crash, thanking his lucky stars.

“I realize we didn’t give Cole a proper tour,” Roger proclaimed after he set down his load.

“Maybe next time. I’m sensing imminent implosion about to happen. If I don’t get her down for a nap, she’ll become an absolute nightmare,” he warned, swinging his daughter up into his arms. “I think we’ll go ahead and take off.”

The man frowned slightly. “I’ll summon my driver.”

“Not necessary. I’m leaving, too. I’ll drop him off,” Aldrin offered.

That seemed to irk Roger. A small line creased between his green eyes. “Don’t go out of your way.”

“It won’t be.”

“Thank you so much for having us. It’s probably the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve had in years. Once again, Chris, you are a kitchen master and I bow down to your culinary prowess!” He ducked in a half-bow, making Rosy squeak in weary protest.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Roger asked, recovering his mood and turning up the sunshine in his smile.

He cranked up his own bullshit smile. “Of course! Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Let me fix you up with leftovers before you go!” Cindy cried, digging through cabinets until she produced a mountain of tupperware, giving him hearty portions of everything.

“Hey, Chris. Business idea I had this morning. How do you feel about mashed potatoes on pizza?”

He cocked his head. “Um...it has merit?” In true Chris fashion, even if he thought it was a terrible idea, he tried to be encouraging.

Cole slogged his ways through thank-yous and goodbyes, holding Rosy in one arm and a stack of leftovers in the other. They made it to elevator and down to the ground floor where someone pulled Aldrin’s car around. It was a sleek sports car that Cole couldn’t identify, which was unusual in itself. He was pretty spot-on about identifying vehicles.

“Thanks for the save back there,” he said when he got Rosy buckled in the back and settled in the passenger seat up front. The car, he realized, had a lot of legspace. Given Aldrin’s significant height, it made a lot of sense. He stretched out, wondering if it was rude to pop the button on his jeans while he digested.

Aldrin nodded.

“You’re probably right about Roger being suspicious. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was sizing me up. And is it normal for him to carry juice boxes in his limo? We got to his limo and he was totally prepared to cart around a toddler.”

“The meeting was likely contrived.”

“And he used my kid to lure me in?” He felt his gut twist.

“He has no scruples. Of course he did.”

His chest tightened and he glanced back to where his daughter slept, his large dinner no longer sitting well. “So it was all an act. Playing with her. Giving her toys. Was it some twisted warning to me?”

“Oh no. Roger loves children. He would never hurt her.”

“Color me confused,” he grumbled.

“He wouldn’t consider separating her from you as hurting her.”

“So as long as he never finds out…”

“That you’re both supers, you won’t have to find out what he would want, or what he would do to get it,” Aldrin finished for him.

“Yep. We’re going to have a long, long lecture about using her abilities, especially during playtime, especially at that house.”

He nodded his approval.

“That man is pathological.”

He nodded again.

Life had been a lot simpler before anyone found out about his abilities. The real question was, what made Roger suspicious? What tipped him off that not everything was was it seemed? The only people who didn’t know were a group of dead drug traffickers, his immediate family, Mave...and Mave’s people.

A lot of her people.

He had a phone call to make.

After Aldrin dropped him off at his apartment, he dug through the contacts list on his phone until he reached the number he had not yet brought himself to use, even though he kept it. Scowling, checking on Rosy to make sure she was safely passed out in the middle of his bed, he dialed the number and locked himself in his bathroom, as if someone would overhear him from the hall.

The phone almost rang to voicemail, but someone picked up at the last second. “Yeah? Cole? I’m kind of busy.”

“You don’t have family,” he blurted unthinkingly.

“What?”

“I didn’t figure you’d be doing many festivities.” Unless, like him, she had friends she could mooch from. Or held her own Thanksgiving. Or a million other reasons she would be celebrating the day. He felt like kind of an a*****e for his insinuation. “Sorry. That was dumb of me to assume.”

On the other end, Mave sounded even more perplexed. “What? What are you even talking about? What festivities?”

“...Thanksgiving?”

“Is it really? Wow. I’m out of it. So what’s up? Cliffnotes of whatever it is, please. I’m waiting on another call.”

“How much do you trust your people? I’m getting some heat over here from an unexpected source, and I need to know you’ve got all your leaks under control. I can’t afford to up and move again, not that it would do me much good if people know what I am. I’d need to change my entire identity.”

“My people are solid, Cole. Jesus, after everything we went through,” she griped.

“Can you double check? I don’t even want people hinting that I’m super. Or Rosy.”

“Oh yeah. How is the little squirt?”

“She’s great. But seriously. Can you look into it?”

“I can, but it’s going to cost you…”

“I’m not getting involved again,” he growled.

“You’re in New York now, right?”

“Yeah…”

Mave made a squeak of delight. “Yes! Perfect! This is so great. I need your help. You do me this solid, and I will owe you for life, including looking into possible leaks and giving you a new identity if I find any.”

“No, seriously--”

“I’ve got a girl in Jersey who’s in serious hot water right now. I need somewhere for her to lie low. She’s got no money, no place to go, her bank accounts have been frozen. Government and anti-government are all hunting for her.”

“And you want to put her with me?” he cried in outrage. “No, Mave. ******** not.”

“Please, Cole. Please. She’s just like you. Wants to keep her head down. Doesn’t want attention. Takes no sides. She’s scared, she’s homeless, and I can’t get back into the States until at least wednesday, and all of my contacts and influence are west coast anyway. Just have her lie low with you. She can babysit for you!”

He groaned.

“Please, please, please. Remember that one time I saved your daughter?” she crooned.

He did remember. Vividly. It had been the worst week of his entire life. He would have never survived if not for Mave. He sat down on his toilet, dropping his head between his hands. He called her hoping to get less involved in her business, not more!

“Fine,” he groaned.

“You’re a true hero.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Give your baby girl kisses from her Auntie Mavey.”

He knew he was going to regret this. “Yeah. Sure.”

“And pancakes. Be sure to make her pancakes in my honor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I’d totally conjure an illusion of myself naked for you again if I could.”

“That was so uncool, Mave,” he grumbled.

“But it was hilarious. Okay, so I’m going to get my girl a train ticket. She’ll be up there in a few hours. Her name is Naomi Hendren.”

He gave her his address and took the time to look around his tiny shoebox apartment, wondering where he was even going to stash a fugitive.

“Make sure she isn’t seen getting to me! I want no trail of breadcrumbs.”

“That’s actually not something you have to worry about. This girl leaves no breadcrumbs, and it’s the only reason she’s gotten this far on her own.”

“Better hope not. Talk to you later.” He shut off the call, furious with himself for ever agreeing to this. It was never going to work out.

He eventually collapsed next to Rosy on his bed to join her in nap, marking this down as officially the weirdest Thanksgiving of his entire life.
__

Aldrin woke up about a minute before his alarm clock was due to sound. He shut it off before it could wail at him, as was his habit. Within a half hour, he was clean, shaved, and straightening a purple tie, emerging from his bedroom. He paused in the doorway, alarmed for a moment that his kitchen light was on, but it was only Naomi. His guest stood on her tiptoes, picking, with difficulty, through one of his cabinet’s higher shelves.

“Need something?”

She jumped with a squeak, a box of pasta toppling out of the shelf, bouncing off her head. She retracted her arm with a plaintive look, retrieving the assaulting pasta box.

“Seeing if you had herbal tea buried in here somewhere.”

He and Naomi hadn’t had much time in each other’s company. He had worked late and went to bed shortly after getting home, leaving her much to her own devices. This morning, her curly hair was a mess around her head and shoulders and she wore an overlong baseball Jersey, her toned legs otherwise bare. She didn’t strike him as the baseball type, and furthermore, it was a Mariner’s Jersey. Something appropriated from Cole’s closet, then.

Crossing to the kitchen, he opened another cabinet to rummage through, trying to recall the last time anyone had tea in his apartment. Finally, on the top shelf in the back, he procured two packages of Earl Grey, passing them down to her.

“Better than…” Her fingers closed around the packets, accepting them while the corners of her mouth turned down. “...nothing.” Her dark eyes raised to his face, ringed with dark circles like she hadn’t slept well. Her frown deepened. “You look too awake…”

Too awake? It was morning. How awake was he supposed to look?
“...right now. Look somewhere else. I can’t…”

Where else was he supposed to look? He tried to decide whether she was being rude, was too tired to notice her words, or if she thought this was humor.

“...handle you looking at me so awake.”

She raised a hand to block between them, shuffling to another cupboard to pull out a coffee cup, grasping almost blindly for one.

Aldrin was never more conscious of his movements and movement speed as when he was in the company of other people. Normally, he glided through his routine automatically, but with Naomi maneuvering around him, steeping her tea and staring down the challenge of his extra-tall bar stools before clambering into one, he couldn’t get into a rhythm. He got his coffee brewing and set to making himself food, feeling disjointed and out of synch.

“Would you like breakfast?” he asked, as was polite to offer.

She shrugged. “I’m not much…”

A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would have sufficed, but apparently he was going to get a full explanation. He assembled his pans and various cooking utensils and began pulling things out of the fridge while she got through the particulars of her decision.

“...of a breakfast person. Usually fruit is just fine. Maybe a muffin. I’d kill for a muffin.” She sipped desperately at her tea.

“No muffins,” he said with little apology. ‘Muffins’ weren’t a proper breakfast food anyway. “Perhaps some bacon?”

Her nose scrunched. “I’m a veget--”

“...arian,” he finished for her, resigned. “Ah.” He took his fruit bowl from the end of the counter and passed it to her.

“I do eat fish. Not for breakfast, obv--”

“Obviously,” he agreed before the sleepy word left her lips.

“You’re too awake. Cannot handle.” She slumped her head into her arms.

She quietly drank her tea and peeled an orange while he got his breakfast cooking and scanned the morning news on his tablet. Interestingly enough, although not surprisingly, his grumpy, sleepy houseguest was in the headlines. The hunt was still on for Naomi Hendren, 29, wanted for questioning by authorities in connection to a high speed chase that ended in violence with several supers using their powers in the middle of a crowded intersection on Thanksgiving. Thirteen people injured, one death. Only two people actually involved with the incident were in custody. Authorities weren’t sure the factions involved or who was affiliated with whom.

“You’re famous,” he announced dryly, pushing the tablet toward her.

She shoved a mound of curls out of her face, groaning. “I should have never given that guy a ride.”

“What exactly happened?”

She took a bite of her orange before answering, the picture of abject defeat. She chewed and swallowed before answering, giving him enough time to assemble his patience. Finally, she launched into her story. Since he asked for it, he waited quietly for her to get through it all.

“My cousins dragged me to this party. It wasn’t my thing, so I ended up waiting in the car. Then this guy comes out, asking me if I could give him a ride. He says somebody’s drugged him and wants to get to a hospital. I was blocked in. There was no leaving, so he makes me a deal. If he can move the cars, I give him a ride. Since there’s like, four, stacking me in, I agreed. Of course, he whips out some powers and uses...I don’t know what it was. For a lack of a better term, let’s say he used the Force. So he whips out these jedi powers and shoves these cars out of the way and I give him a lift. The next thing I know, I’m getting chased by goons with powers trying to drive my car off the road. Then the cops get involved. Pretty soon it’s mishmash of supers and cops all gunning after me and this stoner I’m hauling.”

“That was the incident in North Carolina on Thanksgiving?”

She nodded.

He had time, while she talked, to dig into his memory. He only knew about it because it was rumored some of Roger’s guys had been involved in the incident, although Roger lost interest and pulled his people before they could get identified.

“And now I’m here,” Naomi concluded glumly.

“How does Cole’s contact mean to help?”

“She says she can relocate me, help me disappear. The second my powers were identified, the focus seemed to shift. Suddenly, I was…”

“The one they wanted, not the man you were with.”

“Go figure, right?” she huffed, turning her focus onto her orange.

He didn't have any immediate follow up questions, so digested her side of the story while he cooked. She snagged a second orange for herself and contentedly drank her tea. He made the mental note to order groceries. Groceries were typically delivered on Sunday, but he would see about getting tofu, extra vegetables, maybe some quinoa to make sure she didn't lapse in intake or nutrition.

Naomi continued staring sleepily into space until his food was prepared and her half-lidded eyes wandered over to where he draped a healthy layer of beans over toast. She shoved her mouthful of orange to her cheek. “What the hell is that?”

“Beans. On toast.”

“Why are you eating beans on--”

“It’s breakfast.” He pulled baked vegetables from the oven to stack on the side next to several greasy links of sausage.

“Beans on toast,” she echoed.

He nodded.

“Those beans are a side dish one eats at a picnic with barbecue chicken,” she protested.

“It’s English.” Hoping to throw the subject, he asked, “Why didn’t you ever just register?” Perhaps not his most tactful segue, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought it might have solved her some of her problems. Registered, she had rights and protections otherwise not afforded to her in these kinds of situations.

She cut a sharp laugh. “You’re kidding, right? I’m not a jew in nazi Germany. I shouldn’t have to tell anyone. It’s the prin--”

“Principle of the matter?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll let you finish.” She gestured vaguely with her hand. “Go on. I’m interested. Please, continue what I was going to say.”

He’d done it again. People got annoyed if he cut them off too many times. When he lapsed into silence, frustrated with himself for overstepping his bounds and pursuing this topic in the first place, she stared him down over the rim of her steaming mug. He focused on his breakfast, putting his mouth to better use gearing up for the day. He couldn’t understand her protest to beans on toast. His recipe was delightful.

“What?” she finally needled. “Nothing?”

He shook his head.

“As I was saying, it’s a matter of choice. My body. My powers. My decision who does or doesn’t know. I don't want to be on some list where snooty mundanes argue whether I'm too dangerous for polite society.”

Would he think similarly if his father hadn’t registered him so many years ago? His father had celebrated his powers, not hid them. His personal opinions of Roger aside, there was never anything worth hiding in his family. But what if Roger had let him make that decision on his own when he came of age? Aldrin wasn’t a fan of anyone, particularly his father, telling him what he could do, but he supposed he would still register. It simplified matters.

“Do you have family?” he asked.

“Like me? Maybe somewhere. My mom didn't always get along with the idea of fidelity. She doesn't know who my real dad is, and her side of the family, while colorful, are normal.” She scanned him with what she probably thought was discretion over her mug while he ate. It took her what seemed like an eternity to broach the next subject, but a quick glance at his watch confirmed it had been only a minute. “I heard rumors your dad was involved with the incident that put me here.”

“Briefly,” he confirmed. “But Roger lost interest quickly.”

Likely when she became noncompliant. He might have tried reaching out to accumulate her. Her skills were intriguing enough for a second glance, but Roger had no patience for those he couldn't control. When it was immediately clear Naomi wasn't interested in drinking the kool-aid, he dropped out and left her to the other super groups and government officials who gunned after her.

“Chris says you and your father don't see eye-to-eye on much.”

He paused to assess her body language for appropriate subtext and found her tired and anxious, her lips pinched and her fingers white around her mug. From what he could tell, she was only reaffirming that he wouldn't sell her out to his family.

“We don't,” he promised.

“Know anything about this Mave woman?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Cole says she helped keep him off the registry. And saved his kid.”

He checked his watch. The conversation was eating up his morning much more quickly than he anticipated.

“I’m unaware of much of Cole’s history. Is there anything you need before I go or that I can bring back?”

“Tea. Green tea, preferably. Your Netflix password. A pair of really tall high heels so I don't have to break…”

At the same time as he sighed, “Your neck,” figuring where she was headed, she said, “my disco record.”

In a move entirely uncharacteristic for him, he arched his eyebrows, breaking the placidity of his usually unemotive face.

Naomi smiled victoriously. “Gotcha.”

Thrown, he decided to tackle one of her other requests. “I don't have a Netflix account.”

“House arrest sucks,” she grumbled into her tea.

“The TV has cable.”

“You have basic plus a sports package,” she pointed out blandly.

Aldrin saw no point in paying for channels he was never going to watch. “I'll call them today and upgrade,” he offered, checking his watch. He needed to be out the door in the next minute if he wanted to beat traffic.

Naomi flinched guilty. “No, no. Never mind. Don't…”

She paused, glancing at him, waiting for the interruption. He stayed politely quiet, inwardly kicking himself. He wasn't usually so tactless that people felt the need to call him on it. He had to do better.

“...let me be a burden. You didn't volunteer for this.”

Leaving his dishes to take care of later, he gathered his satchel and coat. “You didn't either.”

“Do you think I should turn myself in to the authorities, explain what happened? Hope they believe me?”

Since she asked, he provided full honesty. “Yes.”

Nodding to her, turning away as self-doubt cascaded across her features, he hurried into the hall. He tried to shake the feeling of guilt that needled at his insides. It was true--if she turned herself in and explained the situation in full, the authorities would probably not only let her go back to her old life, they would try to catch the people responsible for the drugged man and chase. She would be registered, hampering the government's involvement with her powers. They had so much legal red tape, it was doubtful they would ever successfully recruit her against her will. What was the sacrifice of a little privacy?

Aldrin knew he hadn't given a wrong answer, but it felt wrong.

With the start of his morning, he found himself analyzing their conversation instead of focusing on his work, trying to unravel the inner workings of his houseguest. By the time his morning meeting rolled around, it became apparent that he didn't have enough information. He hadn't asked the right questions. People, in his experience, were a collective of external symptoms. Words, expressions, body language. They were never forthright, but contextual clues could be used to discern their true motivations.

He multi-tasked while board members droned on, using his tablet and ability to focus on several things at once to begin digging. With the digital age, information could be accessed with a single click. It took him five minutes to glance over the basics of Naomi’s life. She was a digital artist, worked from home, never married, and used to run a yoga studio until she left it to pursue art full time, he assumed, after she began making enough money from it to support herself, which was rare enough in itself.

She was quiet. Private. Didn't post a lot on social media except for work purposes, promoting her art and interacting with fans, but rarely divulging personal details. She had a series of well-reviewed YouTube yoga instructional videos. She didn't seem to have an active personal life. Last serious relationship, according to Facebook, was three years ago, and she was rarely tagged in photos and events related to friends and family members. She was more social with internet strangers through her art.

He scrolled through her Twitter and Instagram accounts on his tablet while simultaneously keeping an eye on charts and figures being discussed on his laptop.

By the time he took his lunch, he had gone through with ordering a larger cable package and had extra groceries sent to the house.

Before he could decide what to eat, Chris texted him, asking if he wanted to meet downtown at one of his favorite cafes, which he quickly agreed to. When he arrived, his brother already had a table. He looked comfortable in his fleece-lined leather jacket and sweater underneath. Winter suited his bulky style preferences. Surprisingly, he also had Rosemary in tow. She sat in a high chair at the table, coloring on her paper placemat. her hair was done in pigtails and she wore her Anna dress from Halloween. Aldrin had seen all of the pictures.

He took his seat, arranging his long legs with some difficulty under the table. “I thought she had preschool.”

“She only has half-days. She usually goes to daycare after, but I've been taking her a couple days a week in the hours until Cole gets home.” Chris shrugged, trying to play it off, but clearly pleased with himself and the trusted responsibility. As he deserved to be. This was something he was made for. He made a terrific nanny.

Turning to Aldrin, Rosy seriously intoned, “Fee-fi-fo-fum!”

He wasn't sure what an appropriate response would be.

“Did you fall from a beanstalk?” Rosy asked when he didn't reply.

“No.”

“Giants live in beanstalks.”

“I live in an apartment.”

“Me too!” she cried in delight, and then resumed coloring.

Aldrin sincerely didn't understand children.

“How's Naomi?” Chris asked, a note of anxiety gripping his voice.

“Fine.”

“Did she sleep? Cole said she slept non-stop for the first two days, and then didn't sleep at all for the next three. Of course, she has good reasons. I probably would be a wreck in her position,” he babbled, wringing his hands.

Aldrin hadn't checked up on her at all in the night, but she exhibited signs of sleep deprivation.

He shook his head. “Very little.”

A waitress came by to take their orders and fill water glasses for them.

“Cole isn't happy with Mave. He's super stressed out about it,” Chris admitted glumly.

His brother was an emotional sponge and was especially in-tune with Cole the closer they became. Usually, from everything Chris told him, despite being a hardworking single father, Cole was fairly mellow. He fully supported their friendship. However, he wasn’t sure what to think about these contacts of Cole’s, and the drama they were capable of inflicting. At least he didn’t seem keen on maintaining many ties with them.

“What do you know about his contact, Mave?” he asked.

He fidgeted with his paper napkin, absently shredding it. “They have a tense relationship. Remember I told you some guys used Rosy to get to Cole? Mave was the one to get him out of it. She's a really, really, really powerful illusionist. Know how most people with illusion are pretty worthless? Can do party tricks for a few friends, but they fall apart with crowds?”

He nodded.

“Cole says Mave can work entire crowds. Whole city blocks. She has crazy control.”

That was, as far as Aldrin knew, unheard of. Illusion was tricky. It fell apart quickly. It only took one detail-oriented, well-grounded person to make an illusion implode.

“Cole told me that she can even lose an illusion, but get it back within minutes.”

That, Aldrin had difficulty believing. Once people became aware that their eyes were being tricked, they became impossible to fool. They started looking for discrepancies in their reality. To cause a person--less multiple people--to fall for an illusion twice in a row was supposed to be impossible.

“Cole doesn't like her much, but he trusts her. He just wishes she would call him back.”

To that, Aldrin was in agreement.

Chris suddenly perked and he braced himself for an abrupt topic shift. “So Rosy’s birthday is the first week of December, and I got Cole to agree to let me take them to Disney World! They've never been. What I don't know is the hotel situation. Cole gets uncomfortable if I spend too much money, and he's already over the edge about plane and park tickets, and I think he would have a stroke if we stayed at the Disney Resort, so I'm thinking we ought to stay somewhere lower key, but still nice. Am I overthinking this? We'll only be there Friday and Saturday night.”

“Go to the resort,” he advised without having to think it over. Cole could overcome his fragile male pride, and he would get cherished memories out of it. The resort would improve their trip and the experience.

“You don't think he'll cancel if I push him too far?” he fretted.

“No.”

Between them, Rosy babbled excitedly about Disney World and all of the things they were going to do there. She wanted to meet her heroes, Anna and Elsa, obviously, as well as about fifty other characters from her books and movies.

“Leaving for a weekend won’t bother you if Naomi isn’t gone by then, will it?” Chris fretted.

“Not at all. If Mave contacts Cole, forward it to me and I’ll handle the details.”

He grinned in relief. “You’re the best.”

Their food came and, at his brother’s request, he helped him try to prioritize what parts of the park they should see. With a four-year-old in tow, and Chris’ health not robust enough to maintain a hard burn of energy for too long, they weren’t going to get to everything. They would get to as much as they could in the two days they were there without overtaxing everybody.

“I’ve already begun taking extra vitamin C and stuff so I don’t get sick on the plane or in the park. I mean, I probably will, but it’ll be worth it.” He cast a fond look toward Rosy as she nibbled on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into triangles, as well as carrot sticks and apple slices.

Aldrin almost dared to disagree. Without significant anxiety or depression lingering over his brother’s head, his immune system usually improved. This friendship with Cole seemed to help fend off his inner demons, imbuing him slowly with confidence and helping him manage his stress. He couldn’t be prouder.

Reaching over with sticky, jam-covered fingers, Rosy reached for his sleeve to tug. Aldrin shifted just out of reach to preserve his suit.

“Can I have a giant piggy-back ride?” she asked. Pausing, and then seriously intoning, “Please?”

Chris quickly rescued him from sticky jam hands with a wet wipe, using it to mop up her little fingers and cheeks. “Are you all done, Rosy?”

“Uh-huh. Can the giant give me a piggy-back ride, Uncle Chris?”

“Umm…”

Aldrin stood, reaching out and plucking the now-clean toddler from her high chair, lifting her high above his head to perch on his shoulder. She squealed in delight, making him promise not to drop her. She fastened her tiny fingers in his thick hair. He was eternally grateful Chris had the foresight to bring along wet wipes to mop her up with.

“Walk around!” she squealed.

“Don’t tell Roger,” Aldrin requested of Chris, who beamed up at him with unfettered glee.

He took a stroll around the cafe. Despite her insistence at not letting her fall, the child squirmed the entire time. He adjusted and shifted his balance accordingly. After one turn around the restaurant, eliciting smiles from the other patrons, he sat back down and returned Rosy safely to her highchair.

“What do you say, Rosy?” Chris prompted.

“Thank you, Mr. Giant! Did you see me, Uncle Chris?”

“I did. You were so high up!”

Aldrin checked his watch. If he wanted to squeeze in a workout, he needed to leave, but he would wait for Chris to be ready to go. Thankfully, his brother began gathering his things, making sure he left with everything he came in with.

“Thanks for helping me plan. Are you sure Cole won’t freak out if we stay at the resort?”

“He will. He’ll get over it. He’ll thank you for it.”

They embraced quickly, and Aldrin gave Rosy an awkward pat on the head.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. This time, Aldrin made sure to get home on time to see that his guest settled in well. When he walked in, he found her passed out on the couch. He made his way quietly through his evening, leaving a meal for her in the fridge covered in plastic wrap in case she woke up. He draped a throw blanket across her and retreated to his office to work until bed.
__

Buying art became a more involved process than Aldrin anticipated. Naomi spent a lot of time staring at his bare, white walls, and then took a dozen measurements, sketched scale versions of his apartment with various combinations of different sized art frames. Then, she got online and began researching.

This process took days.

The project at least took Naomi’s mind off of her own troubles, especially while he went to work and couldn’t keep track of her ups and downs. He also tried to get her to buy some new clothes for herself to last her, ones more weather savvy as average temperatures dropped, but she refused, actually offended, declaring that she already felt enough like a charity case without him fronting her for a wardrobe.

Aldrin determined it to be a battle not worth fighting, his personal opinions about the foolishness of pride aside. She might change her mind if Mave took any longer to get back to them, although he was beginning to wonder if Cole’s mysterious contact was actually dead and help wasn’t coming for Naomi.

He made a point to spend evenings with her to stave off the sense of isolation she occasionally mentioned. They usually made dinner together. He adjusted his diet, substituting much of his protein with non-animal sources, fish, or simply made meat on the side for himself. It wasn’t a huge sacrifice. Naomi had been a vegetarian since she was fifteen and knew how to put together amazing meals for herself that hit all points of nutrition and taste. She was almost as good wielding a spatula as Chris. Almost.

It came as no surprise that she had already gotten started by the time he walked through the door on Wednesday, almost an hour late due to an unplanned meeting with one of his middle managers over a supplies shipment debacle that resulted in the company needing to find a new supplier on short notice.

“So I was digging through your cupboards…” Naomi began as he hung his coat in the closet. “And you had this stashed away.”

He glanced over to where she gestured to a bottle of wine sitting on the counter.

“Oh. Yes. I don’t drink wine very often. It was a gift from the CEO of a company trying to take over mine.”

“I googled the brand. That’s a five thousand dollar bottle of wine.”

“Why don’t you sell it and buy yourself some new clothes,” he suggested, unable to pass up the opportunity.

“I thought I would help you drink it instead. Most of my wine to date has come out of boxes.”

“By all means.”

She muttered under her breath as she put a casserole dish into the oven. “Who loses a five thousand dollar bottle of wine in their spice cupboard?” Louder, she added, “You aren’t just rich. You’re annoyingly rich. I found you a piece of art today.”

“Oh. You settled on one?”

Brushing off her hands with a dish towel, she retreated to the other end of the counter and gathered his laptop, opening it and clicking onto a saved page, although kept the screen pointed toward herself until she was ready to reveal it.

“Prepare yourself,” she warned somberly.

The suspicious raise of her eyebrows and terseness at the corners of his mouth gave her away. He wasn’t sure what sort of abomination he was about to witness, but he did, in fact, brace himself. She was too amused for this to be serious.

She turned the laptop around. The image was, as he suspected, not one fit for human eyes. The visage of a buck-nude Donald Trump riding a Stegosaurus into battle against a giant spider robot driven by Hillary Clinton with a scantily clad Vladimir Putin swooning theatrically in the foreground assaulted his eyes.

“How do you feel about political pieces?” she inquired.

“Your eye for class and elegance knows no equal.”

She barely smothered a snort. “For the low, easy price the same as this bottle of wine, this classical masterpiece can be yours forever.”

“Somebody would pay five thousand for that thing?” His eyebrows raised a fraction.

“Since it’s still on the market, obviously not.” She closed the laptop. “Maybe I’ll have to keep hunting. I don’t know if it has quite the right...je ne sais quoi.”

“Je ne sais quoi is not a quality it lacks,” he snorted, busying himself with hunting down his seldom used corkscrew to open the bottle of wine.

She began pulling out the makings of a tossed salad from his refrigerator. “One of these days, stretch, I swear. One of these days, I’m going to make you smile.”

“I smile,” he protested, finally procuring the corkscrew from the back of a drawer full of kitchen appliances.

“I’ve lived here nearly a week, and I have yet to see you crack a grin. Although your amused face is different from your unamused face. Your nostrils flare when you’re unamused. Took me, like, five days to suss that one out.”

He poured her a generous portion from the bottle, passing it over to her to sample, and then a smaller glass for himself.

“Maybe if I get you drunk, then I’d get a smile out of you,” she mused.

“It takes a lot to get me drunk.” Being seven feet tall and over two hundred pounds had its setbacks.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Cheers,” she bid, clinking glasses with him. After a single sip, a cascade of disgust and disappointment filled her face. “Ugh. I’ll stick to boxed wine.”

His sip resulted in similar disappointment. It was too bitter. He sent the rest down the drain.

Naomi looked on with absolute confliction. “I can’t…” She began. “There’s several hundred dollars in this cup. I can’t just…”

When he began to finish four her with, “Pour it out,” she chimed in with, “...banana dance.”

“Banana dance? Not your best,” he chided.

“I wasn’t expecting it. I’m not on my game.” She looked into the deep red wine in her glass with a dejected sigh. “I can’t just dump it.”

Her solution came after another moment of contemplation. Bracing herself, expression hardening, she tipped her head back, brought the glass back to her lips, and chugged it. Aldrin watched on in amazement.

“Oh god. Bad plan. Shouldn’t do that with tasty wine, much less that s**t!” She coughed, pounding her chest.

“Was it worth it?”

“Yep.”

He moved to pour the rest of the wine down the sink, but she lunged to intercept him. He easily pulled away from her, given how slow--in his eyes--she truly went.

“Wait! I can’t let you.”

“It tastes terrible.”

“It’s five thousand dollars worth of terrible.”

He didn’t have the time or patience for this. “It’s actually free, since it was a gift.”

She whined pathetically.

“It’s not even that much money. We can buy five thousand dollars worth of better wine.” Or, if he could force it upon her, clothes.

Naomi folded her arms. “You really need to check your privilege sometimes.

“I won’t apologize for my wealth,” he scoffed.

“A little humbleness would suffice. You’re horribly obnoxious about your money.”

She reached for the wine bottle, but he pulled it out of her reach. He wasn’t about to let her suffer it because of a couple of dollar signs. Nor did he care that she thought about his attitude toward money. He had it. He’d always had it. It was a fact of life and she could either take advantage of it or resent him for it, although it appeared she leaned strongly toward the latter.

“You chose to be a starving artist, not me,” he reminded her.

At her next swipe for the wine bottle, he sighed and simply lifted it high above his head. She looked up at it in consternation, and then resignation. She couldn’t reach that high and she knew it.

So instead, she poked the center of his chest. “I might be a starving artist, but at least I’m not a snob. God, you’re worse than my cat!”

Cat. How had he missed that detail? She owned a cat. He was instantly disappointed in her as a human being. Cats were the incarnation of evil.

“You have to leave now,” he declared.

She fell back a step. “I...what?”

“You can’t live here. Not if you own a cat.”

“Well, it’s not like I have the cat here,” she huffed.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s the principle of things.”

She squinted at him, nose scrunched up. “You’re going to spell it out for me this time. I legit can’t tell when you’re kidding or not.”

Aldrin couldn’t tell either. Not when cats were involved.

Before he could figure it out, a knock on the door interrupted them. Stunned, they both stared toward the door. Nobody buzzed his apartment, but there were a few people the doormen would let through. It was most likely Chris.

Another knock. “Aldriiin. It’s me! Open up!”

“Who the hell is that?” Naomi hissed in a panic.

His expression darkened. “My sister. Go. Don’t come out of your room until I get rid of her.”

Naomi snatched the laptop to bring with her, pausing in the living room to gather her sweatshirt and a few other personal items that indicated a second resident, quietly shutting herself in the guest bedroom. He set the expensive bottle upside down in the sink to drain while she was out of the room and went to answer the door, bracing himself for the pestilence of his life that was Courtney Powers.

She breezed past him when he opened the door, wearing a bright pink vest over a snowflake patterned sweater and carting a bulging tote bag under her arm. She snapped her bubble gum behind her teeth, making herself immediately at home in his living room.

“God, Aldrin, why don't you ever answer your texts?”

The answer seemed quite obvious to him.

She kicked off her shoes and scurried over to the couch, dumping her tote bag down and pulling things out of it to fling on his coffee table. “So I brought a Nicholas Sparks movie, and something about cheerleaders, and one about a gimpy dolphin. And snacks! Chocolate, licorice, sour gummies, and I thought we could make popcorn.”

“I have dinner in the--”

“Oh, and cherry lime cola!”

Courtney Powers, the only person who ever interrupted him, instead of the other way around.

“Not tonight, Courtney.”

Blithely ignoring him, she considered their movie options, popping and cracking her gum. “I'm thinking not the gimpy dolphin. How do you feel about cheerleaders?”

“Courtney, I have a lot to get done tonight.” He stood stalwartly, arms folded.

“You work more than Papa does these days. I'm literally saving you from your own boringness. You should be thanking me.”

Courtney was not to be dissuaded. He desperately employed distraction techniques. “How about we postpone do lunch and shopping tomorrow.” He didn't want to do shopping with her, but it was a small sacrifice. “I have an open invite to Harriette Landau’s boutique.”

It was his ace in the hole. Harriette designed for supers, and supers only, and she was obscenely private and exclusive. Appointments were usually made months in advance. They'd met at a charity function. He ended up at her place. She made sure he was always on the list for an appointment at her store.

The gum fell out of Courtney’s mouth onto the floor. “Shut. Up.”

“The offer leaves the table in one minute,” he threatened.

Courtney squealed and shoved everything back in her tote bag. “You're the best, Aldrin! I can't believe you have an in with Harriette Landau! Why didn't you ever tell me?”

She flew toward him and nearly knocked him off his feet with the force of her hug, but he had enough time to brace himself for impact. Courtney picked him up as if he weighed no more than a puppy and slung him around.

“I’ll see you tomorrow! Love you!”

Tomorrow, he would deeply regret this. And probably every day after. As if his sister didn’t have enough excuses to pester him. His in with Harriette would give her reason to plague him to the end of his days.

Courtney skipped out the door, wishing him a good night, already on her phone presumably to brag to her friends.

Naomi emerged from the bedroom as soon as she was gone. “You’re friends with Harriette Landau?” she quipped dryly.

“Acquaintances, really.” He retrieved the fallen bubblegum from the floor to throw away.

She took up the spot on the couch Courtney vacated, laptop balanced on her knees. “Can you take a picture inside her store for me? I just want to know what it looks like.”

“I could have her make you something.”

“Wouldn't you need me there? It's not like you can pull something off the rack for me.”

“I know your measurements.”

Naomi turned slowly, her eyebrow raising. “Come again?”

“At least a fair estimate.”

“How the hell--”

“I'm an engineer. And very intelligent. I can tell at a glance.”

It was all mostly just background information he usually filtered, but he could call up approximate measurements on every person he met. Naomi had lived with him long enough and preferred fashion that didn't obscure her curves, so he was confident he could rattle hers off within a few millimeters of precision.

“I don't know if that's creepy or impressive.” By her expression, she leaned toward creepy.

He didn't see the problem. “I do the same for cars, buildings, roads…”

“Your brain must be a crowded place.”

That, he couldn't very well argue.

Naomi cocked her head, staring at something on the laptop screen. Slyly, she glanced over at him, and then back to the screen.

“Huh.”

He didn't request for elaboration, retreating to the kitchen to check on the casserole in the oven.

“I wouldn't have guessed,” she mused. “You don't look over forty. I had you pegged for thirty-five-ish. Makes sense though. You can't get wrinkles if you don't move your face.” She glanced at him, recognized that he didn't have a reaction for her, and then turned back to the computer screen, eyes widening in alarm. “What!” She whipped toward him. “Why didn't you tell me you live life in slo-mo? No wonder you--”

“Cut you off so much? I don't mean to.”

She was looking at the list of documented supers, apparently. He was surprised it took her this long. It was all public record and easily accessed.

“I could have been talking double-time along along. Why didn't you say something?”

He shrugged. “You never asked.”

“Man. Does that suck? It must suck.” Before he could reply, she had more to add. “Except some things. Obviously you have more time to think. Analyze. Discreetly figure out my measurements. Slo-mo sex. That must be fun. Unless it's bad sex. Not so much. Slo-mo pooping, too. Not so fun. Slo-mo sunsets. Ooh. Slo-mo sunsets! I'd kill for that. And you can dodge easier if someone wants to punch you. I bet it's annoying when people ramble, like I'm doing now.”

She'd at least picked up the speed of her speech.

“Why doesn't it list super tall on this thing?”

“My height isn't a power.”

“Sure it is! You can save kittens from trees and get things off the top shelf and give the highest of fives!” she declared.

“I absolutely will not save kittens.”

She snorted. “Oh right. Am I still getting the boot for owning a cat?”

“Don't tempt me.”

“What’s with the cat phobia?”

“Cats are evil.”

“But fluffy.”

“Menacing.”

“You got mauled once, didn’t you.”

“Yes. In slo-mo.”

Giggling, she set the laptop aside and headed past him into the kitchen, stopping with a cry of alarm when she saw the upside down wine bottle in the sink. Mouth open, abject horror written across her face, she made an inarticulate noise and gestured vaguely between it and him.

“It was crappy wine,” he reminded her sternly.

She folded her arms grumpily. “Can I keep the bottle?”

He passed it graciously over. “By all means.”

He could practically see the cogs in her head turn as she made diabolical plans to refill the bottle from some of her boxed wine to serve to friends at parties and brag. He wondered if it yet occurred to her that she left her friends and family behind when she went on the run, and opportunity to use the wine bottle ruse wouldn’t present itself again for quite some time, and that was providing that Mave reappeared to take care of her, like she promised.

The sudden wilt to her posture and expression cued him that it finally crossed her mind.

She abruptly changed the subject from there. “So how annoying is it when you watch slow motion scenes in movies?”

“Extremely.”

“How annoying is it when....people...take...long...pauses...between…”

“Stop it,” he chided.

Grinning cheekily, she rinsed the wine bottle and then ferreted it away. He shook his head and dealt with finishing dinner and procuring proper drinks to go with it, ones that wouldn’t offend their palates.

“How do you do in crowds with your power?” Naomi asked as they dished up their plates. “Better? Worse?”

“Better. Easier to navigate.”

“Huh. Wish I had that. Invisibility in crowds is completely unhelpful. People try to walk through you. Driving?”

“Better reaction time.”

She took a moment to scramble up onto the overly tall stool. “Extreme sports?”

“I enjoy skiing.”

“s**t, that must be incredible.”

He hummed an affirmative.

Naomi fell silent after that, contemplative. She popped her chin in her hand and picked at her food with the same faraway look she got whenever she sat down to sketch. She was quiet for much longer than he anticipated. For a self-professed introvert, she did tend to get chatty, but he supposed that had more to do with him being literally the only person she had to talk with than the actual desire for human interaction.

Just before retreating off to bed, long after dinner, she abruptly asked. “Does it ever bother you?”

“What?”

“That anybody can look up your name, year you were born, powers you were born with, the area you live in.”

“No. Most of that is accessible information anyway.”

“It reminds me of a sex offender registry,” she complained.

“But it’s not. It has neither interfered or conflicted with my life at any time, and I’ve been on it since it became clear I had powers.”

“You think I’m being stubborn, not registering?”

“Yes.”

Naomi stood and yawned, fluffing out her dark curls. “Well, you’re also untouchable. Between your father, your wealth, all of it. You have the name. The significance. People would notice if you disappeared.”

Softly, he reminded her, “People noticed when you did.”

“And now my life is in danger.” She sighed, eyes fixed toward the floor. “I don’t know what to do. I’m going to bed.” Shaking her head, she slumped off.

Once again, Aldrin was reminded of the problem he couldn’t fix. He couldn’t do anything more than make her comfortable and keep her happy until Mave showed up. Maybe it was time to ignore her plea not to acquire her clothes, fix at least one more small thing that he had power over. Would Courtney notice tomorrow if he put in a request for a few feminine items?
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