Chapter Text

Clearing up the paperwork aftermath of Project Butterfly is, without a doubt, more of a pain in the ass than Project Butterfly itself. Like for sure.

Chris spins in his swivel chair, throwing and catching a ballpoint, bored out of his mind, though still impressed he can do both those things at once. A man of multiple, simultaneous talents.

John has popped back from his new office to help Leota cross i’s and dot t’s - and Emilia is probably eating jell-o and also bored out of her mind right now. But Chris is still more bored. He wins that fucking prize.

“Dude stop fucking spinning, you’re making me feel sick.”

“Uh, then avert your four eyes, Dy-“ Chris catches himself and stops spinning, “John.”

“Economos is fine.”

“John is a more forgettable name, but, it does suit you, dude.”

“…Thanks.”

As John is giving Chris a withering look and Chris is about to spin again, the HQ door bangs open with flourish and, of course it is, of course he’s standing there with a big goofy grin on his face like it’s the most normal thing.

“Hey guys!” Adrian cheers, before adding with a ridiculous fingergun to Leota: “And girl.”

He is, somewhat surprisingly, dressed in civilian clothes rather than his Vigilante suit. Jeans and a sweater - looking like a GAP threw up on him.

“What the fuck.” states Leota, on behalf of everyone.

“Dude you just got shot, how the fuck are you out of hospital?” Chris exclaims.

Adrian chuckles like, what a weird question. “They took the bullets out, dude. And saved my kidney. Or took it out or something. Why would I need to stay?”

Leota frowns. “Shouldn’t you be on bed rest? Doped on painkillers?”

Adrian gives his biceps a proud little flex like that explains anything. “Don’t even need ‘em. I’m prett-ey tough.”

“That is a freakishly fast healing time for a normal person.” John stares up from his laptop incredulously.

“How long do you think it takes to heal from being shot? A whole week?” Adrian replies just as incredulously.

Leota rolls her eyes because seriously, this guy, “Sev-er-al weeks. At least. Harcourt’s still in hospital right now and you got hurt the same night.”

Adrian blinks. “Oh shoot, really? I thought she was like, taking vacation days before they timed out.”

Chris groans. “No dude, she has to learn to walk again.”

“Oh. Sorry. That sucks ass.” He looks slightly chastened. “But, honestly I feel fine. Look, totally healed over-” and he begins to pull up his sweater and t-shirt and twist around to show the gang his healed back.

Leota half covers her eyes, “Hey I don’t want to see your—Holy shit.” She drops her hand. “Why don’t you have a scar?”

Adrian twists back around. “Why would I have a scar? They took the bullets out.” He attempts to throw a ‘like, obviously’ glance at Chris that’s met with pure exasperation.

“You still get a scar from being shot even if they take the bullet out.”

“Pfft, well I’ve been shot a bunch over the years and I’ve never gotten a scar. Maybe you guys have a shitty skincare routine.”

“Dude, I have scars. And every single muscle in my body is at least twice or three times as muscular as yours. Look at my fucking neck from that motherfucker ratshit scared Bloodsport!”

They all look to Peacemaker’s bullet wound, still raised and just visible above his collar.

Adrian, with genuine sympathy: “Oh, dude. But do you moisturise?”

From behind a laptop across the room, John clears his throat, “Hey guys, I’m thinking maybe he’s a metahuman.”

Leota and the others turn. She sees from his face he already shares the doom laden feeling she has - that a whole new level of bullshittery is about to descend upon them. “A what now?”

“I’m googling this fast healing thing and… it fits with whatever the hell appears to be happening with Vigilante. I mean, Peacemaker and me saw him get blown up right in front of us and he was basically fine a few hours later. That’s pretty freakish.”

“It’s just because my Vigilante suit is super tough material. I made it myself. It took weeks and a lot of trial and error, mostly error, because I’m really not the best at sewing.”

“It was in rags after the blast, bro. You were like five feet away from the explosive cause apparently you didn’t think to fucking jump back.” snaps Chris.

“Well apparently I didn’t need to jump back!”

“There’s definitely some weird shit going on with you.” Leota agrees.

“Clearly! But what’s that got to do with me being super good at healing?”

John pushes his glasses up the ridge of his nose. “Maybe we should…. test this?”

Chris snaps his head around to glare at him. “Fuck does that mean? “Test”? Like what, experiment on Vig? That’s not cool, man.”

“I don’t mean hardcore fucking 1970s CIA shit, I mean like…. a smallish wound, and see how fast it heals. Ads can do the same, be the control group.”

Leota doubles back. “Fuck no. You be the control group.”

“I bruise very easily. It’s, uh, pale skin and honestly not enough vitamin D.”

“It’ll have to be kinda pretty serious, guys, ‘cause I definitely heal faster from bigger injuries than small ones. Like, when I get seriously injured it’s as if my body goes all ‘oh shit, better concentrate on this for awhile!’ and I have to sleep it off. But if I just get a papercut or a hangnail? That can nag for days like a motherfucker!” Adrian shrugs. “Makes sense.”

Leota stares. “That makes literally no sense. Nobody heals faster from more serious injuries.”

“Well, then their bodies don’t prioritise for shit.”

John thinks for a second.

“That actually does kinda make sense. If he is a metahuman.”

Chris rubs at his eyes, frustrated. “

"Fine, fuck, so what’s serious enough to test Economos’ theory but not so serious that it actually fucking kills Vigilante?”

“Stab me?” Adrian suggests.

“Dude.”

“Maybe, cut his arm… pretty deep?” Leota offers, gingerly miming a slashed wrist sideways. “Time the healing?”

John shakes his head. “No, not like that. See, you have to do it down the way,” he mimes cutting down the length of his arm, “otherwise it’s completely useless for- uh-“ he swallows, “Not that I’ve ever- I just read that somewhere.”

Adrian looks between them, perplexed. “Why can’t Adebayo just stab me?”

“I’m not doing that!”

“Why?”

“Cause I don’t wanna hurt you?”

His expression melts. “Adebayo! That’s lowkey the sweetest thing ever, not gonna lie, but guys, look, it’s ok! I wanna know what’s going on with me too, since I literally hadn’t thought this was like, a weird thing - and I just had a great idea! I’ll do this-“ and with that he grabs a dagger that’s resting on the nearest desk and with great enthusiasm and absurd self belief stabs that motherfucker straight through his goddamn left palm.

Then erupts into a string of pained expletives.

Leota and John let out shocked squeals. Leota, eyes wide, covers her mouth: “What the hell!”

“Fuck dude!” exclaims Chris.

“MOtherFUCK!” Adrian exhales, bending over and cradling his knife-embedded-hand.

Chris looks to the ceiling, just so, so fucking done: “Why the fuck did you do that?!”

Still bent over, Adrian chokes out: “I- FUCK- I told you! So you can time if I heal normally or whatev-fuuuuuuuck this hurts so fucking bad! I do not recommend doing this, you guys.”

“Wow, really.” John says flatly.

“Why did you do your hand, man!?” Chris continues, “That’s dumb as shit! How are you gonna fight if you can’t grab a gun or a knife?”

Adrian straightens, very bloody hand held gingerly in front of him. “I’ll just- I’ll….” A beat. “Oh, wow. Good point…” He pulls an exaggerated ‘yikes’ expression: “Shoulda thought that one through, right!?” Blood drips to the floor, right onto the actually quite nice rug John was going to sneak out with him to his new office, goddammit.

“Great, now I need to get out the carpet cleaner.”

“Sorry.” Adrian says quietly.

Leota goes to fetch the First Aid kit and Chris is left staring at Adrian, shaking his head at him like a dad who just found his kid cut up all his ties or whatever the fuck happens in normal dad/son families that normal dads meet with normal dad exhaustion and bafflement and just a big heap of why.

Adrian, looking sheepish, is awkwardly holding his knife-impaled hand higher, like that’ll do jack shit.

“Dude, sorry to ask but can you uh, un-impale me? I feel like just a little nauseous looking at my hand right now.”

''What the fuck is wrong with you.” Chris states because, what answer even is there.

“Kinda stings…” Adrian adds meekly.

“Fuck it, it’s going to be me playing medic as per usual. Thanks a bunch. Let’s get that over with.” John sighs and goes to yank the knife out - but, y’know, with the actual medical know-how to do it safely.

*

Fennel Fields

The four of them squashed into a booth. Chris and Leota on one side, John and Adrian, and his mildly blood stained sweater, on the other. John had done some basic cleaning and stitching to Adrian’s hand, wrapped it up in a load of bandaging and hoped for the fucking best. Adrian, to his credit, had been quiet and well behaved since stabbing himself. Even contrite. They’d all agreed that until metahuman shit kicked in, or didn’t, they at least could eat something.

John hums over the menu. “Umm, I guess I’ll have the garlic bread, the lasagna and the side of-“

Chris swipes John’s menu from him and hands it back to the waitress, adding,“Yeah and that’s it for him. I’ll stick with the green salad and garlic zoodles, thank you m’am,” he looks pointedly at Leota and wiggles his brow - see? Totally not sexist, totally respectful as shit.

“Absolutely!” the waitress blushes. She turns to Adrian and a dull recognition flits briefly across her face. “Oh… uh, hi Aiden?”

“It’s Adrian and we’ve worked together for like 3 years but, whatever, ha!” He says in a quiet rush, then clears his throat. “I will also have the zoodles and green salad but with the staff discount of 10%. Thank you, Kristen.” He finishes, pointedly staring at her.

Unimpressed, Kristen takes the menus and heads off. Leota quirks a brow.

“You not gonna offer us that discount?”

He grimaces, “Employees only. Can’t break the rules.” He notices Chris looking at him a bit like he had when he still had a knife stuck through his hand. He’s not really sure what expression it is… except kind of… scrunchy? But he feels it doesn’t mean a good thing. “What?”

“Dude. Copying my exact order?”

“You have great taste.”

“I know I do, but it’s weird.”

John glares at Chris,“Whatever Smith, more importantly, you seriously couldn’t let me have the side of vesuvio potatoes? I haven’t eaten since fucking breakfast getting stuff set up at my new office.”

“Humblebrag much.” Leota mutters.

“With garlic bread and fucking cheesy greasy pasta? Dude. You must be like 98% carbs inside. You should fucking thank me. You know a kid went blind because he only ate white bread and fries?” Chris shudders. “The potato skins just gathered over his corneas. No one could peel them off.”

Adrian turns to John, face a picture of horror: “Oh shit! And you already wear glasses, Economos!”

“The fuck? So do you, you nerd.”

* 

“Your orders, folks.”

The young male waiter arrives, expertly balancing the four plates. Adrian grins at him and bounces his eyebrows because, it’s Taylor, and look Taylor, I got friends!

John breathes a sigh of relief. “Finally.”

“Whose having the zoodles?”

In unison Adrian and Chris say “Me” - after which Taylor places down their plates and Chris gives Adrian a cold look of don’t be fucking copycatting everything I do although admittedly the zoodles are fucking amazing and I’d probably have recommended them to you anyway but that isn’t the fucking point.

Adrian picks up none of that and simply smiles back at his BFF and passes him over some napkins.

As Taylor sets down the final plates, he nods in recognition at his co-worker.

“Adrian, you… actually know people.”

Adrian can’t tell if that’s a dig or genuine surprise or, something, but he feels his cheeks heat up a little. “Haha… yeah…”

“We all were starting to think you just made stuff up.” Taylor is smiling but it’s a little… Smiling should be nice so why doesn’t this feel nice to him?

“Ha…”

Chris looks Taylor up and down with narrowed eyes and a smirk. Fuck this guy. “Oh yeah? And how many friends do you have, random busboy dude?”

Taylor shrugs, casually confident. “I guess a lot. I’m in a band - music’s really my passion, so. I have over 20,000 Twitter followers.”

“Ha!” Chris barks, “Those are probably fucking bots, man! You know how many followers I’d have on Twitter if I wasn’t using an anonymous throwaway account to scoop dirt on people so I can undermine them?”

There’s an uncertain pause.

“I don’t know you, so…”

“Well it’d be a fuck ton, let me tell you.” he assures, with a wink to the others at the table. Adrian beams back.

It’s then that Taylor notices Adrian’s bandaged hand.

“Oh, this? Yeah, I had an accident. Ice skating.” He mimes a skate going over his hand.

“Right…” Taylor nods. “And how’s, uh, Sharon?”

Adrian looks blank.

“Your girlfriend?”

Leota laughs, “Wait, what!”

“Oh… no, we-“

“You got a girlfriend?”

Chris scoffs. “No he fucking doesn’t!”

“No, I-“

Taylor raises his eyebrows, “But you said-”

“Yeah but that’s not a thing anymore ‘cause… she… died.”

Another silence. Much more awkward.

Taylor opens his mouth, then closes it again.

He looks to Adrian’s hand.

Adrian’s eyes widen - “No, no! I didn’t kill her! Ha! Or anything! No, it was because of… a bad… corn dog.”

Leota closes her eyes.

“So. Yeah. It’s very sad. Very, very sad.” Adrian finishes.

Silence number three. Still fucking awkward.

“That’s… rough, man.” Taylor says doubtfully.

“RIP Sharon.” Leota offers under her breath.

“Well… I’m gonna go… somewhere else now. Nice meeting your, uh-”

“My best friends!” Adrian prompts eagerly. “There’s actually another one, a hot blonde, but she’s in hospital. Not from a bad corn dog.”

“Cool…” Taylor squints and then turns to get the fuck outta this conversation.

“Laters, bro!” Adrian smiles, oblivious to the looks the others are giving him as he twirls some zoodles around his fork.

“That’s Taylor. He’s my main work friend here.” he informs them in earnest.

“Clearly.” Leota tries to keep her expression neutral. “So you got a dead girlfriend?”

Adrian looks suddenly serious. “No, that was actually a lie.”

“I’m stunned.”

Adrian grins back because, hey, he’s finally getting better at the whole cover story thing!

*

Through a mouthful of lasagna, John asks: “How’s your self harm doing?”

Adrian immediately begins unwrapping his hand, which is a great way to put everyone off their damn food.

“Dude, why.” Chris sighs.

Adrian pokes the wound which is… not as disgustingly gnarly as anyone was expecting.

“Pretty ok. Kinda stiff to bend my fingers but I think after a nap I’ll be able to hold a gun again.”

“For real?” Leota, somewhere between sceptical and it’s this freak so whatever, maybe he’s right.

“So in less than three hours it’s healed. Under basically a plaster.” John remarks. “Metahuman. Got to be.”

“It would be cooler if it was megahuman instead. Sounds more mega. Or superhuman!”

Leota frowns. “You’re not a superhero, Adrian.”

“I think I could be.”

“Nope.”

Adrian raises his eyebrows conspiratorially, “But, I could be.”

John tears a piece of garlic bread, “You’re a nut who gets giddy over murdering people, who happens to occasionally kill the right people.”

“Yeah. Like all other superheroes.”

Chris stabs at his salad, “Nah, they’re mostly a buncha pussies who say they’ll do ‘anything’ to save the world, then wuss out after and have to hide in remote cabins to fucking suck their thumbs and feel guilty just ‘cause they murdered a few people along the way. They can’t take the emotional toll so they whimp the fuck out and grow sad struggle beards. Losers. Should’ve worked at fucking Starbucks instead.”

Adrian cackles halfway through messily re-bandaging his hand.

“Hey guys,” Leota stands, holding up her phone, “I’m gonna send a photo to Harcourt, check she’s ok, so everybody say “Fennel Fields”, bitches!”

John tears himself away from his food, Adrian grins goofily, Chris smiles what he imagines is suavely (more ‘asshole smug’), and Leota genuinely - because Harcourt probably needs something nice and the dozen or so photos Leota’s forwarded of her dogs are maybe not enough. Though they are cute. as. shit.

As she sits back down, Chris peers at the photo.

“Ads, can you re-take that real quick? I need my arms more in shot. It’s important photographic evidence of me always shows how great my arms look. For posterity.”


* * * 


HARCOURT:
Glad you’re all having fun without me 🙄


* * * 

VIGILANTE:
Crime cruise 2nite? 
Crime cruise 2nite? 

It’s V, btw! 

Crime cruise 2nite?

PEACEMAKER:
Can’t. Another time.


*

Chris is sat on his couch, watching Eagly patter about around the trailer, but finding himself unable to stop his mind going back to the fucking day of dead Dad.

‘Whether or not I kill you, you'll never be able to get the fuck away from me-'

The shot rings in his head again and Chris flinches. Fuck.

“Hey P!”

Chris startles, then groans.

“Jesus fucking… Adrian.”

Inevitably. Adrian.

“What up, bro!” Adrian waves cheerfully as he enters the trailer, “You’re sitting on your couch!”

“Yup.”

“But you said you were too busy for cruising crime tonight. How come? Face Exercises?”

“Dude, I’ve just got a whole bunch of stuff I need to organise and- like deal with shutting off all my Dad’s bills so I don’t end up fucking paying for them, and-“ he sighs heavily. “I guess I’m still thinking about the shit that went down literally earlier this week, so I’m not really in the mood to shoot more people in the head right now. Ok?”

“Oh. Why?”

“Why?”

“Remember like… your dad’s dead now?”

“Dude, I know that.”

“Ok.” Adrian pauses uncertainly, clasping and unclasping his gloved hands. “So then why are you still thinking about him?”

Chris stares, that familiar mix of disbelief and vague disgust for what a goddamn weirdo his third best friend is.

“Because it’s- it’s fucking more complicated than that.”

Adrian considers.

“Is it?”

“Nevermind. I’m gonna go to my Dad’s house, clean up and sort through stuff. Throw out all the racist memorabilia. See if Eagly left any toys behind.”

Adrian nods without understanding.

Chris sighs. “It’s what people do, after their dad dies. You snoop through their shit and make sure there aren’t any fucking surprises. Any bastard kids or secret money somewhere. Knowing my Dad there’ll only be a single dollar for throwing at a group of homeless guys to fight over and probably a letter to me reminding me yet again what a fucking loser simp of a son I was, signed with a fuck off salute and a wad of dried spit.”

Adrian looks hopeful, “Want some help?”

“No, man. I said I wanted time by myself.”

“Uh… actually dude, you said you didn’t want to go out fighting crime tonight. There are loads of other things we could do. We could blow stuff up. We could watch Muriel’s Wedding. We could go ice skating. We could-”

“Vig-“ Chris interrupts, “I’m already doing the Dad house thing. Jesus, I don’t wanna talk. And there aren’t any ice rinks in this fucking state! Stop talking about fucking ice skating! What the fuck is with this whole ice skating thing?”

“Ok, ok, jeez! I get the message! And ice skating is a totally normal thing to want to try out, by the way. There’s no need to be rude.”

Chris rubs at his eyes, exhausted.

“I’ve got plenty of other stuff I can be doing by myself.”

Without removing his hand from his face, Chris snorts. “Go do them then.”

“I will go do them!” Adrian replies petulantly.

“Door’s that way.”

“Yeah I know!” bristling, he turns to leave, but turns back. “Um, but P, just so you know, my phone is on at all times so if you do want to hang out or gut some human traffickers later, gimme a call. Seriously.”

“Not gonna call, bro.”

“My phone will be on, all I’m saying.”

“Well since I won’t be calling you, it probably doesn’t need to be.”

“Oh-h are you implying you think nobody else calls me? Is that what’s happening? Because that is so…” he trials off, because… well. He clears his throat and lifts his chin defiantly, “I get calls from Fennel Fields about extra shifts. And other people. That I know. Get calls from them too. All the time.” He finishes lamely, then he sighs, shoulders sagging, and leaves.

Then he pops his head back in and adds tartly: “My hand healed since last night FYI thanks for asking. I guess I am a special metahuman after all so y’know, suck on that!”

Then he disappears.

Half a second later he’s back.

“Sorry. That was- I didn’t mean that. I know you’re like, busy and traumatised and shit and it’s totally- it’s fine!” His head hangs in the doorway for a second too long, then he chirps “Call me later!”

Then he disappears again and - Chris waits.

Silence. Except Eagly in the corner, pecking at an empty beer box.

Fucking finally, Chris thinks, ignoring the tiny little bit of him that feels maybe sort of bad.

Nope. Fuck that.

He pushes himself up off the couch and grabs an empty sports bag that’s laying on the floor. Eagly meets his eyes and caws supportively. Chris melts a little. Ok, a lot.

“Yeah, buddy. Time to tie up loose ends. You coming?”

Because maybe he does want someone there. Just someone who isn’t annoyingly buzzing in his ear the whole time. Eagly hops, glad to be helpful, and follows Chris as he heads out. Maybe burning the whole house down would do the trick.


* * *

Mask back on, Vigilante stalks down an alley as dusk settles. He kicks at an empty can in frustration and it bounces off the wall and hits his shin. “Ow! Stupid- fucking-“ he crushes down on it several times with his boot, “Fuck you!”

Thoroughly crushed can no longer putting up a fight, Adrian breathes out. Ok that was maybe an overreaction, but then again, fuck littering! Wait, maybe he could track down the litter dropper and crush them next. That would surely make him feel better about Peacemaker not wanting to hang out. And not caring about his hand! Even though this time it was self inflicted. But still. He flexes his left, formerly stabbed hand. Still stiff, and there’s still a reddish mark, but basically no biggie. Just no double knife throwing for maybe a day or two. Shit happens. Not that Peacemaker cared to ask… 

That fucking twinge again. What the heck? He can’t be upset with Peacemaker because that’s just not how it works, but he can’t deny that his heart first felt the weird stabby twinge when his BFF insisted he wouldn’t be calling him. Which was so unnecessary. He takes out his phone and checks.

Zero messages. Zero calls.

Just Leota sending admittedly adorable dog pics over the group chat. But adorable dogs aren’t making the stabby heart twinges go away. Unless maybe it’s just heartburn? It could be heartburn. He did have a spicy samosa for lunch.

Suddenly, at the other end of the ally, he spots a shadowy figure. Promisingly menacing. Vigilante keeps close to the wall as he tiptoes towards the figure. A hooded male carrying a crowbar - yes! - and now he’s using it to break into someone’s car! - jackpot, baby!

Vigilante jump kicks the guy’s crowbar arm with relish and the thing goes flying, clatters somewhere behind them. The criminal yelps and turns to meet Vigilante’s fist smashing right into his dumb fucking face. There’s a satisfying crunch. He hopes it’s a nose break, lots of blood. That always leads to some funny, gargly cussing and spluttering. But before he can enjoy that - and then therapeutically and morally smash the guy’s head in with the weapon he (get the irony?) was gonna use to criminally commandeer some poor person’s vehicle - something smashes into the back of Vigilante’s head and his last thought before he hits the sidewalk unconscious is, wait, did my phone just buzz? 

Chapter Text

Chris Ubers to his dad’s house and stands on the lawn, looking at it. Thinking about seeing his Dad the day he got out of the hospital. How his Dad had looked suddenly so much older. How that had surprised him, and frightened him a little. And then his Dad had let him in and proceeded to treat him like shit, and Chris had realised nothing had actually changed at all.

A caw from above alerts him that Eagly has caught up. He lands by Chris’s feet and looks up at him. Ready to go when you are, his little eyes seem to say.

Chris clenches his jaw and heads for the front door. Inside, everything is… the same. The TV isn’t on. The lights aren’t either. He clicks on a lamp and Eagly flutters up onto the coffee table and pecks at god-knows-how-old crumbs on a plate.

“Eagly, no. We’ll eat after.” Chris explains softly. Eagly chirps back and hops off the table.

There’s a half finished crossword on the kitchen table. He stares at it for a moment.

“I wouldn’t bother trying to finish that, since you’re dumb as a fucking animal.” Auggie’s voice behind him.

He turns to see his Dad leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.

“Like I’d wanna do fucking crosswords anyway. What kind of a boring ass hobby is that?”

“One that exercises your brain, strengthens your intelligence, but there ain’t no goddamn hope for you there.” Auggie smirks.

“Just… tell me if there’s any racist shit I need to burn. Like, I don’t know, a fucking Klan hood or a bunch of Jim Crow figurines.”

“I see you hang out with blacks now. Lesbian fucking blacks. Wow. You just need a disabled and you’ll have all the fucking boxes ticked. Although that speccy kid likely counts as retarded.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Chris glares at the ghost. Auggie stares straight back at him. And… shit, Chris looks away first, busying himself with looking in various cabinets and drawers.

“You wanna little memento of your daddy, huh boy? A little keepsake to hold at night?”

“Fuck no. I don’t want anything that’s yours.”

“Well, we know that ain’t true.” Auggie’s voice is a low warning.

Chris looks at him. 

“You’re nothing without my helmets. You’re just a sack of meat. A dumb fuck who has to get help from the biggest bunch of losers I’ve ever seen, because he can’t handle anything like a man on his own. Fucking America was built by men and you need coddled and helped like a fucking-“

“Waitwaitwait, rewind. A sack?” Chris interrupts incredulously, “Dad, you can fling whatever bullshit insults you want at me because you’re dead and I won, but come the fuck on! Are these muscles like a sack?” He flexes his biceps, a look of sheer incomprehension on his face. 

Auggie rolls his eyes.

“You need a better simile because I look like I’ve got a whole Thanksgiving turkey in here. I’m a fucking unit, motherfucker.”

“Well, now that’s the only thing I can’t deny. Being a motherfucker of your fucking mother.”

“Don’t shit on mom.”

“She never liked you either.”

“Great. Cool. Good to know.” Chris sighs, heading towards the hallway. 

He gets to the door of his Dad’s Quantum Unfolding Storage Area, and Auggie’s propped against it, waiting.

“Nothing without me.” He says simply.

“Well, now you’re nothing because of me, so, who’s the real loser?” Chris taunts.

“If you take anything from that room…” Auggie warns.

“I’ll put it to use! I’ll make lemonade outta shit and try to fix some of the world you were hell bent on fucking in the ass!”

He’s about to enter the room when he hears something crash in the living room. He squints down the hall but he can’t see anything.

“Eagly?”

Auggie’s still staring at him. Like fuck! Can’t he get a fucking break from this ghost shit!?

There’s another crash and, concerned Eagly might’ve pulled a cabinet down on himself or something, Chris moves towards the noise. There’s scuffles and the definite sounds of someone rooting through stuff. Chris grabs his gun from his belt and cocks it.

“Hey. Whoever the fuck’s in there better get out while you still have a chance.” Chris says loudly.

He takes a step into the room to find- fuck! Two white hooded racist thugs - and one is pointing a fucking flaming stick at Eagly, who hops and flaps his wings worriedly at the fire.

“What the fuck!” 

Jesus, he thought they'd gunned down all these cunts but apparently there are more, ready to crawl outta the dark.

One of the hoods lights his own stick and lets it drop onto the couch. Absurdly muffled under the fucking pillow or whatever he’s got on his head, he explains: “Covering our tracks, you traitorous shit stain.”

“Hey, I think you’ll find this is legally my fucking house now, as the sole surviving relative, so I decide what to do with it.”

“You think your Dad’s left you anything in a fucking will? Are you that fucking stupid?”

Chris falters. “Don’t I just get it anyway?”

Eagly caws and backs away from the heat. Chris’s heart is suddenly in his mouth.

“Get that away from him! He’s innocent.”

“He’s a fucking bird.”

“Fuck you. He has more integrity in a single fucking feather than you do in your whole fucking body.”

The couch fire has spread to the curtains and the hood pulls out his gun.

“In the name of God Almighty, I will smite-“

So Chris fucking shoots that bullshit down. The other hood lunges the fire stick dangerously close to Eagly.

“Fuck! Stop!” Chris cries out, and shoots at the guy, but he ducks and, as Eagly takes the chance to fly back over to Chris, the hood rushes out into the hall and-

Just as Chris follows, he sees the hood disappear into the Quantum Unfolding Storage Area.

The door to which then disappears. 

Well, fuck.

* * *

When Adrian wakes up with the mother of all headaches he realises two things:

1. He’s definitely in the hot, dark boot of a car.

2. He definitely doesn’t have his mask on any more. 

He squirms in the dark and realises two further things:

1. His hands are tied behind his back - by someone who clearly didn’t know how to do it right.

2. None of this would be happening if Peacemaker had agreed to cruise crime with him.

No one would have been able to whack him from behind if Peacemaker had been there. Peacemaker would’ve caught the crowbar and used the guy’s own arm to hit him with it. He’d have probably made a really funny ‘Hey stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!’ joke about it and Vig would’ve laughed so hard as he slit Broken Nose’s throat.

The car is still moving and Vig feels sick from the movement and probably the concussion too. He can’t see anything, so he works on getting his hands loose. Luckily, petty thieves of today’s world are 99% fucking morons and never do any research into the basics like, how to tie up victims.

Hands loose, he feels around for any of his weapons but, shit, the fuckers have stripped them from him. He’ll have to get creative. His heart leaps in excitement. Maybe some eye gouging! Haven’t had reason to do that for a while…

Suddenly the car pulls to a halt. He can hear that it’s on dirt. There’s muffled arguing coming from the car but he can’t make it out. 

He wonders how Peacemaker is. Is he done sorting through his dead dad’s house yet? Has he gone to a bar? Has he met some chick to take home and fuck? Is he-

The car boot opens and it’s dark, wherever they are. A big guy with a bandana is staring down at him holding his fucking gun. The nerve of this fuck!

Before the guy can say anything, Vig uses his hands to propel himself out of the boot and land his feet directly on Bandana’s chest, knocking the wind out of him as the guy hits the ground. The gun shoots out of his hand and Vig grabs it off the dirt and points it at Bandana, who struggles back to his feet, coughing. 

They’ve driven him in the stolen car out to some remote back road. No lamps, no houses. Just three men and the car headlights and the loud sound of cicadas ringing in his ears. Or maybe that’s the concussion.

From the passenger’s side of the car, Broken Nose is standing, mouth agape, holding another one of Vigilante’s guns. So not cool.

Vigilante puts on his glasses and looks between the two men. “I gotta ask, you guys, ‘cause it’s really been bugging me! Why the fuck didn’t you just leave me unconscious on the curb?”

“I wanted to!” Broken Nose bursts out, shakily coming over to stand  by his buddy, opposite Vig, and holding Vig’s gun at him like he’s never held one before. His voice is thick with fear and blood as he babbles, “B-but he said we had to kill you because you saw my face!”

“Ohhhhhh.” Vigilante throws up his free arm, “Riiiight. That makes sense.”

“See!?” Hisses Bandana Guy. “I don’t want him ratting you to the cops.”

“That’s really decent, dude. You guys must be super close.”

“W-we’ve been buddies since we were nine.” chokes Broken Nose. 

“Aw.” Vig puts his hand to his heart, so fucking sweet. “Well you should listen to your best friend, man, ‘cause he’s right. I know your identities now. But more importantly, you know mine because you took off my mask. So now, I’ve gotta kill you both.”

“Wait, what!?” Bandana’s eyes bug out.


“I mean, I was going to anyway because you were committing a crime, and then you kidnapped me - but now for sure.”

“What the hell!? You can’t just kill us, you fucking pyscho!” yells Bandana, veins in his forehead appearing.

“Dude, shut up!” Broken Nose reaches to his friend, terrified.


“Uh, it’s a little hypocritical to judge me when you guys are the criminals.” Vig scoffs.

“If you murder us that’s a way worse crime than just stealing a fucking car!” Bandana continues.

“Dude, that’s not a crime, that’s justice.”

“You’re insane!” Bandana jabs a thick finger at him.

“Wow. Rude.”

“Please, please don’t do this, please don’t kill us!” Broken Nose begins to sob, which must hurt like a bitch with a broken nose. “I’m s-sorry, I did wrong, I admit it! Ok!? But I didn’t even wanna do this, man! My buddy pulled me into it.”

“Hey!” Bandana snaps his head to look at him.


“Still gotta man up and take responsibility.” Vig shrugs.

“I-I-I just wanted us to hang out!” Broken Nose is now sobbing to Bandana, “I haven’t done any criminal shit since you’ve been in prison and- and I felt good about myself! You know? For the first fucking time in years! I just wanted us to have a few beers tonight, but you had to fucking make me steal that fucking car!”

Bandana stares at his buddy in stricken disbelief, “But you wanted to carjack! We always have great fucking times carjacking!”

“You don’t get it! I’ve been going to all my NA meetings, I’ve been helping at the local church! I’ve been good! I was doing good til you came back and now I’m in THIS SHIT!” he screams into the night.

Vigilante has been looking back and forth between the arguing friends with a stab of interest, and that twinge again. Two best friends who aren’t on the same page anymore. Fuck.

“You never said any of that to me.” Bandana says, voice thick with emotion, “Why not? I’d have been proud of you, man! Going to meetings and shit. That’s fucking beautiful.”

“I just wanted to be a better person…” Broken Nose wipes at his face with his sleeve, leaving it sticky with blood and tears.

“Hey. I think I speak for everyone when I say it’s pretty clear you achieved that, dude.” Vigilante offers genuinely. “Those are really great steps towards being a better person.”

“T-thanks.”

“I should never have got us into this, I fucked up, I fucked up bad.” Bandana exhales.

“No, I should’ve said something, but I still wanted to hang out with you! Just not with this criminal shit and all the risk and the stress.”

Vigilante notes distantly that his eyes are a little blurry, which might be the concussion, for sure, but the skin around them feels hot, suddenly. Weird.

“You know I fucking love you like a fucking brother!” Bandana cries. “Now shoot that fucking psycho before we both die!”

At that, Vigilante full on cackles. The two men look at him in horror, Broken Nose’s hands shaking around his gun, his finger not committing to the trigger.

As Vig regains his composure he smiles at them warmly, “Yeah, not gonna happen, but truly I think it’s beautiful that you guys got to reconcile your friendship - and honestly, you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Just do it, man!” yells Bandana, as Broken Nose sobs again.

“I’ve never killed anyone! P-please let us go! Can’t we just go?!”

“Dude no, my hands are tied. Actually, head’s up, you should really look up some knot tying instructions because you seriously can’t tie knots for shit.”

And then he shoots them both in the head.


Gathering his gun back from Broken Nose, and his knives and other stuff they’d stolen from him, he looks briefly at their bodies, lying a few feet apart on the ground, and thinks to himself, it’s cool they got to go out together. Just like best friends should.

On the drive back to put the stolen vehicle back in its rightful parking spot, Vigilante remembers he’d heard his phone buzz before the whole crowbar thing. 

He pulls it out of his pocket and checks.

1 new message!

PEACEMAKER:

I do need your help tonight. Get to my Dad’s house ASAP. 

Vig punches the steering wheel. Fuck yeah! Two refreshing kills and now his BFF needs him. This is turning out to be such a fucking great night! He just kinda wished his head didn’t feel like cicadas were still screaming directly into it.

TBC.

Chapter Text

Chris and Eagly stand in front of what had about fifteen minutes ago been Auggie’s house - but was now more a fire ball. 

A neighbour must’ve called 911 because the street is crawling with firetrucks, flashing lights, sirens, cops, medics, the whole shebang.

Chris would bet fifty bucks it was that tiny old guy next door who’s currently standing on his lawn, gesturing at the blaze and arguing about something with the ambulance and fire crew trying to get him to get the fuck outta here for his own safety.

The heat from the blaze against Chris’ face is intense. He can feel  Eagly taking refuge from it by cuddling behind his legs.. There’s no sign of movement in the house. No fiery person shape flailing and begging for mercy. So maybe the room did disappear somehow, after all.

It would be so like his asshat Dad to have pulled some clever shit like that. Just to fuck him over one last time. 

At least the ghost seems to have disappeared. Maybe it went with the house? No, c’mon Peacemaker, ghosts aren’t fucking real. It’s just in your head. It’s just… you.

“Woah, Peacemaker, you torched the place?” Adrian’s voice comes from behind him. “And you didn’t want me here?” He sounds hurt. 

Chris turns to him and he can see Adrian’s mouth is pulled into an unhappy line, eyes big and questioning. He’s in civilian get-up again, a dweeby zipper and scuffed sneakers.

“Dude. I didn’t torch anything. It was a couple of those hooded racist fucks that followed my Dad like lemmings. They were trying to cover the traces of their stupid bullshit masterplan. Apparently we didn’t get shot of all of ‘em.”

“Oh.” Adrian blinks. “Did you kill them?”

“One.” Chris winces, “But one got away-“ on Adrian’s quelling look he raises his finger, “But Eagly was in immediate danger, ok? Don’t judge me on that.”

Adrian’s eyes widen, “Hey, I’d never judge my BFF.” 

“He got away and ran into my Dad’s Quantum Unfolding Storage Closet, and then the fire took hold and Eagly was still inside, so I had to… I had to get out. Neighbours’ already called the fire truck, and now they won’t let me back in to see if the room’s still there or if it burned down too, or what. Fucking ‘dangerous fumes’, gimme a break.”

“Wait, you think the room might not have burnt down?”

“I don’t know, bro! It’s a dimensional nodule outside normal space! How the hell am I supposed to know if a fire that’s inside normal space would burn it down too? Do I look like a fucking physicist?” Chris snaps. “Also, I swear to god the door vanished when he went inside - and I don’t have a fucking clue if that always happens when people go into it, or what.”

Adrian looks at the house as the firefighters hose it and thick grey smoke billows into the night sky.

“Pretty big blaze. Guess we’ll have to come back later.” He hums. “Should we go get tacos?”

“Dude.”

“What? Aren’t you hungry? I always get hungry after killing people and I did kill two people instead of only one tonight, so I’m probably even more hungry than you are - and I’ve got a really bad headache from being hit by a crowbar, so I should probably sit down.”

“Hold up, what? Who’d you kill tonight?” Chris pins Adrian with his gaze.

But Adrian looks pleased with himself. “Criminals! They were trying to carjack, I intervened in the name of justice, but… then I got crowbarred, then they kidnapped me and drove me out to the middle of nowhere to kill me. So I shot them. Do you know how hard it is to follow CPS directions when your vision keeps going blurry? I think I got a concussion.”

“They kidnapped you?!”

“Yeah, it’s been quite a night!”

“Well that was fucking stupid! One time I don’t go with you and you get your ass handed to you and get fucking kidnapped, and yet literally two seconds ago you were giving me a judgy face for not getting the chance to kill the second racist?”

“Ok, one, I did not give a judgy face, I gave a surprised face, because usually you’re so great at killing people that nobody gets away from you-”

Chris concedes that’s a solid point.

“And two, maybe if you’d come with me you could have killed the guy who hit the back of my head with a crowbar! Which really, really hurts, by the way!” Adrian winces, gingerly touching the back of his head and then holding out his fingers, gunky with blood.

Chris exhales in agitation. “I told you I was doing this! If I hadn’t been here those fuckers would’ve taken everything and torched the place!”

Adrian opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again: “Um…”

“Don’t say a word.” Chris warns. “I didn’t say I stopped them 100% successfully, but at least I saw what happened and killed one of them. And anyway, fuck bro, you could’ve got killed!”

“Yeah right!” Adrian snorts, “They couldn’t even fire a gun! They were like ‘oh! oh pleeeease just let us go!’” he says in a mocking, exaggerated voice, “and I was like, do the crime, pay with your lives, motherfuckers. BLAM BLAM!” He mimes shooting, then chuckles.

Chris just stares at him. For all that Adrian is a wide eyed bundle of naivety and stupidity, he really is unnerving as fuck sometimes.

Adrian smiles bashfully, eyes sparkling in the house fire’s light, “Dude, you care if I get myself killed!” He bumps a gentle fist fondly into Chris’s arm, “That’s so nice!”

Chris just shakes his head. “Whatever. This is obviously gonna take fucking forever,” he jerks his head towards the fire. “Fine. Let’s go get tacos.”

* * *

Tinny Mexican music plays as they sit in a window booth of a cheap and cheerful restaurant. Chris pokes at his fish taco (less fatty, good omega 3) but quite honestly he probably needs to be drunk to want to eat this. He’d just wanted to get away from that fucking house and live for around 30 to 40 minutes pretending shit wasn’t probably, with his fucking luck, about to hit the fan again.

Eagly is outside pecking at the taco-free beef strips Chris ordered for him and set on the sidewalk with a little tub of cold water.

Meanwhile, Adrian is happily chowing down on some pork concoction, humming tunelessly along with the restaurant music.

“There’s gonna be a buttload of salt and saturated fats in that, bro.” Chris comments blandly. 

Adrian looks up, chastened. “Sorry, I know, but I didn’t want to copy your order again.”

Chris looks down. Shit. He had been kinda an asshole about that.

There’s a very obviously homeless bunch of guys hanging at a table near them and eating what are very obviously other people’s leftovers. Chris wrinkles his nose. Well that’s grim. How has Evergreen gotten worse since he left it? Clearly any place would benefit from his presence, because, that’s just obvious, but this? 

Adrian is staring out the window blankly. Or maybe it’s concussion daze.

Before getting shot by Bloodsport, before killing…. before killing Rick Flag, before Corto Maltese, before any of that Peacemaker would have high-fived Vigilante for shooting the carjackers. Clapped him on the back and said ‘Nice work, buddy.’ Wastes of space criminals who live to disrupt the peace of society with their own selfish desires. People who have no interest in peace, because then they’d have to be satisfied with what they had instead of stealing from other people.

But now.

Now Chris looks at Adrian and feels… anxious.

He clears his throat.

“Vig, you… get that if I had been there with you tonight, I would’ve stopped you killing those criminals, right? I would’ve called the cops on them instead.”

Adrian turns to his plate, picking out onion from his taco. He shrugs noncommittally. “Good luck trying to stop me, bro.” Half his mouth quirks in a smirk.

Chris frowns, an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach.

“Adrian. I’m serious. That vow I made to do anything for peace, no matter how many people I have to kill to get it? I was… wrong.”

Adrian blinks at him, pausing mid-chew.

“And, I don’t want to be like Waller. Or the Butterflies. Or my Dad.”

Something, some odd expression, briefly crosses Adrian’s face, then it’s gone and he takes another bite of taco.

"Don't worry. You’re not like any of them, man, you’re you! You’re Peacemaker.”

Chris rubs his temple, “Yeah, and I’ve realised my method was- wrong. I still believe in fighting for peace with all my heart, but I was doing it the wrong way. Killing anyone and everyone isn’t the way, dude. It just leads to innocent people getting hurt.”

“But… they weren’t innocent.” Adrian frowns.

Chris exhales, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Forget it.”

Adrian shrugs and sucks obnoxiously loudly from his soda straw, then goes back to picking out onions and making them into a weird little smiley face on his plate. Like he’s eight years old. Chris watches him. He knows Adrian is crazy. Not in what way, exactly, but obviously something’s not right with him and, if he’s honest, it was evident that was the case even when he only knew him as Gut Chase’s nerdy little brother. 

The way he never got that Gut and Chris and their gang of jockish, posturing, testosterone fueled comrades didn’t want some skinny spectacled dork trying to sit with them, or follow them when they went to shoot beer cans, or start a Fight Club, or hell, watch Fight Club. 

He was always there. Hanging in the doorway, or daring to take a chip from the packet Gut was sharing around and getting a thick ear for it. No matter how many times Gut told him to fuck off, or how often he or one of the gang, or Chris, punched his arm, hard, and laughed as he winced, or stole his glasses so he couldn’t see what was happening or any of their expressions (not that even when he could see, he seemed to ever pick up on them). Nope, they bullied and taunted, treated him like an annoying little shit, and still, when they gathered, he’d be on the periphery, hopeful.

Chris feels a little sick now, thinking about it. 

He remembers when a kid at their school killed himself. Jumped from his bedroom window. Gut and Chris had shoved his head down the toilet a few weeks before. He feels very, very shitty about that now, because ok the kid had stolen Gut’s cigarettes. So the fuck what? Was it really that big a deal?

When, sobered and uneasy, Gut and Chris had broached the subject at Gut’s family home over beers snuck from Mr Chase’s garage, Gut had admitted he felt bad. Like, if he’d known the kid was that fucking miserable, he would’ve let him keep the cigarettes. Chris had just drained his beer to try and block what he was feeling. Then, a small figure had leaned against the doorway, tufts of brown curls messily falling across his forehead.

“I heard his whole head cracked open on the driveway and his brain fell out. Do you wish you could’ve seen that?”

Chris had felt a chill down his spine.

“Get the fuck out of here, creep.” Gut yelled and Adrian flinched.

“But… I thought… you guys didn’t like him? He did it to himself.”

“Jesus, will you fuck OFF.” Gut yelled and threw an empty bottle not at Adrian but at the floor near him. Adrian yelped and jumped back.

“Mom and Dad will be mad you made a mess!” Adrian yelled back, voice wobbly, then he disappeared.

Gut groaned and looked to Chris. He pointed at his head and circled his finger by way of explaining: yep, my brother’s fucking crazy.

In the restaurant, Chris looks at Adrian now. Thirties, but still boyish, still fucking innocent looking. And he… is, weirdly. But he’s also really, really not. Chris decides he doesn’t really want to think about this anymore.

Adrian winces and touches his head, then uses a napkin to dab at the blood.

“You need the hospital, dude?”

“No way, I’ll sleep it off.”

“Huh. Guess you are a metahuman, whatever that means.” Chris considers, “I did think a bunch of times before it was pretty weird you’d heal up so fast from everything. Considering you’re not nearly as jacked as me and it took me freakin’ months to heal from getting shot in the neck.”

“Yeah, I guess!” 

A thought occurs to Chris.

“Hey. Did that half of your toe ever grow back?”

Adrian’s expression sobers and he looks down at his plate. “No.”

“Oh.”

Adrian seems a little worried he’s made Chris feel bad, so he chirps “Hey, but on the bright side, it’s one less toenail to clip!”

“Oh man, clipping toenails…” Chris agrees.

“Right!? Such a waste of life! Haha!”

Chris checks his watch. “They’ll probably have left the scene now. We can sneak in.”

Adrian perks up at that, “Yay!”

Chris kinda has to smile.

* * * 

They return to Auggie’s burnt shell of a house. It’s all taped off and Chris has a dozen missed calls from the cops because he went for a taco he didn’t want instead of sticking around to be interviewed about what happened. 

Adrian passes him a restaurant napkin. Chris stares at it uncomprehendingly.

“To cover our mouths and noses so we don’t get smoke inhalation.” He explains.

Huh. 

With napkins pressed to their faces, they surreptitiously enter the property. It’s strange to see whole parts blazed to dust while other areas are almost untouched. The fucking crossword is still on the kitchen table.

They head down the hallway, which is dark and cloudy with smoke. He can hear Adrian’s muffled coughing behind him. He reaches where the bookcase-door should be and… it’s a bookcase again, and unlike the rest of the hallway it is pristine. As if it hasn’t been in a fire at all. 

Maybe it hadn’t been. 

“Guess it did disappear…” He says more to himself than Adrian. Through coughing he can hear a confused, muffled “What?” 

Chris opens the secret doorway  and they head in and remove the napkins with relief. Adrian gags a bit and holds up a hand in apology. “My lungs really do not like smoke.”

Both their faces and clothes are covered by now in a fine film of soot. It’s a good thing he gets a dry cleaning discount.

The helmet rack is empty.

Chris clenches his fists and punches uselessly at thin air and curses.

“Dude, condolences.”

Chris gives Adrian a withering look.

“Hey, now we get to hunt down the racist and kill him and get your helmets back! That’ll be super exciting!”

Chris rubs at his face. He can hear ghost Auggie’s words from earlier: “You’re nothing without my helmets. You’re just a sack of meat. A dumb fuck who has to get help from the biggest bunch of losers I’ve ever seen…”

“Peacemaker?” Adrian prompts quietly, looking concerned.

Chris claps a hand on Adrian’s shoulder and barks out humourless laugh. “Fuck it. Fuck dealing with this right now. You know what? I need a drink! Eagly, you head on home, buddy."

Eagly caws, seeming to understand that sometimes, dudes gotta blow off some steam, and he flaps off.

* * *

“I’ll take a beer and a strong whisky chaser, sweethea- lady, miss.” Chris corrects, and swallows awkwardly. The bartender looks bemused. Adrian stares.

“And you, hun?” The bartender asks Adrian.

“Uhhh I’ll have a strong glass of milk, thank you.’

Even more bemused, the bartender nods and goes to get their drinks. 

Chris leans on the bar to crane his neck to give Adrian the appropriate ‘WTF’ glare:

“You’re kidding. Fucking milk? We’re on the prowl, man! You’ll look like a serial killer.” He pauses, “I mean, more than you do already.”

It briefly crosses Chris’ mind that, hell, that is exactly what Adrian Chase is.

“Dude I have concussion! I probably shouldn’t even be drinking milk.” Adrian replies seriously.

You know what? Chris cannot even deal with that right now. He sighs and casts his gaze to the bar. It’s pretty packed, mostly thirty to forty-somethings clearly desperate to find a match before their egg timer’s up, but there are a few younger ones mingling. 

The bartender has brought their drinks so he downs the chaser and picks up the beer bottle. Adrian’s fucking milk is in a tall glass, absurd looking on the little papery coaster. At least they didn’t add a freakin’ straw.

“What about her over there? In the leather skirt.” He nods to a young woman by the sound system.

Adrian looks over with little interest. “Yeah she’s, I mean, she has legs and hair and all the stuff you’d want a woman to have.”

“I mean for a threesome, V. She looks like she’d be into some funky stuff.”

“Oh.” Adrian turns his glass of milk around on the table thoughtfully. “I guess I thought maybe we were gonna just hang out together tonight? Like as a twosome.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Hanging out together isn’t a ‘twosome’, and you agreed to go on the prowl with me in the Uber over here!”

“I didn’t know that’s what that meant! I thought you meant prowl like, ‘prowl through the existential point of living’ or if you see blue the same way as other people.”

“Why the hell would you think that’s what I want to do tonight when I’ve said about fifty fucking times by now that I don’t want to talk?”

“Yeah about your dead dad. But I might have really interesting thoughts on those other subjects."

Chris buries his face one hand, briefly, then drags it down his face and reluctantly asks: "Ok, Adrian. What’s the point of living?"


Adrian takes a moment, clearly considering this deeply profound question with real intensity. And then he says:

“Probably, I think, to milk cows."

Chris mutters, “Shouldn’t have asked.”

“Because if we weren’t here to do that,” Adrian continues, “and then if a mother cow lost her baby cow and so nothing was drinking the milk, then nobody would be there to get the milk out, and she’d just explode, man. Imagine how many exploded cows there’d be." he sips his milk, "It’s a good thing we evolved here before cows did, or they’d be so fucked!”

There's a long fucking silence.

“You know what? Screw the threesome." Chris snaps, "I'm gonna go proposition Leather Skirt and you," Chris jabs a finger at him, "can fucking well sit by yourself and finish your stupid milk and obsess for god knows what fucking reason over fucking cows! God, man!”

Chris drains his beer and stalks off angrily towards Leather Skirt. Adrian just sits there, baffled as to what just happened.

"Uh, ok bro! Catch you later!” he calls after Chris’ back as it disappears amongst the crowd, “Hey- are- are we still sharing an Uber back? Chris?”

* * *

Later, Adrian unlocks the front door of his Mom’s house and lets the keys drop into the kitschy kitten shaped bowl his Mom had picked up at a yard sale several decades ago. 

The house is dead quiet, as usual.

He shuffles off his sneakers and stuffs his feet into his novelty shark slippers. Super cosy. He half hums, half sings quietly Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off to himself as he goes to the kitchen and grabs a flannel. He runs it under the tap and presses it to the back of his head. As he leans against the kitchen counter he figures once the bleeding stops he should probably shower. Then sleep. Then metahuman magic, apparently. He really has to ask Economos what a metahuman actually is. It's probably useful to know.

He doesn’t feel good. Not just the headache, but his insides feel… not good in a way he can’t really describe. It started when Chris dumped him in the bar. He thought they were going to have a totally awesome night, that things were looking up! But then Chris kinda shit on his crime fighting, and then his bar order, and then because Adrian had hesitated about the threesome, he went ahead to have a twosome with Leather Skirt, and Adrian was left to pay the bill and shuffle home. 

If he’d just gone along with the threesome he’d still be near Chris right now. So stupid!

New rule. Whatever Peacemaker wants to do, you just agree.

He feels the now familiar twinge in his chest and rubs at it. Ouch. What is up with that? Maybe he could ask Economos that too. He seems like the kind of hypochondriac who’s like Wikipedia but like, a man.

As Adrian heads to the tiny shower room and strips, he feels the twinge again, even though he isn’t thinking about Chris abandoning him anymore, but rather, the carjackers.

He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, heat from the shower running steaming up his glasses. He removes them and frowns.

Why’s his brain thinking about the carjackers? That must’ve happened hours ago by now.

He steps into the shower and grabs the bottle of pineapple scented gel, wondering what his brain is up to with a confused look on his face.

The bandana guy had been in prison and in the meantime, broken nose guy had… like… kinda reformed. He probably held doors open for old ladies and helped at soup kitchens and brought mid-price doughnuts to his NA meetings to share.

And then Bandana got out of prison and dropped a bomb into that. 

Adrian doesn’t know why he’s still thinking about the pair. He never normally thought about anyone he’d killed unless it was a funny story and he wanted to make Peacemaker laugh. So why is he thinking back on those guys and the weird meltdown they had in front of him?

It isn’t as if it was anything like his own situation. He isn’t a criminal! He isn’t in NA! He doesn’t wear bandanas! Caps all the way, bro. And like, Peacemaker had been in prison, and then he came out…. different. Adrian hadn’t noticed at first, but, increasingly, it was this little niggle he felt that Something Had Changed. And tonight, Peacemaker had flat out told him he’d changed, and Adrian had felt the taco dry in his mouth.

Whereas, Adrian has been outside this whole time, and although he isn’t volunteering at soup kitchens (who has time for that?) he holds the door open for older customers at Fennel Fields and asks the ones who are eating by themselves how their day has been and stuff. Just in case the reason they’re eating at a family Italian restaurant alone is because they don’t have family anymore, and maybe no one has asked them anything today.

Adrian’s had loads of days, mostly those when Peacemaker was in prison, where nobody spoke to him at all except to tell him to wipe down the tables or distribute the tips or go gather the rats from the traps in the kitchen.

And, he knows that not talking-talking to anybody for days and days at a time makes you think maybe you’re not actually a real person. Maybe everyone else is real and you’re not even visible to them.

Which is dumb. Why’d he ever even think that? Of course he exists! His feet make footprints in the dirt and automated doors open for him! But, sometimes when he refills some old lady’s coffee and says her bird pattern knit sweater is very unique and flattering and she lights up with a smile, he thinks, maybe other people do feel this way, and I’m not just being weird.

Not that anyone compliments his sweaters, but, he doesn’t have any cool bird pattern knit ones. Maybe if he did.

Freshened up, and thoroughly exhausted with all this thinking, this, fuck, introspection, Adrian turns off the water. 

"Stop it, brain," he orders aloud. "The den of scorpions is no good thing to tangle with, especially when you want to get up early and go see the 11th Street Kids at headquarters. They might need your help! Peacemaker will definitely need your helping tracking that missing helmet-thieving racist, and he'll definitely be ok with killing that sonofabitch! 

He smiles. Anticipation tingling inside. Yes. He’d decided on it, tomorrow was going to be an EXCELLENT day.

TBC.

Chapter Text

Chris wakes up in a strange bed with the feeling something definitely died in his mouth, plus a sore neck from having passed out in a really awkward sprawled position. Oh, and Leather Skirt’s legs are using his chest as a footrest. He has a peek at her, trying to make out her face under her mess of sweaty hair. Just to, y’know, check she actually is a hottie and it wasn’t another whisky-brained bang with an ugly chick. Not that those bangs can’t be hot, because ugly chicks are super excited and grateful and usually make him breakfast the morning after, and there’s something real sweet about that, but obviously he doesn’t want to start worrying he can’t get the hot ones anymore.

He brushes her hair off her face and confirms a solid hotness rating, even with smudged eyeshadow and hangover pallor. 

Smiling to himself, he gets up, struggles around her tiny studio apartment to find his clothes (what the hell were they doing that his pants ended up hanging from the overhead fan?), grabs an unopened bag of apples from her kitchen counter and splits.

Outside he half expects to see Vigilante’s car waiting for him, he can’t really remember at what point in the night Adrian went home, but he’s pretty sure he wasn’t involved in any bedroom fun. 

Oh. That was it, the fucking glass of milk. No way would he have let Adrian tag along holding that like some kid in a Christmas movie.

Well, whatever. Uber it is.

* * * 

“Brought you a bag of apples.” Chris announces, dumping the bag on Emilia’s hospital table. “How’s your shattered hip doing?”

“Not great.” She grits out, “Apples? Seriously? You want me to crack a veneer?”

Ha! He knew her perfect fucking smile couldn’t be God given. He grins at her.
 

“Apples are the number one healthiest fruit. You want grapes with all that fructose? Fuck no. Apples have shitloads of fibre and no sodium. Apples are the fucking studs of the fruit world, Harcourt.”

He bites into one and Harcourt lets her head fall back against her pillow because, fucking… whatever.

She’s way too tired and doped on morphine for this. She lifts a hand to fix her hair and then catches herself and stops. No, Emilia, you don’t give a single shit what you look like in front of this bumbling moron. 

A bumbling moron who just dribbled apple juice onto his pants.

“You need a bib?” She smirks.

He brushes the juice with his glove. “Nope. I get free dry cleaning from an old Chinese woman downtown because I was so fucking charming and helped fix her overhead light. She basically wants to adopt me.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hey, I save a bomb. Do you know how many times you have to dry clean white pants per month?”

“Guess it depends how often you shit yourself.”

“Nice try. But I have a bowel constitution of solid gold. I never shit myself. If anything, I have to eat extra fibre just to get a shit out.”

“Oh my god.” Emilia groans, “That’s just as bad.”

He makes a sceptical face. “I don’t think so.”

“Why are you here, Smith? Except apparently to bring me fruit that’s going to make me fucking constipated.”

“I wanted to see how you were healing up. Because unlike Vigilante, who’s a metahuman by the way, that’s the current gang theory-“

“Yeah, Ads already told me.” She interrupts.

“Well, you’re clearly not. You’re just a normo frail as fuck human. Although you do have arms that are toned to perfection. Kudos for that.”

“Thanks.” She shifts in her bed to try and get more comfortable, a futile and frustrating action. “But, that’s how it goes. I’m stuck in this bed most of the time, my physio’s nice but I know I’m not meeting my targets, which makes me feel fucking useless, and I just spent the last week having to piss in a fucking pan.” 

Chris makes a TMI face. Harcourt gives him her middle finger, “So I’m glad Vigilante’s skipped out of here like nothing happened, but it’s gonna take me a fucking minute.”

“But, aside from all that…” Chris begins, “You do look a lot better. Seriously. You were out of it the first couple of times I visited, but today your intrinsic meanness is up by at least 60%, so that’s promising.”

Emilia feels a smile tug at her mouth.

“I guess I do feel a little better than yesterday.”

“See? That’s great! C’mon, you’re gonna smash the recovery record in no fucking time. You’re tough as balls.”

Emilia’s smile turns back to irritation - but Chris is pretty sure from the look in her eyes that it’s affectionate irritation. His favourite flavour.

“Oh and also, not that important or anything, but just to say the other reason I swung by was to let you know that, uh… my Dad’s house kinda got burned down last night, no big deal, but uh… one slightly moderately sized deal is that a leftover racist white-hood got into my Dad’s  Quantum Unfolding Storage Area …. and took all the leftover helmets. And he’s MIA now.”

She stares at him.

“Major bummer.”

“Smith! What the hell! Why didn’t you stop him!?” 

“Hey! Eagly was in danger! I had my priorities!”

She leans back against the pillow and closes her eyes tight. The pain in her back is enough to make her pissed off, but now there’s a racist on the loose with god knows how many incredibly deadly silver potty-seat-looking helmets, it’s just another notch to add to her shit show tally. Or hey, maybe they’ll be lucky, maybe he only took the duds. Like the fucking floating one, or one that fucking… toasts bread or something.

“How many.”

“I don’t know, he might’ve made more? He’d just got a digital printer and, honestly, I don’t for sure understand how those work, but I’m pretty sure they can magically print out anything, like a cloning device. Pretty sure.”

Emilia opens her eyes again and regards Chris, sat there gnawing at the apple core, looking rueful.

She heaves a big sigh and then winces and hisses because holy fuck her ribcage, fuck.

Chris immediatly puts an apple-juice-sticky hand to her shoulder in concern. “Hey, you’re ok.”

“Uh, I’m really fucking not, Chris.”

“Sorry, no, I just meant, you’re…”

She looks at him blankly and watches the creaky cogs of his dumb little brain try and think up something to say. It’s almost funny, but her whole body aches and she’s too scared laughing will split her stitches open.

“Hey,” Chris changes tact, big goofy grin and a glint in his eyes, “How about I wheel you down the hospital corridors and we can dick around, see if there’s anything better to eat than jell-o.”

Emilia considers for a moment, her hair falls into her eyes and she’s glad of it, for shielding that she’s really…. she has to admit (although god help her)… she’s really pretty touched. This big goof with his ginormous fucking head wants to cheer her up. He doesn’t have to be here. But, here he is.

“Fine, but don’t push me and let go of the handles, I don’t want to go crashing into a fucking wall.” Emilia warns, gingerly edging out of the bed and preparing to somehow haul her ass onto the wheelchair Chris presents her with.

“See, you think I’m not a gentleman, but what you don’t know is that at my high school leavers dance I let both the Benedetti twins be my double date - and even though I really only liked one of ‘em, because the other had this wonky eye that followed you around the room, I still fucked her too, because it was the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Emilia stares at him and reminds herself: Christopher Smith is a goddamn ass and don’t you ever forget it.

* * *

11th Street Kids’ HQ

“I know I should be surprised your self harm’s 100% healed, but considering it’s you, and additionally all the shit that just happened with fucking alien Butterflies, I can’t even muster a ‘wow’.” John turns Adrian’s hand as he examines it. Fucking pristine. Meanwhile he’s still on a crutch. Bullshit.

“Because I’m clearly a superhuman, I know.”

“No, because clearly you’re a total freak.”

“Tomato, tomatoh.” Adrian bobs his head. “Hey, do you think I’m immortal?”

“No.” John and Leota confirm in unison.

“What’s this whole metahuman thing mean? And why’s it Adrian?” Leota wonders.

“That, I’m struggling with.” John watches as Adrian gets distracted from their very important conversation by a fidget spinner on John’s desk.

“I also got hit in the head by a crowbar last night, hurt super bad at the time but now after a good night’s sleep, I gotta say, I feel very refreshed.”

“Fucking so unfair I get saddled a broken shin and fucking insomnia and acid reflux no matter what I do, and this idiot bounces back from being half dead in 24 hours.” John whines.

Leota rolls her eyes, “You could try eating a damn vegetable once in awhile, Economos.”

“There is lettuce in my sandwich today, I’ll have you know.”

“I think Adebayo’s right. My superhealing is probably because I always eat my vegetables. When I was a kid I ate so many carrots every day that I actually turned orange, for like a week. It was pretty weird. My Mom banned them from the house.”

John snorts. “Eating fuckloads of carrots doesn’t cause superhealing.”

“Oh yeah? How many carrots have you eaten in your life? Bet it’s under a thousand. And they help you see in the dark - that’s a fact, dude.”

“Right, ‘cause your eyesight’s clearly 20/20!” John shakes his head.

Adrian thinks for a second, “Yeah, no, that’s probably because as a kid I also spent all my spare time in my room playing video games on a computer like, two inches from my face.”

“Finally, something you crackers got in common.” Leota teases. 

John can’t really argue with that.

The door opens and it’s Peacemaker. “Hey guys.” 

“Ok, first of all, you’re gonna need to explain what in god’s name you were texting us last night, Chris.”

“Huh?”

Leota pulls out her phone and clears her throat pointedly, “affgfy rasssiist got hekmtsms but I’ll genget dont wrn”

“Oh, that’s Peacemaker explaining that a racist burned down his Dad’s house and stole his helmets last night, but that he’ll get them, don’t worry.” Adrian translates.

Chris thinks, yeah, probably accurate.

“Smith, what the hell? There’s an emergency situation with a racist on the run with a pile of super helmets, and you go get fucking trashed and then, swan in here to bother telling us about it at fucking lunchtime?” John always gets super handflaily when he’s pissed, Chris is way too hungover for all that flapping.

“Hey, cool your man tits, Economos, I was visiting Harcourt at the hospital.” Chris holds up his hands. “Because I’m nice.”

“Aw, Chris.” Leota smiles knowingly, Chris narrows his eyes. “You’re like a little puppy, just can’t leave her alone.”

“No I’m not.” Chris says quickly.

Adrian is looking between the two of them, expression unreadable.

“Does she know?” John asks.

“Oh hell yes she knows he’s got the hots for her, he ain’t subtle.” Leota grins.

He sighs. “About. The missing. Helmets.” 

Her expression sobers, “Oh.”

“Yeah, I told her. She’s gonna try get discharged ASAP so she can come help - and I quote - “you clueless fuckers sort this shitshow out”.” 

“What are the odds he’s just some pasty assed ignorant racist who won’t have the brain cells to even work the helmets properly?” Leota wonders.

“Pretty high.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” Leota asks.

“He was wearing a hood.”

“Ohh right, yeah. Got it.” Leota bites her lip.

“So what do we do? Do we just sit around and wait for something horrible to happen?” John pulls at his beard anxiously.

“Maybe it already has?” Adrian picks up the TV remote and starts flipping between news stations.

“Huh, ummm…. so we’ve got starving kids…. Fake meat is the future,”

“The fuck it is.” John mutters.

Adrian flips again, “uh… Politicians’ lying about things. Amanda Waller… oh, Adebayo? The press are outside her house trying to get an interview.”

“She won’t be at that house.” Leota states. Chris glances at her. “She’s got like, five.”

“Yeah yeah, your family’s rich, we get it.” John snarks.

“Uh, hey, I am not rich. If I was rich I wouldn’t be living in a tiny ass one bed apartment downtown and clipping loyalty coupons outta newspapers like some batshit hoarder. And I sure as shit ain’t getting any of my Mom’s money now.”

“Sucks, my Dad didn’t leave me his house, either.” Chris adds.

“Well, that’s the least surprising thing I ever heard.” Leota raises her brows.

“Nope…” Adrian turns off the TV. “Nothing about a racist shitheel wearing a shiny murder helmet.” He pauses, “But I guess he could be having a lunch break.”

John snap his fingers, “Hang on, Peacemaker, does your Dad’s street have CCTV?”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Chris realises.

John rushes to his laptop to pull the footage. The gang gathers around behind him.

“There! That’s me and Eagly last night. Rewind before that.” Chris points. John scrubs back the footage and the two hoods are sneaking in through the side window. 

“And that’s their car.” John points as the footage rewinds to them getting out of a family camper.

“Yeah, the 'white power' bumper stickers are kinda a giveaway.” Chris sighs.

“Registration leads us to….” John clatters at his laptop keys, “This bald fuck.”

“Fuckin’ egg shaped bald fuck. He’s like Humpty Dumpty fucked Big Foot. No wonder he wears a fucking hood all the time, he’s a total Brown Bag.” Chris snarks. 

“Wait, what’s a Brown Bag?” John is suddenly concerned.

“A Brown Bag, dude, it’s a person so fucking ugly that the only way you could possibly have sex with them is if they wore a brown paper bag over their head.”

“You mean, other than him being a racist.” Leota adds.

“Well, obviously.”

John casts his eyes down, “Fuck… I thought she called me that because I always brought my lunch in a… in a brown bag.”

“Who’s calling you Brown Bag? I’ll drag that bitch’s ass.” Leota turns to him, outraged.

John blushes, mumbles: “Shelly from reception.”

“Oh John, her? That girl is so dumb she thinks the capital of Hawaii is called ‘Hollalulu’. You can do way better than her.”

John tries to look like he in any way believes that, but he does smile at Hollalulu.

“Hey guys. Can we hunt down and murder the racist egg shaped man now?” Adrian bounces on his feet.

Chris meets his question with a smile, “Fuck yeah.”

* * *

The 11th Street Kids’ van. Well, the new van since the old van got blown up. Somehow it already has like fifty empty chip packets stuffed in random places from the sheer volume John gets through per week - although not when fucking Vigilante’s around because he can’t stand the look of genuine concern in his eyes.

“Hey P,” Adrian pipes up, “So… did you have a nice time fucking that chick last night?

He has an odd accusatory expression that strikes Chris as weird. 

“Sure. Did you have fun drinking your fucking glass of milk?”

“It was very refreshing.”

Chris rolls his eyes.

“But, now I realise I really should’ve been there to doubleteam that chick with you. I totally let you down as a best friend, there. Sorry.” He winces apologetically. Chris stares at him. Leota’s eyes widen.

“Uh? I had a great time without you there, man. It’s cool.”

Adrian’s face falls. “Oh.”

“Wait, back the fuck up.” John says loudly from the driver’s seat, “You guys doubleteam girls together? At the same time!?”

“Yeah, pretty often!” Adrian nods.

Chris rubs his face, “Dude, don’t talk about this shit…”

“Oh my god, that means you’ve seen each other’s balls. That’s so fucking weird.” John is wrinkling his nose while Leota smirks. 

“We already know Peacemaker just loves sizing up those dicks in the changing room…” she says.

“So? I like to be sure I’m the biggest, and rest assured…” Chris smirks saucily.

“Well it’s fucking weird you guys do that together - and pretty damn gay.” says John.

“Hey!” Chris leans forward to get a look at John, “I’ve done some gay shit in my time and this isn’t gay at all - if anything it’s twice as hetero because we’re both fucking her.”

Leota rolls her eyes. John just looks confused.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with gay sex, but it’s not gay if there’s a woman inbetween us. It’s not like I fuck V.” He adds as an afterthought: “Plus c’mon, it’s basically the only way he gets any.”

Adrian’s aghast. “Hey?! Dude that’s uncalled for!”

“Your pick up game is weak as shit.”

“Ok so I’m not the best at first impressions - but I have unbelievably dexterous hands, bro. You gotta give me that.”

Chris shrugs, fair point.

“OH MY GOD please for the love of GOD stop talking about this.” John wails, “I don’t want these images in my fucking head!”

Chris winks at John’s reflection in the rear view mirror. “You’re welcome. Feel free to pick up sex tips from imaginary Peacemaker in your head.”

“Fuck. Off.”

As Economos and Peacemaker bicker, Adrian puts on his mask. Partly because ass kicking is forthwith, but also partly because he feels kinda confused why Peacemaker didn’t want him to mention their threesomes to the others, or why Economos is freaked out. With the mask on he can be confused, or upset, or any feeling really, and nobody can tell. Which is pretty useful since when people can see his face he apparently quite often is not making the right kind of facial expression for the situation - and then they get mad, or creeped out. 

He doesn’t know why he wanted Chris not to have enjoyed banging Leather Skirt without him, but when the question fell out he realised that was exactly what he was hoping. Why? He shouldn’t be hoping Chris doesn’t have a good time, he doesn’t really mean that. 

He just should’ve said yes.

He watches Chris across the van. You’re so lucky the coolest guy in the world lets you be his BFF! C’mon man, stop overthinking this shit.

The van draws to a halt at the racist’s detached house. The car with the bumper stickers is parked in the driveway, along with a little kid’s bicycle with streamers on its handlebars blowing in the slight breeze. Ugh, it’s just the worst when bad people procreate.

“So, Vigilante and me will go in, kill Humpty Dumpty the racist, get the helmets back - and then we can go to the hospital and tell Harcourt we’ve cleaned up the whole mess and she can tell us how great we are.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” John replies.

“I’m coming too.” Leota’s voice is grave.

“No fucking way, Ads. That moon-faced motherfucker will shoot you first if he sees you.”

“Wow, the racist will wanna kill me? I never imagined.” she deadpans.

“I don’t want you getting hurt.” Chris furrows his brow.

“Well maybe I wanna be the one to take his bitch ass out. Ever think of that?”

“Woo!” Vig raises his hand to high five her, “Go Adebayo! It’s such a rush, right!? Nothing like killing a person to get your adrenaline pumping!”

Leota just stares at him. 

“Ads, I promise me and Vig can handle this.” Chris’ face is serious. 

Leota shifts in her seat. She knows she wants to shoot that bastard in the face for being the worthless piece of shit he is, but, she also sees Keeya… Practically feels her hand link with hers, her fingers brush her cheek, hears her saying softly: ‘It’s not worth it if I lose you. A piece of shit is not worth getting hurt over.’

But it’s Chris’ gloved hand she suddenly feels touch her own. “You know Harcourt would agree with me.” 

“Don’t worry,” Vigilante says, expression unreadable with the mask on, “We’ll make sure he really suffers.”

Leota swallows.

“Fine.” She grits out reluctantly.

“You guys be ready for our getaway.” Chris nods to John.

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll let you know if any other racist turds show up.” John gives them a thumbs up. 

Sharing a final, heartfelt look with Leota, Peacemaker opens the van door and steps out on the tarmac, Vigilante by his side.

“Let’s go kill a Neo-Nazi.” 

TBC.

Chapter Text

They stealth along the driveway, guns at the ready, and then flatten themselves against the bricks either side of the house’s front door. Vigilante looks to Peacemaker, who takes a breath, then nods.

Let’s go.

He’s about to kick the door in when he suddenly notices something glinting in the flowerpot by the door. raises a hand to stop him and dips down to inspect something. He picks it out: a spare key. And ok, sure, Peacemaker did used to hide a spare key of his own around the gnomes outside his trailer but, jesus. What is this, the 19-fucking-50s? 

They exchange shrugs, probably better to sneak in with the element of surprise and all. He unlocks the door. They creep into the hallway, and he notices a pair of child sized jelly glitter sandals on the shoe rack and a Hello Kitty backpack hanging from the bannister. 

Vigilante, gun first, is checking the front room, the downstairs toilet, the cupboard under the stairs. Nothing. 

He turns to Peacemaker in want of instruction. Peacemaker hesitates a moment, then silently and exaggeratedly mouths:

“There’s

A

Kid” 

Vigilante cocks his head and whispers a little too loudly back: “There’s a cake?”

“A 

KID”

Vigilante doesn’t react for a few seconds. He gives Peacemaker a thumbs up and whispers: “‘k, bro. I’ll handle it.”

He turns as if to head upstairs, but Peacemaker grabs his arm frantically. 

“Hey hey!” He hisses, “What the hell? Don’t go kill the kid!”

“Well, we kiiinda have to if it sees us.” Vig replies matter-of-factly.

“I’m fucking serious, Adrian.”

Vig shrugs off Peacemaker’s grab, affronted: “Don’t reveal my secret identity!”

“Do not kill the kid.” Chris glares, finger pointing at Adrian in warning. “We’re not here for that.”

“Fine!” Vig throws up his arms with a dramatic sigh.

“Just look for the helmets.”

Vig nods and duly begins searching. 

Apparently no one’s even home, despite the car outside.

Peacemaker notices a novelty bottle opener on the kitchen table, the twirled screw coming out the end of a bright pink pig like a tail. He chuckles and pops it in his pocket. Stealing from racist followers of his ex-Dad doesn’t count.

Then there’s a clatter from the back porch and Peacemaker cocks his gun. He moves towards the sliding glass doors to the patio - ajar - and stops dead when Humpty Dumpty himself comes back inside from the back yard; threadbare dressing gown, holding a mug of coffee. 

It probably only lasts a split second but Peacemaker feels he locks eyes with the guy for long enough to see a glint of disgust in them. Disgust at him?  From this piece of shit? 

There’s no kid with him. No one else here. Just a racist egg having a day off.

He vowed once for peace.

He still believes in peace.

“Hey motherfucker, in the name of fucking peace guess who's here to wipe every last one of you off God’s green earth for good?” 

Peacemaker fires his gun at the guy’s head but the fucker ducks and flings his coffee at Chris - fuck!

Maybe he really oughta forgo any kickass last words and skip to the asskicking.

Coffee stains his pants and fucking fuck- burns around his crotch. He hisses and quickly checks the damage, scalded but not burnt, thank christ, then he realises the guy has run past him to grab one of the rifles displayed on his wall between dusty deer heads and one of a startled looking alligator (sure you killed that yourself, big boy) - but shots fire across the room and hit the guy’s chest - Vig, two guns, calmly closing the distance between them.

But the guy… doesn’t drop to the ground? He staggers back and… smiles. Smiles and shoots back at Vigilante who, momentarily thrown by bullets not working, ducks behind the couch.

Chris runs at the guy from the side and slams his giant head against the wall. He falls with a grunt and that’s when, dressing gown flapping open, Chris sees the bullet proof vest. For drinking coffee? Or did he know they were coming?

The guy shoots from the ground at him, badly from that angle, so Chris goes and shoots his leg in return. He screams.

“YOU SONOFABITCH!” 

“Uh, that’s my line.” Chris snarks. “Where’d you put the helmets you fucking stole?” He aims at the guy’s non-bullet-proof head. He still has his gun pointed at Chris. Blood pours onto the carpet from his leg.

Vigilante pops up behind Chris’s shoulder eagerly.

“My daughter’s upstairs, you fucking stupid cucks.”

Chris flinches, but composes himself quickly: “Well she’ll sure as shit be better off without you in her life.”

“Don’t you dare fucking hurt her!” The guy growls.

Chris looks incredulous. “I’m not a kid killer. I’m a racist pieces of shit killer. A killer for peace and peace only. I’m not gonna do anything to a kid!”

“You liar. You killed your own brother as a kid.” 

Chris feels a sick twinge at that, falters. “That- was an accident, that doesn’t fucking count.”

The guy actually chuckles.

Chris curls his lip in disgust. “Tell me where the helmets are before I put a bullet straight into your ballsack. You wanna know what an exploded ballsack looks like?”

“Kinda.” Vig pipes up from behind.

“Why would I tell you, why would I ever tell you shit if you’re gonna kill me anyways?”

Chris hesitates. 

“Hey, shall I go upstairs and get her?” Vigilante suddenly suggests quietly. Chris looks at him, eyes wide.

“No.” He bites out.

The guy squirms, fearful.

“You just said you wouldn’t do that!” He winces and tries to hold his leg to stop the bleeding, he sighs raggedly, “Look I’ll tell you where they are if you let me live, ok? I-I’m not even involved in this, I’m just a go-between.”

Vig chuckles. “Oh man, c’mon, I’ll just turn your house inside out looking for them. I mean, how many places could they be?” He points to Chris, “I got this.”

And he heads off to search. 

Chris narrows his eyes at the bleeding man. “I literally saw you last fucking night at my Dad’s house, torching the place. You can’t revoke your Nazi card now because you’ve got caught. C’mon, that’s fucking embarrassing. At least own your shit like a man.”

“What shit have you owned? Huh? Ever in your life?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Your Dad told us all kinds… lurid details…”

Chris swallows hard.

“Your… Dad…” the guy begins, breath hitching with pain.

“Shut the fuck up about him. I don’t give a shit.”

“He had a plan… you don’t fucking know about…” his eyes gleam.

Chris’s gut drops but he ignores it. “Yeah, right. Sure.”

“He knew he’d die one day of old age… you think he wasn’t gonna figure out a comeback?”

“From getting slugged in the fucking head? Good luck.”

“You can’t stop the return to the natural order of things.” The man actually fucking laughs while he’s bleeding out on the carpet, “It’s a tidal wave that’s coming, and you ain’t no God.”

“Wanna bet?”

Chris suddenly kicks the gun out of the guy’s weakened grip and pulls out the pig corkscrew and then, you bet your ass he jams it into the guy’s bullet hole. He screams and Chris quickly twists the corkscrew.

“Tell me what the fuck you’re talking about right now, or we can drag this out for a reeeeal long time.”

“Aw, torture? You should’ve called me back sooner.” Vigilante, behind them. He’s holding a helmet. “There’s only this one. It was on the bed. Dude, do you have sex wearing this?”

Chris wrinkles his nose at the guy. Gross.

Vigilante tilts his head. “Oh and there’s no girl upstairs, FYI.”

The guy whimpers. Chris twists the screw again.

“You want to know what happens if I pull this fucker out?” He asks, “Cause I’m pretty curious.” 

He can feel Vigilante’s excitement.

“Oh, you’re in the arms of the Devil…” The man says.

“Did you fucking Craig’sList the other helmets? Is that it?”

“If you kill me, you’re a traitor to your country. To your race. A monster-”

“The only monster here is you! You hate people because they’re different from you? Fuck you. You think my Dad was right about any goddamn thing he believed? Double fuck you.”

“The worst monsters in the world are the ones who don’t even recognise it.” 

“Yeah? Then you shoulda looked in the mirror, you ugly fuck.”

And he shoots him in the head. 

Vigilante claps his back and assesses the blown open face for a moment. “Wow. He was so freakin’ ugly that having no face is actually an improvement.”

Chris turns to Vig and -

His stomach drops. Over Vig’s shoulder he sees her.

A little girl in the doorway, probably about ten years old, barefoot, a cartoon kitten on her t-shirt.

“Shit…” Chris breathes.

Vig follows Chris’s gaze, then gasps.

“Ooh, shit. She saw.” His hand goes to his gun belt. “P, she saw.”

“I can fucking see that!” He snaps. Vig raises his hands like, woah, ok.

The little girl is staring at her Dad’s body, a large, still heap on the carpet.

“Little girl,” Chris begins, slightly bending down to her level, “Your Dad was a- a really bad man and he wanted to hurt a lot of innocent people because he thought they were less human than him- so I had to- I had to stop him. I had no choice.”

The little girl stares at him, not a hint of what she’s thinking across her small, blank face.

“Ok? I’m sorry, shit, I know you probably loved him, but he was really fucking bad-“

And then she opens her mouth wide, so wide Chris notes with a gulp that she’s clearly recently lost her front baby teeth, and then, she screams.

The sound is horrific, her face suddenly red, tears spilling, shrieking at them so loudly Chris doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get away from the sound even if he ran a hundred miles away.

He’s aware that Vigilante is cocking his gun. Wild eyed, Chris grabs him by the arms and pushes him roughly against the wall, blocking him from her.

“What the heck!” Vig sounds so genuinely surprised, “Dude, she’ll identify you!”

“No!” Chris yells, horrified. He tears Vig’s gun off him and that’s when, out the corner of his eye, he sees the little girl has stopped shrieking and is reaching for a fucking gun left casually on the coffee table. Oh motherfu—

They both dodge the bullet, and luckily, despite evidently frequenting a fucking gun range at ten years old, the weapon is too big for her and the recoil knocks her to the ground.

Chris grabs Vigilante’s arm and drags him towards the front door.

“We gotta GO.”

They run out of there and slam themselves into the van. 

“What the hell’s happening? Did you get him?” Leota looks between them anxiously.

“JUST DRIVE!” Chris yells - and knowing that means some serious shit has gone down, John slams his foot on the peddle just as a bunch of neighbours start pouring out of their own houses and towards the commotion. 

Chris leans his head back against the van, feeling the vibrations buzz through his head. He jams his eyes tightly shut, even though he can hear Leota asking over and over, what happened, what happened.

He sees Keith on the ground, writhing.

He sees his Dad’s bloodied head.

He sees Rick Flag, inches from his face.

He sees the little girl in the doorway. Her screams stuck in his ears. 

“Dude, are you alright?” He can hear the genuine concern in Vigilante’s voice and he feels sick. 

He buries his face in his hands.

“Did you at least get any helmets?” 

“Just one.” Vig holds it up and turns it over. “Not sure which… But I think he might have had sex while wearing it? TBC, though.”

“Adrian, is he dead?” Leota asks. 

He gives her an enthusiastic thumbs up. But inside… He can still feel Peacemaker’s tight, angry grip on his upper arms and feel being shoved against the wall and Peacemaker’s eyes boring into him with his face all scrunchy, the bad scrunchy, the scrunchy that means: you’ve fucked up and I don’t want to be near you now.

Peacemaker is sitting forward now with his head in his hands, breathing raggedly like he’s going to puke. Maybe he needs some root beer? Burp it out? Vig is about to offer they stop for some when Leota leans forward.

“Chris.” she presses.

“There was a kid. A… a little girl. And I fucking killed her piece of shit dad in front of her.” 

“Fuck.” John’s gone very pale.

Leota puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh.”

“Yeah, she screamed a lot…” Vig adds, “Then she tried to shoot us but luckily she had no real technique and the weapon was too big for her so we got away.” He twists his gloved fingers worriedly, “…I still think she’ll be able to describe you to the cops, P.”

“I don’t give a shit, man!” Chris bursts out, glaring at Vigilante, who shrinks back. 

“Ok, ok, this is, this is pretty bad, this isn’t great.” Leota rambles, “But John you can fix this, right? You can record-clear Peacemaker and Vigilante from the scene?”

“Probably!? I think!?” John panics.

Leota nods. “No one actually saw them except the girl… and kids… aren’t exactly reliable witnesses… And, y’know, a follower of the White Dragon. Who’s gonna care?”

“But I fucked up.” Chris shakes his head. “We should’ve left the minute we knew there could be a kid there… and- and gone back when she was at school or something or at a playdate or a fucking Frozen singalong.”

“Riiight,” Vig interrupts, “so you’re not mad that we killed the guy, it’s just because his daughter saw it happen? Ok, huh. Interesting.”

“Dude. I just traumatised an innocent kid.” 

“Well, we don’t know she’s innocent.”

“She’s a kid.”

“Yeah and some kids are real assholes. If I’d been any good at fighting back at school I would have totally been within my rights to be the cold brutal hammer of the law when they stole school property or stuck dog shit in my backpack. That’s property damage! And oh my god, there was this one shitty kid on my street who'd tie fireworks to cats. That’s evil.”

“Just shut the fuck up, Adrian. Ok?” Chris snaps, exhausted. “Please shut up for one fucking minute.”

Adrian sags back in his seat. Leota looks awkwardly at him and then touches Chris’s shoulder gently.

“You know that man would’ve hurt people if you hadn’t stopped him. You know he’d have been telling that girl all kinds of bullshit and twisting her up inside, against the world.”

“So did my Dad,” Chris’s voice is strained, “But I- I changed-“ he winces, “I’ve tried to change.”

“Maybe she will too, without him in her life.” Leota says, “Maybe you did her a favour.”

Those screams… 

Maybe that is what he is. A monster who sometimes manages not to fuck up and make everything worse with monstrous acts, but who can never keep the act of being good up for too long. In the end, things always return to their natural… 

Chris buries his face again and Leota keeps her hand on his shoulder.

Adrian watches. How does Leota’s tender, nice touching help, but not his? 

* * *

At the hospital, Chris is still brooding and sullen as he explains what happened to Emilia. She’s sat on a chair by the window of her room, peeling an apple with a knife, the skin a long, snakey curl.

She doesn’t get mad, like Adrian thought she might, but instead her face softens and she reaches to give his hand a quick squeeze - apparently that helps too. He squeezes back, briefly.

“You did what you set out to do - and before he could use the helmet to hurt people. Ok? Mission accomplished. Even if it was a mission you idiots didn’t tell me about. Ne-ver do that again.” 

“He only had one helmet, though.” Adrian pipes up, voice slightly muffled under his mask. 

“Yeah, that’s… a problem.” Emilia rubs her temple.

John adjusts his glasses. “What about the trackers in them? Maybe I can hack in and pick up the signal?”

Emilia stares at him like, why… why do you do this to me. “Well go do that then - !? Why the hell didn’t you do that before?”

“I- forgot about the- I- Sorry.” John mumbles, “In my defence it’s been a wild day and I haven’t had time to keep up my blood sugar levels-“

Emilia raises her hand to stop him yammering.

“I’ll, yeah, I’ll go do it now.” And he heads out to the lobby to open his laptop.

“Hey, I can grab you a snack, dude, ‘cause I really think you need to balance your diet kinda a little more than you do?” Adrian follows after him, latching onto something helpful to contribute so he doesn’t have to keep feeling like somehow he’s let Peacemaker down in some way he doesn’t know.

Leota looks sympathetically at Chris. He sighs.

“Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I said I didn’t want to kill people anymore, but when it comes down to it… it’s still what I do.”

“When you got no choice.” Leota affirms. “Let’s get a coffee for Harcourt.” Leota offers and Chris nods like a child instructed by a parent and exits the room. Leota lingers to fist bump Emilia.

“You looking good!” Leota smiles.

“Not exactly feeling it but,” a smile tugs at her mouth, warm and secret, “I walked today. Very slowly and badly. But, I walked.”

She’s practically glowing with it. Relief. Happiness. Pride. Leota holds her hand to her own heart.

“Hell yeah! That’s incredible!”

“It’s, y’know, mostly down to the physio being great.”

“No way, this is you. Your strength. Own that shit! You’re the strongest woman I know.” Leota nods, “Hope you realise.”

Emilia grins. “Ok, ok, enough. But, thanks.” She dips her head, embarrassed, compliments, she never knows what to do with, she just holds them awkwardly and hopes the person stops looking at her so she can… have a second with it, before she buries it away to get on with whatever task is at hand.

“Go get me a coffee. And a bagel. I’m sick of fucking apples.”

* * *

As Leota carries two coffees back to Emilia’s room with Chris beside her, holding a warmed bagel, she sees Adrian (still masked) is standing awkwardly by the hallway seats where John is furiously typing. Even though she can’t see his face, she feels the confusion and worry in him. The way he’s holding one arm like a guilty little kid trying to self comfort.

As they pass, she gives him a smile to communicate: it’s ok. She doesn’t know if he gets what she meant.

* * * 

Leota smiled but Chris didn’t. Chris didn’t even look at him. Chris hadn’t looked at him since shoving him against the wall because he hadn’t got it right, what Chris wanted to do. He’d still thought that, between a rock and a hard place, Peacemaker would do what he needed to, even if he didn’t want to.

But… now?

Adrian feels his eyes getting blurry and hot under his visor. He blinks furiously and is glad his secrecy means no one can see him blinking so much. He must look so weird.

It stops if he stops thinking about it. About anything. Distraction!

He remembers something:

“Oh hey, I forgot! I got you a snack.” 

A little bag of peanuts from a vending machine is held out to John. John takes them, awkwardly grateful, slightly weirded out.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Not chips, ok? But these have protein - and I got the unsalted ones 'cause, no judgement here dude, but… you probably ate a week’s worth of salt today already…”

“God. This is like when I go to my Mom’s for Christmas and she tries to change my diet to fucking soy milk and gluten free bread and forwards me emails about cholesterol…”

Vig presses his hand over his heart and sounds genuinely moved as he exclaims, “Economos! You think I’d be a good mother?”

“… Wait, what?”

An alert bleeps on his computer screen and both men lean in to see.

“Is that the tracker?”

“Yeah, I’ve got their locations locked, although it’d help if we knew exactly how many are MIA. They’re pretty spread out… this one’s in another state. Apparently racists really get around. Weirdly I still can’t find the levitating one. Maybe it’s got to fucking space by now.”

Adrian’s quiet for a moment, then asks in a small voice:

“Hey Economos. Can I ask you something?”

“… Ok?” John sounds wary.

“Is Peacemaker pissed at me? Because, ok, he did yell at me in the van, and not at anyone else, but then he hasn’t said he is… so it could be I’m getting this totally wrong-”

“What is this, high school?” John scratches his beard, “I think he’s mad at himself, honestly.”

“Oh. Because…?”

“Of the kid. Yeah. And sure probably a little bit, at you, because killing kids is apparently totally fine with you and that’s… honestly pretty scary.”

“Only if they’ve broken the law. Or threaten Peacemaker’s safety and security. It’s not like I mean all kids. I thought you were just telling me I’d be a good mother?”

“I literally did not say that in any way and I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. But look, even if kids do break the law, they don’t get the same severity of punishment that adults do. Right? They don’t go to adult prisons or get the fucking death penalty.” John pauses, “Well actually they did use the death penalty on teenagers a bunch of times in the past, up until around 2005, I think, it was a, uh, wild 3am Wikipedia spiral I went down, but, that’s why the law changed. Just really really late in the day. Like every other thing the government does.”

The blankness of Adrian’s mask stares at him a long moment, then tilts in thought.

“That’s actually a solid point.”

John hmms wearily.

“So maybe I shouldn’t kill anyone, say, under sixteen… because they’re not recognised in law as adults for their crimes…”

“Sounds like a good plan.” 

“Although it would depend on what state we’re in.”

“No, no no, just, all kids. Doesn’t matter the state. Let’s just say: all kids. No death. Keep it simple.”

Adrian nods. “Ok.” He takes a breath. “I hereby solemnly pinky promise, I won’t kill any more kids.”

He sticks out his gloved pinky and John, to end this madness, pinkies him back. 

“You’re really great at advice, dude.”

“…Thanks.”

“Hey, do you know anything about chest pain?”

“Are you seriously back on my health again? Jesus. Stop mom-ing me so you can force me to say you’re good at it. It’s weird. And you're not.”

“No, no, I mean me. Sometimes I get these like… stabby feelings? Just sometimes. Like, five minutes ago. Then it goes away. Then I just feel numb?”

“I don’t know…. Heart burn? Chest sprain from fighting? We’re at a hospital, go tell a nurse.”

“But, they can’t examine me without learning my secret identity.”

John rolls his eyes. The absurdity of talking about child murder and heart burn and fucking peanuts with someone committed to wearing a fucking mask which makes John feels like he’s the insane one.

“You know about medical stuff, is all I mean. So maybe… uh, you could…”

“Oh god…” John should’ve seen this coming.

“You did want to keep track of my metahuman shit anyway…”

“Fine. Jesus christ. I’ll give you a check over.”

Adrian bumps his elbow against John’s and, John knows, he just knows, he’s got that stupid doofy grin on his face as he says:

“Dude, you’re the Econo-most, ha! Get it? You’re the most. Like the best?”

John smiles weakly. All of this insanity in his life? Really is the most.

 * * *

Chris slumps onto the couch back at his trailer. Eagly caws and hops over to him, little eyes looking up at his human with love and compassion he doesn’t deserve.

His face briefly crumples like he might cry but he clears his throat and tries to swallow it back. Eagly pecks at his boot worriedly and he pets his BFF’s head. 

“Sorry, sorry Eagly. I let us down. I always fuck up. Again and again. Why does nothing good ever last for me? It’s like I’m on a fucking timer.”

He’s such a piece of shit. He didn’t ask how Emilia was since he last saw her. He didn’t pick up Eagly fresh steak like he’d put on his to-do list. He didn’t thank Leota for being gentle with him when he made the whole shitty day about himself. He’d yelled at Vig and... fuck, it’s not his fault he doesn’t get these things... but it also deeply scares him. 

And he deeply scares himself, too. Because he killed a little girl’s dad in front of her and… he wished he felt it mattered more to him that the guy was a bigot. That that cancelled out the bad.

“You’re an endless stream of fuck ups.” Auggie’s voice across the room. “You were born a fuck up and you’ll die a fuck up.”

Without the lamps on, Auggie’s just a shadow. Sat at the kitchen table like he’s been invited for fucking milk and cookies.

“Did pretty good today, Dad.” Chris forces himself to say, “Heroic shit. I murdered one of your acolytes. I’ll get ‘em all like racist whack-a-mole.”

“You killed a father in front of his innocent little girl.”

Chris flinches. 

“That’s the action of a monster.”

“Oh that’s fucking rich coming from you.” Chris scoffs.

“That man wasn’t lying when he said I got plans…” Auggie’s voice doesn’t hide the smirk, even if Chris can’t see his face properly.

“Yeah? Well then all your angry ham-joint looking friends better find a fucking ouija board, because I’m the only unlucky fuck who can see and hear you.” Chris raises his chin, “You’re not a ghost. You’re just my- my….” He trails off. 

His guilt? His conscience? No, he- he doesn’t feel guilty over killing his shitty Dad. He doesn’t. He can’t. That’s fucking stupid.

“What’s that now…?”

“You know what? You’re irrelevant. Just a guy that doesn’t matter shit anymore.”

Auggie casually checks his watch.

“Time will tell.”

Chris blinks and he’s gone. Eagly’s pecking at his feet sadly. The trailer is silent. 

Chris rubs at his eyes. He needs to get this sick feeling in his stomach to go away. He needs to stop thinking about it. He needs to turn on a fucking lamp.

* * *

VIGILANTE:

Hey P! sorry I nearly killed a kid earlier. My bad. You are right like always. I pinky promise in future NOT to kill kids.

PEACEMAKER:

👍 Good to hear dude. 

PEACEMAKER:

Sorry I yelled a lot.

VIGILANTE:

Don’t worry!!!

Foot spa night!? 

To chill out??? 

With pizza??

And movie???  🦶🍕🍹 🧜‍♂️

Chris smiles and for a second he forgets the sick feeling. A fucking bubbling foot bath thing that must belong to Adrian’s mom is a weird ass way to distract yourself from the dark black pit inside you, but fuck it, he has to admit it truly does ease the aches and pains of a day running about in his uniform boots and make his feet ‘happy healthy feet’. Just like the box says. Plus the chick on the box is a total fox. 

PEACEMAKER:

🤔

👍 

But don’t bring massage oils like last time. That’s too far dude.

TBC.

Chapter Text

You bet your ass Vigilante NEARED THE SPEED LIMIT to get to P’s house that night. 

Of course he didn’t, would never (save for life/death car chase scenario) break the law like that, but he neared that fucker of a limit as close as he could because: Chris wasn’t mad at him!

Chris wanted to hang out!

Chris also didn’t want an oil massage but Adrian reminds himself to correct Chris on that - the fact that he only brought it one time and it was because Chris had a specific back injury and Adrian was being a good BFF, willing to massage his back like a rump of steak until he was healed. 

He feels released from that knotted twisty chest pain. Like a huge gust of fresh, clear air has rushed through his whole body and blown away any cobwebs of doubt and worry and all the Bad Things that make him feel uncomfortable and confused.

He’s just driving at a safe speed to his bestie’s trailer and they’re going to have the best night. Adrian’s brought his entire DVD collection in a box, three packs of beers, two big pizzas, chips (and the chips Eagly likes best, especially for his 2# BFF), the foot spa which Chris gets dibs on, and a bunch of records he found an old man down the road from his house selling just out on the sidewalk. Ones that he thinks Chris might like. 

The old man had been sat at a table piled with the records, an eclectic selection of books, some very pilled old sweaters in pastel shades and various odds and ends of small decorative furniture. They all looked sad, the objects. So did the old man. Adrian and adjusted his glasses and browsed in silence, aware the man was watching him because, well, he was the only person there.

“Mornin’.”

“Good morning.” Adrian had smiled back.

“Patty died.”

“Hm?” Adrian’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, to be talked to, and expected to know who the hell Patty was.

“My wife. Patty. I’m clearing out. Can’t bear to look at the stuff. Too many memories. I want it all gone as soon as…” he trailed off and Adrian wasn’t sure if that was the explanation for the impromptu yard sale, so he looked back blankly.

“You’re Debbie’s younger one, right?”

Oh, the old guy knows his Mom. So he’s a long term neighbour. Adrian should have recognised him, probably, but in his defence there’s a point in aging where people stop looking like themselves - they crumple and sag into a different form, and you have to peer really close to see who they were before. Adrian isn’t much good with faces in the first place.

“That’s right. Adrian.”

“Thought so. Good you stayed with her. ‘Specially when she got sick.”

Adrian blinks. Where else would he have gone?

“You must miss her.” The man says, and Adrian feels uncomfortable under his gaze. It’s like he wants something from him. “She was a fine woman. Always said hi to me and Patty.”

“Yeah… she said hi a lot.”

“Did you clear out after she passed? Young man like yourself, might want to make a home his own. For a family.”

Adrian laughs loudly and a little wildly, then tries to turn it into an unconvincing cough as the man’s widened eyes indicate that, whoops, apparently that was an inappropriate response. He clears his throat. “No, uh, I haven’t really touched anything. I don’t know what I’d do with it.”

The man gestures to his table.

“Oh! I mean, I guess I could? I don’t know how much people around here would want her stuff.”

The old man’s eyes pin him. “You want a family, Adrian?”

Adrian swallows, caught off guard. ““It’s… I don’t really…. It’s probably not ‘for me’?” he air quotes those two words like it’s ridiculous, “I can't really imagine. Although my Mom was a really good mom, and I’d like to think I could emulate that, but…” he trails off. He almost says he already has a family, the 11th Street Kids, but he can’t reveal his secret identity to this old guy. It might get him killed.

“Kid, let me tell you something.” The man leans in. “Don’t bother. They just fucking leave in the end. My kids are gonna drive up tomorrow so they can take what they want and try to cheat each other out of the will before I fucking croak it. So I’m selling all this before they can get their greedy selfish paws on it. They never visited Patty once, the whole long time.”

Adrian nods, bewildered.

“Take it all, kid. Take the fucking lot.”

* * * 

When Chris wakes his head is thick with hangover and the foot spa is still bubbling. His feet must look like old prunes by now. 

Adrian is asleep, his head lolled against the back of the couch and leaning in towards Chris, just slightly resting on his shoulder. Chris can feel the warmth of his head through his t-shirt. If he leaned into Adrian, soft curls would brush his neck. 

Chris jerks his shoulder and Adrian’s head raises - he makes a startled little noise in his sleep and turns to lean against the other side of the couch and continue quietly snoring. His glasses are half off his face. 

Chris swallows and looks away.

He rubs his forehead. Fuck, he overdid it last night. The movie and foot experience (there was a reason Chris had immediately veto’d anything by Tarantino) had been a good idea, for sure, and he was stupidly grateful for Adrian, and then fucking guilty feeling for another reason to add to the pile of fucking thousands of reasons already. 

He was grateful for Adrian. He usually wasn’t. He knows he takes him for granted, a predictable but useful nuisance. But sometimes Adrian’s inability to reflect on any given situation is a blessing.

Chris had been spiralling and there was Adrian with about five hundred different distractions. He’d clapped Adrian on the back, laughed heartily, and thrown himself into the night like it was something happening before the Suicide Squad. Like it was Peacemaker and Vigilante before all that went down.

Just dudes having fun. Not murderers pretending they aren’t murderers.

They'd laughed through the most recent shitty King Kong remake and tried to one-up each other on how they'd best a building sized gorilla in a fight. Beer had literally shot outta Chris's nose he was laughing so much when Adrian described an elaborate ploy to distract Kong with a giant vat of banana smoothie.

But it hadn’t entirely stopped the flashes of earlier in the day from crawling up on him. So Chris had done what was necessary to shut off his brain for the night: a fuckload of booze. His mistake was knocking back more than half of what Adrian had brought in between slugging whisky from the bottle. Getting too middle aged for mixing, Chris. He cringed at the thought. That’s what he was. Middle fucking aged. Jesus.

But it had been his only option. He knew he couldn’t explain any of this to Adrian, anyway - what’d be the point? Adrian had bounced back to his usual cheer from the shrinking, worried figure he’d been at the hospital. Chris had been relieved that Adrian didn’t act all wounded and huffy, as he did sometimes, making him feel more guilty just because Chris had shouted at him like it was all his fault. And also because five years ago he would have agreed with him on killing the witness. Mere months ago he nearly shot Ratcatcher 2 right in the heart for the same damn reason. Another kid. And for what?

Cleo Cazo. The girl who said she would happily die gambling on love. Who called it a worthy death.

He wonders briefly what happened to her and Sebastian. Her own Eagly, it occurs to him.

Last night, Chris had thought to himself, watching Adrian set up their food and drinks and foot spa, he doesn’t deserve this. It scares him, the sheer amount that Adrian wants to make him happy. It scares him that no matter how much of an ass Chris is to him, one shitty little text and he’s back by his side, grinning like he’s the luckiest guy in the world.

And he has to admit it nags at him that during his four years and prison and Project Starfish, Adrian had been here, re-filling water glasses, piling up dirty pasta plates, murdering people gleefully, and obsessing over Peacemaker. Saving up appliances. Fucking probably writing up a to-do list for what fun they could have when Chris got home. 

Whereas Chris had spent his time away from Evergreen thinking about what he always does, in the end: himself.

But if he wants to change, truly, then yeah, sure, he probably needs to do some of that introspection thing. He probably needs a fucking therapist, but that’s not a box he wants to open, even if the therapist was librarian hot like the chick from The Sopranos. Nope. He’s not ready for the, what did Vig call it? The den of scorpions. Those suckers would pinch him to pieces in the mental state he’s in right now.

So ok, there’s outrospection, then. And his current top of the list emergency outrospection (before, even, is he a-ok now to pursue Harcourt? Once she’s well enough to fuck, of course. Because: gentleman.) is what to do about Vigilante and his nonsensical grasp on rightful justice, and the fact that any time Chris scolds him about the unnecesary killing of innocents or the innapropriate enjoyment of brutally murdering someone as a fun activity, Adrian looks at him like he’s explaining that pigs can, in fact, fly. Although he’d probably believe that if Chris said it.

Adrian doesn’t get that fucking up a little girl’s life is a kind of killing of her too, in a way, her soul or something, whatever it is that innocence is, whatever he lost bit by bit through his own childhood, and completely shattered after Keith. Adrian doesn’t get that murder isn’t meant to be fun, it’s meant to be the last resort, and some vague excuse of vigilante justice just doesn’t cut it. Chris’s peace warrior excuse didn’t cut it, either. 

And, Adrian doesn’t get that Christopher Smith is a piece of shit who he shouldn’t centre his lonely little life around. 

Chris switches off the foot spa, yanks out his wrinkled, spongy looking feet (super gross) and roughly shakes Adrian’s shoulder to wake him. Adrian does so with a snort, squinting at the light-filled room blearily.  

He gets up to make his hangover egg concoction and realises his feet feel like walking on layers of tissue paper. Urgh.

“Does your Mom not mind random guys’ feet using her spa thing?”

“Huh?” Adrian’s still barely awake as he straightens his glasses. His hair is flattened on one side and sticking up in duckling like tufts on the other. He squints over at Chris.

“Your Mom.” Chris says loud and slow, “Doesn’t she care you let rando dudes use her foot spa? Other people’s feet are fucking gross.”

“Well not according to the internet, P.” Adrian raises his eyebrows with a stupid smirk, then shrugs, “Nah. She won’t mind. I mean, she can’t mind, she’s dead.” He moves to pull on his socks and sneakers, which he’d taken off despite the fact he let Chris hog the spa the whole night.

Chris gapes. “Dude!”

“What?”

“Your Mom’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Mrs- your- Debbie Chase died?”

“…Yeah?”

“Dude, when!?”

“Uh… huh, let me think. I guess maybe a year into your prison sentence? ‘Cause I remember during the funeral planning I was still trying to get Gut to look up how a lawyer could legally get you off the hook for all those people you killed, but he was like, “fuck off, bro”. Gut’s a lawyer now.”

Chris does a doubletake, “Well… fuck him! I was the whole entire reason your brother was so fucking popular. I made that guy! And you’re telling me he didn’t even want to take a quick glance at defence law for me?! Dude.”

“Yeah… I think he found it weird that I was so invested? Since he didn’t know we were friends then.”

“I didn’t know we were friends then.”

“I know!”

Chris shakes his head, back to the point: “Adrian, why are you only updating me now on the life status of your own fucking family? I knew your Mom. I ate at your house, man. She always gave me bigger helpings than everyone else, and she would get all worried and shit if I arrived with bruises from my Dad, so I’d have to blame football practice. She was a real… good person.”

Adrian blinks at him.

“She was.”

His expression is blank. Chris squints and falters because, well this is now fucking awkward. What does he say now?

It’s Adrian who speaks first. “It was cancer. Really fast. Like, diagnosis,  eight weeks, over.”

His tone is so matter-of-fact.

“Which was good, well, not good, but good because I was the only one living with her? Dad’s in another city and they’re not even married anymore. Gut was too busy at work to come back and help, so, I didn’t really have to caretake all that long. I probably would’ve lost my job at Fennel Fields if it had dragged out longer.”

He shrugs.

“And it was also better for her, since she didn’t have to be in pain and suffer for a longer time. So.”

An awkward pause.

“Shit, man. That’s… that fucking sucks.”

Adrian smiles, batting a hand dismissively, “It’s fine, it doesn’t matter.”

“What?! Of course it fucking matters.” Chris snaps, regrets it immediately as Adrian looks so confused, “Sorry. I didn’t mean-“ he falters awkwardly. “Dude, I’m sorry. For your loss. It always looked like you were pretty close.”

Adrian shrugs, “Sure. She definitely loved me a lot more than my dad does.” He scratches his elbow. “So should we go to Headquarters now? I can change in the car.”

Chris’s mouth hangs open for a moment. Eagly, who has been looking between them and waiting patiently for some breakfast, caws hopefully.

“Uh…. yeah? Yeah. Lemme just feed Eagly.”

“Awesome, dude. I’ll go suit up!” Adrian beams and heads out.

Alone with Eagly, Chris shares a look with his companion and mouths to him silently, “What the fuck?”

* * *

HQ

Emilia is getting out soon, apparently, and the grit in her voice implies it will be with or without doctors’ advisement. 

Until then, it’s the four of them and a lot of ‘We should check with Harcourt first’ and ‘Call Emilia and ask because fuck if I know.’

They all feel like the team is a wobbly table without her. Unstable and a bit useless.

Leota smiles kindly at Chris and Adrian when they arrive. 

“You good?” She asks, meaning Chris’s mental state but also the state of how things are between the two men.

Chris gives her a thumbs up and a wink. “All good. Ready to track more helmets and make sure to stop any posthumous evil plans my Dad made.”

Leota frowns, “Wait, what?’’

“What posthumous evil plans? That’s not a thing. Is- is that a thing now?” John worries.

Oh, shit. For a moment he’d forgotten it wasn’t Auggie who’d warned him of that. It was the ghost only in his own head - oh, and Racist Egghead Guy.

“Oh, right, yeah, uhh… so the ugly racist dude I smoked yesterday? He like, implied- he taunted, basically - that my Dad had some big post-death plan that I don’t know about, so that “ he shifts awkwardly on his feet, “is a potential thing that might be… an actual thing.”

“Fuckkk!” John exhales.

“And you’re telling us this NOW?” Leota exclaims.

“Hey I was really shook up yesterday!” Chris defends weakly.

Leota’s voice goes high in indignation: “So it slipped your damn mind? Chris!” 

“Sorry.” And he genuinely is, “I’m sorry, ok? But that’s all I know! I don’t know if Egg guy was just fucking with me, even. I mean, what can my Dad do when he’s dead?” He half laughs uncertainly.

A long pause in which all the things someone with Auggie’s proficiency with invention and technology could plan for, post-death, run through all of their minds.

“We are so fucked.” John finally says, pulling at his beard anxiously. “I don’t want to be the one to call Harcourt about this, by the way.”

“C’mon you guys, it’ll be fine! Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together, because we fucking rock as a team! Right?” Adrian grins. 

The others just look at him.

“Hey, Economos, when do you want to look at my chest?”

“Say what?” Leota pulls a face.

“Examine! Examine his- he- you fucking told me you had chest pains.”

“Dude, you do?” Chris frowns.

Adrian’s cheeks go warm, “Uh, just, sometimes. Not like- I just want to be sure.”

“I’m not a doctor, you know.” 

Adrian looks at him expectantly.

“Ugh. Fine. Now’s as bad a time as any.” He sags reluctantly and points to the slatted room that used to be Murn’s office, for privacy or whatever.

Chris sits on a chair near Leota and looks at the piano for a moment, before:

“Thanks for being nice to me, yesterday. About the whole… the fuck up with the,” he swallows, “little girl.”

“John checked the police report for you, y’know, when he was erasing you and Vigilante from it, and he read she got taken to her mother’s. Parents were divorced. I think she spent half the week there, half the week with her dad.”

Chris feels something rise up his throat and he swallows again and presses his knuckles to his mouth. “Mm.” Is all he can manage in acknowledgement.

“She ain’t an orphan, Chris. She’ll be ok.”

He shuts his eyes tight.

“If you wanna talk…. You know I’m here.”

“Thanks.” He says, voice thick.

“So… just to check, you know your dad made that scabies helmet…?D’you know if he made a helmet that made people… vomit? And shit themselves? ‘Cause there’s been a huge ass outbreak of severe food poisonings in the past two days - but only at Asian, Caribbean and Jewish restaurants across the town. There’s no link between any of them in suppliers or anything. Seems targeted.”

Chris thinks for a second.

Crap.

* * *

John struggles some latex gloves onto his hands, back turned, feeling faintly mortified that Adrian is stripping off his suit behind him. It feels like it takes a fucking long time. 

“You ready anytime this century?” John sighs.

“Yep!”

He turns and, sat on the sofa Adrian is - yep, he definitely fucking is fully fucking nude.

“DUDE WHAT THE FUCK!” John shrieks and covers his eyes, “Why did you take off your underwear!?!”

“So you can examine me?”

“Your chest! Your fucking heart! I don’t need to see your dick to do that, you asshole. Oh! Which I’ve also seen without my consent! Jesus you didn’t even need to take your fucking pants off for this.” John cries. “Put your underwear back on at least or I’m out.”

“Alright, alright!” Adrian shuffles about, “But in my defense all parts of our body are linked up, dude, it’s why people treat back pain with foot massages. Ok. Dick officially covered.”

John sighs a long sigh. He uncovers his eyes, awkwardly sits down next to Adrian and picks up his stethoscope, adjusting it in his ears.


“Ok. Breathe in for three and out for three.” He presses the end of the stethoscope against Adrian’s skin and feels around with his other hand. Positively burning with the awkwardness because he so does not want to be doing this.

Mostly because he really fucking hates that seeing Adrian without his suit or nerdy clothes on confirms that, despite looking like such a total dweeb, he is actually really fucking toned. So fucking unfair.

“Again.” John says.

The only sound in the room is Adrian’s breath.

He pulls off the stethoscope. “Sounds normal to me. Regular beat, no murmur. Where do you actually feel the pain?”

Adrian thinks. “Sort of…” he gestures to the middle of his chest. “all around here? But it feels like a stab. I’ve been stabbed enough times to know. It’s like someone’s knifing me from inside. Can that happen?”

“No it cannot. When does this happen?” John continues in a bored monotone.

“Uh… let’s see… in the past few days… uh, when Peacemaker yelled at me in the van yesterday. When Peacemaker shoved me against the wall in the house and gave me his bad scrunchy face. When Peacemaker didn’t look at me in the hospital hallway I think deliberately…”

He thinks some more. “When Peacemaker said he didn’t want to hang out. When Peacemak-“

John flaps a hand, “Okokok, I get it, so basically you feel a stabbing heart pain whenever Peacemaker rejects you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my fucking lord.” John scrubs his face, beleagured, “Ok, it is so fucking weird I have to explain this to you, and it’s so fucking weird you apparently care so much about the guy, but what you’re feeling, Adrian? Is sadness and rejection because your friend is, most of the time, an enormous dickhead who doesn’t give a shit about anyone’s feelings but his own. And I should know, because those two feelings and the heart pains they cause are the most defining feelings of pretty much my entire 20s and 30s.”

He takes a breath. 

“You’re having human emotions. Just like a real boy.”

Adrian’s brow is furrowed as he touches his chest contemplatively. “Oh.” He finally replies.

“Cool. So, that’s that diagnosed.” He peels off his gloves, “In my non-professional medical opinion you need to either get over it and accept Peacemaker’s an asshole of unlimited proportions, and stop caring what he thinks, or, I don’t know, you need a fucking therapist. Or, fuck, just get one of those anyway.”

Adrian just nods, brow still furrowed. John sighs and relents a little, “Look, just… don’t take his bullshit to heart. Ok?” He pauses, “Except, do listen if he tells you not to kill a small child. Definitely listen to him on that.”

John’s turning to leave when Adrian pipes up: “Hey, Economos? How come your feelings pain stopped after your 30s?”

John reaches for the door handle. He takes a long breath. “Because, by the time I hit middle age, I’d been ground down so long that I finally accepted my fate was to be alone. After that, I made a kind of peace with it, and then I gradually numbed out so I didn’t feel things like hope anymore.” He cracks open the door, “So, good luck with that. And please for the love of god put your clothes back on.”

The door shuts behind him and Adrian sits there on the couch and feels the stabby feeling again.

* * *

“So until Emilia heals up, who exactly is giving orders? I mean any split second decisions if we have to make any?” John asks in the van. “Not me. My hat isn’t in the ring.”

“Nobody was looking at you, fucking Comic Book Guy.” Chris laughs. “But hey, I can-“

“I’ll- shit, I’ll do it.” Leota interrupts, sitting forward. “But I’m texting Harcourt our plan first. She needs to greenlight that shit.”

“Do you think she’ll be out soon?” Adrian asks.

“She said she walked for the first time yesterday, that must be good. It was so cute she was so, so happy.”

Chris’s eyebrows lift, “Wow. Fucking Hardcore.”

And he didn’t ask her. He didn’t even ask. Fuck.

“How is it he gets super healing and Harcourt doesn’t?” John wonders aloud, nodding to Adrian.

“Because I’m a superhuman, dude.”

“No you ain’t.” Leota smiles.

“There is zero trace of a bullet wound on you, and your hand looks like nothing’s even scratched it. It’s fucking insane.” John shakes his head, baffled.

Chris chuckles. “Oh is that right? Is this from when you were admiring V’s chest?”

“Examining, douchebag.”

Leota leans over, “You all good, Adrian?”

He is very glad for having his mask on already, because he feels himself blush and his mouth go dry. “Yeah! Just, uh…” Fuck.

“Heartburn.” John says quickly, shifting in his seat. God he fucking hates lying. But his conscience made him do it. Apparently he doesn’t want to embarrass a serial murderer.

“Yep. Just heartburn.” Adrian nods, surprised by Economos, and super grateful.

“Ha!” Chris barks out a laugh and slaps his own thigh, “You thought you were dying because you had a little heartburn? Dude, that’s fucking dumb even for you!” 

John looks witheringly through his glasses at Chris. Douchebag. He changes the subject: “Well, anyway- what I wanted to ask Adrian is if his whole family is like this?”

“Getting heartburn?”

“Healing. Fast.”

“Ohhh, right, well that’s a definite no. My brother had to quit football in college after he broke his knee, and he still has a limp.”

Chris laughs again. Gut with a limp! He’d forgotten how much he'd always really enjoyed ragging on him for that and how his dream of being a football star was crushed. Good times.

“…And my mom got cancer and died, even with chemo.”

The atmosphere in the van changes, not that Adrian notices. “Oh and also my dad’s got pretty bad sciatica. That’s painful, and he’s had that on and off for years. I’ve always healed fast. I just figured I was better at it than most people.”

A long beat.

Leota, finally: “I’m real sorry about your mom, Adrian…”

“It was super long ago. I didn’t even know you then!” He replies cheerfully.

Another beat.

John looks Adrian over. “So… just you… with the superhealing thing. Not a family trait. That’s kind of weird, and kind of intriguing.”

“Hey man, maybe it’s God given.” Chris suggests.

John snorts. “Seriously? God given? You think God, if he’s even real-“

Chris raises his hands, “Woahwoahwoah, we’re gonna delve into theological fucking debate right now, big guy?”

Through gritted teeth John ignores him: “-You think he would pick Vigilante for this particular gift?”

Adrian, offended: “Hey, why not me?”

Chris folds his arms like a taunting kid: “Yeah, Economos. Why not him?”

“Whatever. Forget it. But right now I really wish he’d picked Harcourt instead.”

* * *

“So, this might sound a weird question, but did anyone wearing a, uh, helmet that looks like a shiny silver toilet on their head eat here yesterday? Before the food poisoning outbreak?” Leota has her notepad ready.

The waitress at the Chinese restaurant (currently being taped closed by a team of Washington Environmental Health workers in hazmat suits) looks Leota dead in the eye: “Yes there was. He didn’t order anything. He just sat with table water. Did that weird bastard do this? How?”

“Well, we think he had a superhelmet that uh, causes… unpleasant consequences to eating what I imagine is very delicious fine cuisine that you good folks serve here.” Leota explains, “I mean I glanced at the menu and I’m like, holy hell, my body is ready.” She chuckles awkwardly, “In fact, I- I’ll book- I would just love to book a table for two right now. Is that possible?”

Chris frowns. “Only for two?”

“You think I want to spend all my free time with you jokers when I can have a meal for two with my beautiful wife?”

“We might be closed down by the end of the day.” The waitress, unamused, “So I would not bet on a booking.”

Leota’s face crumples in sympathy. 

“I’m so sorry. We- our investigation leads us to suspect it’s a white supremacist who wants to shut down y’alls businesses - but our team? We ain’t letting him do that. We’ll track him down and stop him and all of this-“ she gestures to the hazmats, “Will be fixed.”

Leota smiles and does an awkward little fingergun, “And then you bet I’ll be booking that table for two…!”

“You can count on us, m’am.” Chris states with a solider’s confidence.

The waitress looks at the four figures before her: a guy in ridiculous bright red dress up, a tall guy who looks like he probably hasn’t showered today, and a guy who she can’t even see because he’s wearing a black mask.

She meets Leota’s eyes again. “No offence but, I have doubts about that.”

* * *

A few more visits confirm that the helmet is indeed the cause of mass puking and shitting. And therefore, the mass closure of any food establishment that isn’t 100% aryan white. 

Leota’s driving the van so John can use his laptop. She stares at the road, practically vibrating with anger.

“This is both the lamest and the most disgusting racial targeting I’ve come across in a long ass time. And boy, is there competition for that.” she rubs her forehead, tired of the world.

“Sorry, Ads. But I really can’t say I’m surprised my Dad invented this one. He fucking hated the smell of Indian food.” Chris explains. “One sniff of vindaloo and his whole mood would go south. He’d go on one of his gigantic rants about immigrants and that was it, the day would be totally ruined.”

“How hard for you.” John snits.

“Whatever, we need to find pukey racist helmet guy before all these people lose their damn livelihoods.” Leota says.

“Do you think he’ll target Fennel Fields? Do white supremacists hate Italians?” Adrian wonders.

John looks up from his laptop, “The helmet’s currently at a Portuguese restaurant mid-town.”

“Oh shit, then Fennel Fields is totally a target.”

“Not if we get to this motherfucker first.” Chris says, loading his gun.

Leota glances in the rear-view mirror. “You ok with killing hi-?”

“Yup.” Chris answers quickly, too quickly, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as everyone else.

* * *

While John stays with the laptop to track, Leota, Peacemaker and Vigilante head into the Portuguese restaurant. At 4pm it’s starting to fill with people, and soon it will flood with after-work drinks and dates.

Peacemaker heads to the bar and snaps his fingers for the attention of a young male waiter. Leota elbows his arm and gives him a quelling look. “Don’t be that guy.” She hisses.

“Yes?” Answers the waiter, looking suspiciously at Peacemaker and Vigilante’s uniforms.

“Is anyone currently dining here wearing a silver super helmet?”

“Looks like a shiny toilet seat.” Leota adds.

“Uh, there is a man at balcony seating who has. Why?”

“Don’t sweat it, bro, we’ll handle this.” Peacemaker winks and turns to head up the interior spiral staircase.

“Handle what?” The bemused waiter calls after the trio.

“We get eyes on him and we offer to escort him outside or else he’s getting smoked right here, right now.” Chris plans.

“Uh, shouldn’t we clear the restaurant of people first? What if he has weapons?” Leota asks.

Vig laughs, “Like he’d be able to draw a weapon before I shoot him in the head!”

They reach the balcony seating and there he is. A table for one with just a glass of water. He doesn’t see them yet as he’s furiously tapping at his smartphone.

“So… you just gonna go up to his table?” Leota asks.

But Peacemaker has frozen. He looks like he wants to run, or be sick. Leota follows his gaze to…

A young girl, messy dark hair, sitting at a table by herself - wait, the hell? Not by herself, because at the opening of her rucksack which sits on the table, Leota can see a tiny rat, sniffing at the air.

What. The. Hell.

The girl doesn’t notice Chris - or the racist in the helmet. She’s facing away and feeding tiny scraps of her meal to the rat. That shit is fucking adorable.

Chris has gone very pale. Vigilante taps his arm.

“Uh, dude? Are we doing this?”

“I- can’t- I- sorry- I’ve gotta-“ and suddenly he turns and runs down the stairs. Vigilante and Leota stare at each other. Then Vig shrugs.

“Huh. Guess I’ll have to do it.” He raises his gun. Several patrons notice and scream. Leota grabs at his arm.

“Wait!”

The girl with the rat has seen them. In a swift movement she stands and pulls a baton looking thing from her backpack and points it at Vig. The little rat seems to ready itself too.

“Oh no you don’t. You will put that weapon down now or I swear I will summon every rat in this city to gnaw off all your fingers and toes and crawl up your ass and eat your face!”

The idea of the rats provokes a few more shrill cries from the balcony customers. 

Vigilante hesitates. “Wait, what?!” 

“No, stop, you don’t understand!” Leota raises her hands in peace, “We’re here to catch a dangerous racist who plans to make everyone in this restaurant puke their guts out. He wants to ruin its reputation because he’s a white supremacist! Look, it’s that guy - shiny helmet guy!”

The girl looks back at the racist, who, having been frozen in surprise, now stands up.

“Fuck this.” He exclaims, and runs for the spiral stairs at the other end of the balcony.

“Shit!” Vigilante yelps, and runs after him, past the girl, who grabs her rucksack and follows.

Leota gives a quick apologetic look to the terrified, baffled customers. “Sorry, y’all enjoy your food and, uh, don’t forget to leave a five star review for this place online! And don’t mention this!”

Then she runs after the others.

People, tables, chairs, waiters carrying trays, they’re flying everywhere as the racist and Vig barrel through the downstairs crowd, the girl in pursuit with her rat baton thing.

The racist gets to the emergency exit and slams it behind him, so by the time Vig gets outside the guy’s already streaking down the back ally.

The girl is suddenly beside him. “Wait! Are you sure he’s an evil man?”

“Uh, yeah! He’s a total racist and he stole that helmet.” Vig replies. “So please, please don’t tell rats to crawl up my ass.”

Then he runs after the guy.

Turning the corner after him, Vig is hit straight in the face by a plank of wood grabbed from a skip. He crashes to the dusty ground in surprise.

“Fuck!” His glove touches his masked face. “That fucking hurt!”

The guy raises his hand to activate the vomit helmet.

“Oh fuck!” Vig breathes.

But from behind, a wave of rats, a literal fucking wave, are crashing straight towards them. From the skip, the bins, the gutters, the walls, they pour and pour out and crawl up the racist’s legs and begin biting and tearing at his clothes and flesh.

“Oh FUCK!” Vig cries, high pitched, and scrambles to get up and run before they get to him.

He can feel some grabbing at his boots and one on his back leg as he runs and flails to get them off.

Ahead of him holding the baton is the girl, Leota beside her.

The girl gestures the baton at him.

“Leave him!”

The rats clinging on him obediently let go and drop to the ground. Vigilante stops to catch his breath and backs away from them, but they just sit and sniff and twitch, watching him with beady eyes.

“Dang, that’s some weapon you got.” Leota remarks.

The girl smiles.

Leota smiles back. “Thank you for helping us. Seriously.” 

They follow the wails and screams back to the racist. Writhing on the ground as the rats attack him. The girl turns off her weapon and immediately the rats stop. They begin to file off him as he whimpers and sobs.

“Ohmygod, ohhhmygod, ohgod…” he shudders hysterically.

The girl looks down at him. “Know that you are the lowest creature in the world if you carry hate in your heart for people just because they are a different race.” 

Leota picks up the helmet with distaste from where it had fallen beside the guy. He’s all chewed up and bloody. 

“Now you got nothing. No weapon. You’re just another worthless racist white man who hates fucking Indian food. Get the fuck out of here before I shoot you. And don’t you ever target anyone again, or I swear, she’ll have them back gnawing you to pieces like that.” She snaps her fingers.

The girl crosses her arms. “You are never more than six feet from a rat. They will find you in seconds.”

He gulps and, terrified and shaken, scrambles up and practically trips over himself running away, cradling himself and sobbing.

“Girl, I like you!” Leota holds out her hand, “What’s your name?”

“Cleo. Cleo Cazo. And this,” she raises her left shoulder where a rat in a little jacket clings, “Is Sebastian, my friend. Say hello, Sebastian.”

The little rat waves and Leota nearly dies at the cuteness. Oh my god.

“I’m Leota Adabayo, and he’s Vigilante.”

“And… you fight racists together?”

“We fight anybody for justice!” Vig replies.

Leota rolls her eyes.

“We were here with Peacemaker too but he’s disappeared?” Leota furrows her brow.

The look of shock of Cleo’s face startles Leota. But then she remembers Chris had been staring right at the girl before he nope’d outta there.

“You know Chris?”

“He… I didn’t think our paths would cross so soon…” Cleo touches her face anxiously. Sebastian squeaks. 

“What do you mean?”

“I- I knew he lived here. I saw on the News that he was alive. That he was still working for Task Force X.  But I…” she exhales shakily and covers her mouth.

Leota touches her arm gently. “You ok, Cleo?”

“I was part of it too. With him. In Corto Maltese."

Leota’s eyes widen. “Ratcatcher 2?”

Vigilante raises a glove to his own mouth. “Oh shoot.”

Cleo’s eyes have filled with tears but she tries to fight them, voice tight as she continues: “…I saw Peacemaker kill Rick Flag. And because I saw, he… he would have killed me too, but Robert DuBois stopped him in time. He shot him in the neck. I thought he was dead for so long…”

Leota swallows hard. “I’m so, so sorry that happened to you.”

"Hey, Peacemaker was just doing what he had to do for the good of the country, I mean, I wouldn’t take it personally.” Vig shrugs. Leota glares at him.

“Wait. Have you come for revenge on Peacemaker?” Vig probes, and Leota is alarmed to see his hand slip over his gun belt.

“Hey!” She snaps, pointing at him, “Stop.”

Cleo looks between them, confused.

“But-“ he begins to protest.

“I will not fucking ask you twice.” Leota hisses, low and furious. A tiny unsettling thought occurs to her: how much she sounds exactly like Amanda Waller.

“No, no! You misunderstand, I don’t kill people. I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t want vengeance. I…” she wipes a tear angrily from her cheek. She looks underslept and very, very young. “I just want to talk with him. To see if he has truly changed. If he has helped to expose Amanda Waller’s actions… if he helped save the world from Project Butterfly….” She pauses and suddenly her eyes go wide, “Wait, you- you are Waller’s daughter?”

“For my sins.” Leota sighs. “Peacemaker freaked when he saw you. He ran away.”

“Oh.” Cleo nods, “Maybe you can tell him why I came to Washington. Maybe he is too afraid to face me. But I come in peace.”

“Peacemaker isn’t afraid of anything.” Vig says.

“Pfft, we know that ain’t true.” Leota snarks, “I’ll tell him. I promise. Where can we find you? Where you staying?”

Cleo gestures around her. “Everywhere. Anywhere. I sleep in the park under trees. In abandoned buildings. In unlocked churches.”

“So you’re homeless?” Vig tilts his head.

“The world is my home.” Cleo says simply.

“Oh, Cleo, please, I can’t have you sleeping rough out here. This city’s dangerous! Look, why don’t you stay with me tonight? I live with my wife and my dogs. Sebastian is welcome too. You can wash and have a a good meal-”

Vig makes a confused little noise, “Adebayo! Weren’t all the members of the Suicide Squad criminals? You want a criminal stranger in your home?”

She ignores him and presses Cleo, “Please, Cleo. It’d be an honour for me to do this for you, since you did help save the world a few months ago.”

Cleo smiles a shy smile, “Ok. I suppose for one night.”

Leota smiles back - but inside, inside she’s horrified: fuck, Chris… You really would’ve killed this child in the name of peace? 

TBC...

Chapter Text

Keeya is curled on the couch with a book, their dogs snuggled on her lap, when Leota opens the front door and trails in with Cleo and Sebastian (hugged to Cleo’s chest). 

Cleo has never had the chance to familiarise herself with homes. The idea of having a home is alien to her. A place with a door that closes off the world. A place with family in it, who stay together, and protect each other. A place to make your own.

The one place she’d stayed in the longest had been her prison cell in Belle Reve. Before that, only wandering. Following the stars, the weather, food supply, and, increasingly, of course, her father’s best source of drugs.

Leota’s home is warm and beautiful to Cleo. Not the modest ‘shit, this’ll do for now’ holdup it is to Leota and Keeya, but a clean, comfortable, beautiful luxury. She stands by the front door hesitantly, petting Sebastian’s little head more to comfort herself than him, and staring, wide eyed, at this home. A proper home. Safe. 

“Come on in, Cleo, why don’t you sit and I’ll get you something to eat?” Leota suggests softly. She darts her eyes to Keeya, signalling I promise I’ll explain this to you. 

Keeya stands, the tiny dogs harrumphing a little at their naps being disrupted, and looks quizzically between her wife and Cleo. 

“Um… shall I help with that?” Keeya asks, eyeing Leota with ‘what fresh madness is this’ eyes.

Leota gives her a pleading look, “Yes! Thank you, Keeya. Cleo? This is my wife Keeya, Keeya, this is Cleo. Ratcatcher 2 from Task Force X. She helped save the world. Damn, she did save the world. They couldn’t have done it without her.”

Cleo dips her head, feeling unworthy of such praise. Keeya melts and smiles warmly at the scrubby looking young girl before her. She looks so much like she needs a hug. And a shower. And love.

“Cleo, you’re brave as hell.” Keeya closes the distance between them and gives Cleo’s arm a reassuring suqeeze. Then she notices Sebastian.

“Oh my god! A rat! In a little jacket?”

“He’s friendly!” Cleo immediately assures, “Aren’t you, Sebastian?”

Sebastian squeaks confirmation. Keeya goggles at him, the little cutie.

“Ain’t he the cutest little rodent you ever seen?” Leota coos. 

Sebastian waves and Keeya and Leota die. It’s too much! This is some TikTokable shit right here.

“I’m delighted to meet you both.” Keeya smiles.

Keeya claps her hands at the floor and the three dogs come running to jump and bark their tiny cute little barks at Cleo’s feet. “These are our fur babies. Emerson,” she points him out, looking hot shit in his 80s Bowie outfit, “That’s Octavia, and the one jumping, that’s Colson.”

“Awwww!” Cleo looks like she might cry. She hunches down on the floor and pets the dogs. Sebastian is met with interest and enthusiastic, slurpy licks. “Tiny dogs! So sweet!”

Keeya and Leota exchange glances.

“We’ll go get dinner. Make yourself at home.” Leota says and then half pushes with a giggle Keeya into their kitchen.  When the door closes she presses Keeya against it and kisses her deeply, warmly, then laughs.

“She has a rat that wears clothes!”

“I know!”

“Leota, this is evil, you’re making me feel things about a rat. I am not here for that!” Keeya laughs.

“Oh girl, you are so here for that…” Leota snickers and brushes Keeya’s cheek.

Leota’s expression then sobers. She says, quietly: “She’s the one Peacemaker nearly killed. She saw him kill Rick Flag.”

Keeya’s expression turns serious. “Why is she here?”

“Not for revenge. Just to… talk to him? To… make peace. She saw the News, my press conference. She knows he helped save the world again. I think she wants to reconcile that with… the man that nearly killed her.”

“Wow…”

“I know.”

“So where is he?”

Leota sighs and buries her face in Keeya’s shoulder. A muffled response: “I got no clue. He ran away when he saw her.”

“Colour me not-surprised. So you said she could stay with us?”

“She’s a traumatised girl, Kee. She’s homeless. How could I not-”

“No, no, I don’t mean you shouldn’t have,” Keeya whispers, nudging her shoulder and clasping Leota’s face when she raises ehr head. “I know you’re following your heart. And what’s right.”

Leota nods. “I hope so.”

“But, we do have one problem.”

“What?”

“We’ve only got enough for two servings of chili con carne in the refrigerator…”

“Goddamn!” Leota giggles, “We’ll have to bulk that shit out with spaghetti. It’ll be fine.”

“Annnd we’ve only got dinosaur shaped pasta…”

Leota hoots.

“I haven’t had time to go to the store!”

“It’s perfect. That girl will fucking love dinosaur shaped pasta, I guarantee.”

* * *

Earlier That Day:

Naturally, Vigilante takes it upon himself to kickstart Operation Find Peacemaker. John, who wearily greets Vig, Leota and Ratcatcher 2 when they return to the van, jerks a thumb to his left.

“So Peacemaker peaced out that way…” he pushes up his glasess, noticing Cleo, “Oh shit.”

“Hello,” Cleo shifts from foot to foot uncertainly.

“I’m, uh, one of Waller's goons you had rambling in your earpiece during Project Starfish...”

“I recognise your voice. You look so like how I imagined!”

“Uh…” John doesn’t feel that’s a compliment exactly, but Cleo’s smile is warm and innocent. “Anyway, why are you here, Ratcatcher 2?”

“To speak to Peacemaker.” She raises her hands, “I mean no harm.” Sebastian squeaks in agreement.

“At least we got the helmet back and scared the shit outta the racist.” Leota hands the helmet to John. “Be careful with that, I do not wanna be vomiting up my lunch.”

“Oh, ok, you mean don’t press the big vomity button? And here I was, so tempted.” John deadpans.

“Why would there be a helmet to make people vomit?” Cleo asks.

“Because Peacemaker’s dad is nothing if not creative in his sadism.” 

“His father made it?” Her eyes widen. “And the one he wore during Project Starfish…?”

“Yup.”

Cleo goes quiet, seemingly thinking on this for a long moment. Leota clambers into the driver’s seat and starts up the van, at which point Vig pipes up:

“Hey, can you drop me at my house so I can change?” He eyes Cleo suspiciously, “But you have to keep your eyes closed, cause you can’t know my secret identity. Sorry.”

“Secret identity? Ohhh… how mysterious.” Cleo nods slowly, looking, to Vig’s confusion, amused.

 
“Do we have a blindfold in here?” Vig presses. 

Leota rolls her eyes.

* * *

Having forced (although not at gunpoint, after a snap from Leota) Cleo to put her hands over her eyes, Vig gives his BFF’s #3 and #5 a little wave before hopping out the back of the van and sprinting to his house,  lest any neighbours see him, where he cracks open the unlocked kitchen window and vaults in.

Look, it’s quicker than unlocking the front door, ok?

He quickly changes into civvies and checks his face, nose bloody from being hit by the plank of wood. He winces as he checks if it’s broken. Luckily it seems ok, and bonus, not deformed! He cleans up the blood and adjusts his glasses.

“Peacemaker, I got you.” He nods to his own reflection.

It’s the third regular Peacemaker haunt that Adrian finds him at, after driving to all the bars he knows Peacemaker to frequent. Some because they’ve gone there together and others from the times he follows Chris secretly, just to check in on him. Like BFFs do.

This is one of the secret-follow bars. It’s the kind men go to alone. To sit in a dingy little room with music so low you can’t make out what it is. To drink straight shots one after the other and brood in silence amongst a small collection of other sad, broken men. A lotta divorcees. Lotta redundancies. Lotta failed comedians.

Adrian crinkles his nose as he enters, at the stale smell and also the overwhelming atmosphere of despair.

Chris is hunched over the bar, still in his uniform, nursing a double whisky. He’s knocked it back by the time Adrian has weaved through the tables to reach him.

“Hey dude…” Adrian says gently, barely above a whisper.

Chris doesn’t move, or look at him, simply sighs out: “Vig.”

“Adrian.” Adrian says pointedly, gesturing to his civilian outfit. 

Chris glances and then knocks the bar for another drink. “Dude, did you follow me here?””

Adrian hops onto a barstool, it wobbles threatening and he braces himself against the bar top - sticky, salted with the residue of many a drunkenly spilt bag of chips.

“I knew you’d be wallowing somewhere depressing. You’re kinda predictable, P.”

“What? No I’m not! I’m super unpredictable. I ring the changes all the fucking time!”

Adrian hums noncommittally. “This place… sure has a unique vibe.” 

Chris rolls his eyes. “It’s usually pretty great for when you don’t want to talk.” He snits. “Usually.”

“Misery loves company!” Adrian smiles cheerfully.

Chris rubs his face, fucking tired and maybe, although he’d never admit it, slightly relieved to have someone here, not judging, just… distracting him from his thoughts.

From under his hand he grunts: “Want one?”

“I’m driving.”

The bartender shoots a freshened tumbler of whisky down the bar to Chris. He drains it. Feels Adrian’s anxious gaze on him. 

“So… the girl? Ratcatcher?”

“2.” Chris adds, barely a whisper.

“Right… she says she just want to talk to you. She isn’t here for revenge or anything. Or so she says…” he trials off.

“She just wants to talk.” Chris repeats emotionlessly.

“She saw on the News about Project Butterfly and that you were alive and you helped save the world.  Maybe since you missed out on helping her save the world last time, now she’s like, ‘oh hey, you’ve joined the World Savers club. That’s cool’.”

“Listen, I didn’t ‘miss out’ on saving the world, ok? I was helping save the world and then I got slugged in my fucking throat and then a fucking building fell on me!” Chris exclaims, drawing the attention of a particularly browbeaten middle aged man who smells of old vomit.

“Exactly! So you didn’t actually help defeat the giant starfish thing. You missed that bit.”

“Fuck you, man.” Chris knocks the bar again and a new tumbler is shot his way.

“Dude… maybe ease up a little?” Adrian cautiously taps his fingers to Chris’s bulky shoulder, and earns a glare back.

He drops his hand.

“She could have Bloodsport with her, that limey motherfucker could be waiting in the wings to finish me off once and for all. He’ll be pissed he didn’t actually kill me with his teeny tiny bullshit bullet.”

“Adebayo seems to trust her. She’s letting her stay with her and her wife.”

“Fuck.” Chris buries his face in his hands. 

“But don’t worry. No matter what dude, I’ll always be on your side.” Adrian’s staring at him intently, like he’s the only thing that even exists, and his voice is so fucking sincere Chris feels sick.

Undeserved loyalty. 

“And if you want me to get rid of her, just say.”

Chris snaps his head to stare at Adrian, shocked even though he probably shouldn’t be anymore. “Fuck, man. No!”

“You sure?”

“She’s an innocent kid!”

“Uh, she’s a convicted criminal, albeit pardoned, and she might want revenge on you. She might be pretending she wants peace. To trick us.”

“Then I’ll fucking- I’ll deserve it. I’ll deserve it! If that’s what she’s here for.”

Adrian’s mouth is hanging open.

“I would’ve murdered her! To keep the peace! And probably stomped on her rat, too. Her Eagly. Just to be fucking thorough.”

He sniffs, eyes feeling watery, and downs his drink. “I’m a fucking bad person, man. If she wants to kill me, I can’t argue with that.”

“Well I can!” Adrian, outraged, “I’d never let that happen!”

“Dude…”

“Chris.” Adrian says seriously, and the use of his name gets to the other man, he flinches. “You’re the best person I know. Period. This world needs you.”

Chris scoffs.

“And Eagly needs you. And-“ he stops short of saying it. Me. I need you.

Chris slides off his stool and unsteadily to his feet. He sways a moment, then fishes a bunch of dollars from his pocket and slams it on the bar top. “C’mon.” He slurs to Adrian, “I need to get outta here.”

*

Their destination is the bar Adrian tried first. The bar Chris had met Leather Skirt at. Loud music thudding through the floor. Sweaty bodies dancing, light projections distorting the room, the people, to look like half shadows, half neon coloured aliens. It’s a bit much for Adrian. All his senses feel suffocated in the packed room. Too many people, too much sound - he can’t hear himself think. He can’t hear what Chris yells over his shoulder to him as they weave towards the bar. Strangers’ shoulders and backs and elbows are knocking into him and he wants to shove them away, to get out his sword and chop some space for himself to breathe, but… instead he follows Chris, worrying at a loose thread on the cuff of his burgundy zipper. Whatever Chris wants, just say yes.

Chris orders some tequila slammer sand forces one into Adrian’s hand. It sloshes and dampens his sleeve.

“DRINK.” Yells Chris above the thudding techno beat.

Adrian mimes a steering wheel. Chris rolls his eyes.

“YOU CAN HAVE ONE DRINK AND DRIVE.”

“ILLEGAL!” Adrian yells back.

“ONE DRINK ISN’T!” Chris smirks and waggles hiss eyebrows. He taps the bottom of Adrian’s glass until he reluctantly raises it to his lips and takes a sip. The alcohol burns his tongue and the back of his throat. He wants to cough but, that’d be uncool. Chris has already finished his.

He grins wildly at the dance floor. “YOU COMING?”

Adrian blinks, bewildered. 

“DANCE WITH SOME CHICKS!” Chris pulls at Adrian’s arm and they end up amidst the crowd of writhing bodies, Adrian stands awkwardly, still holding his glass. Chris has already zoomed over to a hot blonde with an excellent ass. He mimes grinding near her and she shoves his shoulder playfully. Adrian takes another sip, watching them.

Chris has gone from maudlin and basically suicidal to dancing like he’s a wild party animal in like, twenty minutes. The emotional whiplash is troubling to Adrian. He doesn’t understand what it means. Is… Chris just going to dance it out of his system, maybe? And then he’ll be ok and not act like he doesn’t care if Ratcatcher 2 has her rats eat him?

Someone bangs into him from behind and more of his drink spills. He spins around and a sweaty tall guy is glaring at him like he’s fucking in the wrong. “Watch it, Big Bang Theory.”

Adrian frowns. What’s the leading theory on the beginning of the universe got to do with a drunken dickwad bumping into him?

Chris is somehow, some-fucking-how, already necking the blonde. Wow. The man’s an aphrodisiac, clearly.

But if it makes him feel better, then Adrian’s cool with it. What’s weird is his feeling pain seems to have activated. Obviously the two sips of alcohol are messing with his brain because clearly he’s not hurt that Chris is having a good time while he just stands there. That like, totally makes no sense.

Adrian decides to head back to the bar and get a milk. Better safe than sorry where road safety is concerned.

*

The blonde’s mouth tastes sweet and their sloppy kissing is doing a good job of distracting his brain from what a piece of shit evil son of a bitch worthless loser fuck he is.

Well, almost.

But because God or the universe or whatever sits in judgement is never content to let him have more than a moment’s happiness, Chris feels a hand grab at his shoulder and his heart sinks. An Eminem-looking prick is flaring his nostrils and jabbing an angry finger in Chris’s face.

“I was dancing with her, get the fuck outta here.”

“Ha! You think you’ve got a chance in hell, meth face?”

The punch only catches Chris’s ear because both men are sloppy drunk. Behind them, the blonde is rolling her eyes.

“Hey! Addison, fucking tell this lumpy fuck you was gonna get with me! I bought you fucking Pina Coladas!”

“Gee, I forgot buying a drink fucking contractually obliges a girl to fuck you.” She flips him off, “FUCK YOU.”

“Lumpy? Fucking lumpy!? Fucker, I could pick you up and crush you like a soda can! You look like you couldn’t fight a paper bag!”

“If a guy buys a bitch three overpriced cocktails he fucking deserves at least to get sucked off.” The guy whines.

“Uh, no he fucking doesn’t, Harvey Weinstein, that’s some rapey shit.” Chris feels anger rushing in his blood, and it feels fucking good to be angry at someone else, it feels even better than the blonde’s tongue in his mouth. He double-punches the guy’s skinny waster gut and McRaperson crumples to the sticky dance floor, wheezing.

Chris turns triumphantly back to the blonde, fucking heroic as shit. “Madame.” He slurs cockily, grasping her butt.

“I gotta piss.” The blonde yells over the music, disappointingly unimpressed by how chivalrous he’d just been. She disappears and Chris is confused. Shouldn’t he be owed at least a sucking off for like, defending her honour and shit?

A shiver runs through his body. The club’s lights are flashing too much, too fast, and the pounding music feels suddenly like it’s knocking his skull. It’s almost as if the dancing bodies around him are in slow motion… and he’s in the centre of the crowd, statue still, like some force is holding him there.

The thudding seems to melt away and the purest, clearest sound replaces it. Chris hears every lyric like a dagger:

‘My mother told me that the world has got its plans

I wanna hold em til they burn right through my hands

Don't ask me questions cause I'm tired of confessing

And I know that it's not much to say but I swear that I'd like to change…’

Gasping, Chris stumbles back, knocking into a few people.

‘I can't sleep, I hope I stay awake

Cause I've been running, running, running all day

Long nights, no peace, I feel like everybody's eyes on me…’

Arms pushing, wading through the sea of bodies, gasping still, Chris pushes and shoves like a drowning man until finally, mercifully, he reaches the exit and crashes out through it so fast he trips and slams down onto the sidewalk, scraping his palms.

The bouncer looks at him like he’s adding to a mental tally of how many drunk idiots he’s had to deal with tonight.

“S-sorry,” Chris mumbles and with some struggle, finds his feet. He just about makes it around the corner before he collapses against the brick wall and slides down to the ground. He can barely breathe, barely see through watery eyes.

That song. That fucking song! Why does God hate him so much that he has to fuck with him at every fucking moment!? 

He can see it in his mind like it was yesterday. Dancing in Corto Maltese. The dim club. The anticipation of the fight to come. Heat and camaraderie. A team united.

And Ratcatcher 2 dancing a few feet away in her little summer dress. Happy. 

The last time he’d met her eyes, they’d been wide with fear and pain. Begging for her life as he stood above her.

He lets out a sob and buries his face against his knees.

A warm hand tentatively touches his shoulder. He snaps his head up and through tears, sees:

“Adrian… I can’t…”

Can’t what? Do this? Do anything? Fucking… live?

Adrian shushes him, like he’s a distressed toddler. He’s knelt on the ground beside Chris, seemingly not noticing, or not minding, that the knee of his jeans is sunk in a puddle.

“Dude, let’s get you home, ok?” His voice is gentle, his brows knitted together in pure concern.

Undeserved.

Chris shakes his head.

“We should go fin’ the hot blonde- she’ll’ve pissed by now-”

“Yeah, no, we’re not doing that. Not to be a killjoy but you’ve made a bunch of poor choices tonight, so I’m gonna have to take the wheel, dude.”

Chris feels himself being yanked up, and leans heavily - probably too heavily - against the smaller man.

“‘m fine…” he slurs.

“Uh huh, that’d be more convincing if you didn’t need me as a human walking stick.” Adrian snarks, feeling Chris’s sweaty armpit against his neck as he drags him over to the Vigilante-mobile. 

With a lot of huffing and untangling and grunting, he finally gets Chris bundled into the backseat and shoves a plastic bag at him. “In case you barf. Try not to get any on the seats.”

He settles into the driver’s seat and checks Chris in the rearview mirror, looking morose and queasy. He lets out a noise that sounds like a kind of choked sob, his face scrunchy, but not the Bad Scrunchy. ‘He’s crying, asshole’ he remembers Economos explaining after Chris killed his dad. Huh.

 
“And I forgot to get steak for Eagly! Again! I’m such a pieceofshit!” Chris chokes out, his face wet. Maybe he is crying… 

Adrian shifts awkwardly in his seat and starts the engine. He does not know what to do about that. So he will drive them home.

*

While Chris barfs more in the tiny toilet of his trailer, Adrian attempts to clear a bit of space on the couch and throws a sympathetic glance to Eagly, who caws back.

“I know, your human BFF is pretty trashed. But don’t worry buddy, we’ll take care of him.”

Eagly flutters up to his perch.

Adrian fills a cup of water and hovers in the toilet doorway. Chris looks pitiful hunched over the seat, groaning.

“Drink this.”

He dangles the glass by Chris’s head until he sluggishly takes it and sips. Then coughs and splutters. Adrian sinks down to the floor beside him and hugs his own knees to his chest.

Chris finally turns his head, resting against the toilet seat (gross but… Adrian will advise washing later). His whole face seems bleary and wrecked, he’s looking at Adrian oddly, like he’s actually thinking about something else, far away. Adrian tries to arrange his expression into something he hopes says ‘bro, don’t worry about it.’

“Why’re you looking like your balls just got kicked?”

“That’s not what I look like.” Adrian bristles, “My kicked-balls face is very distinct, as is my electrocuted-balls face…” he mutters and narrows his eyes.

“Dude… let it go.”

“Ha!” Adrian barks, “Don’t quote Frozen at me on this. It’s not as simple as building an ice castle and singing a beautiful empowering song about it. My nuts were fucking fried.” He huffs, “Anyway, I was trying to look reassuring. To you.”

“Well, fail on that fucking front.”

“…I see you’re feeling better.” Adrian snipes.

“Ugh, not really.…” Chris leans back against the wall. They sit for a moment opposite each other. If Adrian moved his sneaker a little, he’d bump Chris’s knee. He thinks about that. He doesn’t.

“Sorry I’m being a fucking ass….” Chris suddenly says. His voice is broken sounding. Adrian feels his chest tighten. “I know it’s all on me and I just fucking… can’t deal with it…”

“Well, not in a productive way.” Adrian agrees. 

“You can go now, V. I’ll be fine. I’ll be….” His voice is barely a whisper. His eyes have closed.

Adrian’s sneaker nudges his knee. Eyes snap back open.

“Dude? I’m not going anywhere.” He looks serious. “You might choke on your own vomit in the night. I’d never live with myself if that happened.”

A long beat. 

“I’m gonna have to deal with this shit tomorrow, aren’t I.” It isn’t really a question.

“Hey. You can deal with anything. I believe in you, dude.”

Chris lets out a sad breath.

“C’mon, let me drag you to your bed before you pass out here. Cause yes I’m strong as shit but I cannot carry you as a dead weight.”

* * *

The next morning Chris can barely see straight through his piercing headache. He knocks about three lamps over during his bleary stumble from bedroom to kitchen, where he runs his face under the cold tap and fills a glass of water.

Groaning, he leans against the kitchen counter and drains the glass.

That’s when Chris notices (wait, remembers) he isn’t alone. Adrian’s asleep on the couch, bundled under a blanket. He looks very much like when he was a little kid. Like when he’d fall asleep on the floor in front of the TV because Gut and Chris and the gang took up all the seats in the Chase family room. (“Thimbles don’t get a seat.”). Gut and he would take it in turns to try and hit the back of Adrian’s head with whatever  snacks they had. Popcorn, nuts, sometimes slices of ham. Adrian would laugh along with them all, like the joke wasn’t on him.

He remembers one beer fuelled night when the Chase’s were  staying overnight at a hotel (in retrospect, probably to have some privacy away from their kids to have A Talk about father Chase’s extramarital experimenting with dick). Gut invited all the football players, the jocks, the dangerous kids from school and Adrian was locked in the closet by the bathroom upstairs. So he couldn’t fuck up the night and embarrass Gut when he was hell bent on nabbing some serious pussy. 

Pussy was got, Chris got drunk and high and fucked a girl with the sexiest smile in the room, and teenagers coming back from the bathroom would ask what the hell was up with all the frantic knocking and cries for help in the closet upstairs. 

It was in the wreck of morning, empty cans, spilled food, broken furniture, stolen swear jar, condom wrappers on the couch and in the parents’ bed, that Chris groggily woke and, after coughing up a bunch of phlegm in the sink, met eyes with Gut, sat at the kitchen table looking like death.

“My parents are gonna ground me for fucking ever…”

“Sucks, bro. But that was wild! Totally worth it.” Chris had scratched his armpit, suddenly remembering: “Hey, did you let your brother out?” 

Gut’s eyes had widened and they’d both run up the stairs and hastily unlocked the cupboard. Adrian was asleep or possibly fucking dead on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, head lent against the wall.

Gut prodded him with a socked foot.

“Yo, Adrian.”

Adrian had startled and, breath panicked, looked up at them with a look of pure shame and fear Chris thought to be a little OTT. I mean, sure, he’d been in there for like ten hours, but Gut had mircowaved a stupid kiddie pizza for him beforehand. It wasn’t like he’d starved.

“Get out.” Gut ordered.

Adrian hadn’t moved.

“Are you deaf? Move. You need to come help us clean up before Mom and Dad get back.”

Adrian stayed where he was, a deer in the headlights.

Chris had suddenly felt a twinge of something. Sympathy? Or just, remembering how he felt when his own dad would lock him in the boot of the car or the closet to ‘give him time to think about what kind of a man you wanna be’.

Chris held out a hand to Adrian, when it wasn’t taken up, he yanked him up onto his feet by his upper arm. Adrian had yelped in protest.

“Oh fuck, seriously?” Gut groaned.

Chris looked to where Gut was looking: Adrian’s sweatpants had a dark stain at the crotch.

“You pissed yourself? That’s disgusting.” Gut wrinkled his nose.

Adrian was bright red, not meeting their eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was small for his age, he’d been real easy to help Gut bundle into the closet. But, standing there, mortified, he’d looked so young and Chris had felt admittedly shitty. 

“Go wash those pants now or Mom will fucking kill me and then I’ll kill you.” Gut leaned into the closet and sniffed,  “Urgh, the whole thing smells of piss. What is wrong with you?”

Adrian’s eyes had suddenly darkened behind his drugstore glasses and, out of nowhere, he had punched Gut hard in his, well, his gut. Gut bent in half, wheezing, eyes bugged out in shock, and Chris’s eyebrows had shot up, impressed this skinny kid had it in him. Chris laughed and Gut swore at them both between coughs. But Adrian’s face was blank. Briefly he met Chris’s eyes and Chris almost said- sorry? He wasn’t going to do that, because this was just what growing up was. You roll with the punches. You gotta learn to take them, and sure, give some back. So Chris said nothing, and Adrian went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Eagly caws and Chris throws him a few chips, extra pleased when Eagly catches one mid-air.

Why’s he thinking about that night? Chris exhales. Fuck knows.

He does vaguely remember Adrian sitting on the toilet floor with him, knees pulled to his chest, looking pained.

And he does know that looking at Adrian now… snoring softly, hair all fluffed from the blanket, is making him feel odd. About what he’s not sure, so to put an end to it he grabs a banana from the fruit bowl and lobs it at Adrian’s head.

“Ow! Wh- the-“ Adrian sits up, rubbing his forehead. “Fuck was that?” he looks at Chris accusingly.

“Breakfast.” Chris says simply. His eyes look away, momentarily embarrassed, “Thanks for, uh, sticking around to take… care of me and shit last night. That was good of you, man.”

“Hey come on, what are BFFs for?” Adrian smiles, “In sickness and in health, right?”

The odd feeling returns and Chris frowns and looks down.

“I can’t believe we all avoided getting zapped by the vomit helmet, and then you literally made yourself vomit like five times last night.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t mention it right now?” Chris burps uncomfortably into the back of his hand.

It’s then that there’s urgent rapping at the door. Shit. Ratcatcher 2? Here to call all the rats of the state to gnaw their way into him and eat his evil murderous heart?

“Chris? It’s me!” Leota’s voice. The relief in the trailer is palpable. 

He lets her in. She glances briefly, curiously, at Adrian on the couch.

“He got shitfaced. I had to basically carry him home.” Adrian explains.

Chris rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“What a fabulous idea, Chris.” Leota snarks. “You look like goddamn roadkill.”

“Thanks, Adebayo. Just what I need to hear.”

“Has Adrian told you what Cleo said?”

Chris nods.

“So? Are you willing to meet her?”

A long silence.

Eagly chirrups.

“I…” he begins, but he has no words. No idea. Nothing. He feels fucking empty. Like maybe he died after all and all this is just a very long-ass final dream before his circuits fritz out.

“I don’t know if I can. Face her.” 

Leota takes his hands in hers. Adrian watches from the couch.

“Christopher Smith? You’re a good man-“ as he starts to pull his hands away her grip tightens, “And that girl wants to understand why you did what you did. And she wants to see why you wouldn’t do it now.”

He swallows, eyes fighting tears not to spill like a total pussy.

“You can show her that, Chris.” Leota, softly. “I think, all things considered, it’s the least you owe her.”

Finally, he nods without looking at her and Leota smiles. Good. This is good.

“She’s at my place. I’ll drive you.”

“Now?!”

“Yes. Now.” 

“Wait, guys! Let me get my uniform and my daggers in case this is actually a trap, ok?”

“Adrian.” Leota probes gently, “It's ok. I promise. You just need to give Chris and Cleo some space to deal with this. You get me?”

“But-“

“It’s fine.” Chris sighs. “I’ll be fine. Just… feed Eagly.”

And with that, they leave and drive off in Adebayo’s car. Adrian watches them until they’ve disappeared into the horizon. He swallows and his throat feels like something’s caught in it. His voice comes out strained as he fumbles for his own car keys. 

“Ok buddy, let’s get you that steak.”

TBC...

Chapter Text

The drive to the Adebayos’ home is far, far too short for Chris’ liking. He spends it with his knee bouncing, chewing at his fingernail stubs and cussing under his breath.

FuckshitfuckFUCK.

“Take deep breaths.” Leota says, eyes staying on the road to allow the man a small amount of privacy as he freaks the fuck out.

“I can’t even breathe, Ads.” Chris sounds hoarse.

“You can do this. ”

“I really fucking can’t.”

“She’s a good kid. She wants to forgive you, I think. Like I’m 80% positive on that.”

“Fuckfuckfuck…” Chris whispers. He can feel sweat on his brow and some pooling at his lower back. He feels cold. And also like his heart might explode.

Leota pulls up outside her home and finally looks at him with kindness.

“Chris. It’s gonna be ok.”

He winces. “Yeah? What if it isn’t?”

“This is how you make amends.” She gets out the car. Chris stays where he is. Sighing, Leota goes to the passenger side and yanks open the door. 

“C’mon.”

Reluctantly, like a child, Chris unfolds himself out of the car and takes a deep breath.

“Ok. Fuck it. Ok.”

Inside, Ratcatcher 2 and Sebastian are sat on the couch. Keeya’s beside them, holding a mug of freshly brewed organic coffee. It smells amazing but Chris’s mouth is full of ash. He’d choke if he even tried to drink anything. 

“Cleo.” His voice comes out far too quiet, cracked. 

Sebastian immediatly scampers onto Cleo’s lap reassuringly. Cleo claps him, a slight tremor to her hand.

“Peacemaker.” Her voice is louder, solid sounding, almost defiant. She holds him with a steady gaze, her face expressionless but her eyes belying emotion. Anxious fear and something else. 

That look… it’s like the Neo Nazi’s little girl. The one who screamed. She looks at him like he’s the monster, come to destroy her. Not a protector. He’s never really been a protector, in the end. He destroyed for his father, he destroyed his brother, and he’s been on that path without even knowing it ever since.

Keeya stands. “Should we…?” 

She looks to Leota.

Leota nods. “Yeah, we’ll be in the kitchen, give y’all some privacy… but if you need anything? Just yell - ok?”

Chris’s eyes are wide with do not fucking leave me alone, but Leota just pats his arm and ushers Keeya into the kitchen. 

Chris turns back to Cleo. Gulps.

Her shoulders are tensed and slightly hunched, like she might stand and bolt. Or like she’s half worried he might shoot her. He’s not in uniform. Just jeans and a washed out t-shirt and jacket. No gun. Nothing.

Not Peacemaker now.

Sebastian is curled in the crook of Cleo’s arm, nose twitching as he stares.

“Cleo. I…” fuck, what? He’s sorry? What kind of pathetic line is that? Sorry I fully intended to fucking shoot you and your rat dead because I’m fucking thorough. Sorry I stabbed Rick Flag in his noble fucking heart and watched the light leave his eyes. Sorry I’m fucking still alive, somehow, when I don’t fucking deserve to be.

“Fuck.” He exhales and scrubs a hand over his face, helpless. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?” Cleo frowns, her tone devoid of the warmth Chris remembers. The sheer warmth this kid had for everyone during the mission. Even for him.

Did he crush that from her? 

“To- to tell you how sorry I am. For what I did to you. And to Rick Fl-“

“You wish now that you hadn’t killed him?” Cleo interrupts.

“Yes.” He answers immediatly. “Yes, I fucking wish that more than anything.”

Except Keith, his brain reminds him like an internal kick. He squeezes his eyes shut to quell it, forces on: “And I’m so, so fucking relieved I didn’t kill you. And all the pain I went through from Bloodsport shooting me? I fucking deserved every minute of it. I know that in my heart. And if I’d died that day, I’d have fucking deserved that too. I shouldn’t even be here.”

He takes a shaky breath. A long pause sucks the air from the room.

“Someone must want you here.” Her expression has hardened, but it’s also… curious? He can’t read her. It’s disconcerting. Is this how it feels for Vigilante all the time?

“Amanda Waller.” he replies, “She’s the reason. She thought I could help with Project Butterfly. Nip another alien invasion in the bud. Never let a loyal solider go when you know you can utilize him again.” He sounds disgusted. Tastes bile in his throat.

Cleo shares a look with Sebastian.

“Your friend in the kitchen there, she exposed Waller’s Task Force X to the world last week.”

He nods. Doesn’t know if it’s a question. 

“And you had to work for her again because…” She taps her head, mimes an explosion with her fingers. The chip. 

One they still have in common.

“Yep. Whether I wanted to or not. And I didn’t.”

Cleo looks down at Sebastian. Pets his little head. Chris shifts awkwardly on his feet.

“What I never understood was why… why did the mission matter more than your team? This bad woman puts a death chip in your head, she blackmails you, she doesn’t care if you die horribly - but you must still be loyal to her?” She looks at him. 

His heart feels tight.

“I…”

“Would you kill your team here, for the sake of a mission?”

“No.” 

“But if they disobeyed orders?”

“No. No I wouldn’t. I fucking swear.”

“Why?”

He can see her eyes are starting to glint with tears now, her mouth set in a grim line.

“Because I care about them. Because they’re my friends.”

“…And we were not.” she frowns.

“Cleo I… it’s not like… Look, I knew you guys for like three days!” His eyebrows raise pleadingly, “It’s not- Come on, it’s not the same - right? With you and Flag it… it wasn’t personal.” 

He cringes. 

“It’s always personal.” Cleo locks his gaze. “I would have died willingly that day to save us all, if I’d had to.”

And because he knows it’s true, somehow before he can stop himself he feels a burst of anger and doubles down and snarks: “Well fine! That’d be a gigantic waste because none of us would’ve deserved it! You want me to tell you you’re the best, bravest, noblest warrior of us all? Cool, gladly, because clearly you are! You want me to admit I’m a piece of shit? Absolutely. I am a total piece of shit. I’m worse than shit. I’m fucking…I’m a rancid fucking pile of rotting-“

“Stop!” Cleo’s voice is raised. Sebastian’s claws catch the morning light.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Cleo! Ok!? What do you want me to say!?” he exclaims, desperation fraying his words.

“I want to know why you changed to become a better man than the one who’d kill his team to follow cruel orders!” She yells back, and finally a tear falls. She wipes it with her sleeve, scowling at him. “I want to see for myself if you carry guilt in your heart for what you did!”

“YES! YES I FUCKING- I-“ fuck. He covers his face and leans against an armchair, suddenly feeling weak and sick and fucking afraid. He lowers himself to sit opposite her, and when he speaks his voice is a whisper:

“I will always carry guilt in my heart for what I did. I made the worst possible choice because I thought… I guess I thought it was the only way to keep the peace. So we wouldn’t start World War 3 by releasing what was on that drive. And so Waller wouldn’t explode our heads for doing it.” He’s looking at his boots because can’t meet her tearful eyes. “If I could go back… I’d let Flag kill me. I’d let you take the drive. That’s how it should’ve gone.”

He sniffs and rubs at his own eyes. “He was a better man than me. I didn’t know it then - I do now. If I have to spend the rest of my worthless fucking life trying to put some good in the world to make up for the bad I’ve done, then hell, I’ll fucking try.”

Finally, he looks at her. She’s chewing her lip, dark under eye shadows standing out against her paling face.

“I’m sorry, Cleo.” He looks at the rat, “And Sebastian. I’m sorry, too.”

She swallows.

“I don’t even want to ask for forgiveness because I don’t deserve it.”

She says something so quietly he doesn’t hear. He blinks and leans forward. “What?”

“You have it anyway, whether you ask or not.” 

His face crumples in confusion. “I- what…?”

“I don’t want to hold onto hate. It’s useless. It burns a hole in your soul.” Her mouth twists unhappily, “I want to forgive you… ‘cause I want to be free. My father… his addictions… I know how to forgive. I was born to do it.”

She holds out her hand to him, Sebastian squeaks from her lap.

Chris loses it. Full on snot-crying, he breaks down and sobs and grasps her slender hand between both of his, so that it disappears, and he squeezes it tenderly, gratefully. Fucking what the fuck is happening? He can’t even begin to understand. Only that he feels like he might burst open.

“But I don’t- I don’t deserve-“

Through blurred eyes he thinks, or imagines, he sees the tiniest smile ghost across her lips. 

“Probably not. But only forgiveness leads to change, Peacemaker.”

He doesn’t know how long he cries for, only that when he finally wipes his face, Leota is sat beside him, handing him a bunch of tissues.

“Why the hell did you never tell me Ratcatcher 2’s BFF rat wears a tiny jacket!? That’s the kind of information I need in my life, Chris.” 

He lets out a shaky laugh.

“Sebastian likes to look smart for meeting people.” Cleo grins and bobs her shoulder up so Sebastian can do a little twirl.

“Oh my god. Emerson’s the same!” Keeya giggles.

“You should try that with Eagly, Chris.”

“Are you insane? He’s a free spirit! He’d tear my hand off! He likes his feathers to breathe.”

“Eagle-y?” Cleo stumbles.

“Chris’s Sebastian. His pet bald eagle. Called- yup - Eagly.”

“What else would his name be? Craig? Prince William? Danny DeVito?”

“Sebastian chose his own name from a baby book we found in a dumpster,” she smiles at him, “He’s so refined!”

“A little gent, I can see it!” Leota coos.

Suddenly, there are two successive phone pings. Cleo startles. She’s never had a phone. Chris and Leota check theirs in unison:

A new message in the 11th Street Kids groupchat:

HARCOURT:

Got the all clear to get out of hospital. Anyone free for a pickup? I need to check you idiots haven’t killed the world.

*

The Night Before.

Cleo was slurping up the dinosaur pasta like she hadn’t had a proper meal in days. Her mouth and chin sauce-covered like a little kid. Leota and Keeya grinned at each other.

“Good?” 

Cleo gives a double thumbs up. Sebastian nods and picks another dinosaur from the edge of the plate to nibble.

“So you... control rats…” Keeya tried to fathom.

Through a mouthful: “They hel’ me whe’ever I call.”

“That’s so weird and so cute.”

Cleo swallowed and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “Rats are everywhere, they know every city, every place, better than people do. Short cuts. Where water is. And food.” She gazed lovingly at Sebastian, “they are so gentle and kind, anybody is welcome with them! They love people. The poor babies can’t understand why they’re so rejected. I say to people: watch Ratatouille! That is how rats are.”

Keeya filled a spare water glass with table water and pushed it over to Sebastian to sip.

Cleo stabbed at her pasta thoughtfully. “So, um, you… work with Peacemaker?”

Leota nodded.

“And… you trust him?”

Another nod.

“But you know what he did in Corto Maltese?”

Leota clasped her hands. “I do know. But, I also know my mother’s responsible for y’all being there, and she’s done some dreadful shit in her life, y’know, so I feel like I can’t judge him… entirely.”

Cleo let a pasta piece fall off her fork and back onto the plate with a wet slap.

“When I last saw him, I thought I’d die. I forgot to pray and… I forgot to tell Sebastian I loved him.”

The little rat cuddles into her elbow, perched on the table.

“I’m sorry. Seriously. Peacemaker was an asshole and a murderer, I know that, and he deserved to be in prison and get taken out by DuBois… but he…honestly, he’s really helped me. He helped save the world with a bunch of people who work for the woman that put an explosive in his head.”

Leota shook her head. “He doesn’t want to kill anymore. He wants to change.” a pause. “He’s still kinda an asshole, though. Just like, 85% of the time now.”

Cleo nodded a tiny little nod. “You seem like a good person.” She made a face, “I can’t believe Waller is your mother. She’s so…”

“I may not be as bad as my mom, but I’m still a work in progress. I gotta sort my shit too.”

She’d shared a look with Keeya, who nodded. Project ‘See Your Wife More & Always Be Honest With Her’ was ongoing.

*

Back to the Present.

Chris is cleaning up his blotchy, tear streaked face in the bathroom while Cleo and Sebastian do tricks with the dogs. Leota feels a weight has lifted from her shoulders. This was the right thing to do, thank the fucking lord.

Of course, it had almost gone tits up while she and Keeya were listening from behind the closed door to Peacemaker making peace with Cleo. Almost. Because out of the corner of Leota’s eye, she’d seen a strange movement outside the window. Oh, hell no.

She’d gone out the back door, fast, just in time to catch Vigilante diving behind a hedge. 

“Vigilante. I see you.”

A muffled curse. Then his head pops out from the side of the hedge. “Heyyyy Adebayo!”

“Look, I know you’re worried about Chris, but you don’t need to be. Ok? It’s going as well as can be expected in there. I’m here if they need any help. I wouldn’t lie to you.” She’d said softly to reassure him.

The black mask stared at her for a long moment.

“Did you pat her down for weapons?”

Eyeroll time. “She’s not armed to talk with him.”

“Well what about her magic rat stick?” He folds his arms petulantly.

“It’s in her bag. She’s not holding it.”

“You should steal it just in case.”

“In case what? She ain’t got some plan to have rats tear him to shreds. She’s here to forgive.”

Another blank pause.

“But why?”

“Cause… she’s a good person? Goodness does exist in the world, y’know.” 

“I don’t think you can know that for sure just from meeting her yesterday. I mean, yeah, you saw I was a good person pretty quickly but-”

“Adr- Vigilante. Please, just trust me and go home? Chris is fine. Everything’s fine. We do not require any ass-kickery at this junction. It’s a sensitive situation and we gotta let them talk it out. I can’t have you lurking around out here.”

Finally he emerged fully from the hedge, shoulders sagged.

“Fine…” he’d muttered unhappily.

Leota gave a thumbs up and watched him turn and drag his feet reluctantly back to his car or where-ever the hell he came from. How long had he even been out here? God.

She headed back inside and froze - heart dropping at the sound of Chris’s sobs from beyond the closed door.

* * *

Goodness does exist in the world.

That’s what Adebayo had said. And of course Vigilante knows that. He’s also a force for good in the world, hello, clearing the streets of murderers and rapists and tax dodgers and assholes who spit their gum out on the sidewalk.

So ok, maybe Ratcatcher 2 is good. She’d stopped her rat army from eating him. She’d helped stop the racist guy. Her rat was also pretty adorable.

But he’s still concerned for Chris. He’d been in such a bad place the night before. Crying, making himself sick, feeling guilty when he shouldn’t. 

It’s just Vig doesn’t know how to get Chris to see that he shouldn’t.

How can he fix Chris’s perception of himself? Because it’s clearly totally out of whack.

Brooding on this, Vigilante drives through the town. He’d seen Harcourt’s message but Adebayo had already offered to go get her from the hospital and Vig had a shift in like, half an hour. He’s itching to see Chris, to make sure for himself that he’s ok - for now, he’ll have to take Chris’s “👍🕊️”  on the groupchat as evidence enough.

It’s then that something catches Vig’s visor-wearing-eye.

No.

Fucking.

Way!

His day has officially gone from moderately worrisome and Not Great to Awesomely Fucking Cool.

Rat Bitten Racist is exiting a drugstore, carrying an armful of bandaids and wound cleaning ointments, looking sheepish and jumpy. And even better, as Vig slows down, the guy’s getting into a car clearly parked illegally. Bingo! If being a racist wasn’t technically breaking the law, then this sure as shit was.

So Vig tails him as he drives off. Fingers tapping an excited tune on the wheel as he thinks up how exactly he’ll kill him. It’s daylight - not ideal.

The racist turns a quick corner, then another. Vig follows suit. Then the guy u-turns and Vig has to brake and backup to do the same - shit, the guy’s sensed he’s being followed. He supposes paranoia goes with the territory of being a conspiracy theory addled white supremacist who thinks the world’s against him.

The guy’s speeding now - another crime! - and turns with a screech onto a desolate back street, then he stops. Engine still running. Curious…

Vig stops too. Waits a sec. Huh. Is this like, a standoff? A car-off?

Wheels spin against the tarmac as racist guy’s car suddenly backs up fast, heading straight for the front of the Vigilante-mobile. 

Definitely a car-off!

Vig rotates the steering wheel and tries to get out of the way in time but the fucker’s car is better- and bigger - and it smashes into the front corner of the Vigilante-mobile, crumpling the chassis and causing Vig to slam against the steering wheel.

The guy’s out of his car holding a pistol in the few seconds it takes Vig to catch up with what’s happened. He’s directing the pistol straight at him, standing a few feet away from the driver’s side of the car.

“STOP. FUCKING. FOLLOWING ME!” The guy yells.

Vig rolls down his window. “Hey! You just hit my car! And you were speeding! And you parked illegally!”

“What!?”

“You’ve broken a fuckton of laws, man!”

“You…” the man narrows his eyes, “You were fucking after me yesterday! You and that rat bitch.”

“Ha, you look chewed to shit by the way!” 

The man suddenly looks worried, “I-is she here?”

“Nope, just me.” Vig replies cheerfully. 

“WHY?” He demands.

“Uh, cause you’re a criminal racist piece of human vermin.”

He gets out the car. The guy jitters a step back. Clearly not really up to task when like, challenged in his assholerly. 

“Goddammit, I’ll shoot you, I will, you fucking fag!”

“Hey, you don’t even know who I am, let alone who I’m attracted to, so that’s an unsubstantiated homophobic slur.”

“You sound like a fucking fag.”

“And you sound like you probably fuck farm animals.” Vig takes out dagger to House of Flying Dagger this pigfucker.

“I’ll shoot!” The guy yells.

“Yeah so you said already.” Vig, getting bored, so to liven things up he launches the dagger at the guy’s neck just as the guy shoots reactively.

Hot pain grazes Vig’s upper arm but he finds himself laughing because if that was supposed to hit his chest that was a shit shot.

Meanwhile, racist guy has fallen to his back, dagger impaled, gurgling. His hands claw at the weapon lodged in his throat. Vig saunters over and kneels down by him.

“So… do you have like a TripAdvisor account where you leave shitty reviews of Chinese restaurants and stuff? Cause I’ll need to report that shit. Gurgle once for yes.” His tone is light and curious.

The guy’s staring at him like he’s looking at a mad man. Blood pools on the ground below and the dagger bobs as his throat convulses and bubbles. Gross, but undeniably satisfying to watch.

Vig pokes a gloved finger into the wound and the guy can’t exactly scream, but a squelching inhuman sounding noise escapes his bloodied mouth.

“Answer, dude. Or I’ll poke again.”

The guy nods painfully and Vig gives a thumbs up. “Cool. Appreciate the honesty.”

The street is - luckily - still empty. It’s a shittier bit of town and the road cameras look like local kids have pummelled rocks at them. 

The guy stills, his hands relax against his chest and the bubbling at his neck slows to a stop. Cause he’s not breathing anymore. His eyes are dull.

Job done!

Vig heads back to his car to assess the crash damage. The headlight’s shattered. He’ll have to get that fixed, he doesn’t want a ticket for driving with one light out at night. That’d be unsafe.

He checks the dashboard clock. Shoot. His shift’s starting in ten minutes. He quickly changes into his uniform (kept in the boot) and checks his left arm. The armour mostly protected him from any major damage so the bullet graze just down from his shoulder isn’t deep. He quickly wraps a temporary bandage around it and then pulls his Fennel Fields shirt over his head. Luckily the short sleeve covers it up. He doesn’t want a repeat of the time his forearms got stuck with a bunch of glass shards and everybody at work thought he was one of those self harmy types. Although they were a little nicer to him that day.

A bunch of notification pings sound from his phone but he’s not about to check them while he’s driving. It isn’t until he’s clocked in for his shift, waved hi to Taylor (already shoveling pizzas into the pizza oven) and shoved his cap down over his curls, that he finally checks his phone. 

Under the front desk, discreetly, because Gio the middle aged, paunchy manager is currently checking the till and he doesn’t want to get yelled at.

HARCOURT:

Thanks Ads. I’m in room 304 remember.

ADEBAYO:

On our way! 🙌🏿 Btw Ratcatcher 2’s with us. Don’t worry she’s forgiven PM. Will explain later.

HARCOURT:

WTF

ECONOMOS:

I knew I always liked Ratcatcher 2.

ADEBAYO: 

At hospital now, H! Coming to get ya!

PEACEMAKER:

Vig, wanna join to celebrate Harcourt getting out of hospital? Fennel Fields 5pm. 

P.S Did you get Eagly steak?

*

Oh crap! He’d forgotten to get Eagly’s steak when he’d got distracted by the car chase! So stupid. And he’s on shift ’til 11… 

Maybe he can serve his friends, at least? That’d be kinda… like being there. He wonders if Ratcatcher 2 will tag along. He also wonders if she’s going to become Peacemaker’s friend now. And she has a pet. And they might bond over that. And that would be. That’s-

“Chase! No phones!” Gio barks. Adrian’s cheeks flush with embarrassment and he quickly tucks it into his pocket.

“Get water and menus for table four and then you clear the rats from the kitchen traps, got that? There’s a build up again.”

Adrian nods and scurries off.

* * *

Emilia eases herself gingerly into their - apparently regular now - booth seat. Her hip aches but the painkillers at least stop the shooting sharp pains. She just can’t sit for too long. Or stand too long. Or walk too far. Basically she feels useless, but seeing Leota and Smith and even the surprise of Cleo Cazo, greet her at the hospital and marvel at how far she’d hobbled, she has to admit she feels pleased with herself too. And… kind of something like, maybe safe. Because when she needs them, her team gather around her. And she hadn’t expected that.

At the old Task Force X, there’d been a snarky camaraderie, yes, and their bets and deadpools and coffee machine bitchings about Waller -  but she doubts any of them would wheel her out of hospital and then wait patiently for her to use her walking aid to test out walking on hard tarmac to the car. And then play admittedly good tunes on the drive to the restaurant. Even if it was Fennell’s a-fucking-gain.

“John says he’ll get here by 5.30. I think he’s finding juggling our shit and his new job kinda stressy.” Leota is sitting across from Emilia so that Cleo can sit beside her. Maybe it’s because of the pasta and the pet bonding, but Cleo hovers closest to Leota, and seems to look to her for direction. It’s sweet.

Chris slides in next to Emilia and earns an eye roll when he makes a big show of handing her a menu.

“Did Vig reply?”

“He’s working tonight - but says he thought you knew already ‘cause he stuck his shift schedule on your... corkboard?” Leota looks at Chris.

He makes a face. “No? Why the hell would- Nevermind.” 

“Who’s Vig?” Cleo asks, opening the flap of her bag to check Sebastian is ok in there.

Leota: “Vigilante. That crazy guy you met yesterday in the mask.” 

“Ahh, oh. I think he doesn’t like me.”

“Nah, he just worries way too much about Chris. He’ll warm up to you. He didn’t trust us at first, either.”

“Is he your brother?”

Chris flinches at that, caught off guard, “What? No. Fuck no. He’s just, I don't know, kinda obsessed with me. I’m surprised he didn’t follow us this morning.” 

“Oh he did.” Leota confirms. “but I insisted you were fine and he should go.”

He shakes his head. “Goddamn…”

“So I’ll have the chicken salad and unfortunately fuck all to drink since I can’t mix alcohol with my painkillers.” Emilia huffs.

“In solidarity, Harcourt, I won’t drink either.” Chris, with a magnanimous grin, even though it’s really more because he hasn’t gotten over his hangover yet and the thought of hair of the dog makes him queasy.

“Sebastian and I will have pizza, for the true American experience!” Cleo smiles. “Although it was so nice yesterday to taste bacalhau à brás, before the bad racist man interrupted.”

“What’s in that?”

“It’s fish - white fish, with egg umm… I’m trying to think how to say it, like mixed up egg?”

“Scrambled?”

“Yes! And then you add in potato and onion and garlic and olives. It’s very good. My father used to always try to find it for us on the streets of Portugal. Sometimes he’d steal from street vendors and we’d run away hugging warm takeaway cartons to our bodies.” She’s smiling at the memory wistfully. Emilia and Leota immediately feel pangs of empathy for this girl and all she’s lost.

“Do you miss home?” Emilia asks.

Cleo looks down and shrugs, stroking Sebastian’s head.

“It was never the same after he passed. Didn’t feel like home anymore. Besides, America is the land of opportunity, right?”

“Damn right.” Chris nods.

“Hey you guys!” comes the sound of Adrian’s sunny voice as he arrives, dweeby uniform and all, in front of their table.

“Hey Vig, sorry we picked a work night for you.” Chris says in a way that's very consciously trying to Be Less Of An Asshole. It’s stilted but Adrian doesn’t notice-

“Vig? What’s that? I don’t even know what- is that a name?” Adrian laughs nervously, eyeing Cleo, “You must be confusing me with someone else. I do have a pretty forgettable face!”

“Cleo, this is Adrian, you met him yesterday, but we gotta keep hush on his secret identity. You get me?” Leota says faux-seriously.

Cleo makes a silent ‘oh’ and does a silly wink. Gotcha…

But Adrian seems, if reluctantly, to decide this is acceptable if Adebayo trusts her.

“Dude, you know I always update my schedule for you at the trailer.” Adrian pouts accusingly at Chris.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that?”

“I pinned a calendar up on your corkboard? I update it every month?”

“Dude, I don’t look at my corkboard - who has time for shit like that?”

Adrian’s mouth goes all small and unhappy. 

“Hey, we’ll go out, all of us, another time. Promise.” Leota soothes. “Or, maybe your manager’ll let you take your break with us?”

“I just got here, and Gio’s really stingy with breaks.” He mumbles.

“Sucks, bro. So… you gonna take our orders?” Chris adds breezily.

Adrian seems to bite back a retort, and takes out his pad and pen. “Shoot.”

They detail their orders, then Economos arrives and gets his side dishes in before Chris can cut him off. It’s then Adrian notices Sebastian’s nose twitching out of the bag.

“Oh, uh, gonna have to ask you to keep the rat on the DL. Gio’s also really big on pest control, and rats are a bit of an ongoing problem here…” 

“‘Problem’?” Cleo frowns, “How do you mean, ‘pest control’?”

Emilia senses trouble ahead, “I’m sure Sebastian can stay discreetly in the bag-“

“We have a bunch of traps in the kitchens, so yeah, FYI Sebastian should definitely not go down there. I have to go clear them out in a sec.”

Cleo’s eyes widen. “Traps?” 

Sebastian looks appalled - which rats are apparently capable of.

“Yeah.”

Chris shakes his head, “Dude, don’t tell her that…”

Cleo looks around, horrified, and suddenly stands.

“Cleo-“ Leota begins, reaching for her arm, but Cleo’s already charging towards the kitchen with Sebastian leaping to her back and climbing up onto her shoulder.

They all exchange a bunch of “fuck”s before Leota and Chris rush after her, leaving Emilia to give Adrian a sympathetic look and Adrian to blink back, more confused than usual about what’s going on.

“Uh? What’s happening?”

“I think Ratcatcher 2 has gone to release all the rats…”

“Oh shit!” Adrian yelps, his job flashing before his eyes. He follows after the others - although not before Taylor momentarily stops him to give him a patronising pat on the shoulder. 

“Adrian, your friends came here to eat without inviting you? Damn…”

But Adrian doesn’t have time to deal with that, so instead he rushes down the stairs to the kitchen.

Which is now a sea of rats. 

“Oh, man…” 

Leota’s trying to calm Cleo, who is raising her voice - and rat baton - over the terrified shrieks of the dozen kitchen staff, jumping from foot to foot to avoid the swarming large city rats at their feet.

“How can you murder innocent creatures because they’re hungry? Look at all the food you waste!” She jabs a finger at the trash can, overspilling with a lot of half eaten food.

“JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK!” Gio, who has jumped his ass up onto one of the counters. 

“Ratcatcher 2, please, you have to get them out of here!” Adrian stands in front of her, eyes pleading behind his big glasses.

“I’m sorry. I can’t let this be.” She says, sincere but firm.

Chris grabs a couple of order plates readied for upstairs, “Hey, hey, Cleo? How about we give the rats these orders and they can eat them outside…?” He raises his eyebrows hopefully.

“GET THESE DISGUSTING CREATURES OUT OF MY KITCHEN!” Gio shrieks.

Adrian whispers: “Please? Environmental Safety will totally shut the whole place down!”

Cleo lowers her baton, conceding. She doesn’t want people to lose their livelihoods… but she can’t bear to see fellow rodents have lost their lives here. Several little prone forms are twisted in traps along the floor. Her eyes tear at the sight. Sebastian’s face buries into her messy hair. 

“Ok. Outside, we take the food.” She nods, and grabs a few pasta dishes. Leota and Adrian follow suit and they carry a dozen plates out to the back ally, the sea of rats following hopefully. Then, like little dinner guests at a banquet, they arrange themselves evenly around the plates on the ground and begin to feast. The gang gaze at them, Leota, Chris and Cleo melting, Adrian… uh… bemused, to say the least. 

From outside they can all hear Gio yelling about never letting any of the customers know what happened or the place would be closed and they’d all lose their fucking jobs.

When they make their way back to their table, Economos and Emilia are expectantly waiting.

“Uhhh, crisis averted.” Chris mutters.

“The rats of the city will feast tonight!” Cleo grins devilishly.

“…. do I wanna know?” John, squirming.

“Noope.” Chris answers.

“CHASE!” 

It’s Gio, across the dining room, looking murderously at Adrian - who swallows nervously.

“Shit.” Leota cranes her neck to size up Gio.

“I’ll be right back… uh, hopefully.” Adrian clutches his hands together like a school kid about to get reprimanded and turns towards his possibly ominous fate.

Cleo watches him head over to his manager and bites at her lip. “Oh no… I’m afraid I’ve gotten your friend into trouble…”

* * *

It’s a different busboy that serves their food. Chris is pretty sure it’s the asshole one who slyly put V down the other day, so he makes sure to give him a fuck you look as his zoodles are placed in front of him. He knows he can be an asshole to V… he really does want to be less of an asshole, unless it’s deserved - but other people being assholes to V? Not on Chris’s fucking watch. Like, as he said, unless it’s deserved. 

Cleo’s glancing anxiously at the stairs to the kitchen where Adrian was last seen. She hasn’t eaten much of her American pizza experience, although Sebastian is currently gnawing on a circle of pepperoni inside her bag.

Emilia winces and shifts in her seat.

“You ok, Harcourt?” Leota, pausing with a forkful of pasta.

“It just… hurts to sit in one position for too long. My fucking hip.” Frustration colours her voice, “But then moving also hurts, so basically I’m fucked every way.”

“What happened?” Cleo asks.

“I got shot a few times during Project Butterfly. And I’m not a metahuman miracle, evidently.”

“I was thinking about that, actually…” John, through a mouthful of garlic bread. “I wonder if it’s Vigilante’s blood that’s got the healing thing. Like what if that’s what makes him heal super fast? Now, ok, it might be cellular, sure, or pure quirk of DNA, but there’s a possibility that transfusing some of his blood into someone else might give them a temporary healing boost.” He bites into another crust of bread. “Jus’ a ‘ought”.

“Wait… so you wanna try vampiring Adrian’s blood into Emilia?” Leota squints.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it-“

“Fuck man, that’s not cool.” Chris, glaring, “You can’t seriously be suggesting that.”

“I don’t mean draining all his blood. I mean like a little sample. Just to see.”

“Hold up - one, I’d need to be a match in the first place, and two, why do you think I’d even want to do that? I don’t know what’s going on inside that psycho. Why on earth would I want anything from him swilling about in- urgh!”

“You’re making it sound way more gross than it needs to be...” John adjusts his glasses. “Look, I get what you’re saying and that’s fair, but I’m just saying - it might help you heal faster.” 

Ok, so maybe there’s a little tiny tug of curiosity in Emilia. 

Chris stabs violently at his salad. “Well you’d better ask permission from Vig before you go deciding on any of this shit.”

“Oh, because clearly I was going to steal his blood in the night like some fucking creepy mad scientist.”

“Hey, you’ve got the looks for it.”

“Smith.” Leota quells.

“Oh, no…” Cleo drops her pizza slice, looking past the others to where…

Adrian is handing over his apron and cap.

“The rest you return tomorrow or you get charged.” Gio’s telling him, arms folded.

Adrian nods and approaches their table.

“Did you just get fired!?” Chris exclaims.

He shrugs. “Yeah… Gio isn’t into animal rights activists threatening his business…” he sounds toneless, “anyway, he wants me to leave now, so I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow?”

Cleo covers her mouth, upset she’s caused this.

Meanwhile Chris slams his fist down on the table. “Fuck that!” 

He slides out of the booth seat and storms over to Gio.

“Hey, fucking Super-dick Mario!” 

At the table, Leota covers her face, “Don’t be saying that shit…”

Gio turns around to Chris, “Excuse me?”

“You can’t fire Adrian for something that wasn’t his fault. He fucking works his ass off at your shitty fucking restaurant. And he didn’t invite her - I did.”

“You are the customer…” Gio is using an Unconvincing Pretend Pleasant Customer Service Voice, self consciously glancing at the few turned heads at the tables near by. “Shall we go to my office?”

“Nope. I’m good here. Now give him his apron back.”

Adrian’s arrived behind Chris’s shoulder, looking anxious and also like he might burst with happiness.

“Your friend’s a dozy worker anyway. I can replace him with someone ten times less hassle like that,” Gio snaps his fingers, “He allowed that girl to contaminate my kitchen. He’s a fucking coglione.”

Chris frowns, a what now?

“Chris, it’s fine…” Adrian puts his hand on Chris’s shoulder.

“You’re a fucking dick.” Chris glares. He turns to the dining room customers and raises his voice, “Hey, everybody? Yeah, hi, good evening, just to let you all know? This place has a massive tsunami size rat outbreak in the kitchens going down right now, and you should probably all put your knives and forks down immediately on account of their gross little bodies having probably been rolling around on your plates a few minutes ago. You also may wanna get tested for rabies and the plague. Just a thought! Oh, and don’t forget to tweet the shit out of this shit show! Maybe try the Portuguese place downtown, I hear the bacalha-a-bro fucking slaps!”

He does a goofy salute, “Thanks for listening annnd goodnight!”

Gio gapes. The customers share bemused, disgusted looks.

Adrian’s gaping too, but he’s also like, really really really bursting with happiness that his BFF just emotionally and economically sucker punched his asshole boss!

He half wonders if Peacemaker will physically punch Gio too, he looks like he wants to - but in the end, he contains his anger and simply puts  a big reassuring hand on Adrian’s shoulder. “C’mon, bro.”

They all take their food plates and half run/half stumble out of the restaurant, laughing, even as Gio and Taylor yell after them. 

Fuck Fennel Fields.

Sincerely, 

the 11th Street Kids.

* * *



Back at HQ, still half hysterical with what a fucking weird bundle of emotions the day has been, Chris clears his throat and raises his beer bottle:

“Guys? I wanna toast, to…” he thinks a minute, “To change.” He focuses on Cleo and, softly: “And to forgiveness.”

After the slightest hesitance, Cleo decides to smile back. She raises her bottle towards Adrian. “Yes. To forgiveness…?”

He smiles back genuinely, although his eyebrows knit together a little as he says: “Yeah! It’s fine. Fuck that job, I- I’ll just find another.”

“Exactly! Loads of minimum wage shit out there.” Chris adds.

“Wait a minute, aren’t you getting paid for Task Force X? Didn’t Murn ever sort that?” Emilia - with her glass of boring ass water.

“Uhhhh…..” Adrian’s blank on that. He kinda just joined in to be closer to P, and cause he liked it. “You guys get paid?”

“Yes!” - in unison.

“Oh, cool.”

Emilia leans back gingerly against her chair. “Fuck me, I’ll call admin tomorrow.”

John drains his beer, “Good luck with that, with Waller in fucking hiding, the office is a total shit show.” 

“Any idea where she might be, Leota?” Emilia asks.

Leota worries the rim of her own beer. It’s empty, but it’s something for her hands to be occupied with. “Nope.” She admits. Is it because she’s ignored the fifty calls from her mom? Yup. Does she want to open that particular box right now? Nooope.

But Emilia doesn’t ask more, instead she breathes through a spasm of pain down her left leg. “Fuckkk…”

John clears his throat. Not-so-subtly he bobs his head in Adrian’s direction while staring at Emilia with widened eyes.

“John, you have the subtlety of a fucking muppet.”

He holds up his palms like, what do you expect?

“Always knew you enjoyed a hand up your ass, Economos.” sniggers Chris.

Ignoring him, Emilia sighs, “Fine. Adrian? Economos here has this weird theory that maybe your super healing can maybe be… shared.” 

John sits forward in his chair. “So like maybe it’s your blood, and blood can be transfused…”

Adrian nods blankly. “…Ok?”

“Dude, they want to give Harcourt your blood to see if it heals her faster.” Chris clarifies.

“Oh. But don’t I kinda need it?”

“Just a tiny amount, to test my theory. A sample.”

“But you don’t have to. It probably won’t even work and honestly I’m not even sure I want it to.” Emilia makes a face, “It’s a fucking weird theory.”

“Obviously I’d need to do a fuck load of tests beforehand. On both of you. Like do you even know what your blood type is?”

“Oh dude, I make- I made minimum wage, I’d always skip out of hospital before a) they learned my secret identity, and b) I got chased by a bunch of totally extortionate bills.” Adrian chuckles, “I don’t know. I’ve barely like, spoken to a doctor in years.”

Then he looks at Harcourt, covering another wince. “But if there’s a possibility my awesome superhero blood can make my 4th BFF feel better sooner? Then I’m super down to try.”

And, shit, Emilia feels her eyes nearly get a little misty - for fuck’s sake, get a grip! - because this crazy idiot she met a few months ago apparently cares enough about her to maybe do this. She clears her throat, shaking that feeling off because she is not going to get mushy about this. And it probably won’t work anyway, you pessimistic bitch, you know this-

“Thanks, that’s really good of you to offer.” She offers in return a stilted smile. She never has been good at thanks. It feels too much like vulnerability.

Adrian beams back, “No problemo! So do I just cut my hand again now or-?”

He’s pulling out a switchblade he evidently keeps in his Fennel Fields pants - at which Leota, John, Chris and Emilia all shout in panic: “NO!!!”

“Dude put that away!” Chris, shaking his head.

“I’m not sewing you up again, for the record.” John deadpans.

“Aw, shit. Really? Cause I might need a tiny stitch on my arm from the bullet earlier.”

The bullet earlier?

“What fucking bullet earlier?!” Chris exclaims, eyes wide, “How can’t you go five minutes without getting into a fight!?”

“Uh, because I seek that shit out?” Adrian says obviously, “It was the racist guy who got attacked by the rats yesterday. He was parked illegally, and then he was speeding, and then he crashed into my car, so I thought, hey, enough is enough, asshole.”

Chris puts his head in his hands and makes some kind of weird deflating balloon kinda sound, that’s all Adrian gets from it. The others are exchanging looks, but maybe that’s because they’re deciding nonverbally who high-fives him first? He’ll save them the trouble -

“High five, Blood Buddy!” He leans over to Emilia’s chair. Her face goes crinkly.

“Please, for the love of god, never call me that again.” 

His hand stays hanging. She relents, not because she supports murdering people casually even if they are racist fucks (she doesn’t care, to be honest, but it’s another headache for them to clear up the traces of), but because he… fucking well might be her (shudder) ‘blood buddy’, so after all that it feels a little shitty to shit on him just because his brain is an unfathomable mess that can’t read the abject horror on their faces.

As their hands meet she says very seriously: “But you’ve got to stop killing people without checking in with us first. Deal?”

He laughs, “That’s what a vigilante does!”

Cleo’s looking freaked, “Peacemaker, your friend, I think, is not very interested in peace…”

“I’m just real about it! Peace is something only achieved through stamping out the bad in the world. That’s the way it goes. I didn’t make the rules. But the rules are the rules.” 

“Adrian.” Emilia presses, “Promise me, for just now, you won’t murder anyone else unless we’ve ok’d it.”

Uncertainty passes over his face, and a brief glint of hurt. “Why?”

“Because I said so. And this is my team. And you’re part of it. So you have to follow my orders.”

He seems somehow reassured by her authority, even if he also looks like she’s asked him something crazy, like to stop eating for the next month or paint himself blue. He glances at Chris, who nods.

“Fine. I promise I guess.” He mumbles.

“Thank you.”

“But I’m still going to report all the shitty reviews that guy left those restaurants on TripAdvisor. That’s non-negotiable.”

Emilia’s just going to let whatever the fuck that’s about slide. 

“Any more helmets, John?”

John wipes his mouth with a napkin, finishing his meal. “Not so far. Must be out of radar zone.”

“Shit.” Emilia thinks, “And did vomit helmet guy have any leads re: Auggie Smith’s post-death masterplan?” she looks at Leota and Adrian.

“He seemed to just really hate foreign cuisine.” Adrian shrugs. “Doubt he was a big player.”

“Well… ok, then in that case, thanks for a bizarre fucking first day back to the grind, guys.” Emilia grabs her walking aid and pushes herself up, as smoothly as she can, from her chair. “We’ll…. sort this shit show out in the morning. Somehow.”

“I’m so fucking glad you’re back, by the way.” John admits, awkward but sincere.

Leota’s eyes go comically wide, “For real, it’s been tough.”

Settling her weight on the walking aid, Emilia flicks her hair away from her face with a smooth swish and calmly regards her teammates. “Oh, believe me, I know.”

* * *

“Wouldn’t it be damn amazing if it works, though?”

Leota, cleaning the plates in the sink (before she heads home with Cleo), because Peacemaker and Vigilante have gone and Economos has ‘work to catch up on’. How absofucking typical that the women are the ones who think to actually clean the fucking HQ so more of Cleo’s rat buddies don’t decide to take up residence in it. 2022, man… times they ain’t a changin’. Emilia considers putting an old anchovy encrusted pizza slice in Smith’s spare boots. As a little lesson in what goes around comes around. Although his gigantic feet likely reek to high heaven already. 

Cleo’s sat at one of the desks turning on and off a lamp as a little stage spotlight for Sebastian to do different poses in. Ok, so maybe Cleo doesn’t quite get the point of cleaning either.

Emilia scratches at her wrist, fidgeting. “What did it take for you to convince Adrian he needed to kill Auggie Smith? Less than a minute?”

Leota dips her head, “Pretty much… but I honestly do regret that. Not the wanting Chris’s dad gone part, but the manipulating part…”

“Your Mom would be proud.”

Leota freezes at the deadpan coldness with which Emilia says that. 

“Wow, fuck you, Harcourt. Why’re you turning on me?” 

Emilia covers her face with her hand at Leota’s stung expression. Shit, that was a line bit out before she could think on it. 

“I’m not- I’m- sorry. I’m just saying…” she lets her hand drop, “…if we frame any problem as something that helps Chris or helps us, or saves the damn world, I’m pretty sure in less than a minute we could convince Adrian to do just about anything.” she rests her chin on her hands, “He’d have killed Chris’s dad and for all he knew at the time, rotted in prison for years afterwards. He throws himself into danger all the time like it’s nothing, or like ultimately, he doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean… Although I guess we kinda all do?”

“But it’s different, right? I don’t think he even thinks about it. So with this whole Economos theory… I don’t know. I don’t want to feel like it’s another manipulation.”

Leota frowns, “You mean you think Adrian’s too crazy to give informed consent?”

“No, I mean…” she exhales, “I don’t want it to be that he thinks we’ll kick him out the team if he says no. Like it’s some kind of blackmail. He’s a fellow soldier, now. Even if he is a fucking dumbass.”

Leota perches on the table by her. She can see the tension in Emilia’s features. She’s really worried they’re fucking up here, and Leota half wants to comfort her, half worries why she herself didn’t think about this before now. Is that the Waller in her? Potential sacrifices can be made for the Greater Good?  She shakes that poisonous thought away. No, no way is that her.

“Emilia, I think he said yes because he sees you’re in pain, and even if he doesn’t get that it’s a feeling, it’s cause he cares. Which… I did not think I’d be saying about Vigilante, but, here we are.” Leota shoves her hands in her hoodie pockets, “Hell, girl, if I had healing blood, I’d give you some.”

Emilia smiles, a little bashful. “Thanks. But we don’t know if it’ll work. Or if it means he won’t heal super fucking fast anymore.”

“Well… on the other hand, that might stop him running headfirst into so much danger, cause we know he ain’t immortal. He ain’t Wonder Woman.” Leota smiles, “And, uh… head’s up, this is where you say to me, ‘oh Leota I’d do the same for you. I’d give you my super blood if I had it, don’t you worry’.”

“Maybe, if I couldn’t think of anyone else. And Wonder Woman isn’t immortal like invulnerable, she just won’t die of old age. But she’ll die some grisly way, one day.”

“Jeez, have a little faith in the woman! Are you always this pessimist- wait, don’t answer that.” Leota raises her hand, “Hardwork, I should call you.”

Emilia quirks a smile.

A little squeak sounds from down by her feet. Sebastian, holding up a discarded pizza-greased tissue. 

“Ohh, he wants to help you clean up!” coos Cleo from her desk chair. 

Emilia tries to not make a grossed out face but, really?

“He can just put that in the trash bag for me… thanks… Sebastian.” 

Sebastian dutifully does just that, hopping over to the bag collecting the night’s debris on the floor. Leota emits a little squeal at the cuteness or some such shit, but all Emilia can think is, shit, did that rat touch any of the pizza I ate?

* * *

“Dude, do you like, ever think about your mom?”

Adrian’s driving the Sebring back to Chris’s trailer. Then he’ll have to go back to his house and change out of his ex-work uniform so he can return it in the morning. Although Harcourt had promised to sort out some kind of X Force payment, he’s a) not super convinced the pay is that great considering Economos’s stained hoodies and Peacemaker still living in his too-small trailer, and b) he doesn’t want to break his contract to Fennel Fields any more than he has already by inadvertently letting it become a rat hive. Possibly a rat rave, too, by this late into the night…

Hey wait - did Peacemaker ask him something?

“Huh?” Adrian manages to produce the approximate sound of as he tries to blink out of his road-headlights-traffic-lights-shiny-rat-thoughts daze.

“Do you think about your mom ever? Since she died? Remember you just told me she died?”

“Oh yeah, yeah. Yeah.” Adrian blinks again, eyes still on the road, “Uh, so how d’you mean?”

He hears an exasperated huff.

“I mean… fuck, I don’t know. Do you miss having her around, like, in your life?”

Adrian thinks. After years and years since anyone has asked him that very specific question - now he’s heard it twice in as many days. The old neighbour guy. His wife Patty. His knowing Adrian’s mom. Liking her. ‘You must miss her’.

An uncomfortable prickling webs up his spine. The very fact Chris is asking this means this is something he should already know. It’s something Chris expects him to know. And have thought about. Recently. Or a lot. Or all the time. Or sometimes. Or at least a time.

And Adrian is, instead, pulling a blank.

Do you miss having her around in your life.

Do you think about her ever.

He knows he missed Chris when Chris was in prison. He was so glad when he came back to Evergreen. He couldn’t contain himself! It was like a magical gift. Like a light had turned back on after years spent in a dim, nothingy little place not even worth remembering.

If his mom came back, if that were possible, would he feel that gladness again?

He knows he used to talk to her the most of anyone. He knows she was a great mom, and that she liked him way better than Dad did. She never tried to catch him out or trip him up or insist he needed to be different, better, not like this. Being with her made him appreciate that motherhood was creating safety and time and a whole secret world that only existed between mom and child. One that dads couldn’t understand. Or brothers. Just… sitting on the family couch watching one of their programs, the ones they watched together because Dad and Gut would mock and talk loudly through them otherwise. Cagney & Lacey re-runs and old Westerns and Homicide: Life on the Street. Truth and justice. Struggles to be good. Law and evil and outlaws and vigilantes and teams and partnerships and people fighting crime who spend more time with each other, doing that, than with anyone else on earth. Adrian would watch, eyes unblinking and glued to the screen, barely moving, with his knees curled up to his chest, and sometimes, Mom would give his shoulder a little squish. To maybe remind him she was there, and glad he was there, to watch the programs with her.

She was there, with him. And now, for a long while now, she isn’t anymore.

“Vig?”

Adrian’s eyes on the road have gone pretty blurry, enough so that car headlights and traffic lights and neon signs are all kind of a neon blaze before him. His breath hitches as he snaps out of it, vision refocusing on the road just in time to slam his sneaker down on the brakes before he skips a red light. Fuck, that was close!

“Adrian? You ok, man?” Chris sounds weirded out, like he doesn’t know if he should be annoyed at Adrian for being weird or be annoyed that he probably should feel bad for making Adrian be weird when he doesn’t want to have to feel bad.

“Uh. Yeah! Fine. Yeah. Just tryna concentrate on the road…!” He trails off with an unconvincing chuckle.

Chris narrows his eyes, but says nothing more.

It’s a number of minutes after the light goes green and they’ve left the town and are winding down the road to the trailer park that, suddenly, Adrian continues.

“I guess I probably would prefer if she hadn’t died. Like, if she hadn’t gotten the cancer card in life, that would’ve been preferable. But since that’s not a possibility, since it’s what did happen, I guess I don’t think about any other possibility. Cause… what’d be the point?”

The road before them is lit only by the Sebring’s headlights. Just road and the dark of surrounding grass fields, and soon, when they get nearer, there will be the twinkling lights of the trailer park.

Adrian always enjoys seeing them when it’s dark.

TBC...

Chapter Text

Eagly hops and makes happy little chitters as soon as Chris opens the front door. He kneels down and brushes Eagly’s feathery chest. “Hey buddy. That’s right! Daddy’s home!”

Adrian’s grinning at them, then suddenly, Eagly hops over and brushes his little head against Adrian’s leg. “Oh my god!” Adrian gasps.

They share a look of tentative awe, and then, with a nod from Chris, Adrian kneels down beside Eagly and Chris and… reaches out his hand and…

Eagly chirps and leans his neck into Adrian’s touch. 

“Ohmygodohmygod!” Adrian babbles.

Chris has the biggest, goofiest smile across his face. “Dude! He never lets anyone else pet him!”

They both giggle like fucking excited teen girls at a sleepover. Suddenly Adrian looks sorrowful: “Oh man, but I forgot to get Eagly’s steak! I’m such a bad bird friend…”

“Nah, man, it’s cool. We’ll get him one tomorrow. He’s just happy to see us both, and there’s still plenty of those chips you got for him the other night.” Chris replies, surprising both Adrian and, frankly himself, with his charitable forgiveness.

He creakily stands - and decidedly does not want to dwell on the fact that every year that passes he gets a little more creaky - fuck this aging shit, couldn’t his dad have made something fucking useful like a youth serum? Chris shakes thoughts of Auggie away, item no.1 on the list of 23217312793 of things he Doesn’t Want To Think About, and yanks open the refrigerator. Cold beer is called for.

“Hey, what do you think Eagly sees me as? Like, if you’re his human dad…” Adrian asks, cross legged on the floor dangling one of the dumb plastic stretchy snakes Chris kinda collects for some reason. Eagly hops and bites and pulls at it like a puppy playing tug.

It’s insanely cute. Chris really wants to snap a picture but he doesn’t like where Adrian’s question is going. What the hell is he meant to answer? The fuck does Adrian want to be? Eagly’s mom? This is getting too weird. Time to shut it down.

“I dunno dude, probably a weird uncle?” He cracks open a beer for Adrian and hands it down to him, “But like the good kind, the fun kind, not the touches-you-inappropriately kind.”

Adrian looks disgusted and a little concerned.

“Not that my uncle did anything like that! He’s as much of a racist sonofabitch as my dad was, but they draw the line at pedo shit. Which is something, I guess.”

Adrian looks pensive as he sips his beer. “Huh. I don’t really know much about uncles. Mine was always weird around me. He didn’t know what to say to me, I think. Gut said he thought I was like the kid from The Omen. I mean, I never know what to say to anyone so I just say anything I can think of, and I think it’s sometimes the wrong thing.”

Sometimes? Chris quirks an eyebrow and cracks open his own beer.

“I kind of think…” Adrian starts, tearing at the sticky label on the beer bottle. “Maybe my Mom was the only person in my family who actually liked me.”

Chris feels an uncomfortable knot in his chest. “Dude…”

“What?”

Startled by the expectant way Adrian looks at him, Chris’ brain freezes up. What?

“Uh… I’m sure that’s not true.” He squirms, “Gut had to not mind you like deep down, right? Brothers always kinda care even if they mostly hate each other.”

Or maybe they don’t, maybe he doesn’t know, because the only brother he’s known was the one who loved him. His best friend. Against the world.

Adrian huffs out a humourless little laugh, “Yeah no, Gut hated being my brother, he told me all the time.”

“Gut’s a fucking asshole, that’s why.”

“I get why, I’d embarrass him and stuff.” A thought seems to strike him, “Hey… you know after Goff had torn off my mask… and you were untying me and you asked me what my name was again?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Adrian’s brows draw together. “Did you really not remember my name?”

Shit. Well. The truth was at the time he couldn’t remember the name of Gut’s dweeby brother. He would’ve guessed maybe Adam? Aaron? He’d vaguely recalled the A-part.

“Look, in my defence, one - I hadn’t seen or thought about ‘Adrian Chase’ in more than a fucking decade, and two - I only ever heard Gut refer to you as loser, freak, dork, psycho…”

“Norman Bates…” Adrian adds.

Chris laughs, remembering more: “Jeffrey Dahmer! Napoleon Dynamite, Milhouse, the banjo kid from Deliverance…” Chris wipes laughter tears from his eyes, “Man, he was such a dick, but he was pretty fucking funny.”

“He’s still very much a dick - and not very funny.” Adrian pushes himself off the floor and stands there, looking awkward in his work uniform. 

“But he was right about one thing. He said I ought to keep Mom’s house because I needed it more, since I’d ‘never be able to hold down a proper job’.” He sighs, “I can’t believe I got fired…”

Chris reaches out and claps Adrian’s shoulder, and gets a shock when the reaction is a wince of pain.

“Ow! Dude! My gunshot!”

“Shit, sorry. Lemme look at it. Go sit on the couch.”

Chris grabs his First Aid kit and joins Adrian on the couch. Adrian rolls up the short sleeve of his burgundy work shirt to reveal a hastily wrapped bandage - red stained.

“Fuck, man.” Chris sighs and unwraps the bandage. Adrian sips his beer nonchalantly. 

The wound isn’t bad, or that deep. No need for stitches. Just some surgical tape to make sure the graze doesn’t heal as a permanent dent in Adrian’s shoulder.

Chris glugs some disinfectant on a clean rag and without warning slaps it against the wound.

“Motherfucker!” Adrian yelps. “Ow!”

“Sorry dude.”

He wipes the wound and then sets about applying the tape. His whole face is a frown as he works. “Why’d you go after that guy again? He’d learned his lesson.”

“Uhhh, I seriously doubt that.”

“He wasn’t gonna do shit with the threat of five hundred rats plugging up his fucking anus.”

Adrian pulls a face at the image.

“So you didn’t need to kill him.”

“Well, sorry I don’t feel it’s a big loss to the world that a shitty racist bled out on the street.” Adrian huffs defensively.

Chris sighs. “Did you mean it when you promised Harcourt you wouldn’t kill anyone else without checking with the group?”

He’s now wrapping fresh bandaging around Adrian’s arm, holding his forearm to keep it lifted so he can wrap evenly. There’s a significant enough of a silence that Chris pauses his work.

“Adrian.”

“Yeah, yes, sure, I meant it. I promise.”

Chris rolls his eyes. Unconvincing, but it seems pointless to press the issue right now.

Across from them, Auggie leans against the kitchen counter, helping himself to a beer he obviously can’t drink or fucking enjoy (at least that’s something).

Better not leave a fucking ghost puddle on my carpet, Chris thinks.

“Well if this ain’t the faggyest shit I’ve ever seen.” Auggie laughs. “You gonna kiss his boo boo better next? Or just slam your dick straight into his ass and fuck some AIDs into him?”

Chris flinches at the revolting words. Adrian looks at him, confused.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Chris shuts the First Aid box up. “All done.”

Adrian smiles warmly, “Thanks!”

Chris stands and stiltedly carries the box back to its place on the shelving - very awkwardly avoiding passing by Auggie too closely.

He’s not here he’s not here he’s not-

“I have followers all over this country, still following my teachings, my orders, even after my passing…”

Passing! Like he’d fucking just slipped away in his sleep. 

“…And all you can get to follow your dumb ass is this pathetic INCEL-looking cuck. Embarrassing, is what it is.”

With his back turned to Adrian, Chris chances a glare at Auggie and hisses under his breath: “Shut the fuck up.”

“Hey Peacemaker, you wanna watch a movie or something?”

“You’ve already shared a fucking bed together, and you think some skanky cunt being there too stops it from being a fag fest?”

“I don’t care what you think.” Chris whispers.

Auggie draws a dangerous smile, like he’s in on something Chris isn’t. “It ain’t what I think. It’s what you know, boy.”

Chris frowns.

“You said it yourself. I ain’t even fucking here. Everything I say? It’s what you know yourself deep down.”

Chris swallows hard. 

“You know that you’re a degenerate, unmanned waste of life. That you can’t get a woman ‘cause they all see you ain’t no fucking alpha, you ain’t gonna protect them or this country, oh no - so you gotta demean yourself further by ass-fucking another loser degenerate who’s clearly touched in the fucking head.” Auggie spits,  “But that’s what being a kid born from fag sperm does. Fags shoot out fucking defectives. Thank the Lord you’ll never be a fath-”

Chris slams his full fist against the wall - into where Auggie’s head would’ve been if- he was still there. If he had ever been there.

“Woah, dude! What’s going on?” He hears Adrian calling.

He takes his hand away from the wall, there’s a crumbling dent from the impact, dust from the splintering cheap plywood.

Adrian’s cautiously beside him. “Chris?”

“Nothing. It’s fine.”

“Why’d you-“

“LEAVE IT. I’m FINE.” He snaps.

Adrian dips his head down in that fucking annoying way he does like he’s a puppy that just got kicked. Chris feels shitty enough as it is.

Eagly caws worriedly from his perch.

“I’m fine, Eagly. Just… frustrated that… we haven’t tracked down all the helmets yet.” A crappy lie.

“Oh,” but Adrian looks like he’s bought it, “Don’t worry dude, we’ll get them all. Your dad may have been pretty brainy but the guys we’ve caught so far are dumb as rocks.”

He looks serene to Chris. The fuck? How is it he can recover from anything Chris throws his way? How can he not still be seething with rage that Gut made his life a misery? How can he have loved his mother and yet not think about her every damn minute of the day?

And why can’t Chris do that? Just… switch it off? 

It must be fucking incredible to be that blank. That free.

“Hey! I know what’ll make you feel better! Why don’t you try out some of the records I picked up from the widower dude on my street?”

Chris does a double take. “Wait, you got these from some random widower?”

“Not random, he’s my neighbour, if you’d listen. They were his wife’s. He didn’t want the memories anymore.”

Chris gulps. Fuck, he knows the feeling.

“Ok, I guess that’s a plan.” Chris turns to the box, which Adrian had left on the kitchen table. “Alright, what’ve we got…?” Chris mutters, flipping through the vinyls in the dusty old cardboard box. His knuckles smart from the impact of the wall.

Glenn Miller. Sinatra. Ella Fitzgerald. Judy Garland. Aretha Franklin. Kermit the Frog. Oklahoma. ABBA- wait, rewind-

“Kermit the fucking frog? What the hell?”

There he is on the cover, in a little dinner jacket, smiling his toothless, muppety smile.

Adrian breaks into his own goofy grin, taking the vinyl case from Chris, “Cool, man! I didn’t know Kermit was a singer too!”

Chris goes back to browsing. “This is some old timey good shit, huh. Back to the days when America was all Coca Cola and girls in poodle skirts and the dudes wore suave as fuck hats. God I wish I’d been born then instead.”

“What? In the 1950s? But then you wouldn’t have got to hear hair metal.” Adrian counters.

“True, but I could’ve driven drunk to a drive-in movie, got in on the housing market, and hey, maybe got to bang Marilyn Monroe…”

“Dude, none of that’s worth living in a time where women couldn’t buy property and racial segregation was still a thing. The 50s sucked.”

“Way to kill a guy’s nostalgia boner. I’m allowed to have a Don Draper fantasy once in a while, c’mon.”

Adrian snorts. “Don Draper’s an asshole.”

“Yeah? So? He gets a fuckton of pussy and a streamline of old fashioneds and all he does is come up with like, one fucking ad slogan every now and then. Dude’s got it made.”

“Uh, he’s also a miserable drunk who can’t get over having a crappy loveless childhood and a bad dad who hit him and a brother who died-“ Adrian’s mouth snaps shut. 

Chris stiffens. There’s a horrible pause. But Chris is facing the box of records and Adrian guesses that even if he could see his eyes right now he probably wouldn’t know if Chris was angry or about to cry again.

“Wow Vig, I can’t imagine what that’s like!” Chris snaps, opting for sarcasm instead. At Adrian’s bemused look he glares. “Sarcasm.”

Adrian mouths ‘oh’ silently. 

Bristling at how only the truly shitty parts of his life are anything like Don fucking Draper’s, Chris swipes ABBA from the record collection. Fuck it. It’s not hair metal but he can’t deny those Swedish geniuses know how to write a tune.

Plus, Agnetha? Total smokeshow.

He stalks over to his record player and lines up the record, grinning when Mamma Mia blares out first. A solid gold classic.

I've been cheated by you since I don't know when

So I made up my mind, it must come to an end

“Uh, Peacemaker, sorry if I…”

Chris whips around to face Adrian, still in the kitchen area, and starts miming along with the song, pulling some pretty sweet moves right before Adrian’s befuddled face.

Look at me now, will I ever learn

I don't know how, but I suddenly lose control

There's a fire within my soul

Just one look and I can hear a bell ring

One more look and I forget everything-

“Whoa-oha!” Chris chimes in, picking up an empty beer bottle to sing into.

“Dude…?” Adrian tries again.

“Mamma mia, here I go again-” Chris sings in the wrong key, “My my, how can I resis-“ he stops suddenly, like he’s choked on the lyric, and swigs on the bottle before remembering, shit, it’s empty. Fuck. Does Vig know the lyric he narrowly avoided voicing?

My my, how can I resist you?

Very fucking easily, he can, because Chris Smith isn’t serenading here, this is totally platonic and it’s totally not his fault all ABBA songs are love songs.

He picks up the vinyl cover and peruses it. “Not as cathartic as a guitar riff but I appreciate the commitment to skin tight jumpsuits. Which one would you bang?” He holds it up for Vig to see.

Adrian considers with a great amount of thought. “Maybe an orgy?”

Chris wrinkles his nose. “Have you ever even been in an orgy?”

“No… but I feel like it might be less pressure, ‘cause if I needed to piss or a glass of water I could just slip out and then re-join later, whereas with threesomes, you gotta be there so it doesn’t become a twosome. Like when that curvy chick went to gargle mouthwash and your hands grabbed my butt instead.”

Chris feels like his brain just fucking glitched.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The chick you held hostage who liked you? You banged her and I played her lady garden like a piano-“

“Dude don’t call it a ‘lady garden’…”

Adrian continues obliviously, “Then she went to wash up and you grabbed my butt for a minute, I think you were jacking off? You were facing the other way… I guess you thought it was her butt, although her’s was way curvier… but  maybe you were too high to notice.”

Chris is definitely fucking glitching. Or his brain is melting. Or he’s having a meltdown. Or he’s just-

What the fuck. He’s fucking fondled Vigilante’s ass? He doesn’t even remember. He certainly doesn’t remember feelinig any disappointment at the perkyness of any ass he fondled that afternoon. Fuck. FUCK!

“That didn’t happen! You must’ve dreamt it. Fuck, dude. Don’t say this shit to me.”

“… but it did happen?”

“Shut up! I’d know if I’d touched your butt! I’d know because I’d immediately have gone “gross, this is not a fucking lady butt”.”

Adrian makes a sceptical face. “Hey, I owe a lot to deep squats…”

Chris snorts, disgusted, “I would NEVER want anything to do with your pasty ass.”

Adrian looks weirdly pissed at that. “Well then maybe you ought to think about the drugs you do, because pot clearly scrambles your brain! It’s a gateway drug! You need to cut that shit out.”

“Uh no I don’t need to because that never fucking happened! I have never touched you like that and I’d never fucking want to. Jesus!”

Adrian’s expression is unreadable for a moment. Mamma Mia has finished playing and… shit, The Winner Takes It All is next up.

Chris does not have the emotional capacity to deal with that level of heartbreaking musical genius.

I don't wanna talk

About things we've gone through

Though it's hurting me

Now it's history

The vinyl screeches as Chris hastily yanks it off.

“But to save any confusion, let’s agree to never do a threeway again.” Chris says, back turned on Adrian. “Since clearly you misremember stuff and then make it weird.”

“Fine!” He hears Adrian huff.

Chris turns around and holds up the Kermit vinyl. “Fine. Cool. Now that shit’s straightened out, wanna hear if this frog can sing?”

Adrian nods, dazed by the sheer amount of fucking mood swings Peacemaker can have in five minutes. He rubs at the middle of his chest where the pain has sprung again, and thinks of what Economos said to him.

“… you need to either get over it and accept Peacemaker’s an asshole of unlimited proportions, and stop caring what he thinks, or, I don’t know, you need a fucking therapist. Or, fuck, just get one of those anyway.”

Therapy was so not an option though.

His dad had been concerned enough after the drumstick incident that he’d convinced Adrian’s worried mother that their youngest needed serious psychiatric assessment and probably a prescription for Valium. 

Oh, right, so the drumstick incident was when he’d been hiding out in the music room during recess to avoid wedgies and/or having trash shoved in the back of his hoodie, and he’d happened to catch a kid from his year defacing the skin of a drum with lewd rumours about some girls. Adrian cleared his throat and the boy’s head snapped up. Then he fucking smirked.

“Why are you always creeping around, retard?”

“It’s Adrian, and you’re vandalising school property.”

“Ohh!” The boy flutters his hands in mock pearl clutching, “And now I’ve been caught by the nerdiest loser in the whole school - what will I do!”

Adrian may have been small for his age, but he’d already been renting martial arts training videos from Blockbuster and perfecting pull-ups hanging from the edge of his bunkbed.

So he marched over, grabbed a discarded drumstick and utilised it like a Dan Bong stick, pulling the boy towards him and flipping his flailing body around before bringing the stick down on the base of his neck. The boy immediately burst into pained tears, crumpling onto the rough carpet of the room.

The commotion had, of course, been overheard by the music teacher heading back from a smoke break and a quick, tense call with her ex husband. She grabbed the stick off Adrian and after calling the school nurse to attend to the blubbering (but like, not actually badly injured) vandal, marched him to the principle’s office.

So he’d got suspended for a week because they accepted he was trying to ‘do the right thing’ and had just overestimated his own strength. But only after they called his parents, told them everything, and insisted he get therapy.

His mom had scoped out the friendliest seeming kid psychiatrist and bought him a sweet baked pretzel on the car ride to the small office.

Adrian had sat across from a lady named Marion and twisted his sticky fingers together nervously. He didn’t like when people looked at him - really looked at him. It always made him feel like he was probably doing the wrong thing. The wrong expression. The wrong stance. The wrong clothes. Just… wrong.

“Do you understand that it was wrong to hurt that boy, even if you perceived he was breaking school rules?” She gently asked.

A leading question, and Adrian can guess she wants him to agree, but honestly, he feels nothing but pride for how awesomely he handled the whole thing. Getting suspended for fighting the good fight was just a price he had to pay, like all misunderstood vigilantes.

“Sure.” He says tonelessly.

“Do you think you can agree not to attack someone like that over rule breaking again?”

He nods. It’s not really like lying if he doesn’t verbally commit.

“Is there someone in your life that you’re trying to emulate with this behaviour?”

“Humm…… maybe Calamity Jane? Or Wesley Snipes… Ooh, or Dolph Lundgren.”

“Adrian, I meant in your real life.”

“Oh! No, no, those are real people.”

“I meant more… are your parents big on punishment?”

“No?” Adrian adjusts his glasses, “Mostly my dad goes like… silent, if me or my brother do something wrong, and then he goes to the gym… He goes there a lot, for hours, because we- well, I, usually do something to annoy him at some point every day…” he scuffs the back of his sneaker against the metal chair leg. “My mom never gets cross, though.”

“Why do you feel you annoy your dad?”

Adrian smiles an embarrassed smile. “Because he says “Adrian quit being annoying” a lot. Gut thinks he’s cheating on mom and not actually going to the gym. I was going to follow him at some point to find out, but I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“Oh I… really don’t think you should follow your father secretly.”

“It’s legal.”

“It’s a breach of trust, Adrian.”

“Yeah but… if he is cheating on my mom, isn’t that a bigger breach of trust?”

“I don’t think that is for you to solve. Just like I don’t think school vandalism is for you to solve.”

Adrian frowned. But who else would?

He found pretty soon that the best way to make Marion think he was normal was to agree with everything she said. 

Just like the best way to be Peacemaker’s BFF was to agree with everything he said. Even if deep down, he didn’t.

In total he only had a half dozen sessions with Marion before his dad threw his arms in the air, declared it a abig fucking waste of money, and went to the gym. 

A fortnight later, his parents argued into the small hours after his dad confessed he’d been having a sexual relationship with his Greek personal trainer. 

Gut and he had stayed up the whole night, listening by their bedroom doors. The next evening, their parents sat them down in the living room and told them Dad would be moving out. Gut had, as they brushed their teeth that night, shoved him viciously and said it was all his fault for being such a fucking headcase that Dad had to get away from him any way he could.

Adrian had said he was sorry for that, at which Gut had made an expression Adrian couldn’t place and thrown his toothbrush angrily into the cup at the sink. Then he’d gone to his room, slammed the door, and didn’t really speak properly to Adrian again for more than a week.

Adrian had looked at himself in the mirror of the too brightly lit bathroom. Ninja Turtles PJ top, electric toothbrush buzzing in hand. Hair looking greasy because Mom had been too preoccupied with the shit going down to remind him to wash it. He’d looked at himself and thought, numbly, he’d do anything to get away from you. And so will Gut.

He’d padded back down to the family room. Dad had gone to some hotel, and was probably getting sucked off by a bellboy, and Mom was crying in front of the TV. SNL was on mute.

Adrian had sat on the other side of the couch. Just quietly. Hands clasped. Debbie Chase had sensed his presence and wiped her eyes. She reached, without looking at him, and clasped her hand over his.

They stayed like that for the whole SNL, watching the silent faces gurn at the camera in silly wigs.

He didn’t know if it helped, his being there. He had no clue what to say. But in the morning he woke to find himself sandwiched against his mom, her arm around his shoulders, and although her mascara was streaked down her cheeks and she’d sunk a bottle of red, she looked kinda peaceful.

He’d made a shoddy breakfast of stale toast and eggs that were still cold at the yolk and too crispy at the whites. 

She’d smiled and called him her best little guy.

Adrian swallows and adjusts his glasses. Wondering why he’s thinking about all that stuff from so long ago.

Kermit’s singing Especially For You with Kylie Minogue and Chris is highly amused. Adrian feels wrong now, like he no longer understands how to be with his BFF, how to tell if he’s happy or sad… and he thinks maybe he’s getting even worse at it. Or Chris is getting more erratic. Or both.

So, ok, he will never bring up past threeways again. Or his butt. Or Chris’s escalating drug problem. Although he might force him to watch The Wire to hopefully discourage that. 

But in general, he’ll keep it zipped. Because Chris Doesn’t Want To Talk About That and Adrian Doesn’t Want To Upset Chris.

Chris is doing some sick flamenco moves and grinning at him. He gestures for Adrian to do something. Do what?

“I don’t get what’s happening right now…” Adrian says honestly.

So Chris pushes his non-injured-shoulder and shouts above the music: “JUST DANCE, BRO!”

Then he turns away and dances over to Eagly, who is flapping and cooing to the music.

Adrian stays where he is, concerned this is very much like the sweaty bar a couple of nights ago. Is Chris going to get pissed and have a panic attack again? Adrian doesn’t really want to spend another night cleaning up sick in the tiny toilet and hoisting a clammy Chris to his bed.

But, Chris looks happier than he had earlier, so maybe it’s ok?

And, sure Adrian would rather bop to Britney Spears or Rihanna, but… this is cool too.

“Hey dude? What emotion are you right now?” He calls over Kermit’s nasal voice.

“Fucking merman emoji, V. Happy, sad and every-fucking-thing inbetween.” Chris laughs weirdly.

Adrian doesn’t feel very merman emoji right now.

He feels more 😕

* * * 

HQ.

John has been carrying out blood tests all morning. The good news is Emilia and Adrian are both type O. The bad news is Emilia’s having second thoughts.

“But I really don’t mind, Harcourt!” Adrian insists.

“And I appreciate that, but we don’t even know how your blood, if it is ‘special’, will interact with mine.”

“You’re both human. It’s not like getting blood from Superman. That’d be a super bad idea.” John says between bites of a blueberry muffin.

“Yeah! And I’m not an alien either.”

“Although jury’s out on that.” Chris snarks.

Emilia rubs her forehead, stressed the fuck out. Leota pats her shoulder. 

“C’mon Harcourt, it’s worth a shot. Plus… we’re all kinda tired of hearing you huffing and puffing and whining all about the place.” She grins affectionately, “no offence.”

“God, ok. Fine…” Emilia finally agrees, defeated. “But if this fucks me up, John, you’ll live to regret it.”

John swallows a too big chunk of muffin nervously.

He’d already acquired two narrow hospital beds and the appropriate equipment, making one of the HQ rooms into a makeshift little mini hospital. Probably a good idea anyway given how banged up they get on the job. 

He gestures for Emilia and Adrian to get settled on the beds, while he puts on his medic gloves and gathers the various empty blood pouches and IVs. 

“Ok, so first the intravenous line is going to take your blood, Harcourt, so you’ve, uh, got room for Vigilante’s.”

Emilia lies back and lifts her arm for John. “That sounds fucking gross, but sure, hook me up.”

“This is like a hardcore version of becoming blood brothers! Or, blood brother and sister.” Adrian observes giddily.

“We are not brother and sister.” Emilia replies wearily as John sticks the IV in her arm.

While Emilia’s blood is drawn, John sets up an IV for Adrian. He gestures for him to take off his zipper, and Adrian does, and John raises an eyebrow at the freshly bandaged upper arm.

“It’s practically healed, I’m good, dude.” Adrian smiles.

Leota and Chris pop their heads around the doorway.

“How’s it going?”

“Just about to link them up.” John connects up the IVs and blood bags hanging from a stainless steel pole. No need to warn either of his teammates not to look, since the sight of blood is like fucking everyday for them all. Soon bright red blood is inching down the IV from Adrian’s arm vein, up into the blood pouch, and then down again into Emilia’s arm. Emilia squirms on the bed, partly in discomfort from her hip, partly feeling squicked out.

“This is fucking weird.”

Adrian’s got his head leaned back against his free arm, cool as a cucumber. “We’re basically relatives now.”

“What?”

"We’re about to share the same blood! Blood ties? Blood’s thicker than water? Have you seriously never heard that?”

“Adrian, this does not make us related.”

He blinks, “I kinda always wanted a sister.”

Emilia stares back, a mix of WTF and a tiny prickle of something she is Not Going To Give In To.

“Honestly, you’re not missing anything. I have one. We don’t speak.” she suddenly reveals. 

She feels Leota, Chris (both sat at the other side of the room eating Red Vines) and John suddenly prick their ears to the conversation. It is a rarity for Emilia to divulge anything about her life.

Adrian turns his head to her, his cheek resting against the bed’s disposable paper sheet. “How come?”

“Because we’re polar opposites. Always were, but the older we got… the more obvious it became. She’s anti-violence, anti-government, anti-military, anti-America, so, y’know, you can imagine the arguments at Thanksgiving. Abigail Harcourt the princess of granola versus me and my dad. She’d be on her soapbox, raging that we were the worst people in the world. It was fucking exhausting.” Emilia lets her eyes close, “I’ve never judged her for being a hippy who leeched off our parents because her only ‘job’ is making shitty macrame plant hangers to sell at markets. She doesn’t live in the real world but jesus, she judges me for facing up to harsh realities and actually doing something to fight all the shit?” She huffs, “If we all sat on our asses weaving baskets barefoot and singing Enya, the world would fall apart.”

She takes a breath. It’s the most she’s said to anyone about her sister in years. She has no idea why she’s saying it now. And to Adrian of all people.

She glances at him. He’s still staring at her, looking pensive.

She squirms. “What? God. I don’t know why I just said that.” 

“My brother doesn’t really speak to me either. He moved to a different city, so I haven’t seen him since my mom’s funeral, and even then he only came back for like, a day, with his new family.” He looks over at Chris, “Dude, technically I am an uncle already, ‘cause Gut has two daughters, but I’ve only met them once… so, I don’t feel very uncle’y.”

Chris pauses chewing at his candy, looks at Adrian lying on the bed looking kinda blank, blinking at Chris from behind his glasses. Something stirs in his chest. He feels his brow crumple down:

“Hey, if I ever see Gut Chase again I swear I’ll kick his ass for not letting you be a weird uncle,” he states grandly, then something occurs to him and he adds slightly sheepishly, “but also as a sorry for, y’know, joining in with bullying you as a kid a bunch.” He clears his throat, turns to Emilia, “And Harcourt, I’ll kick your sister’s ass too. Fucking nobody needs more macrame in the world.”

“Thanks, Smith. But I’ll pass. She’d be even more vindicated as a total fucking victim.”

“Is she hot, at least?”

She flips Chris off. He grins, approaching the beds and offering a Red Vine to Harcourt.

“Ugh, I hate those things.” 

Leota’s eyes go wide, “What!? Are you dead inside, Harcourt? Red Vines are like the most perfectly formed boredom snack!”

“And fucking dangerous to keep around the house.” Chris says seriously.

Meanwhile, Adrian’s over here on cloud nine! Even though Chris is now snarking with Harcourt, Adrian’s still beaming at him, his heart feeling all warm and tingly at the idea that hypothetically Chris would kick Gut’s ass as an apology! His BFF is the best! He’s so lucky and so floaty feeling right now! Before he knows it he reaches out and grabs a surprised Chris’s hand:

“Peacemaker! You’resogoodtome…” It comes out woozy, Chris freezes and looks over at John in alarm.

“Uhh…? Is he ok?”

“Shit, shit, I might’ve overdone the pump,” John worries, rushing to adjust the IVs.

Adrian’s still holding Chris’s hand. It feels kinda clammy. Chris gives a little squeeze back and prays Adrian will let go because something strange is happening in his chest and he doesn’t know what the fuck that’s about.

Emilia’s looking over at them with an imperceptible expression. God damn women, how do they get to be mind readers whereas his stupid brain can’t figure out what the fuck they are ever thinking?

“All good, John?” Leota asks.

“Uh, yeah, it’s fine. I just maybe took a little more from Vigilante than I meant to. Normally transfusions take longer than this, I don’t quite understand how this was so fast…”

“Wait, does that mean you’ve superdosed me?” Emilia’s eyebrows shoot up.

“No no no, just, mildly, slightly more than I, uh, meant. You’ll be fine. It’s fine. Adrian, you might feel a little lightheaded.”

Adrian’s eyes are half lidded, “I feel kinda sleepy.”

“I get faint when I donate blood. I’ll go find you a cookie.” Leota decisively rushes off.

Adrian’s still holding Chris’s fucking hand! How does Chris stop this!? 

“Hey, 50 Year Old Virgin,” Chris snaps at John, concern making him edgy, “Vig is fine though - right?”

John scowls. “Fuck you.” He checks Adrian’s heart rate, “Your body should regenerate the lost blood in… max, 48 hours, but given it’s you, maybe less?”

“Coollll.” Adrian drawls. 

John turns to help out Emilia, struggling to sit up. 

“Ugh, well so far? Not a magic fix.”

“It takes me like… a good nap… and a few hours…to heal up.” Adrian’s eyes have fluttered closed. Chris takes the chance to rip his hand free and then roughly poke his shoulder.

His eyes flash open - “OW! My gunshot!”

“Oh shit! Sorry, sorry! Genuinely forgot about that.” Chris winces. “I was checking you hadn’t passed out.”

“I kinda want to.”

John waves a hand. “He can pass out, it’s fine.” 

“It fucking better be.” Chris points a finger in warning.

* * * 

It’s later in the day. John’s Zooming from a closet to his job, pretending he’s totally not skiving in Washington when he should be back at work at Belle Reve. They can hear him coughing unconvincingly. 

Adrian shuffles back down to the main HQ office and lingers by the door. He’s got his zipper back on over his t-shirt and looks ready to go do the weekly grocery shop or give a lecture on math. It’s so fucking weird to think he murdered a guy yesterday when he looks that fucking vanilla boring in real life, Chris thinks.

“Hey man.” he acknowledges. “We’re trying to track the other helmets, there’s one that’s in Minnesota, if you can fucking believe it.”

“Woah, totally! Bad shit goes down there - that’s where Fargo’s set.” He sits on a chair next to Chris. “I’ll help. Since I don’t have a shift today anymore.”

He casually picks up an iPad and toggles around with the tracking map. Chris has no fucking clue if Adrian knows what he’s doing, but hey, he’s a nerdy little freak so chances are he probably can work his way around technology. Chris takes the opportunity to inspect him while he isn’t aware. He looks a little pale - well, paler than normal. But then he kinda always looks like he never sees much sun. Again, Chris feels a stir of something. Is he fucking worried? Jesus. Well that’s mortifying.

“You, uh, feeling ok after the transfusion?” Chris asks nonchalantly. 

“Yeah,” Adrian scratches at the skin around the new plaster on his arm, “Just kinda tired. But I feel super bonded with Harcourt now. Where is she?”

“Taking your nap advice.”

Adrian seems to consider something profound for a moment.

“I wonder if we can communicate telepathically now…”

“No, you obviously can’t. That ain’t a thing.” Leota says flatly from across the desk.

“Well, we can test it out…”

“Totally pointless.”

“Not to criticise, but you’re a little incurious, Adebayo.”

John returns from his closet, looking like he’s just come from the principle’s office. “So, uh, I think they’re on to the fact I’m not really sick…”

“No shit.” Leota laughs.

Adrian looks up from the iPad. “You should’ve splashed water on your face so you’d look feverish, man.” 

“Don’t break that thing.” John warns. “God, we’re never going to track these things. I half wonder if those bumbling racists have actually figured out how to turn the trackers off.”

Adrian makes a face, “Highly doubtful. Hey, can we all go to Fargo to find that one that’s showing up? I really wanna take a selfie next to the statue of Paul Bunyan with the axe.”

Chris shakes his head. “Dude, that’s in the movie, it isn’t real.”

“Uh, Paul Bunyan is a mythic hero, there are literally statues of him everywhere, and I bet you a hundred bucks there’s one in Fargo. Even like, just to cash in with tourists.”

“We ain’t going on no road trip to Fargo.” Leota sighs. ”Unless that helmet’s one of the really dangerous ones.”

Adrian deflates. 

“Well we just might have to since we’re the only goddamn people who know about them being missing - and whose shitty hands they’re in.” Emilia, at the door, looking rested and… happy? 

It’s such a rare occurrence Chris realises he’s fundamentally unfamiliar with what a happy Harcourt looks like.

“Heyy Harcourt!” Adrian singsongs, “How are you feeling?”

Emilia, to everyone’s surprise, does a swift kick at the air with her previously injured leg, and then laughs, in genuine awe.

“Honestly? I feel fucking great? It’s so weird. My hip’s gone from a 20 to a 3 on the pain scale, I don’t have the constant pins and needles, and I can actually fucking walk without shuffling with the walking aid. It’s surreal.”

“Holy shit.” John’s looking like he’s seen the face of God. “This is like- I’ve actually made like a fucking scientific discovery!”

“Yeah not really, Dr Frankenstein.” Chris glares, “You can’t mouth off about this or Amanda fucking Waller will probably kidnap Vig and enslave him as her team’s personal blood cow so she can supercharge healing and get her soldiers back out on the field again!”

Everyone looks grossed out at the thought.

“No offence, Ads.” He then says, because shitty moms are still your mom just as much as shitty dads are still… he sighs. 

Leota looks back wearily, because she knows he’s probably right. Her mom will use any advantage she can, pragmatic to the end, no matter how many people have to suffer for that goddamn Greater Good.

“Uh, I very much don’t want to be enslaved as a blood cow, just FYI.” Adrian says quietly.

“Man I’d never let that shit happen.” Chris sounds firm and Adrian breaks into a reassured smile, eyes sparkling at how much Chris is totally protecting him today! It feels so fucking cool!

“I hope you realise I could get an article published in The Lancet with this shit.” John huffs, “But fine, ok, I guess I just about care enough not to risk Vigilante becoming a lab rat.”

Adrian beams at his 3rd BFF just casually downplaying how much he cares about him. Is this the best day he’s had in, like, possibly forever? Very possibly.

“Sucks you’ll just have to die in obscurity after all, Economos. Your only claim to fame now is that you could pass as a shaven Chewbacca.” Chris snarks.

Leota tsks, “Smith, cut it out.”

“HEY,” Emilia goes full Teacher On The Edge Of Snapping mode, “All of you cut it out. We need to plan how we’re going to pre-empt any further racist helmet attacks and figure out if there is a grand plan Peacemaker’s dad set in place, or if that’s of bullshit.” She puts her hands on her hips, “Now that I can actually get back out in the field, we should all scope out where ever these fuckers meet up.”

“They don’t talk online, since they think the government tracks their IP addresses as possible domestic terrorists.” John adds.

“Well, they ain’t wrong.” Leota smirks. 

John nods. “So I imagine any plans are decided in person and not put in writing…” 

“Oh yeah, my dad never let anything get put in writing. He was a spit and a handshake kinda guy. Old school cowboy shit.”

“Just with white hoods instead of hats and spurs.” Leota quips.

Suddenly, it occurs to Chris: “Hey, Ads? Where’s Ratcatcher 2?”

“Oh! Keeya’s taken her and Sebastian to the funfair. Did you know she’s never been on a rollercoaster? That girl’s missed out on some major rites of passage.”

“Aw man, I didn’t know there was a fair?” Adrian pouts. “I’m awesome at the shooting games.”

“Bet you two hundred bucks I’m better.” Chris grins and Adrian looks peeved because as if he has two hundred bucks on him now he’s unemployed…

Chris bounces on his toes like a dumb excited kid and whines, “Jesus, come onnnn guys, do we really need to work more today? Don’t we owe ourselves a fucking break?”

“Smith… are you seriously asking to write the day off just so you can go eat candy apples and win a bunch of stuffed animals?”

“Hell no, the candy glaze completely cancels out the apple’s nutrition, I don’t touch that shit.” Chris, affronted. “I wouldn’t say no to a hot dog, though. And don’t diss the stuffed animals, Harcourt - Eagly would love it if I won some new toys for him.”

John’s stomach rumbles - they all turn to it, like it’s another entity in the room that’s also voting YES to funfair time.

“Sorry, I- I’ve been trying to lower my calorie intake and it’s fucking hard, I’m genuinely starving here.”

“Dude, you need to eat stuff that slowly releases energy throughout the day like oatmeal with nuts.”

“I’m not getting into oatmeal, it takes too long to make and makes me feel like a Victorian orphan.”

“It literally takes like five minutes to rustle up.” Leota, putting her hands on her hips.

“Yeah, that’s four minutes too long.”

“Have a protein shake, that’s why I do when I need a speedy breakfast.” Chris suggests.

“Ugh, I don’t want to drink my breakfast, it gives me PTSD flashbacks from when I had to get my jaw wired shut.”

“What the hell?’ Emilia’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Cause your mom and dad finally got sick of listening to your droning voice?” Chris, smirking.

“No, because I face planted on the sidewalk and broke my fucking jaw when I was sixteen. It’s also the only time I actually lost weight, but a liquid diet was the most depressing experience of my life.”

“Gotta be a lot of contenders for that.” Chris, still smirking. Leota elbows him.

“That must’ve sucked balls, man.” Adrian looks sympathetic.

“Yeah, cause with his jaw wired shut he couldn’t suck any ba-“

Leota elbows Chris again and he wheeze-coughs because she gets him right in the lung.

Emilia groans. “Ok, you know what? To hell with it. We’re not getting anywhere with helmet tracking today, Waller’s still underground and the government’s busy wiping all evidence of Project Butterfly off the face of the earth. I don’t know what else we can do right now and… I can fucking walk again without blinding pain! I can’t believe I’m saying this but…. Let’s go to the fucking funfair.” Emilia lets out a little laugh at how ridiculous that sounds. “I haven’t been to one since I was nine, though, so I’m either going to have a complete nostalgia attack or the most depressing time of my life.”

* * * 

Well, there’s a reason Emilia Harcourt never expects anything good to happen, because the fair is… seedy as fuck. She picks at her lukewarm hot dog in its stale bun and thinks of that last fair she’d been to, with her dad and her sister. Abigail had been excited enough by the lights and rides (this was pre her ‘WE’RE MURDERING THE PLANET USING ALL THIS ENERGY’ phase) that she’d forgotten she was supposed to hate her older sister. So for once, Emilia and Abigail had… had fun. Abigail had actually been impressed Emilia’s upper arm strength was enough, even at nine, to hit the high striker. Emilia had gifted the stuffed unicorn to her, and then they’d run to get candy floss with the dollars their dad had given them, and they’d giggled when their sticky hands got stuck to the paper napkins and they had to try and help each other peel them off. 

Emilia’s feeling wistful as she sits at the hot dog van’s plastic seating area and watches Adrian and Cleo excitedly running about the different attractions like hyper puppies. Chris can’t help but smile himself. They’re both big kids, it’s no wonder they get along - although he’s not sure Cleo’s realised that Adrian’s a murderous psychopath yet…

“God, I feel fucking old.” Emilia sighs, draining the last of her Coke through the paper straw. “When I was a little girl I thought funfairs were magical - now all I see are underpaid zombie staff and a lot of creepy men who clearly aren’t here with kids of their own. And god I hate paper straws…”

“Abso-fucking-lutely the worst change to American fast food since everyone decided ‘climate change’ was a thing and that we all have to make changes to ‘sustain the planet’. Fuck that, I don’t see how slurping soda through damp mushy paper is saving any polar bears.”

“It’s reducing plastic waste, you moron.” John snarks, starting on his second hot dog.

“Pfft, I bought cookies the other week in a plastic pack, and inside, every cookie was individually plastic wrapped, and inside that wrapping they were plastic wrapped again. Takes like half an hour to even get to the fuckers!”

“Yeah and that’s bad… That’s why we’ve got to change.” John explains like Chris is a taxing five year old.

“So fine! Change the cookie wrapping - but don’t come and fuck with straws.”

“Well sorry global warming is inconveniencing you. How hard.”

“Global warming isn’t even a thing! I’ve read all about it online, it’s a total scam to get us all to give up our cars and control our every move, dude. We’re heading into some real Hunger Games shit. I’m telling you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hey, Reddit knows what’s up.”

John snorts. “Do you also think they faked the moon landing and Princess Diana was murdered by the Queen?”

“Wow, you’re calling me a conspiracy theorist?” Chris’s eyes widen in mock-offence, “So, let me get this right, all the nerds who get called tinfoil hats because they believe aliens are out there, are they crazy? Mr ‘Just Fought A Bunch of Literal Alien Bugs’?”

“Enough, this is supposed to be a day off.” Emilia groans.

“Tell Bigfoot here he’ll be sorry when the government comes to stick a microchip up his dick while I’m safe in my fucking bunker.”

“Fuck off, you total asshole, and I’d rather die of radiation than ever share a place with you. Since when do you have a bunker?” John frowns.

“I- well I don’t yet, but it’s an investment I’m planning to make when I get the money together. Shit’s expensive. Especially if you want wi-fi and nuclear proof insulation.”

Emilia rolls her eyes so hard.

* * *

Meanwhile Adrian and Cleo and Sebastian are at the balloon stand watching a guy who looks like a washed up Pennywise turning one into a… horse? A dog? Who knows.

Sebastian squeaks excitedly and Cleo cups him in her hand so he can reach and touch a balloon with confetti inside it.

“Sebastian loves balloons! My father once stole one and made a little basket out of an egg box. He tied it to the string so it looked like one of those balloons people can fly in!”

“A hot air balloon?” Adrian wonders.

“Yes! Sebastian sat in it all day pretending he was in a hot air balloon.” She’s all warm and happy at the memory. 

Adrian’s dad had never made him anything, let alone anything for a pet rat friend.

Although Adrian had never been allowed pets. Just fish, and like, they really don’t count.

Adrian wonders if Cleo thinks about her dead dad a lot, or maybe she doesn’t, like he doesn’t, and maybe that’s why she’s able to be happy, while Peacemaker wallows in grief and pain even though Cleo’s dad sounds way, way better a person than Auggie Smith.

“Do you miss your dad?” He finds himself asking. 

Cleo looks suddenly different. Her eyes have gone shiny. 

“Of course I do. I loved him more than anything.” Her voice is quiet. “I only hope is he is at peace now, where he can’t suffer the pain of withdrawal.”

“Drugs are evil, for sure.”

She doesn’t say anything to that. Sebastian is trying to ask for a balloon rat from Pennywise, but it’s difficult when you don’t have words and humans are disgusted by your very existence. 

“Can he get a balloon that looks like him?” Adrian, attempting to help a rat out.

“I do sausage dogs, giraffes and snakes. That’s it.” Pennywise gruffly answers.

* * *

Leota and Keeya are on the ferris wheel. Keeya leans her head against Leota’s shoulder and looks at the sunset.

“This place isn’t all bad, I guess.”

“You being unfaithful to Gotham?”

“You seem happier here. Weirdly. So, I guess.”

Leota frowns and strokes Keeya’s arm. “I want you to be happy here too… Kee. It’s not all about me.”

“Oh is it not?” Keeya snarks. 

Leota looks stung. “Sorry, I’m really so sorry this has all been so fucking high drama with me and my Mom and all the butterfly shittery.”

“Lee, your boss fucking died and turned out to be an alien, you nearly died, you headbutted into a giant alien cow grub thing, you… are allowed to centre yourself after what you’ve been through.”

Leota turns to her seriously and Keeya raises her head.

“But not if I get all mopey and shit over it, not if it takes over everything else. Like… that you might be lonely. Or unhappy here.”

“I just said it isn’t all bad…”

“But… I know this isn’t where you imagined we’d be.”

Keeya smiles. “Maaaybe not, but, honestly? The biggest thing I’ve realised having that girl, Cleo, around, is… how fucking broody I feel.”

“Oh! Oh shit.”

“Like, can we kidnap her and adopt her? I don’t want her out on the streets again.”

“You realise she’s like, 20something.” Leota laughs.

“That girl needs some serious mom’ing.”

Leota cups Keeya’s chin. “I fucking love you, you know.”

Stars are just starting to break out across the evening sky.

Keeya nuzzles into her wife’s touch.

“And I fucking love you too.”

Down below on the ground level of the funfair, there’s suddenly a loud bang. A fucking explosion, ripping through the middle of it and sending carousel horses flying in fiery liberty.

“The fuck!?” Leota yells, eyes wildly looking down, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening down there while she and Keeya are halfway to the stars.

And there, by the charred grass of the explosion… is a man in a shiny toilet helmet, fucking LEVITATING above the screaming, scared people.

“Oh FUCK.” Leota groans. “He found the floating one!”

TBC....

Chapter Text

“Wait, there is another toilet helmet!?” Cleo exclaims in horror at the levitating man currently hovering both menacingly and ridiculously over the funfair. 

“Peacemaker’s dad was unfortunately very productive.” Adrian’s pulling out the dagger he keeps strapped to his shin and the pocket pistol that used to belong to his mom. Just a couple of months ago he’d taken out a guy selling smack under a bridge with it. Total random happenstance! Hadn’t even been trying to go vigilante that day, but when a sweet opportunity arises, who can knock it back? He’d unpacked his grocery shopping, stabbed two eye-holes in the plastic bag and pulled it over his head as a makeshift (admittedly pretty dumb looking) mask. Then he’d shot the unsuspecting guy from behind - a mitigation since his identity was semi-compromised. It felt nice to do some good in the world with his mom’s heirloom. The bag mask had sucked against his face as he breathed, prodding at the guy to make sure he was 100% dead. Then he took the smack supply and the large rucksack of ill gotten gains, re-packed his groceries and went to anonymously drop the drugs and cash off at the police station. Such a good day…

He offers both weapons to Cleo. “Want one?”

She shakes her head, pulling out her baton - but he’s not sure how rats can help out this time when it’s not like they can fly after the guy…

Meanwhile John’s cowering with other hot dog customers. They’d been nearer the explosion and a carousel horse has taken out the hot dog seller, now impaled by the horse to the back of his food truck.

“Damnit!” Chris hisses. “Can’t these fuckers take a day off!?”

Emilia’s luckily got a gun on her too, although the floater is too high up to hit.

“You have a gun on your day off!?” John, disbelieving even though this is Harcourt we’re talking about.

“I always carry.” She states like, d’uh.

Chris nods in admiration. “Smart.”

He ISN’T carrying though, dammit, because he’d thought for once they were going to chillax and eat too much candy. Why hasn’t he learned by now? Bad luck follows you everywhere, Peacemaker. You don’t get to chillax.

Feeling useless and practically naked without his uniform or weapons or helmet, Chris goes for his next best asset: 

He whistles through his fingers and Eagly, his loyal, beautiful BFF comes flying. He’d been hanging with some local pigeons, trying out different leftover funfair food people had dropped, but when duty calls, an eagle’s gotta fly!

He swoops straight at the floater and starts pecking his face. Chris grins as the guy flails and cries out.

“Yes!” Emilia’s smiling too.

“That’s right, buddy! Go for the eyes!”

But the relief is shortlived as the guy reaches behind his back to pull out a bat.

Chris’s blood runs cold. “Eagly run!!! Shit- I mean- fly!” 

Eagly narrowly misses the bat clipping him. He swoops again, screeching, and tries to pull the helmet off with his claws, but the guy hooks his hand around one claw and pulls Eagly away, flapping, and then smacks his feathery torso with the bat - 

“NO!”

Eagly’s falling to the ground - shit shit shit! Chris scrambles across the grass to catch him as terrified fairgoers flee the scene.

Eagly lands hard in his arms and squawks in pain. 

“Ohgodohgodohgod! Eagly!? You ASSHOLE FUCK!” He screams up at the guy. 

The guy smirks and flings the bat to the ground, then takes from his pocket another grenade.

“”Enjoy the show, Peacebreaker!” He calls down like it’s some zinger, and launches the live grenade at a group of cowering people at the bouncy castle.

Adrian’s picked up the discarded bat - he jumps in front of the people, eyes live with excitement, and smacks the grenade outta the park.

Unfortunately… instead it lands on the road and detonates… just as a paint delivery van is passing.

The van explodes like a rainbow’s hurling all over them, covering the nearest people at the fair in a deluxe spectrum of colours from eggshell blue to cranberry pink.

“Ah fuck!” The helmet guy yells, because now he can’t tell the race of the people below - which really fucks with his racial targeting plan. 

Emilia pushes her newly mint green hair from her face and glares at Adrian, sheepishly still holding the bat and mostly blue - alas, not teal, which could’ve been such a sweet nod to his Vigilante uniform… which he really wishes he had on right now…

The racist uses a hand-fan to float off in the direction of fleeing, non-paint-splattered citizens.

“LISTEN to the words that come from the White Dragon! I am his mouthpiece! Any white American who don’t stand with his race against the scourge of fucking diversity is a traitor to this country! So you all best KNEEL and pledge allegiance in the name of the White Dragon before I blow you all up!” He yells down to them.

“Not the best recruitment pitch I’ve ever heard.” John, peeping out from behind a plastic garden chair.

Across the field, Keeya and Leota are getting off the ferris wheel with the other scared, bewildered customers.

“Why in god’s name are white men so fucking angry?” Leota seethes and Keeya puts a worried hand on her arm to stop her doing anything rash.

“Hey! White Dragon’s DEAD, you dumb fuck!” Chris yells after the guy. “You guys LOST!”

The guy turns back to laugh at Chris. “That right?”

Chris feels his heart hammering. “Y-yeah!” The reply wavers. “And you look like a fucking idiot up there!”

“Your daddy has a lot of things to say about you.” He taps the side of his helmet.

“He’s dead! He’s not saying shit!”

The guy smirks. "I guess not to you."


Emilia curses. “I can’t get him in range.”

Chris, knelt cradling Eagly, feels tears flooding to his eyes. He curses too. “Well I’m gonna rip his motherfucking guts out! I swear to god.”

“Hey I know!” Adrian pipes up, grabbing a hard metal napkin tin with his non-bat holding hand. “I’ll knock him out with this!”

“The helmet’s concussion proof, it’ll just bounce off!” Chris says, “Fuck! We need to get Eagly to a vet! What if he has internal bleeding!?”

“Calm down, Smith!” Emilia yells back, not without sympathy, “We will - but we can’t let that floating asshole kill everyone here.”

Cleo has knelt beside Chris and Eagly and tenderly strokes the injured bird’s head to calm him.

By now, cops have arrived and are uselessly trying to surround the floating man from below.

“What if I yell Deactivate Anti-Gravity really loud?” Emilia tries.

Chris shakes his head. “Gotta be within a five feet range.”

“Ok, how about Vigilante-“

Adrian blinks, looking absurd covered in all that paint, “Who’s that? I’m clearly someone called Adrian and not-“

“-For christ’s sake!” Emilia facepalms, “ADRIAN, can you try and bat the hand-fan out of his grip? Then at least he can’t control where he goes!”

“Ooh good idea, sis!”

Emilia stares incredulously. 

“So what, he’ll just stay up there floating… indefinitely?” John, finally coming out from behind the chairs.

Chris is too preoccupied by Eagly’s little pained chirps to answer. So Emilia shrugs for him. “It’s the best we can do right now. We don’t have any weapons with us.”

Adrian nods and heads over to where the cops are standing under the floater.

“GET BACK, SIR!” yells a young Asian cop.

“It’s cool, I can help!” 

The floater guy has clocked them and smirks at the cop, “Fucker, you shoulda stayed in your own fucking country. We don’t need your fucking Made in China crap here.” 

And he drops another grenade. 

Adrian leaps at the cop, sending them both tumbling across the grass. They tumble far enough to not die but the explosion blasts near them and sends chunks of dirt and limbs showering down.

Adrian gasps for air and shakes his head to try to stop his ears ringing. He notices the cop is propped up on his elbows, staring with full horror at something on his lap.

“OhmyGOD! Oh god! That’s Annie’s arm!” The cop panics, staring at the torn, uniformed arm resting in his lap. 

Adrian gapes for a moment.

The floater is floating like a big ol’ turd that won’t flush a little closer down to them now. He’s got a gun out from his backpack of weaponry and is hanging there, aiming it at Adrian and the cop.

“Hey white boy, you race traitor.” He seethes at Adrian, who laughs, then grabs Annie’s arm and throws it precisely at the guy’s face, where it smacks him back a few inches in the air.

“Aargh! Fuck!”

“That was Annie’s arm!!!!” The cop’s horrified.

But Adrian’s taken the moment of distraction to grab the bat again and as promised he bats the napkin tin straight into the guy’s hand-fan. 

“ARGH!”

Adrian whoops - also because he’s pretty sure that hand-fan was for sure made in China.

The cop stares. “Who the hell are you!?” 

Emilia’s by them now and helps the cop to his feet. “Look, you need to get out of here-“

“I’m not afraid of a flying racist. I’m taking him into custody if it’s the last thing I do.” He snaps. “He killed Annie!”

Emilia gives a tight look of sympathy because, that probably sucks for him but she has no idea who the fuck Annie is.

“Really sorry I had to use her arm as a weapon…” Adrian, genuinely.

“Who ARE you people?”

“We do secret government… stuff.” Emilia says to shut him up. He looks between her and Adrian in all their paint spattered, dishevelled glory. 

“Seriously?”

Above, Helmet’s recovered from being thwacked by a severed arm and is prepping another grenade.

“So you’ve been called in over the ‘Peacemaker breaches’?” The cop asks.

Emilia stares back, “What?”

“Guys!” Adrian yells over them. He can’t find anything else to bat at the guy who is about to chuck the grenade at the funhouse of mirrors.

Just as the guy swings the grenade - a coconut from out of nowhere smacks straight into his balls and he squeals in pain like a stuck pig.

“Ads!” Emilia, turning to see Leota looking suitably pleased with herself.

“What can I say, I rule the coconut shy.”

But the asshole had, still, managed to launch the grenade before Leota got him, and as it lands on the earth it rolls into the funhouse. 

There’s a beat.

“Shit! It’s gonna bl-“ Emilia realises- but she’s cut off as an almighty crash of shattering glass explodes fiery shards outwards across the field.

Leota shields Keeya, and Adrian and Emilia find themselves shielding each other.

Oh my god this is so sibling-y! Adrian thinks after the blast, grinning even though he’s not realised he’s got several shards stuck in his back and looks like some kind of bizarre bloodied, blue, mirror-hedgehog thing.

Emilia unwraps the arm she’d instinctually shoved in front of Adrian’s head to protect him, as he unwraps his own arm from which he’d instinctually shoved in front of Emilia’s head to protect her. They’re both relieved to see at least their faces aren’t cut to ribbons. Emilia manages a small grateful smile before trying to sit up and realising shit, there’s a big cracked shard of mirror sticking out of her thigh.

“Goddamnit not again.…”

Adrian winces as he cranes his head to see how many hedgehoggy mirror shards he’s impaled with. He can’t really see. Still, the shock of the blast means he’s feeling numb and tingly rather than pain, so that’s an upside.

Meanwhile, the cop has noticed the floating fucker has drooped down enough from ball-pain and some mirror shards deep in his legs, that if he uses one of the wire looped sticks from a nearby Fish for Prizes attraction, he can snag the guy’s foot and pull him down. So he does just that, with no small amount of effort. 

The guy’s got several mirror shards in his gut, too, but the cop hopes he doesn’t die - because this guy deserves a fucking life sentence. 

The few remaining non-blasted-apart police are hobbling over to help him.  Once they’ve helped grab his boots they yank his flailing body down and sit on him to keep him from levitating again until they can rip the helmet off his head.

The guy’s in the middle of cussing out slurs when the cop pepper sprays him.

Leota gives him a chef’s kiss.

“Wait, where’s Peacemaker?” Adrian whirls around. He’s managed to stand, although half-hunched because of his back. He’s looking at the debris of the half destroyed funfair and the half dozen bodies slumped on the grass. He gets that chest twinge again, but he’s not sure if it’s like, concern for Peacemaker… or regret that he didn’t do a good enough vigilante job to save all these people.

The cop turns shakily, adrenaline wearing off, “Wait- did you say ‘Peacemaker’? So you are all here about him?”

Emilia tenses. She’s still on the ground. “What do you mean, ‘here about him’?” 

“Someone’s been breaching the prison systems and letting out exclusively white in-mates the past couple of days. The IP keeps changing so it’s impossible to track them, like a freaking ghost in the system. But when they do leave a trace, their account name is ‘Peacemaker’.”

“We work with Peacemaker. He’s on side - there’s no way he’s doing that.”

“Also Peacemaker’s really not good with computers.” Adrian adds. “He can only type with one finger.”

The cop looks somewhat convinced, or maybe just dazed by everything that’s just happened. “Well then someone’s trying to frame the guy. Is that him over there with the… eagle?”

“Crap, Eagly - we have to get him to a vet-“ Emilia remembers,  Adrian helps her stand on her non-impaled leg. 

They hobble over to where Chris and Cleo are still cradling Eagly from all the commotion.

“Get in my van, I’ll take you.” The cop offers, having followed, “I have more questions.”

“We can’t promise answers, but that’d be real helpful, thanks.” Leota puts a reassuring hand on Keeya’s shoulder as they follow over to Eagly. “Hey Officer, what’s your name?”

“Officer Chen. Tim.”

“Leota Adebayo.”

Adrian tries to remember what Chris and Leota and his old neighbour dude had said about his mom… it was the same thing, all three of them, so it must be the right thing?

”Hey, uh, sorry about Annie, Officer. Was she a cop too? You must miss her.”

Chen blinks like, wtf? “She just got blown apart, I-I haven’t even processed it’s happened yet. I t-think I’m running on adrenaline right now.” and he sounds it, voice shaky and disbelieving. 

Adrian feels he didn’t get that right somehow.

“I’m so sorry.” Leota says.

“I just started this job. She’s the only person who showed me how the snack machine works…”

They reach Eagly and Chris tenderly wraps him in a discarded blanket. Then they all awkwardly sandwich into Chen's police van. 

The funfair is a disaster zone and the remaining cops are trying to clear it and let the ambulances take the injured to the hospital. All this destruction, for what? 

Chris is cursing under his breath, shaky and terrified. Adrian attempts a gentle nice shoulder touch, and although Chris doesn’t respond or maybe even feel it, he meets eyes with Leota and she smiles like… maybe he’s doing it right this time?

When they get there, the vets are like: oh, not this bunch again. 

“You never gave us back our van.” The male nurse raises a brow.

“Sorry we got a little distracted saving the damn world.” Chris snaps.

To everyone’s immense relief, Eagly is badly bruised but otherwise alright. It’s Chris who hugs him this time - very very carefully - as he lies on the table once more, sent to sleep by some light pain meds.

“Maybe consider not taking a bird out fighting.” The vet frowns. “Bald eagles are endangered, you know.”

Chris gulps and looks away.

*

Leota rests her elbows on the small table in the vets’ staff room. “How many prisoners have been released? How’s that even happen?”

“The system’s overloaded as is. If the data comes up saying their sentence has been shortened, most people are too overworked to be staying over their lunch break to check every detail. And whoever changed the files is good. They’re definitely… smart.” Chen is sitting with a lukewarm coffee in a little plastic cup, and loathes to say anything half complimentary to whoever it is. “Last I checked it was a few hundred.”

“A few hundred? A few hundred more racist white criminals released because the computer said hey, it’s cool don’t worry about it?”

Chen holds up his hands. “Blame admin.”

“It’s always admin…” John snorts.

“You think this is Peacemaker’s dad’s posthumous plan thing?” Leota to Emilia, who’s trying to wash dried green paint from her hair with a damp towel. 

“Is it bad that right now I hope it’s Auggie Smith, if that means we don’t have another supersonic Neo-Nazi to deal with?” Emilia sighs.

The nurse has taken the shard out of her thigh and she’s stitching her up, but Emilia’s pissed she’s managed to hobble herself again already. She hopes Adrian’s super blood can still work its magic. 

“Did you say a funhouse mirror did this?” The nurse, bemused.

Adrian’s propped against the wall looking white as a sheet. His voice is far away when he replies: “… A lot people died at the funfair today… “funfair”… is… that’s probably inappropriate now?”

John’s looking at him strangely.

“Are you sure Emilia’s injury is worse than yours?”

“Uh…” Adrian chuckles, not really picking up on the genuine concern, “I can’t see my own back, Economos. But it’s totes fine…” He swats a hand dismissively.

“You don’t look so hot.” Leota frowns. 

Adrian’s eyebrows raise in offence: “Hey, no need to get personal.”

Enough is enough - John goes over to him, huffing a beleaguered sigh just so everyone knows he’s the one who Has To Deal With This Shit, and forcibly turns Adrian around to check his back.

“Oh great, wonderful. Vigilante has like half a dozen pieces of funhouse stuck back here. What a cool development to an already great day!”

Adrian frowns and awkwardly reaches back with a wince to feel, then brings back a hand slick with blood. “Huh... Y'know I forgot to say my gunshot's still bleeding too... s'weird, man.”

“That’s not good…” Leota worries.

John nods. “He needs to go to a proper hospital because I don’t know how much blood he’s lost in the past, what, hour?!”

“It's fineee, I feel very chill right now,” Adrian smiles, earning back a glare.

“That’s because you’re fucking lightheaded.”

Emilia’s expression changes, “Wait. Is this because of me? Like I fucking stole his power?”

“Power?” The nurse’s bemusement increases. 

Adrian’s head is too fuzzy to really follow the team squabbling, so he lets his eyes drift shut with relief and leans against the wall. Meanwhile, John tries to shift any blame away from himself because he was Totally Honest about having Fuck All Clue about metahuman -> human transfusions, Emilia gets snappy because she always does when she’s worried and doesn’t know what’s happening, and Leota tries to calm them both down because they’re all alive and it’s fine and- shit did Vigilante pass out?

Leota’s eyes widen as she stands up, “Is he dead?”

John clicks his tongue, “He wouldn’t still be standing if that were the case.”

Nonetheless he feels for a pulse in Adrian’s neck and grabs at his arm where he’s sagged against the wall. “Vigilante? Hey.”

Adrian doesn’t respond and his knees are buckling, so John awkwardly holds him to keep him upright and wonders why, why oh why, does his life have to be like this.

“Oh shit is he dead now?” Leota, panicking.

“No! Christ. I’ll drive him to a proper hospital.” At the nurse’s quelling look, “I mean, a people hospital, I’m not shading your fine work-” And as he turns away he mouths ‘wow chill out’ to Leota and Emilia. 

He’s struggling to pull Adrian’s arm over his shoulder so Leota goes over to help at the other side. 

“Economos you’re too fucking tall for anybody’s goddamn benefit…” she notes, trying to hold Adrian’s other side and feeling the tilt of weight more against herself.

“And as fucking always, I apologise!” John grits out, but he does half mean it.

“Uh, Officer Chen, d’you mind…?” Leota turns, hopefully.

Tim nods. “Of course.” He takes out his van keys, and then moves to replace Leota as the other carrying aid. Even though he used my colleague’s arm as a weapon, he thinks queasily.

“Update me ASAP, guys.” Emilia calls after them as they hoist Adrian out towards the police van.

“So… that guy has healing abilities?” The nurse asks.

“He did…” Emilia rubs at her forehead. “Shit.”

* * *

John’s at the hospital vending machine considering his options. He could go for flaming hot Cheetos, but that reminds him of everything Judo Master and honestly that’s a mixed bag of feelings he’d rather not open. He’d rather open a bag of chips. Reliable ready salted? A saucy BBQ chicken? Or maybe something….

He notices the exact same brand of nuts that Vigilante had bought him the last time they’d been waiting in hospital hallways. Sigh, fine, he’ll stick to a psychopath’s guidance, but only because he feels bad his plan to heal Harcourt might have fucked up Vigilante’s whole system.

He jabs at the buttons with thick thumbs and sits back down with his phone and miserably crunches through the nuts. 

The group chat is currently freaking out:

PEACEMAKER:

THIS IS WHY I SAID NOT TO MESS WITH THIS SHIT!

HARCOURT:

Cool it with the capitals, Smith

PEACEMAKER:

IM MAD

HARCOURT:
No shit. I wish I’d never agreed to any transfusion. OK?

John sighs and taps at his phone with a salt coated thumb.

ECONOMOS:

Latest doc update = stable. Normal non-metahuman-transfusions take the normal couple of hours. So if anyone has gossip shoot because I am bored out of my mind. Wifi here sucks ass.

PEACEMAKER:
IM STILL MAD.

HARCOURT:

WE GET IT

PEACEMAKER:

WHERES LEOTA

ECONOMOS:

Calling her wife. 

PEACEMAKER:

FINE

COOL

John leans his head back against the wall and exhales. He feels a tension migraine formulating. The group chat buzzes.

PEACEMAKER:

I’ve been told on excellent authority Superman’s got an undescended testicle.

Theres ur gossip.

HARCOURT:

What authority would that be?

PEACEMAKER:

I dont snitch my sources. Bc I have fucking honor.

John rolls his eyes. As does everyone else reading. 

*

Leota’s eating a stale canteen cinnamon roll and scrolling Instagram. This mostly involves turning her phone around every twenty seconds to show John yet another costumed dog account she follows. 

John rests his head back against the wall again. “You know, I find the term “doggo” an offence to the English language.”

“If you had a doggo, Economos, you for sure would understand why they’re a doggo.” Leota grins.

“Yeah, yeah, and Ratcatcher 2 is such a cinnamon roll, o-m-g.” John snarks, “What is with the infantilisation of language nowadays?”

“It’s called having fun. You should try it sometime.”

“Maybe I will when I don’t have spend my evenings escorting psychopaths to the ER.”

The doors to the ward’s hallway bang open and before either of them turn to look they somehow know, recognise, feel in their bones, that particular OTT, entitled as hell, ridiculous kind of entrance can only belong to one overly muscled idiot.

“Evening, Peacemaker.” Leota drawls.

“Where is he?”

“Transfusion.” John nods to a room down the hall.

“Oh great. That’s fantastic. More transfusions. So what, he won’t be a metahuman at all by now?” Chris is not using his indoor voice but Leota knows it’s because he’s worried.

“Chris, we don’t know-“

“This is all on you, Economos!”

“Uh, excuse me?” John sits up, “I didn’t blow up a funfair and murder innocent people today. I didn’t bomb a a funhouse of mirrors and embed them personally in Vigilante’s back. That’s on one of your father’s goons.”

“You started all this transfusing blood shit. If you hadn’t done that, Vig would probably be fine right now!”

“You have no idea what you’re yelling about. Blood cells regenerate all the time so it’s not like either Vigilante or Harcourt are only going to have the blood they’ve had transfused forever now, it’ll be-“

“Just tell me straight up, you fucking ginger skyscraper,” Chris snaps, “Is he gonna be able to heal again?”

John glowers darkly. “You know what? Fuck this. I’m done for tonight. Why don’t you Google it, you prick.”

And with that he stands up and slams through the exit doors. They swing back on rusty hinges.

Leota’s eyeing Chris frustratedly. “John’s the reason Vigilante’s getting proper medical treatment right now. Why are you being such a fucking asshole?”

Chris immediately crumples - literally, he sags into the steel chair opposite Leota. “I don’t know. I don’t know! Fuck.” Shame colours his cheeks.

“You gotta learn how to deal with feeling stuff in a way that ain’t always you lashing out at whoever happens to be around.” her voice is firm but calm.

“I know.” He rubs his eyes. “Sorry. Seriously, I am.”

“I get it’s ‘cause you’re worried-“

“I’m not worried.” He snaps, then blanches, “I mean I am. Shit, I don’t know why I can’t just own up to shit…”

“Because your father instilled in you a sense of shame for ever caring about anyone.”

Chris looks at the floor for a long moment.

“Yeah.” His voice is very quiet.

“You need to apologise to John. Hell, you need to buy him a muffin basket and an apology card. And quit calling him horrible names, man. Just because you now refrain from Dye-Beard don’t mean a free for all on every other insult under the sun.”

Chris nods, suitably chastised. “A wholegrain muffin basket, though.”

The door down the hall has opened and a doctor’s approaching them, her face - thankfully - smiling positively.

“Are you two with the guy wearing spectacles who won’t answer any questions?”

They both nod.

“You can come and see him now. Were you all at that funfair incident? Jeez Louise that looked terrifying. I saw on the News.”

“Leota got the guy in the nuts with a coconut.” Chris grins, following the doctor down the hall. Leota suppresses a smile because, professionalism! She’s gotta at least pretend she has it!

“Wow.” the doctor turns to look at Leota with a mix of awe and bemusement. “Too bad you didn’t have a gun with you. You could’ve straight up killed the bastard with aim that good.’

It’s Leota and Chris’s turn for bemusement. So much for Do No Harm… 

She opens the door for them and assures she’ll be back in a moment.

Adrian’s in a bed hooked up to a blood bag hanging from behind his bed. His arms are crossed and he looks mighty peeved in his hospital gown.

“Hey man. You good?” Chris can’t help but be flooded with relief and an odd squirmy sensation deep in his chest. He swallows that down because feelings shit has already caused enough problems today.

“Uh, no I am not good.” comes the tight response, “They took my uniform and my mask, and they found my identity when they were checking what blood type I am.” He throws up his hands in frustration, “I’m gonna have to make a list of everyone I need to deal with once I get out of here. So annoying.”

Well, ok and a little bit exciting. Adrian loves lists. Especially hit lists.

Chris physically takes a step back, “What? No, Adrian, you are not killing people who just saved your ass.”

“It’s not like I was gonna die. You guys didn’t need to bring me here.” Adrian snorts.

“Yeah you were gonna die if you’d wandered around any longer leaking blood like a fucking moron. Why the hell didn’t you tell us you were hurt that bad?”

“I didn’t know! I can’t exactly turn my head 360 degrees like in The Exorcist.”

“There’s a surprise.” Chris snits.

Adrian huffs and his folded arms tighten. “I didn’t feel anything. And I was trying to be a good BFF to Eagly and a good brother to Harcourt. Y’know, ladies first and stuff.”

“Vig, for the last time, you’re not her brother and she’ll smack you in the face if you ever ‘ladies first’ her.” Chris’s voice goes stern: “Promise me you’re not going to kill any of the doctors or nurses who just helped you.” 

Adrian’s looking over at a water colour painting of horses on the wall.

Chris clenches his teeth, “Adrian.”

Leota fixes him with a disapproving stare. “Listen to Peacemaker. You know it’d be wrong and you don’t do what’s wrong, right? You fight bad people. Not innocent bystanders.”

Another pause. Adrian would much rather be left in peace to wonder where those horses are running to, but apparently nope, he’s gotta have his arm twisted into not protecting his secret identity instead. Yet again.

“Ok ok! Geez.” 

“It’s not necessary.” Leota adds.

Chris nods, “Exactly. Nobody even gives a fuck about who you are.”

Adrian looks pinched at that, then goes back to peeved and stares hard at the  threadbare bed blanket across his lap.

He isn’t meeting Chris’s gaze, so Chris sits on the end of the bed; it dips and creaks.

He decides to go for humour, for lack of what else to say. He quirks a mischievous smile. “You know… it’s like I’m Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense right now, and you’re some ghost who died of tuberculosis in the 1800s. You’re so fucking white, dude.”

“Why the 1800s?” Adrian frowns, finally looking up.

“‘You got the curly hair. Like a fop. ”

Adrian’s frown deepens but he’s just too tired to protest much. A smile tugs at one side of his mouth, “Well, you’re not Bruce Willis, dude. Clearly you’re the kid because you see dead people.”

Chris flinches in shock. Adrian’s half smile drops. Leota looks between them like, wait what?

“Oh shoot, sorry, I didn’t mean… sorry. That was a bad joke.” Adrian’s face crumples anxiously.

“Wh- what are you talking about?” Chris’s eyes flick anxiously between Adrian and Leota, his tone tinged with fear.

Adrian’s eyes dart away. “Um. Nothing.”

“Why did you say that? I don’t see dead people! That’s so- that’s-”

Adrian squirms. “Dude… I’ve kinda heard you, like, several times? Talking to people who aren’t there? Because they’re dead? I didn’t say anything since I thought maybe it was a private thing, but then I forgot when I was making the joke and-”

“Wait, what is going on? What dead people, Chris?“ Leota pins him with her gaze,

“Nobody! No one! Adrian doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about! I maybe sometimes talk out loud to myself, because hey I guess it’s a habit I still have from prison, cause a lot of the time I was in my cell alone and sure, granted, that’s pretty weird but,” Chris half laughs unconvincingly. “Come on, I’m not literally talking to dead people. That’s crazy!”

“Then why do I keep hearing you saying “Dad” like you’re talking to your dad? Who’s dead if you remember, dude.”

Chris’s eyes widen like he’s trying to physically beam into Adrian’s stupid fucking brain to shutthefuckupaboutthis! Adrian just blinks back.

“Chris?” Leota sounds worried.

How did Adrian hear him? When!? He feels panic rising in his chest. He tries to brush it off and cracks a big psshhht whatever smile.

“He’s imagining things, Ads. Don’t even listen to him. I mean, seriously? If anyone’s seeing stuff that isn’t there it’s going to be the actual crazy person in this room.”

Adrian scowls, “Oh sure, deflect onto me! That’s real mature.” 

“Guys-“ Leota tries.

“I’m not crazy.”

“Pfft!” Chris splutters and nods sarcastically, “Right, sure, you tell yourself that.”

“Chris, that ain’t helpful.” Leota elbows him.

“He’s the one accusing me of having conversations with dead people! Which I don’t!”

“Chris! Go outside to the hallway.” Leota orders.

“What?”

“Don’t you make me ask twice.”

Chris pauses a second. Leota’s face is stern and serious and he feels uncomfortably like a kid getting in trouble from a favourite teacher. So he nods stiltedly and shuffles out of the room. 

She turns back to Adrian. “For real? Chris is imagining his father and talking to him?”

Adrian looks down unhappily at his hands. “Yes.” He frowns: “And I am not crazy. Just because I’m different from some people doesn’t mean-”

Leota reaches out and touches his shoulder, “I know. I believe you. Chris is just being a dick.” She sighs. “I promise he was genuinely worried about you like, five minutes ago. I think he’s just embarrassed that you’d heard him and embarrassed that now I know what’s been happening, too.”

He eyes her questioningly. “Does this mean Chris is crazy? Or wait, are ghosts real?!”

“No, ghosts ain’t real and he ain’t crazy, either. Honestly, I think it’s grief? I’m no expert, but his dad only just died. He’s got a bunch of unresolved feelings and shit about him, you know? It’s complicated.”

“And now I’ve made it worse?”

“No, no no, I’m glad you said. Maybe I can help him, or something. Or get his ass to therapy.”

Adrian looks back at the running horses again. Maybe they’re running away from horsey feelings they don’t know how to deal with? Maybe everyone is? He’s relieved Adebayo is going to take on the Chris Is Talking To His Dead Dad problem, because ever since Adrian overheard him during one of their awesome sleepovers, he’s felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat whenever he thinks about it. At first he’d thought maybe he was getting flu or something, but now it’s obvious it’s a lump connected to Chris seeing dead people. It’s a feeling, just like a real boy, as Economos had put it. He just… doesn’t know which one it is.

He always says the wrong thing. Chris was being nice and happy he wasn’t dead and then he had to go and ruin it. Adebayo will help him and he’ll be grateful to her and maybe she’ll even become his 2nd BFF because she can talk about feelings shit and Adrian can’t. It’s what Chris needs right now… and he can’t do it.

“Hey. You ok?” Leota’s soft voice. Now she’s even understanding his feelings shit too.

But he really doesn’t, so he smiles stiffly and says: “I- yeah. Totally.” 

“I’m gonna go yell at him for being an ass to you, but don’t take it to heart, ok? He’s going through a lot and he can only deal with it by being a big bratty baby.” She holds up her hand for a fist bump, he bumps semi-reluctantly, “But hey, I am glad you’re ok. And I’m gonna go find Economos and tell him to drive you home when you’re done here. You rest up, got it?”

“Ok, but, he doesn’t know where I-“

“-He does.”

* 

Adrian’s being unnervingly quiet in the passenger seat as John drives him home. He looks intense like he’s thinking things and John does not, repeat, does NOT, want to know what those things are. He wants to dump him at his house, drive home, have a nice bubble bath and do some Sudoko. In peace and tranquility. No floating racists blowing stuff up, no dead people, no medical emergencies….

“Hey, Economos?”

Goddamnit.

“What.”

“What’s the Right Thing to say to someone who’s grieving?”

John adjusts his glasses and turns on the windscreen wipers as a light rain begins to splatter down on the lonely night road. He so did not want to become Vigilante’s official guidance counselor, but here they fucking are.

“Uh… I don’t know, “I’m sorry for your loss”… “If you need to talk I’m here for you”… maybe ask them if they have fond memories they’d like to share…”

Adrian squints over at John. Ok even he knows that’s not a good idea.

“But honestly maybe just… don’t say anything. It’s kind of a minefield and you’re-“ he stops himself from saying something like Adrian’s basically already blindfolded by gormless insensitivity. “Wait, is this about Peacemaker?” As if he needs to ask.

“Yeah... I don’t know how to help him with his grief over his terrible racist dead dad, and the fact his dad was a terrible racist makes it difficult to like... get why Peacemaker even loved him. But he did, so…” Adrian takes off his glasses and rubs away a smudge on the lens with the bottom of his t-shirt. “He just needs to get over it.”

“These things take time.”

“How much time?” He adjusts his glasses back on his face.

John exhales. This is one long fucking drive. “I don’t know. There’s no strict rules about this kind of thing. It depends on the person. The circumstances. All that.”

Adrian looks at the road ahead and wishes there were strict rules about this kind of thing. Then at least he could memorise them.

“Look, you can’t fix his shit for him. He’s going to have to get through it his way. Honestly? Just give him space. If that’s a thing you’re capable of doing.”

“You mean don’t check up on him every hour?”

“That’d be a start.”

A few minutes of silence follow. Just the rain and the hum of the engine and John occasionally trying not to silent burp. Shouldn’t have had that second soda.

Finally, they pull up outside Adrian’s childhood home. The lawn is well-kept and there’s bird feed hanging from the porch. It’s a nice place, John finds himself surprised.

As if, for once, understanding, Adrian shrugs. “I grew up here.”

“Ah.”

“You wanna come in?”

John practically chokes. “What?!”

“Well, since you’re my 4th BFF and we had a really nice time today fighting evil - and then you saved me by getting me to the people hospital... I forgot my superhealing isn't at its peak right now! I would probably have bled out!" he laughs, "You could come in and watch a movie. “I was gonna go with Unforgiven but I think Netflix added After Hours yesterday...”

“Hold on, I thought I was your 3rd BFF?”

“Oh! Yeah… sorry dude, it’s just, then Harcourt became my sister so, y’know.”

“So I got bumped down? Gee, thanks.”

Adrian’s casually undoing his seatbelt. “Really sorry… But I’ve never had a 3rd or a 4th BFF before, so you’re like the very first!”

“The very 4th, you mean.” John’s like, I must be going fucking crazy because why the fuck am I about to say: “God, ok, sure, a movie would be kinda cool I guess…”

He shuffles after Adrian to the front door feeling like a lost fucking penguin in a blizzard, just totally questioning his life choices.

Adrian lets him in, then makes him take his sneakers off (why isn’t he surprised Adrian’s a clean freak?), then points to the front room and the couch and goes to get beers and fucking vegetable chips.

He dumps the packets on John’s lap. “You’re fucking killing me. Chips made out of kale? Seriously?”

“They’re moreish, dude, you have to try them.”

John reluctantly bursts open the packet and grabs a handful of the disgustingly green chips. “You do know fat shaming is problematic nowadays.”

Adrian looks genuinely worried, “Woah, not shaming, man. I mean you’d for sure go down a treat as a bear type in gay bars-“

“WHAT?”

“I just worry that you get acid reflux a lot.”

“Rewind to the part where you’re calling me a fucking- what? What the hell do you know about gay bars?”

Adrian shrugs and flings some kale chips into his mouth. “They ‘ave a healthier ‘ange of beers.”

“Whatever.” John goes for another handful of the annoyingly moreish chips.

“Hey, didn’t I say?” Adrian beams.

“Whatever. How’s your back doing now?” 

He beams more, “Economos you’re so caring, I love that. It’s, uh, you tell me?” He turns and before John can protest, pulls up his t-shirt.

“You’ve got to stop taking your clothes off in front of me, dude…” John sighs, knowing it’s futile.

Adrian’s various mirror-inflicted wounds are sewn and bandaged far more neatly than John would’ve done. No blood. No sign of infection. 

“You’re good.” He notes with relief.

Adrian drops his t-shirt back down and clinks beers with his 4th BFF. “See, I totally rule at recovering from grave injuries even when half my blood is, like, some random other non-superhuman person’s.” 

John rolls his eyes. Adrian suddenly sits up a little. “Wait. Do I seem different? Maybe I’m only half myself now, and half this other person…”

“That’s not a thing.”

“I don’t even know if they’re a brother or a sister…”

“That is also still not a thing.”

“Well, we can’t know for sure.”

“We absolutely can.”

They settle into watching Unforgiven, although John notices there are framed photos of Adrian and his family dotted about the bookshelves that surround the TV, and it feels weird as fuck seeing tiny child future serial killer Adrian Chase….

But… he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he had a shockingly amenable time watching a double bill, eating dried vegetables and eventually, drunkenly reminiscing about D&D because hey, they both played as kids and John doesn’t usually get to talk about it without being told to shut up, nerd.

Adrian falls asleep on the squashy old couch and John grabs a clearly hand knitted patchwork quilt from an armchair. It has a lot of slightly wonky birds on it. He throws it over the other man and dithers with whether to Uber home, since he’s over the limit by now, or just… stay? It feels weird to stay. He wasn’t invited to a fucking sleepover, but he also kind of knows for sure that Adrian won’t mind if he does.

So, he does. Uncomfortable on the too-small armchair because no way in hell is he going to go into any other room - or sleep on the floor.

* * *

“Anyone else you wanna be a total shitbag to today, or you good now?” Leota tuts at Chris, hanging his head sheepishly in the hospital hall.

“Ok, I know, I’ll go apologise to V-“

“No, leave it. I’m texting John, get him to take Adrian home. You two need a freakin’ time out.”

Chris concedes and follows Leota as she texts.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. Save it for tomorrow.” She pockets her phone. “When can you pick up Eagly?”

“Anytime from nine. Man, Adebayo, I’m going to buy him the biggest juiciest steak in the whole damn world.”

“And a muffin basket.”

“Wholegrain.”

“And something nice for Adrian too.”

Chris hums, “Bubblewrap so he stops getting injured every damn day?”

Leota smirks. “C’mon. We’ll go to the 24hr store. Then I’m going home to my wife and you, Mr,can go straight the fuck to bed and not fuck up anything else before dawn.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, stomach dropping. “Because tomorrow we have to track a ghost in the system…”

“Yup.” She eyes him gently, “And... I am gonna need some deets on the other ghost thing…”

Chris gulps, his voice goes quiet, “Yeah. I know.”


TBC...

Chapter Text

Going to the 24hr store with Peacemaker is A LOT. Like, enough to make Leota, when she finally gets home to her wife at eleven thirty and dumps her bag and her shopping tote, she breathes through her nose and says:

“Keeya, I’m gonna have to request a damn moratorium on further broodiness talks ‘cause…. I am not made for that shit yet.” She sits down like a sack of potatoes on the sofa next to her wife, utterly exhausted. Emerson, Octavia and Colson come running and yip happily at her feet. Emerson’s wearing a little rat costume tonight - a 3am gin-drunk eBay purchase that Leota has zero regrets about, even if when it turned up on the doorstep she’d totally forgot she’d ordered it (“So Sebastian feels part of the family.” she’d explained to Keeya).

“Because you hate shopping?”

“Because Chris Smith is like a hyper toddler in a candy store about everything from dollar joke toys to grills to freakin’ cauliflower rice. I did not think we’d be there that long.”

“Neither did I. Your dinner’s in the oven.” Keeya sighs.

Leota looks at her apologetically, and chases her hand to pull it and cup it between her own. “I’m so sorry I’m late again. Just… shit was crazy at the fair-"

“I was there.” Keeya deadpans.

“And then sorting Adrian out ‘cause he don’t seem to understand the concept of self preservation, and then Chris was all angry-worried and I had to—"

“Baby? For one night can I not have to hear any of those names?” Keeya pleads. “Unless it’s Cleo and you want to hear about how she helped make the dinner and then let Sebastian stir the salad and didn’t mention he crawled into it for a nap.” She giggles. Leota snorts.

“Good lord, I hope you threw it out.”

“You mean you don’t want rat fur with your arugula?” Keeya snickers. “But it was sweet, him wanting to help.”

“Where are they?”

“Sleeping. That girl does nothing but eat and sleep.”

“Pfft, millennials.”


“Aren’t we millennials? Pretty sure we’re millennials and Cleo’s Gen Z…”

“Man I don’t know, I can’t keep up with that shit.” She snuggles into Keeya’s shoulder. “Are we gonna tell her she can stay with us as long as she wants?”

“Yeah, we are.” Keeya replies, “Especially if you’re banning broody talks. I like how it feels to have a family with you.”

Leota smiles into the soft wool of Keeya’s sweater. “I do too.”

“Good.” Keeya leans her head against Leota’s, “Because I just found out they make outfits for rats, too.”

“WHAT?”

* * *

An Hour Earlier…

“Smith. We don’t need those.”

“C’mon Ads! Where’s your sense of adventure?”

He wiggles the jumbo pack of Pickles ’n a Pouch - Extra Flamin’ Hot Tongue Blaster Flavor. The contents slosh unappetisingly. 

“Probably it died today when I saw folks getting blown up at a funfair…”

He lowers the packet and mumbles, “Ok, wow, didn’t need to go there and make me seem like a cavalier douche…”

“Go where? Reality?” Leota snarks, “And you are a cavalier douche. Why you wanna blast your tongue off with hot pickles anyhow?”

“Because it’s fun? Have you seriously never tried these? Your mouth goes numb for an hour.”

“And that’s fun?”

“Yeah. I thought you’d like spicy shit.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” She raises a brow, daring him to finish - even though she’s amused rather than offended.

“N-no reason.”

So fun watching him squirm. “Man, what is it with rednecks and foods that hurt to eat?”

“I’m no redneck.” Chris then spots dried jerky and gets distracted, “Ooh, these say they’re Beyond Insanity Spicy!”

She rolls her eyes and grabs some more dinosaur pasta for Cleo. “I’m going to fruit to get berries for Sebastian - feels bad he’s just living on my leftovers. If I leave the buggy with you can you try not to fill it with shit that’ll literally make you shit yourself?”

“Yes, m’am.” He salutes and earns a chuckle back, which makes him grin. He’s so grateful that Leota’s being normal with him and not making him feel bad about seeing dead people and gaslighting Adrian about it. He swings by the pet food, resisting the urge to glide on the buggy ‘cause there isn’t enough stuff in it yet to balance his weight, probably, and he doesn’t want a repeat of past mistakes…

He dithers between some chew toys for Eagly… getting a squeaky rat would be insensitive, and a mouse is like a rat’s cousin so no dice there either. He eventually settles on a rubber chicken - the kind that wail like the world’s ending and they also accidentally deleted all their TiVO recordings. He gives it a squeeze and giggles at the scream. Always cracks him up. 

It’s then that something else - something perfect - catches his attention, and even better, it’s 3 for 2! Patriotic and stylish American flag neckerchiefs. If he can get Eagly to agree with wear one and they can go out and match!? Oh god, it’s too cute to even think about.

Leota’s tracked him down (because she just knows what dumbass is torturing people’s ears with a squeezy toy) and places berries and a muffin basket in their cart. 

“Got Economos’s apology gift for you. What about Adrian?”

“Uhhh, socks?”

Leota gives him a look.

“What? He’s always whining his feet are cold. I meant nice fluffy ones. I’m not a monster.”

“Socks are what you get people when you don’t know what to get them. Socks are what my mother got me every freakin’ Christmas.”

“Wow, even my dad would get me cool shit like knives. That’s cold.”

“She didn’t mean it cold she just… doesn’t get me. Or, she only gets the part of me that’s like her. Everything else I am or like is…” she shrugs, “Just whatever.”

Chris nods. That… he can relate to.

“So come on, you can do better than that. I know he said he doesn’t have feelings about you calling him names, but it’s pretty clear to me he does.”

Chris winces. 

“Ok, ok, um…” he spots a display up ahead and points, “Peace lily?” At Leota’s sceptical hum, he explains, “I know he likes plants ‘cause he’s always boring me with dumb facts about them, and it’s a peace lily, so that’s pretty perfect, and he likes taking care of stuff. He can be a plant mom.”

She chuckles, “That’s… actually pretty sweet.”

Chris grins, relieved.

* * *

The Next Morning…

John wakes to find Vigilante already up and preparing an omelette breakfast for them both, with OJ and fresh coffee and freakin’ napkins. And it’s actually delicious. John does not know how to process that this idiot is actually adulting better than he is. 

“Good?” Adrian smiles hopefully across the table.

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” he mumbles awkwardly. 

“I folded in some spinach, but with cheese too so you wouldn’t have to taste the spinach.”

John just stares a long moment, as it dawns on him, the horrifying realisation: “Jesus… you are a fucking mom.”

Adrian’s delighted.

John drives them to HQ so Adrian can sit without straining the stitches in his back. John had given them a check before they’d left and had been a little disappointed to see the injuries were in exactly the state you’d expect from anyone with no metahuman healing… 

When they get there, Emilia’s pacing back and forth making calls to various prisons re: system hacking and unlawful release of white racists. Leota arrives a few minutes later.

“This is a fucking national nightmare.” Emilia curses. 

John nods at her leg. “But your wound is better?”

“Fine, actually. I don’t even have a scar.” She glances apologetically at Adrian, “I guess I really did steal your power. Sorry.”

“Happy to sacrifice for my fave sibling!” He smiles genuinely, perching on one of the tables. 

“Ouch, Gut just got burnt.” Chris chuckles. 

“Oh I’m not his favourite sibling either.” Adrian replies seriously.

“Look, I’m pretty sure he’ll get his metahuman shit back, but until then I’d suggest not flinging yourself into danger like a total moron.” John warns.

Adrian clicks his tongue and fingerguns: “Roger that.”

“So where we at on the prisons and any remaining helmets? And how the hell do we find a ‘ghost in the system’?” Leota asks.

Emilia rakes a hand through her blonde waves. “Smith, do you know if your dad could create A.I?”

“What, like, Terminator shit?”

“You mean Skynet shit.” John corrects, earning a mimed go-suck-a-dick in return.

“Well, yeah, I mean, probably? He could do anything, but honestly I’d zone out when he went into details. Nerdy techy stuff is boring.”

Emilia’s gaze is withering. “Great. That’s so helpful you know fuck all but at least you weren’t bored.”

“So we’re thinking the helmets have A.I programming? Oh shit, and that it’s brainwashing the wearers?” John speculates, twisting his hands together worriedly.

Chris goes pale, “Oh shit… the floater fuck, he did say my Dad had been saying things to him…”

John looks around. “Where are the ones we’ve collected so far? Where’s the pukey one?”

“In the trunk over there. Be CARFUL not to set it off.” Emilia warns. 

He rolls his eyes, “Why do people keep warning me about that? Do I look like I want to barf up omelette?”

Adrian smiles like it’s a very special secret he’s about to share, “Oh yeah! I made omelettes this morning!”

Emilia sighs, “Great, good for you. John, I meant the trunk not the box.”

John huffs in exasperation, “What’s the difference?”

“Trunks have hinged lids, boxes don’t.”

“Some boxes totally do. I’ve seen that shit at IKEA-”

“Jesus goddamn christ is this important or is finding out if Auggie’s helmets brainwash people important?” Emilia half growls. John shrinks back and goes to the trunk.

“Dude, wait.” Chris turns to Adrian, “Did you and Economos have a sleepover?” his voice comes out higher than he’d like.

“Oh, yeah - we watched movies and talked about D&D all night. It was super nice.”

Chris snorts, nerds, but also to hide that he feels oddly hurt by the idea of this. That’s stupid. Why should he feel hurt just because he was a bitch to Adrian and then Adrian went and had fun with somebody else? That’s more than stupid, that’s insane. He should be relieved Adrian has someone else to spend time with instead of stalking him 24/7…

So he shrugs nonchalantly and mutters: “Pfft, sounds like total dullsville.”

Adrian narrows his eyes - but then John returns with pukey helmet and holds it out gingerly to the gang.

“So… who wants to put it on and find out if it brainwashes you?”

Surprisingly, no takers.

“I can do it?” Adrian offers. “I’m so not racist that I doubt it’d work on me, whereas with Peacemaker it’s maybe kinda more of a…” he makes an iffy little gesture with his hand. Chris balks.

“What? Hey, I’m not a racist!”

“You don’t mean to be but you do kinda drop some microaggressions-”

“What!?”

“Shut up guys. I’ll do it.” Leota, stepping forward with a look of grim determination.

“Ads, no!” Chris panics.

“You think if the toilet seat hat talks to me it’s gonna say anything I ain’t heard before?”

He falters. “I- don’t want you to have to-“

She holds up her hand. “I’m a big girl, I don’t need protecting.”

She takes the helmet from John and takes a breath (while everyone else practically holds theirs). Then she fixes it on over her head and waits.

A long beat. 

“Uh, so anything?” John whispers.

“Nope.”

“Maybe you need to turn it on?”

“You mean activate it? Activate the vomit button?”

John makes a face.  Emilia shakes her head, “Ok, so maybe it isn’t A.I programming people. It’s not like it’s hard to believe a bunch of white people can be racists without needing a ghost telling them to be.”

“Then what did the floater guy mean?” Chris wonders aloud.

John scratches at his beard. “Could it be the whatever or whoever that’s hacking the prison systems? Maybe it’s like a dark web thing for racists and they all plot together there…” 

“The white web!” Adrian jokes, laughing.

“All we got from Officer Chen on that was Peacemaker was the signature to all the hacks-“ Emilia explains - just as the vomit helmet buzzes to life and Leota squeals in fright - her hands go to it but it’s like it’s stuck - 

“The fuck!” 

“What’s happening!?” John yelps.

“Oh shit, oh shit!” Leota’s eyes look far away for a second because she’s clearly listening to something-

“Is that him!? Is that my dad?”

“I-it’s like-“ Leota stops and starts, clearly the helmet’s voice is loud, “I- it’s his voice I think…”

“What?” John and Emilia squint in unison.

Leota looks at them and finally manages to tear the helmet off. She breathes in relief. “It’s not A.I brainwashing, but it is normal brainwashing. Y’know, it’s him repeating to white dudes what they wanna hear most: that they’re right about everything and life ain’t fair if they’re not seen as a heroic gift to humanity. And then instructions on ‘missions’ they can complete, like a fucking video game.”

Chris is staring at it like it might blow up. 

“So- so it’s just a recording?”

“I think so.”

John takes it back. “I’ll run it through my coding, try and pull the audio and get a transcript.”

“Good idea.” Emilia nods, “But, fuck, that doesn’t help with our prison problem - and I said I’d update Chen by lunchtime.”

“Nope, all it does tell us is apparently you get a handshake from an ‘imperial wizard’ if you set fire to the city’s halal meat factory.” Leota folds her arms.

“Wait, do Neo-Nazis play D&D too?” Adrian asks. 

* * *

While John runs diagnostics on the helmets they’ve gathered and Emilia calls Officer Chen, Chris corners Adrian and gestures for him to follow him into one of the other rooms. Adrian follows after.

“Uh, so, Adrian…” Chris clears his throat and fidgets uncharacteristically with his hands, not sure what to do with them. Better launch into his apology before he chickens out and feels like a pussy. 

“What’s being a pussy is apologising at all.” Auggie says. Oh great, now he’s turning up at the workplace! Chris is determined not to acknowledge him. 

You’re not. Fucking. Here.

“What...?” Adrian prompts in his I’m-so-not-miffed-but-clearly-I’m-miffed tone. 

“So, right, uh, I wanted to- I thought I should probably- uh,” Chris fumbles, “I guess I should say: sorry I was a dick yesterday when you were injured and stuff. I didn’t mean to rag on you.”

Adrian’s eyes narrow. “You mean when you called me crazy and gaslit me because you didn't want to admit you see your dead dad?”

“Uh, yup. That. All that.”

And suddenly, the tension and the sceptical, wary look and the miffed tone leaves Adrian in an exhale, “Dude, no worries, it’s fine. I’m sorry I said you were unintentionally racist.”

“No, hold on, it’s- I was a dick and I’m saying to you that I get that I was a dick and I’m sorry-“

“It’s ok-”

“No it’s not ok! Listen!” He snaps, because why can’t Adrian accept his apology like the Big Deal it is instead of endlessly brushing off any bad thing Chris does? “I’m sorry I was a dick and I know I should be more sensitive as a friend to your mental issues. And I’m gonna try and work on that. I promise.”

Adrian has gone still and tense again.

“I mean I should be more sensitive to everyone, like… I need to stop calling Economos a shaved Chewbacca and stop using aggression as my go-to coping mechanism when I feel anxious or upset or guilty…” Chris continues obliviously.

Adrian’s expression has turned in some way. He’s staring at Chris searchingly and Chris isn’t sure why, but it’s uncomfortable. He trails off.

Adrian tilts his head. “What ‘issues’?”

Chris blinks. “… uh? Dude, I’m not trying to be an ass, but…” he smiles apologetically, “C’mon, you’d be the first to admit you kinda have some issues.”

Adrian’s completely bemused, “Uhhh… no I wouldn’t?”

And now Chris is too: “But… you said it yourself - you don’t have feelings like people do.”

He frowns. “How’s that a mental “issue”?”

“Because, it just… it’s not normal. Like, you don’t ‘get’ normal things because you have issues, and hey I’m not dunking on you, honestly. You can’t help it! I’m just saying, it’s cool. Gut told me himself.”

“Told you what?”

“He said your parents trailed you around a bunch of psychiatrists to try and figure out what was wr- different, about you, and then your mom decided it wasn’t helping so she stopped it and Gut just always explained to people that, if you did or said something weird, it was because you had these issues and not to freak out about it.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence in which Adrian’s jaw clenches and unclenches like he’s going to say something, his fingers twisting together at his sides.

Chris is really starting to feel like’s he’s totally fucked this apology. 

“Look it’s not a bad thing, man. It’s something we all accept about you. It’s no big deal.”

“Wow.” Adrian huffs out a humourless little laugh, his voice that passive aggressive way: “So all this time everyone’s been having secret conversations behind my back that I’m non compos mentis? So hey, don’t worry, nobody should take me seriously?”

“That’s not what I said-”

“Sounds like it.”

Chris steps forward, “Adrian-”

“You know, dude, maybe you should look in the mirror sometime? Because I’m not the one hallucinating dead dads and having conversations with people who aren’t there.”

“Hey!” Chris’s voice comes out high and hurt, “I know my Dad isn’t there. I’m just- I’m fucking… traumatised or some shit. I don’t know!”

“Well I don’t know either!” Adrian gestures futilely with his arm and looks fucking sad. It makes Chris’s heart hurt. How’d he manage to fuck up a fucking apology for being an ass by being an ass?

“‘Cause you are a fuckin’ ass. And you are fuckin’ crazy.” Auggie sneers. He’s behind Adrian, shaking his head.

Chris bites back a retort and concentrates on the person who is actually there, and is still staring at Chris expectantly.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“ he stops and tries again, “I don’t think you’re crazy-“ Adrian’s mouth goes tight, unconvinced,“-or like, not in a bad way - and I don’t want anyone not to take you seriously and- fuck, I fucking meant it when I said I don’t care how you are, or what anyone else thinks. You’re still my friend.”

Adrian’s cheeks colour a little and he looks down. In a small voice he says, “Well… you’re still my best friend.”

Chris’s heart hurts. He claps a hand on Adrian’s shoulder. He should say it. He should just fucking say it back and that would mend every asshole mistake he’s made.  But for some reason his throat is dry and he can’t. He can’t - so he squeezes his shoulder and tries to force a smile. 

Adrian winces slightly. “Dude, that’s still my gunshot shoulder…”

“Shit! Sorry. Shit - you’re still injured?” Chris worries.

“Yeah, normal not-special-healing-blood kinda sucks.”


Chris has an urge to lock Adrian in his trailer and keep him away from harm until he’s unbreakable again - as if Adrian would ever let him. He’s not used to feeling worried he might get hurt. 

Auggie laughs. “Here’s hoping.”

To ignore him, Chris grasps on the one thing he can think of:

“Hey! I forgot, I got you an apology present. Well kinda two. Well, one and a half, ‘cause one was free and that doesn’t count.” he goes to the shopping bag on the table and lifts out the plant, presenting it like an offering to the other man.

“It’s a peace lily, geddit?” He grins.

Adrian stares at it for a long moment, Chris’s grin twitches.

“Uh, it’s- it’s so you have something to look after, like a… plant… mom…” ok it somehow sounds dumb as fuck and worthless and shit now he’s actually saying it to Adrain. “Fuck, it’s dumb, I-”

“Dude! It’s perfect!” Adrian’s expression is all warm and melty as he takes the plant like it’s something sacred, “I’d be honoured to be its plant mom!”

Chris chuckles - then remembers the 3 for 2. “And the other thing I got are these cute as hell neckscarves, one for me, one for Eagly if he’ll let me, seriously hoping he will, and uh,” he chucks one into Adrian’s hands, shrugs: “Three for two.”

“Wow that’s… cool.” Adrian unravels the scarf, looking not as excited as Chris thinks a second surprise gift warrants. Chris doesn’t do gifts and the only damn reason to do gifts is for the gratitude! 

Adrian pulls a face. “It might come off a little 'Make America Great Again' if I actually wore this, but hey, maybe patriotism will make a comeback?”

“Uh, you’re damn right it needs a comeback. Suddenly people can’t love this country anymore? Bullshit. Where else would anyone want to live?”

“There’s all those gnarly murder shows set in Sweden. If their murder rates are that high I could do some hardcore vigilante-ing there. Plus I have Swedish ancestry on my Mom’s side. And I like open sandwiches.”

“See, that’s why you aren’t that patriotic, man. It’s in the blood or it isn’t. All my ancestors come from America.”

“Peacemaker... nobody comes from America. Not originally.”

“Well I do. Eagly does.”

It’s Adrian’s turn to roll his eyes. He really ought to explain American history to Chris sometime.

“Hey. Wanna come with me to pick up Eagly?”

“Do you mean: will I drive you to pick up Eagly?”

Chris nods, d’uh.

“Ok!”

* * * 

Eagly chirps happily in the back seat of the ‘Vigilante-mobile’ (“Stop trying to make that a thing, Vig.”).

“So does Superman really have a single undescended testicle?” Adrian asks, eyes on the road, “I caught up with the group chat while I was bored in hospital.”

“100%. I’ve seen the pictures from a leaked sex tape - with a fucking mermaid, can I just add, so he’s got that in common with Aquaman.”

“Mermaids are real?” Adrian sounds excited.

“Yup. I guess when you don’t have legs or genitals you’re gonna be less choosy about a man’s balls. Well, ball.”

The trailer park looks less dingy in the sunlight. There’s a middle aged neighbour staring at them as Adrian’s parks. Greasy blonde hair in dye-er (Chris snorts) need of a roots touch up, a too tight tank top and a cigar hanging from her thin mouth. He’s seen her before, always looking super skanky and like she’s probably spent more than her share of nights in a prison cell.

Chris meets her with a challenging stare as he gets out the car. Yeah? You want something? 

He doesn’t know why he feels angry all of a sudden, being watched. Being seen. He huffs and strides into the trailer with Eagly and Adrian behind him.

“Why was that lady staring?”

“How should I know? I don’t talk to my neighbours. I’m gonna grill the steak for Eagly.”

“Ok.” Adrian stands there awkwardly, holding his peace lily, while Chris sets up. Eventually Chris turns to him, “You can sit, dude. Why’d you bring your plant in here?”

Adrian sits at the table, placing the lily down. “Uh, you can’t leave a plant alone in a car.” His eyes go wide like, d’uh, as if Chris just suggested leaving a dog or baby.

Adrian gives a quick disapproving glance at the bong and weed scattered on the table. Eagly hops beside him and leans his head in for a good scritch.

Now that gets Chris to smile, “Hey, you know, I think you might be Eagly’s second favourite person.”

Adrian’s eyes go all sparkly and Chris can see every fucking one of his teeth he’s smiling so big, “Oh my god, and he’s my second favourite person! And my first favourite bird!”

When Chris has cooked up a steak, he slides a thick, smoking piece in front of Eagly - sure, Eagly could have it raw, but this is a special occasion! - and then another piece on a plate which he holds out to Adrian.

“For me?”

“Yeah dude, iron. You’ll probably be deficient now what with losing like half your blood. You look pale as a nun’s asscheek.”

He wrinkles his nose, but digs into the steak as Eagly tears into his own helping. He tries to remember what Economos had advised about grief…

“Hey, Chris? re: your evil dead dad, I want you to know that if you need to talk… I’m here for you.” He blinks through his glasses, expression completely blank. Chris practically chokes on his steak, he waits until he swallows and then croaks out:

“What?”

“I said “If you need to talk I’m here for you”.” He repeats robotically.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Be…cause? You’re in a spiral of grief since you murdered him and even though I don’t get why you feel bad about that since he was, we’ve established, totally evil, I suspect you’re not entirely coping-”

“What the hell? I don’t wanna- I’m not in a ‘grief spiral’! Who said that?” Chris bristles, “And I don’t feel bad about it! At all! Not one fucking bit!”

“But-“

“Maybe I feel bad about Keith, and Flag, and nearly killing Ratcatcher 2, and for killing that little girl’s dad in front of her-”

“What girl’s dad?”

“The one at the house. The ugly one. The helmet stealing guy? You were literally there.”

“Ohhh. Ok. That was quite a number of days ago, though.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Stop. You suck at this.” 

“But as your second best friend and first human best friend, I should be who you talk to about any life struggles you have! I want to help you be the best you you can be.”

Chris doesn’t correct him, but he sighs wearily, “Look, V, if I need to ‘talk’ - which I do not! I’d talk to Ads. Or Harcourt. Or- well, maybe not Economos. I’d talk to Eagly before I talked to you.”

Eagly chirps like the good listener he is.

Adrian looks confused, then down, and pokes at his steak with his fork. Chris chews on a burnt bit of his steak uneasily. Come on, is he supposed to pretend Adrian is someone he’d talk to about deep internal shit? The dark echoing blackness of his very soul? His crippled self worth and terror of dying unloved? Just so Adrian can feel secure in his best friend status? Chris just bought him a peace lily! And grilled him steak! How’s that not appreciative enough? He can’t keep going round in this damn circle, he can’t be everything for the guy, and Adrian can’t be everything for him.

He swallows and takes a swig of coffee - blanching when he remembers he didn’t make any and this is stale dregs from yesterday.

Adrian’s watching, Chris can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

“You’ll always be my first choice friend for shooting appliances and blowing shit up.”

But before anything else can be said, both their phones beep - the group chat:

HARCOURT:

Get back here. John’s tracked the ghost and Chen’s coming with us. Suit up.

They look at each other. Adrian grins.

“This is going to be fun!”

Chris grins back - even though it doesn’t reach his eyes, because part of him is shitting himself. They’ve found the ghost. And what if it fucking is a ghost?

From the couch, Auggie mimes slitting his neck.

“Tick tock, pussy. The world’s gonna change - and you ain’t gonna be part of it.”

* * *

“It’s an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city.” John points at the map on his laptop. Of course it is.

“Cool, love an abandoned warehouse.” Vigilante, already masked up and excited.

Officer Chen eyes him. “Were you the one who threw my colleague’s arm as a weapon yesterday?”

A beat. “No? Nooo no, that wasn’t me. I’m the Vigilante, and although that does sound an ingenious move, I- I wasn’t there yesterday. I was… at the dentist.”

“Ok, so Chen and me go in that entrance, Peacemaker and Vigilante go in the rear entrance.”

Chris snorts childishly.

"Ratcatcher 2 might be useful because, well, abandoned warehouse sounds like a good bet for rats."

“Uh, guys?” - Leota’s voice from across the room. 

“Annnd Leota and me stay in the van, right? To- to monitor for assailants outside. Right?”

Emilia rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

“Guys!” Leota alerts. She’s standing by the TV screen, motioning to the News headlines. The others gather beside her as the reporter, live at the scene of Belle Reve, describes a coup, white prisoners escaping and entrapping others - guards too. There’s mention of the electric chair. And Peacemaker.

“Fuck.” He whispers.

“Glad I phoned in sick today…” John admits.

Then it cuts to a pre-filmed video. Of Peacemaker. Sat at a desk, addressing the camera.

He staggers back a step, “Wait, what?!”

“I declare war on all those who seek to muddy the waters, the bloodlines, of this once great country, and I will kill as many men, women and children as I have to, from this day forward, to put white Americans, true Americans, back where we belong.”

“That’s not me!”

Adrian adjusts his glasses, “It’s definitely you, Peacemaker.’

“No, man! I’ve never sat at that desk! I’ve never said these things!” He rambles desperately, looking at Leota, “Tell me you believe me? Please? I swear I’ve never said any of this shit!”

“It’s a deep fake.”

“What!?” Chris turns to John.

“It’s good, but I’m good at telling. That’s a deepfake to frame you for what’s happening right now.”

“Holy shit…” Leota gasps.

“Is this Auggie or Amanda Waller?” Emilia, dearly wishing Murn was here to help right about now.

Officer Chen checks his work phone. “… The chief wants me to arrest you for questioning. They know I came here.”

“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!” Chris panics, hands rubbing aat his neck like he can’t breathe, like there’s a rope around it, tightening. 

“But we’ve got the warehouse! Maybe the deepfake was sent from there?” Leota tries to stay calm.

Chen’s phone bleeps again. “Apparently someone else claiming to be a superhero has been asking for intel on you. He says he can stop you and that it's personal...”

“Jesus! Why’s everyone up my ass today!?”

“I’m guessing there’s a long list of superheroes that could be.” John, wearily.

“Everyone shut up. Peacemaker, calm down. We’ve got to be smart, here.” Emila pauses, gathering her thoughts, “Our plan doesn’t change. We go to the warehouse, we find what answers we can, because if that can prove he didn’t make that video, we kill about fifty fucking birds with one stone.”

Chris frowns, “Bird murder metaphors, kinda insensitive in front of Eagly, but that aside, solid plan.”

Chen scratches his head, “I… don’t think I can guarantee the rest of the Washington police won’t follow us there. For him.”

Emilia nods. “Then we’d better be fast.”

TBC....

Chapter Text

They’re all in the undercover van. Emilia and Officer Chen on one side, Vigilante, Peacemaker and Leota crammed on the other. John’s driving.

Leota’s discovered there’s about five empty packets of chips under her seat but she won’t bring it up - she doesn’t want to give an agitated Peacemaker the fuel to take it out on poor Economos.

Peacemaker’s thrumming his fingers against his white pants because holy shit holy shit ‘deep fake’ is a thing that exists now? Like seriously? What the hell else has he missed being invented in the past four years? People can just wholesale fake you saying and doing stuff?! It sounds so much more like an Amanda Waller move to him, but how could she be ok with all this racist stuff going on - just to take him down?

“It doesn’t make any fucking sense!” He exclaims aloud, making the others jump. “Why would someone frame me for all this?”

Chen clears his throat, “Do you have a lot of enemies?”

“Yeah!”

“Could be your Dad’s followers looking for revenge and an easy cover for their crimes. Could be…” Emilia says the next part carefully, “Waller… since we have no idea where she is or what she’s planning, but like hell she’s going to forgive and forget. Right, Ads?”

Leota bites her lip, she nods, because she’s worried if she speaks her voice will wobble.

“You definitely don’t know where Waller is, Adebayo?” John asks from the driver’s seat.

“No.”

She hates it, that look in Emilia and John’s eyes like they don’t entirely trust her on that.

“I blew up her career! She sure as shit won't tell me anything again!”

“And you clearly feel bad about it.” Emilia’s looking at her weird. Leota shifts uncomfortably.

“Hey! Kids aren’t responsible for their parents’ shitty actions.” Chris, annoyed, “Ads says she’s cut ties with her Mom? Well then, I trust her on that, and you dicks should too.”

“I’m not saying I don’t trust her-”

Chris snorts indignantly on Leota’s behalf - but she keeps herself calm:

“Look. My Mom could be anywhere in the world. But you’re right, she’ll be planning something. And that something will probably involve making sure I can’t ever get one over on her again. She ain’t big on forgiveness.” Leota sighs, “Like when I was ten I forgot to take out my first puppy to poop… he was a little labradoodle and I’d begged to get him. She thought it’d make me go out and exercise more, but like, mostly I just cuddled and played with him in the house. But one night he pooped on her bed, dead centre! He didn’t like her. I tried to hide the sheets but… After yelling A LOT she had her assistant take him straight back to the pound ‘cause I wasn’t responsible and I blew my chance. Never let me have another pet. Ever. ”

Vigilante, from behind his mask: “At least it was on the bed and not like you left it on the sidewalk. There was this lady who used to let her giant dog shit all over my street and she never had any poop bags with her. So inconsiderate towards her neighbours.”

A beat.

“‘Used to’?” Chris repeats in dread. He knows even though he can’t see it that behind Vig’s mask he’s grinning proudly like the lunatic he is. V mimes strangling his own neck and then chuckles. Leota’s mouth hangs open.

“Hey! Can we get back to the mission and off whatever deranged shit this is?” Emilia sighs. Beside her, Chen nods hopefully and fearfully - eyeing the masked man with more than a little anxiety.

So Emilia details her plan for scoping out the warehouse as they drive. Chris can barely concentrate past the sound of blood rush in his ears. He’ll admit it, if only to himself - he feels scared.

He’d never felt scared during Project Starfish. Fear had been something from childhood that he’d locked in a box, buried in the desert and spat on the ground. Only his Dad knew where to find it.

But now?

It’s like he’s building up for a panic attack.

Pussy.

“…And the cops are going to be on our tail pretty fast. Chen, are they tracking you?” Emilia looks at the cop.

“I left my cell on my desk, so I don’t think so, but they know I went to your office.”

“Hopefully that buys us enough time.”

Chen looks pensive a moment. “If the people behind these attacks and the deep fake are there, I have to apprehend them if possible. I can’t let you guys just kill them. I’d get into a whole internal investigation mess and I’m already in hot soup with my superiors over my handling of the funfair…”

Vigilante cocks his masked head, “So we can’t kill them even though they’ve murdered people and set up Peacemaker to get lynched for crimes he didn’t commit?”

Leota groans, “Real baaad choice of words there, man.”

Vig seems to realise and sits back with a sheepish “Sorry.”

Chen puts his arms in an X gesture in Vigilante’s direction: “No deadly force against any suspects - unless it’s like, life or death. This is a police investigation, not a first person shooter.

Leota scoffs under her breath, “Not often cops seem to follow that rule…”

Chen feels a tug, because it’s true, obviously, but it’s not what he joined for. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

Emilia balks. “Seriously?”

He shakes his head. “One time I probably should have. He had a hostage, he was deranged, but I froze. My partner had to do it. He told the chief I wimped out. This was in New York. It’s why I moved states.” He shrugs unhappily, “The shame of it.”

Leota’s brow creases, “Hey, you shouldn’t feel bad you find it difficult to straight up murder people - even bad people. It should be hard. Means you’re a good person. For me, it’s nearly impossible. Hope I’ll never not find that.”

“Nearly?”

She shifts in her seat. “I shot a guy.”

Chris, who has been listening to them to try and get his head out of spiralling, sits forward, “Ads, that doesn’t count. He didn’t die.”

She shakes her head. “I shot to kill. Right in his goddamn heart.”

“Who?” Chen’s curious.

“Judomaster.” Chris and Leota, in unison.

“Like… a martial arts guy gone rogue or…?”

“I would’ve killed him if he wasn’t insanely unkillable with his kidney moving magic!” Leota presses, “And I’ve killed a bunch of aliens that used to be people. And a giant alien cow.”

“A giant. alien. cow…” Chen repeats.

Vigilante pipes up: “But those were all kills that helped save the world! I don’t get how that’s a thing to feel bad about?”

“Of course you don’t.” Chris sighs.

It should be hard. It means you’re a good person.

Leota’s previous words are still bouncing around Vig’s head. But… she’d told him he was a good man. He feels the familiar queasiness that he’s missing something here.

Batting the thought away, he leans forward and points at Chen. “Look, I’m just wondering, guys, how it’s useful to have a cop with us who can’t kill. Even Economos proved he was badass when he killed that gorilla with a chainsaw.”

“A gorilla with a chainsaw!?” Chen’s gone pale.

John’s satisfied smile lifts his whole beard, “You bet. I may not look like it, but trust me, I am the danger.” He quotes - in his best attempt at Walter White steel.

Vig is grinning under his mask, “And you totally look like you could be a chemistry teacher, man!”

John’s pleased someone got the reference but ‘nerdy science teacher chic’ isn’t exactly the ideal, is it. But whatever - he pulls up at the Adebayos’ residence.

Chris blinks. “Uh…?”

“Ratcatcher 2, remember?”

The van door pulls open and there she is, in her Ratcatcher get-up, Sebastian waving excitedly from her shoulder.

“Hi everyone!” she beams, then to Chen: “Hello, new police friend!”

She sits beside Emilia. “I have not always trusted police, but Sebastian thinks you are kind because you helped save Eagly!”

Chen struggles to comprehend how he’s ended up being complimented by… a rat. “Uh… thank you?”

Sebastian, meanwhile, hops onto Emilia’s lap. She jerks in surprise and lifts her hands away - “Oh shit! No! Nope! Get him off!”


Chris chuckles. “Harcourt, you scared of a lil’ rat?”


“Not scared, just not overly keen on being a human seat.” Her eyes widen, “Oh fuck! He’s pissed on me!”


“Awwww!” Cleo melts. “If he pees on you a little bit it is because he loves you!” She bumps her elbow against Emilia’s arm and whispers: “I think he has a crush!”


A wolf whistle from Chris - “Time to delete Tinder, you just found the man of your dreams!”


“I don’t have Tinder. It’s full of creeps like you sending dick pics.”


“The ladies love when I send my dick - although some of ‘em think it’s Photoshop.” He winks at the cop. Who is maybe starting to seriously question why he transferred from New York.


“Come, Sebastian!” Cleo holds out her palm for him and he snuggles onto it. “He always likes strong, quiet types. He liked Robert DuBois best, too.”


Chris’s stomach drops at the mention of Bloodsport.

Emilia wrinkles her nose at the small damp patch on her pants.

“Are you guys really a secret government division…?” Officer Chen asks.

“Unfortunately.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later they’re parked on a hill overlooking the warehouse. It looks… like every other warehouse does.

Vigilante is bouncing impatiently in his seat, already armed with a gun in each hand. “Can we go in yet?”

“No.” Emilia’s looking through binoculars. “There isn’t even a car or a van or a fucking bike outside. What, did they walk all this way? Are they even in there? Maybe this is a fucking trap.”

“Or maybe someone dropped them off and they’ve been living inside?” Leota muses. “How many people would it take to do all that prison hacking, deep fakey stuff, Economos?”

“One. It’s not like it’s hard.”

“King of the Humblebrag.”

He shrugs like, yeah? And?

“Harcourt, come on. I’m with Vig.” Chris pulls out a helmet from under his seat, “I brought the heat sensor one so when we go in I’ll be able to tell if there are any bodies.”

“On a room by room basis.”

“What else are we gonna do? Sit out here waiting until the cops finally track me down?”

She sighs. “Fine. Cleo, you’re with me and Chen. You two,” she points warningly, “Don’t fuck this up. No avoidable deaths.” That last bit comes with an added jab at Vigilante.

Within minutes they’re all armed and approaching the warehouse. Sunset colours the empty concrete parking lot with a strange rosey softness which is a little incongruous with the task at hand. Cleo can’t help but think this would make such good lighting for a selfie with Sebastian. She’s been catching up on all the apps and filters she missed in prison (a source of much giggling with the Adebayos’ in the evenings) - but she tightens her hold on her baton instead. She must stay alert. She can’t help it, she kind of wants to impress her new badass blonde leader with her cool leather jacket and her combat boots. She kind of wants to be her.

Emilia gestures to the rear entrance and then to Peacemaker and Vigilante. Peacemaker winks exaggeratedly and then mimes what’s probably meant to be a buttfuck but Emilia’s not going to give him the satisfaction - she turns and heads to the front entrance.

“Let’s fuck shit up.” Peacemaker cocks his gun and smiles a little at the view of Vig doing a tiny jump in excitement through the red heat sensor visor of his helmet. Vig’s body heat is something else. The dude’s on fucking fire, it looks like, and Peacemaker wonders if he’s always like that or if this is how he gets when he’s about to fight, or if it’s metahumany, or what.

He thinks a second. Whenever Vig has touched him in the past (grabbed his shoulder, his forearm, once his hand to pull him excitedly towards the site of a building on fire - all, always, roughly shaken off by Chris) he has felt that warmth. And it always makes him feel something. Something he doesn’t want to give in to. Not at all. Nope.

A gloved hand taps his shoulder gently.

“Dude? Are we going in?”

He’s waiting for Chris’s- no, Peacemaker’s lead. Like always.

Peacemaker gathers himself - enough introfuckingspection over Vig’s fucking temperature. Get a goddamn grip.

They enter, keeping to the shadows. The warehouse is full of towering crates. It’s eerily quiet. Vigilante peeks in one of the crates. Gas masks. He peeks in another. Poison gas canisters.

“Holyyy shit… I think they’re gonna gas Evergreen.” he whispers.

Peacemaker nods, makes sense, it’s exactly the kind of cowardly, nasty plan he’d expect of his Dad’s admirers.

“So they and whoever they choose to have in the city get a mask - and everyone else’s fucking lungs melt.” He shudders.

“I brought a bunch of grenades - we can-“

“Dude, if you set off a grenade in here all the fucking gas will escape!”

“Ohh…” V scratches his head with the base of one of his guns. “Good catch. Well, we can just kill them and hand over this stuff as evidence to Officer Chen.”

“Vig, we’re not supposed to kill them. Chen wants to prosecute their asses. It’s- I guess it’s better in the long run. Like, make an example of ‘em. Don’t make ‘em martyrs.”

Vig tilts his head and hmms, unconvinced. Chris ignores him and continues to prowl through the room. No other bodies yet.

At the other end of the building, Emilia’s got her gun at the ready (non-lethal shot primed), Chen and Cleo keep close behind her. She gestures for them to follow her up a metal staircase to the second floor. If anyone’s working here, they’re likely in the office rooms. Chen points to one with appears to have a light glowing from inside - a crack of yellow light framing the door - slightly ajar. Emilia nods and at her signal, Cleo lets Sebastian hop down and skitter over to the door. He pokes his tiny head inside - and immediately snaps back, waving his little hands to warn them - NO!

The door bangs open, sending Sebastian crashing into the wall and trapped behind it. Cleo cries out. Emilia and Chen aim their weapons at the tall middle aged man staring back at them. He wears a bullet proof vest and sets a silver helmet on his head calmly.

“Hey! You don’t want to do that. Stand the fuck down.” Emilia warns.

Sebastian is squeaking and scrabbling behind the door - Cleo has to dig her fingernails into her palms not to run to him.

The guy whistles. “Surprised it took you so long to find this place.”

Chen raises his badge, “I’m with the Evergreen police - and I- I’m here to arrest you on suspicion of-“

“You got a warrant to be in here?”

“-On suspicion of conspiracy to-“

The man ignores him, instead moving the door and immediately clamping his boot down on Sebastian before he can scramble away. He squeals in fright - and then pain - as the man presses the weight of his boot onto his back.

“NO!” Cleo moves to run but Emilia holds her back.

“Don’t hurt the rat unless you want me to shoot your fucking kneecap off.” Emilia bites out, still aiming her gun at him as she puts her other arm in front of Cleo.

The man laughs, really laughs at that. “Oh sweetheart, as if I’d want putrid rat guts on my new boots.” And with that he lifts his boot and kicks Sebastian swiftly off the balcony. Cleo screams after him just as Emilia fires a round at the guy’s knee — it

Fucking

Hovers there.

Just in front of its intended destination.

The man’s pressing the side of the helmet, it’s making a whirring sound.

He’s laughing again.

Cleo’s crying and looking desperately over the balcony. Chen’s frozen in shock at the Matrix bullet shit happening right in front of him.

“It’s good you all came, the full deck of cards, so we can get this out of the way in one swoop.” His smile broadens, “Sorry Officer, but your diversity hire ends now.” He gestures with his hand and the bullet shoots backwards and into Chen’s chest - Chen crashes to the ground, gun dropping.

“Anything you try to use against me, I can use against you.” He sounds educated, reasonable, like he’s just some middle aged college lecturer discussing the fucking weather.

Emilia curses under her breath and lowers her gun, clearly not going to literally give him the ammunition. She glances down briefly at Chen. He grasps at his chest uselessly, blood blossoming darkly on his uniform.


“Guess we’ll go old school.” Emilia says through gritted teeth, dropping her gun and closing the distance between her and their attacker. She kicks him and he stumbles back at the impact t his chest - but then he lurches forward and grabs a fistful of her hair. He’s not a trained fighter, clearly, but he has the nasty energy of a man who has thrown enough women around to know what he’s doing. He hits her head against the door. She’s on her knees but manages to grab his leg and yank him off balance just as Cleo - scrappy, streetwise Cleo - pushes his body against the door and hits his windpipe with her elbow, hard.

Emilia stands and smirks at the spluttering, gasping man - not so cool now, huh - she grabs his hand, twists it viciously until there’s a snap, and swings him to the ground with a satisfying thud.

*


Peacemaker and Vigilante have found the stairs to a basement. Scanning from the stairwell, Chris can make out 3 bodies in there, sat at desks. Tinny, shitty music plays from one of their computers.

They’re creeping their way down when one of the steps creaks loudly under Chris’s weight. They freeze.

“We already know you’re there, morons.” Comes a nasally voice from below. “We got CCTV all over the joint.”

Fuck. Well, the guy sounds like a nerd. A basement dwelling nerd. Peacemaker ain’t scared.

He and Vig rush down the remaining stairs to be met with three identically nerdy twenty-something guys, surrounded by computers, laptops, wires and mountains of half eaten junk food. They don’t stand, or reach for any weapons. They don’t do anything except regard the two men blandly.

Vig wiggles his gun, “Uh, hello? Are you guys seeing this?”

The nerds share an amused look.

“Yeeeah, that’s not gonna work down here.” Says the tallest nerd.

Peacemaker scoffs. “Oh really?”

“Try it. I wanna be the guy Peacemaker shot at and failed to fucking hit!”

Uneasy, Peacemaker aims his gun at the guy’s head. “You’re a lucky piece of shit I’m just here to get you arrested.” He turns the gun down to the guy’s shoulder and fires.

Nothing comes out of the gun.

It’s jammed.

Vig and Peacemaker exchange a look - then Vig opens fire both his guns at the nerds - and both guns jam too.

“Fuck!” Vig shakes them, as if that’ll do shit, “How are you doing this?”

“All thanks to the White Dragon.” one nerd with a pube-looking struggle beard snickers.

Peacemaker takes a step forward, and Pube Beard raises a skinny hand. “You don’t wanna attack right now, because me and my buddies? We’re like, capable of destroying your entire life.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Meh, we’ve like 80-90% fucked you over already…” the tallest one drawls.

“More like 70-80%.” Pube Beard corrects.

The third nerd, wearing a waistcoat, clasps his hands, “But yeah, like, if you try and kill us with we’re gonna have to like totally press the red button.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We’ve been fucking you hard for weeks now. We’ve been posting stuff from your IP address to link you to all the shit that’s been going down.” He laughs, “you have more followers on our fake accounts for you than you do in real life, it’s sooo fucking hilarious.”

“Fuck you using my name and brand to push your racist backwards shit, fuckin’ mouthbreathers.”


“We also do a lot of feeding fake news to stoke racial tensions on social media, and oh man is Peacemaker outspoken on that to all his loyal followers!”

“Come the fuck on! People won’t think that’s me! I don’t even fucking know what ‘fake news’ is! I can’t even download software updates without help! No one’s gonna believe I’m doing this shit! I’m fucking analogue!”

Pube Beard grins, “Awwww but they already do, Sissy Chrissy!” The other two nerds snort-snigger like dweeby teenagers.

“Hey, fellas?” Vigilante sing-songs from the side of the room where… he’s holding a plug he’s just yanked out of a socket. “I hope this isn’t super important?”

Pube Beard’s grin falters.

“And I reeeally hope this isn’t-“ Vig yanks out another plug. Tall Nerd’s computer zonks out.

“Fuck!”

Chris grins because, hey! His 3rd BFF can be pretty damn cool sometimes! But then Pube starts yelling about the fucking red button and Waistcoat apparently activates it.

And then all hell breaks loose. Tall Nerd runs at Vig with a fucking samurai sword he probably bid for on eBay and has clearly never fucking used - Vig dodges and watches him crash onto the bottom of the staircase, then swipes the sword off him and sinks it into his gut.

Meanwhile Waistcoat and Pube Beard rush Peacemaker with tasers, and get him, too, but he’s been tased like a million times, it’s cool, he can grin and bear it. He grabs Pube’s skinny neck and throws him onto his computer desk with a crash. There’s the distinct whiff of piss in the air when he turns to Waistcoat - who cowers with his hands thrown up in front of his face - so Peacemaker pulls out his blowdart and spits a dart straight into the guy’s dick. He falls to his knees screeching.

Vig is by his side, high five at the ready. “Dude! This is so much fun even without killing!”

Chris grins back because, uh, progress?

They step over the nerds and yank out the rest of the plugs. God only fucking knows what the ‘red button’ has unleashed, but at least the source is nuked.

Above, they hear screams - Cleo’s screams! Chris’s heart leaps to his throat and he runs so fast up those stairs he half thinks he might spectacularly trip-

When they get to the ground floor, Cleo is wildly, desperately searching for something.

“What happened!?” Chris runs to her.

“Sebastian!!!”

She’s crying, gulping for air. Chris presses a firm hold on both her arms. “Breathe. Tell me what happened.”

“The man kicked him from the balcony! I can’t find him!”

Fuck.

Chris looks up to the balcony, where Emilia is cuffing a gasping middle aged guy in a bullet proof vest.

She sees him and shouts down: “What did you guys find?”

“Nerds. We got ‘em. I mean, we incapacitated them! They’re still alive!” He yells back.

“Chen’s shot!”

Fuck!

Cleo’s pushing him off to search for Sebastian. Vig is scouring the place too.

From above, the gaspy vest guy croaks out - “D’ they press- the- button?”

Chris freezes.

“Why?”

Gaspy guy hoarsely laughs. “Then it’s… too late… for you… already.”

Emilia hoists Chen up, bearing his weight with his arm slung across her shoulders. He’s heavy, but she can manage.

“We’re calling the fucking cops.” She directs at the bound man, which makes him wheeze-laugh.

“Honey, I am… the… cops. They’re… already on… their way.”

From his haze of pain and semi-consciousness, Chen blinks blearily down at the man. Harcourt must’ve removed his helmet at some point because Chen can see his whole face. It’s then that it suddenly clicks.

“Ohhh god…” Chen wheezes, “He is a cop.”

“What?” Emilia snaps.

“You gotta-“ he winces, “run…”

Below, there’s a pitiful squeak from inside an open crate of gas canisters. Cleo immediately volts into it and searches with desperate hands for him - where is he - her best friend in the whole world -

Sebastian’s soft fur meets her fingers and she gently, fearfully, pulls him out from a crevice between canisters and holds him gingerly to her chest. “Oh Sebastian!” Tears spill down her cheeks as she feels him crumple painfully into her.

“Guys!” Emilia’s yelling as she struggles down the stairs with Chen, “The cops are coming!”

Vigilante gulps, “Uh, the cops are here.”

He points to the rear entrance, where a dozen Evergreen cops are entering, guns drawn.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

“Step away from Officer Chen!” one of the cops yells at Emilia.

“I’m saving him, asshole!”

Another cop steps forward. “Christopher Smith, get on your knees, hands behind your head! I’m arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Officer Timothy Chen, Officer Richard Gack, and conspiracy to-“

He’s cut short by a bullet to the head.

Chris turns wildly to see Vigilante. Gun smoking.

“No, Vig!!!”

The cops open fire on them. Cleo ducks into the crate, Emilia crouches down over Chen and Peacemaker and Vigilante slide behind other crates.

Vig shakes his head at his BFF, “I had to save you, P! That guy was threatening you!”

“They weren’t even firing!”

“They are now.”

“Because you shot first, idiot!”

Suddenly - there’s a small explosion from one of the crates which sends them tumbling across the concrete ground. After a moment of shock, Chris pushes himself up, coughing, choking, and then he realises why…

The canisters.

The cops’ bullets have hit them.

“Fuck! The poison gas! We gotta get outta here!”

He shakes Vigilante’s shoulder where he’s sprawled on the floor beside him. The police are backing away from the growing cloud of putrid yellow gas. Peacemaker waves wildly at them, hoping they can still see him - “Hey! HEY! GET OUT OF HERE - THAT’S POISON GAS!”

Vig stands and runs to help Emilia haul a bloody Officer Chen to his feet and begin to shuffle him outside, and Cleo- fuck- where’s Cleo? Peacemaker searches fearfully, squinting through the smokey dark haze spreading out across the warehouse. He clamps his glove to his mouth - but it’s probably doing exactly zilch to keep the encroaching gas out of his lungs.

Then he sees her, hoisting herself up from inside the smoking crate.

He rushes over and pulls himself up onto the ledge to help her down, and although his heart is hammering, he could thank God for the rest of his damn days that she still has her brown Ratcatcher gasmask with her.

But Sebastian is another matter.

Chris hugs Cleo under his arm and rushes them both out of the rear door.

Outside - he can finally breathe.

He’s lucky he has such killer lung capacity from years of practice, or he’d be pretty fucked right now.

Emilia’s by Chen on the dirt, trying to stem the blood flow from his chest.

He takes a second to catch his breath before gulping and asking, “Where the fuck’s the van?”

Come to think of it, why hadn’t they heard a peep out of Economos or Adebayo since they left?

The answer announces itself as a loud police siren, across the field. There’s a car by the van, two cops beside it.

Chris’s teammates are there with hands up, trying to explain.

Leota wants to shake them, these damn fool cops, “Look, I work with Peacemaker. Me. And you may have noticed, officers, I’m not a white Aryan who wants to kill black people. So please can you guys cool it with the guns!?”

“I am white and- and a straight male so- so I don’t have any- any uh, I mean I have asthma but that’s not a big-“

“John, stop talking…!” Leota whispers in a high pitched plea.

“S-sorry I just mean I absolutely am not working on any master plan to kill people of colour in Evergreen, in fact I - I actually just matched with an Asian lady on- on Match dot com-“

“JOHN.” Leota yells, feeling like she might actually have to strangle him herself.

“Sorry! Sorry. Sorry.” John dips his head.

The cops look thoroughly unimpressed.

“We believe Peacemaker may have conned some of his team by pretending to be working against his father, when in fact he’s following through with his plans-”

“Well that’s a dumb shit theory! Sorry- sorry, pardon my- language.” Leota falters.

“Smith is a lot of things, but he’s not a Neo-Nazi, and that confession video was a deep fake. Let me prove to you guys how I know that. Please?” John adds hopefully.

The female cop staggers forward, looking bemused.

Then the male cop cries out in pain and falls to the ground…. Revealing a dagger sticking out of his lower back. The female cop then crumples down, a dagger in her back too.

John covers his mouth and looks over to where the fuck they could have come fr—

“Adrian! Fuck!” Leota’s horrified.

Vigilante is running towards them, fucking waving. When he gets close enough he claps both their shoulders. “Hey guys! I got your backs! Ha! By getting their backs. Geddit?”

They just blink at him, no possible coherent words possible in this moment.

Vig hauls opens the van’s back door. “We gotta get that nice police guy to the hospital. He’s shot.”

“Chen?” Leota finally manages.

Emilia and Peacemaker have made it to the van with Chen’s dead weight by now, and Cleo is behind them, still in her gasmask, cradling a very still rat in her arms.

“The rat’s hurt too.” Chris explains, hoisting Chen onto the floor of the van.

He saw what just played out. Fucking Vigilante - when he’d just told him not to! - hurting if not fatally fucking injuring more fucking cops!

He tears off his helmet and throws it roughly to the ground as the others all pile into the van. Vig ends up sitting opposite him. Chris is steaming with anger.

“We have to call 911 for those poor fucks you just fucking probably killed.”

“Hey! I didn’t go for their heads - and I totally could’ve.”

“Vig, I told you NOT to hurt the cops!”

Leota’s taken the driver’s seat so that John can hunch over Chen and try to do what he can during their speed limit breaking drive to the ER. She can’t take her eyes off the road but she hears the pain and fear and anger in Chris’s voice.

Adrian pulls off his mask, his hair damp and messy beneath it. He looks totally confused.

Chris’s expression is curled in disgust. “Those were innocent people!”

“I…” Adrian begins, but he stops, mouth open, just blinking and bewildered.

“Hey! Let’s concentrate on getting Chen to the hospital alive, and Sebastian too. This can fucking wait.” Emilia snaps.

Adrian sags back against the van’s side, eyebrows furrowed worriedly at Chris. But Chris is determinedly not looking back. Instead, he’s turned to comfort Ratcatcher 2.

Adrian’s cheeks feel hot. It’s like every time he got in trouble at school or with his Dad and he didn’t understand why. Everyone else had a script, and he doesn’t, and everybody’s too angry to explain what he’s missing.

He hadn’t killed those cops! He’d made sure of it!

And the first cop, ok, his bad, but he really thought Peacemaker was in danger! He’d kill anyone to protect Chris. Anyone.

He fidgets his gloved fingers and stares at the floor. Economos is doing what he can for the nice cop guy. Adrian hopes he makes it, because he seems cool… and maybe he’s still bummed about losing his cop friend…

Fuck, his chest hurts so bad right now. Like his heart might actually explode.

For the first time in a long time, Adrian sits there and wishes, really truly wishes, he could be like everyone else.

Then maybe he wouldn’t keep fucking things up.

TBC…

Chapter Text

“We should get loyalty cards for this place.” John is inhaling the protein bar Adrian insisted on getting him from the vending machine. And John may be slightly worried one night he’s going to trudge back to his messy little apartment and find the guy has broken in and health cleansed the place. Filled John’s refrigerator with healthy, hearty meals he only has to heat up. Binned all the greasy chip multipacks. Probably replaced the spent bulbs and hoovered, too. 

Well, maybe that part wouldn’t be so bad. 

It’s just… weird. To have some weird little guy weirdly invested in his health and wellbeing. Usually he’s just invisible to everyone.

Or maybe Vigilante’s method of apologising for killing innocent cops is to bribe goodwill with apology food. Who can know.

On account of the Evergreen police being on the hunt for Peacemaker - racist mastermind - the gang had decided to leave him to stew by himself in the van and pinky promise not to go out for any reason. Even if it’s on fucking fire. The van is at the vets, where Leota’s looking after Cleo and Sebastian. They should probably get a loyalty card for that, too.

Meanwhile, here in the hospital hallway, sat on what he may as well start calling ‘his seat’, John is stress eating. Because what if some of the exploded gas from the warehouse had wafted over to him outside and he’s inhaled enough that he’s slowly dying? Does he feel different? His sinuses have always been blocked up for as long as he can remember (and not even the gross Neti pot his Mom bought him helps), and then there’s his asthma… Is his breathing harder right now or is he just panicking? Fuck.

Harcourt had seemed ok when she left him and Adrian to wait for Officer Chen news. She was taking first stake out shift on the hospital roof. She’d been in the warehouse, no mask, and she seemed ok? But then she was a perfect golden picture of health, especially since the Blood Buddies thing. John’s a wheezing sack of barely held together parts…! He chews another lump of protein bar. It tastes like what someone who’s never had chocolate might think it’s like. Well, they’d be fucking wrong.

Adrian had changed into civvies so he could stick around in the hospital. The cops are looking for a masked vigilante helping Peacemaker, after all, and they didn’t hear his voice, so he’s good. He’s sat beside John, too close, like always, and tapping his sneaker annoyingly against the floor.

“Can you s’op ‘at?” John sighs through his mouthful.

“…What? Reading the hand washing guide on the wall?” Adrian’s nonplussed. “It’s just really bugging me they have an apostrophe in “hand’s”.”

Ok, John would have to concede crappy grammar is annoying to him as well but-

Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptap.

“No. Tapping. Your foot.”

“Ohh.” Adrian stops.

He starts cracking his knuckles.

“Adrian, fucking hell, that gives you fucking arthritis.”

“That’s an urban myth, pretty sure. Plus I doubt I’d get arthritis. My bones just heal, bro.”

“You’re not, like, invulnerable. Please try remember that.” 

John scrunches up the empty wrapper and tosses it towards the trash can opposite.

Misses. 

“You need to angle your arm differently-” Adrian begins, and then starts grabbing at John’s arm to position it for him - which John shakes off with an indignant huff.

“I’m fine with being a crappy shot, ok? Stop pawing at me.” 

Adrian makes a face, but goes back to being peeved about the apostrophe.

A few minutes pass before John glances at him.

“Is your back healed yet?” He’s barely got the words out before his eyes go wide in pre-horror: “Wait- do NOT rip your sweater off here because I asked that!!!”

“Dude, why are you like, afraid of bodies?”

“I’m not afraid! What? It’s just- it’s clearly inappropriate to disrobe in a hospital ward where people are dying. Including very possibly some cops that you stabbed.” 

“Well then I can’t answer your question about my back, can I!” Adrian flings up his hands, exasperated. He wiggles experimentally, “I guess it kinda hurts a little, still.” A pause. “Want me to cut myself and see if that heals, if I take a nap? I mean, we are gonna be here a while…”

“Don’t…” John re-considers, “Ok, fuck it, ok. But a really fucking small cut. I don’t want you to get sepsis or some shit.”

Adrian grins, “Hey this is so cool! I love that we do science experiments together now!” He pulls a pen knife out of his sleeve because of course he does, and continues breezily: “When I was a kid I always wanted a science partner, but at school I’d get stuck with the teacher ‘cause nobody wanted to partner with me. Which, was fine I guess because it meant my experiments never went wrong but probably everyone else had more fun.”

John winces slightly. He can actually feel his own damn chest hurt at the memories from his own school days currently resurfacing like little asshole demons upon hearing that. 

Every new fact he learns about Adrian Chase’s life depresses the fuck out of him. But this? This one he relates to, too well.

“Well that makes two of us, I never got picked either. And my science teacher was this rather fine looking woman, even though she was probably about fifty, which meant I’d always go bright red. Which everyone would then point out. Which was excruciating.”

“Ha, mine looked like a Gollum. He kept snakes though, and he’d let me hold them. But my Mom got super worried one time because I came home and told her ‘Mr Henderson let me touch his snake’. I didn’t know it was a euphemism for dick! She nearly got him fired. So yeah… he didn’t let me pet the snakes anymore.”

Every. single. fact.

Adrian twirls the penknife casually and rolls up his left sleeve. “Which way was your suicide way, remind me?”

“Don’t do it the suicide way! Cut across. Across.” John mimes - then as Adrian hastily presses the blade to his forearm- “NOT DEEP!”

Adrian chuckles, and slices a perfectly straight line across his arm. He takes out a handkerchief from his pocket. A. C. Is embroidered on it in. In teal thread.

John adjusts his specs.“You embroider…?” 

“Not well…” Adrian concedes, soaking up the light flow of blood, “My Mom was pretty good. Although all her animals look kinda drunk.”

The wonky birds blanket… John realises.

“My mother knits me a Christmas scarf every year and I have to wear it or she gets upset.”

“Aw.”

“No, bad. I look like fucking Hagrid. I have to wrap it like eight times.”

Adrian lifts the handkerchief and studies his cut.

“Anyway. If that doesn’t heal I’ll get you a bandaid.”

Adrian gets a mushy look on his face that John does not feel comfortable about. 

“Economos, dude, you’re a true gentleman. So for part two of our experiment - the napping part - can I nap against you? Your hoodie looks really soft and -”

“Absolutely the fuck not!”

John didn’t quite mean his voice to come out as a vaguely terrified squeal. How grim is his life that in the past week he’s had the most number of freakishly intimate chats with fucking Adrian of all people. Even his new lady friend on the dating app hasn’t asked about his mother or yet discovered out he was a looming, awkward misfit all through school. Although he’s hoping he can get away with never telling her the latter.

Adrian looks a little bemused, but shrugs it off and instead flops down to awkwardly lie across the rest of their bench of seats. Which means his fucking sneakers knock against John’s leg and then stretch out and use that same fucking leg as a footrest.

“Hey!” John chides, but Adrian is literally already snoring. 

Loathe to touch another person’s feet or ankles or basically anything Adrian, John humphs testily and crosses his arms over his chest.

Minutes pass. A nurse in squeaky sneakers approaches and smiles sweetly at them. “Hi, since it’s pretty cold getting, do you or your son need blankets?”

John just about dies. 

And then dies more when he calculates and realises he can’t even truthfully say he’s not old enough to be this idiot’s dad.

In the end all he can mumble is, “Not it’s- no thank you…”

And then worry. For the next hour.

* * *

Leota’s phone buzzes.

PEACEMAKER:

any update on the rat?

Opposite her in the waiting room, Cleo has finally fallen asleep, face still reddish and tear-streaked. Thank goodness for that, ‘cause trying to console her and translate the complex surgery the vet’s doing to a girl who keeps whispering prayers to herself in Portuguese is… a lot.

Goddamn, Leota really does not feel ready for parenthood.

She taps into her cell -

ADEBAYO:

Surgery to fix fractured spine. That pig sure did a number on him ☹️

PEACEMAKER:

Cazo?

ADEBAYO:

Calmer, asleep.

PEACEMAKER:

🙏

ECONOMOS:

Vigilante = also asleep and using me as a footrest FML. 

No Chen update.

In the van, Chris smiles at the mental image of that - but then catches himself. Nope, quit it! Now is not the time for fond fucking feelings for Vigilante. Chris is mad at him! He can’t just keep letting him off the hook for being a total bloodthirsty maniac! 

Chris groans and drops his phone onto the van floor. He’s hunched against the wall, feeling terrible. He has no idea what the fuck to do. He can barely control himself, and now he’s been landed with being responsible for someone with even less of a moral compass than he has. 

And man, it’s not the job for him.

Auggie’s joined the pity party - to poke him with more barbs about what a faggy cuck he is. 

You can’t keep control of your fucking guard dog, so what fucking use are you as a damn leader?

Too busy with your fucking sentiment to do anything for the world. Just sit on your ass and fucking cry. Jesus what a waste.

Chris closes his eyes and tries real hard not to think about the possibility that Sebastian might die.

* * *

It’s several hours later when the group chat buzzes again.

ECONOMOS:

Chen out of surgery. In ICU but stable. His wife’s coming here. Awkward AF - Harcourt come help explain what happened???!?

HARCOURT:

You want to swap and keep watch from the roof, John? With my gun?

ECONOMOS:

No.

HARCOURT:

So suck it up.