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It’s a hot day, humid, and Bobby remembers being told the city was built on a swamp, a testimony to hard work, stubbornness, and sheer stupidity in a time when air conditioning didn’t exist. Back in New York it’s about ten degrees cooler and missing the humidity that makes summers here an exercise in changing shirts and darting from one artificially chilled building to the next. He’d be sweating if he wasn’t, well, himself, and he ever so subtly dials back his internal temperature until he knows his skin would be cold to the touch. Behind him a family from somewhere in the Midwest, in their shorts and visors and cheap plastic sunglasses, sighs a little in relief as the faint breeze blows over him, sends a waft of cooler air across their sunburned skin. His companion says nothing at all but sidles just a little closer until they are almost touching, a hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
Bobby lets his eyes slide over his friend, a critical examination he hasn’t bothered with before, wouldn’t be indulging in now except that they’re stuck in line and there’s nothing else better to do. Ridiculously broad shoulders stretch the cotton of Hank’s XXX-sized Periodic BaCoN t-shirt; the one Jubilee had gotten him for his birthday. The cloth covers a muscular chest and flat stomach, edge hanging over the baggy orange shorts that cover powerful thighs. Leather sandals, some size that has to be special-ordered, on his feet help complete the tourist look and the watch around one wrist has a different band than the one it came with, something that’s long enough to wrap around the thick joint. Hank looks like an NFL linebacker; the one the opposing team’s quarterback doesn’t want to have anything to do with because a single hit will be enough to take him out of the game. His hair’s a little long, dark and shaggy, and there are the beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, laugh lines around his mouth. Deep blue eyes behind delicate gold-rimmed spectacles catch Bobby looking and they’re the only part of his friend that he really recognizes. Bobby grins in response to one quirked eyebrow, brushes casually and playfully against his friend in a way that won’t make the rest of the tourists around them think twice. The soft tickle of fur on his arm is reassuring and it doesn’t feel so weird to be looking up into a face he doesn’t really know.
“Lookin’ good,” he says, and means it. It’s almost uncanny, the person next to him, and he has to shut his eyes for a moment to call up the way Hank had looked when they were so much younger. This particular image inducer model is new, a joint development of Hank’s with Forge and Tony Stark of all people. Sometimes it still blows Bobby’s mind at just how many people Hank knows, where he’s been and what he’s done, even though Bobby’s been to different galaxies and across dimensions himself. Not that he’s surprised, exactly, because Hank is a genius after all and, more importantly, a genuinely nice person who likes to help whomever and wherever he can, but still, Tony-freaking-I’m-a-rich-and-handsome-playboy-genius-on-the-cover-of-GQ-every-other-month-Stark. Anyway, Bobby thinks, shaking off the distraction of Stark, the device is tiny but it packs a heck of a lot of power. The Hank he is seeing with his eyes is a projection, an image developed on the basis of what Hank would have looked like at this age if he’d never ended up with the fur and the blue and everything Bobby can’t see but can at least still feel. There’s even a mode that will compensate for touch, although it doesn’t last very long as it drains quite a lot of power, but Bobby’s glad it isn’t on. His Hank, the man he knows, is reassuringly soft, blue and, as he likes to tease, muppet-y, and maybe he wouldn’t care so much if he didn’t know that Hank has long made peace with his transformation and is only wearing the damn thing so they can enjoy their day like any other tourists.
“We’ll see what the scanners say,” Hank replies, startling Bobby out of his brief musings and reminding him that the image inducer can even project fake x-ray readings, and won’t be picked up by the metal detectors as it’s made of some space plastic or other crazy substance. He wonders if they’ve bothered to patent it yet or whether it’s being kept under the radar. SHIELD has enough brain power working for it already and corporate espionage can fall into the hands of villains. Maybe it’s the only one but probably not. Anyway, Bobby’s sure there won’t be a problem at the entrance, not given the three minds that made it and the extensive testing they would have done, but it’s the first real-world test today.
“That you should maybe lay off the Twinkie diet and get some more exercise instead of hiding in your lab once we get back home,” he teases, elbowing Hank again just because he can and because the stomach he’s nudging is covered in slabs of muscle.
“My friend, if anyone should lay off the Twinkies, it’s you.” Hank grins and slings an arm across Bobby’s shoulders, fingertips nimbly poking between his ribs and making him squirm. “Have you bothered eating anything else since you’ve been here?”
“I need them,” Bobby protests, laughing and trying to wiggle away. “They’re fortification against the horrors of what you’ve been subjecting me to. My brain would melt out of my ears from sheer boredom otherwise!”
“My dear Robert,” Hank lets him go, raising a hand to his mouth in fake dismay. “Are you saying the workings of our fine government are not to your liking?”
The line edges forward and they move with it, finally placing their feet on the marble steps. Bobby smirks, decides to ignore the question in favor of defending his recent amount of Twinkie consumption. “You’re lucky, you know. Not everyone would come and offer moral support for something like this. Who outside of the Beltway, as apparently everyone unlucky enough to live here calls it, has even HEARD of C-SPAN let alone C-SPAN 2? Just thinking about it makes me need sweet sugary goodness.”
“Indeed, Robert, your intestinal fortitude for watching the hearings is quite impressive. Although,” the look Hank shoots him, Bobby knows, is supposed to be wry. It doesn’t quite look right on the face he’s seeing as there’s not the telltale twitch of a pointed blue ear but the tone is giveaway enough. Thank goodness the image inducer doesn’t alter that at all. “I suspect frequent breaks for Cartoon Network and the SyFy Channel makes your task a bit more palatable as well.”
“A little bit of Galactica never hurt anyone and Chowder is funny.”
“Rahdah rahdah,” Hank murmurs, much to Bobby’s delight. “I will concede you that point, my friend, and I must thank you again for agreeing to accompany me on this trip.”
“Course I came, Hank. What else was I gonna do? Hang out at the mansion and twiddle my thumbs? The prof and Warren won’t even let me PRETEND to cook the books a little and y’know things on the other job front have been pretty (thankfully, he mentally adds, just in case someone’s listening and decides he isn’t grateful enough) quiet for a while. ‘sides, the only people that were gonna be there for the next week or two were Scott and Jean, and Scott makes me work out in the mornings and then Jean tries to keep me occupied when I know they’d rather have the place to themselves.”
“So self-sacrificing, Bobby,” Hank says, the words dripping with gentle sarcasm that he alleviates with careful squeeze of Bobby’s shoulder. “In all honesty, though, thank you. For the bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.”
Bobby waits, expectant, for the name. Hank’s always quoting and he’s picked up quite a lot of sayings over the years from listening to his best friend find the best words for the moment. He’s heard a lot about friendship over the years but this one’s particularly nice, equating friendship to home if he understands the quote correctly. And it’s true. Without his friends, the mansion doesn’t much seem like home and while Scott and Jean are among his oldest friends, Hank is his best friend and the mansion always seems quieter and lonelier without him in it. “William Blake,” Hank finishes and Bobby nods and shoves the incredibly sappy urge to hug Hank while standing in a line full of people away. He can do that later and anyways, today’s supposed to be a day where Hank doesn’t need a hug. Today is supposed to be about nerdy fun.
Hank’s in town to testify. The Senate is holding hearings about the budget for the Avengers for the next year and has called up previous team members to discuss pay rates and effects of funding cuts on various elements of the team’s charter. Simon, Wonderman to the general public, was supposedly called as well. But apparently making movies in Hollywood is considered a valid excuse for not coming before Congress while all of Hank’s work is put on hold. Bobby supposes he’s not surprised, though. After all, it’s not enough that Hank has to sit through tedious hours of listening to old men drone on and on about a superhero team they know nothing about. No, he’s also coming before Congress to speak on behalf of not cutting funding to NIH and various other government-run health and science agencies. For that he’s been before the House and, although Bobby doesn’t get much of what’s been said – it’s all jargon and sloganeering and random arguments about freedom that don’t make any sense in context - at least the far more tendentious hearings are entertaining to watch on mute, what with the way various representatives’ faces flush and their eyes bug out as they argue in favor of raising defense spending and eliminating mental health research.
It’s just as well that Simon isn’t there, Bobby thinks privately. Sometimes he’s a little envious of the man, of the easy camaraderie he shares with Hank. Hank is HIS friend, and that’s a selfish thing to think, but Simon has a way of making him feel like Hank’s just patronizing him, that he’s not good enough. And that’s ridiculous and he knows it but that doesn’t stop him from feeling that way. Hank had invited him before he even heard Simon had gotten a summons, anyway, and Bobby needs to be here. Needs to be here and is grateful Simon isn’t because Hank keeps a portion of himself hidden away around his other friend. Bobby has never let him get away with that and Hank doesn’t bury his emotions with him anymore. It hasn’t been easy for Hank; he comes back to the hotel frustrated every night; all the more so for the reporters that purposely seek him out wanting a ‘mutant freak’ for their news trailers to bring the eyeballs, never mind that Hank is eloquent and erudite and lots of other ‘e’ words that Bobby once looked up and wrote down so he could fling them at his friend whenever Hank happened to be feeling as blue as he looked. Of course he came along; even if he can’t go to Congress itself he can at least watch the proceedings on the aforementioned C-SPAN 2 and provide a sounding board for Hank’s frustrations when he comes back and flings off his tie and lets Bobby order whatever preposterous pizza toppings or room service he wants while they wait for it to be late enough to put on The Daily Show so Jon Stewart can reveal just how silly the day really has been. And it’s not as if he’s spending all day watching tv himself. The tax revisions have come through and he’s been studying them. Accounting isn’t full of glory like acting and it probably won’t save the world like Hank’s research but Bobby likes it and he’s good at it and H&R Block is always hiring in case he ever finds himself in need of a job.
But now it’s Friday and Congress has given themselves the day off which means that he and Hank are free to play tourists on a weekday when the streets aren’t quite so filled with gawking visitors. They’re in line at the Smithsonian, at the Museum of Natural History to be exact, and Bobby’s looking forward to seeing what’s inside. Museum-hopping with Hank is always fun because Hank can explain if the little cards next to the exhibits don’t provide enough info and because he’s as eager as a little kid at any of the hands-on exhibits, always ready to peer through microscopes at slides of dandelion pollen and make origami insects that end up looking more like sailboats than ants. Inside will be dinosaurs and bugs and fish and the Hope Diamond and a special exhibition on meteorites that’s actually premiering as they wait to go through the metal detectors with the rest of the early morning tourist brigade. They banter for a little while about Congress getting to choose their own vacation days, about taxes and about whether or not Bobby should be wearing the Batman t-shirt currently covering his torso and the belt he needs to hold up a particularly ratty but comfortable pair of jeans because, as Hank says, “He’s really kind of a fascist.”
“Only when Frank Miller’s writing him,” Bobby argues back and Hank nods and they both agree that ‘The Killing Joke’ is an awesome story in spite of its women-in-refrigerators-overtones and what’s Alan Moore going to say about DC resurrecting Barbara Gordon as Batgirl, even if the book is in the hands of the fabulous Gail Simone? And by the time they’ve moved on to hashing out just why Aquaman is a particularly ridiculous comic book character, especially as they’ve met Namor, the woman from Oklahoma who’s been keeping things at a standstill has given up arguing about being allowed to keep her pepper spray with the security guards and the line is moving again at a decent clip. Hank grins at Bobby and goes through the metal detector first and Bobby ISN’T holding his breath, not at all, and he strolls through the device himself after Hank without giving the security guards another glance. He does stop, though, to stare up at the African Elephant dominating the rotunda. Sometimes it’s nice to be reminded of how many amazing life forms there are sharing the planet with humanity, mutant and non-mutant alike. Bobby makes Hank stand by the head, put his fingers up in a ‘v’ like a Japanese schoolgirl, as he snaps a picture. Next to the elephant, even Hank looks small.
They go check out the dinosaurs first because, duh, dinosaurs. No true boy ever really outgrows his dinosaur phase, not even ones like Bobby and Hank who have seen the real thing in the Savage Land, have been back to the past to see them in their natural habitat. It’s nice to be able to appreciate the size of a Tyrannosaur incisor without feeling hot, reeking carnivore breath on one’s face. He leaves Hank gawking at the trilobites and spends the time watching the restorers in their careful work, tiny brushes whisking away miniscule pieces of dust to reveal shards of fossilized bone. When Hank’s done, they proceed counter-clockwise through the fossilized mammals and Ice Age displays and Bobby listens and Hank makes quiet tutting sounds under his breath as they move through the African Voices section. “Should devote some funding away from gunship upgrades to getting this exhibit overhauled and in line with current anthropological standards ,” he mutters and Bobby agrees, because that’s what he does when he doesn’t quite get what Hank’s thinking, and hurries him along to the expected joys of the Ocean Hall.
Architeuthis Dux in formaldehyde brings on long moments of contemplation and Bobby remembers fondly being curled up on the couch and feeling Hank vibrate with excitement when the Discovery Channel show finally reveals the first glimpses of a giant squid ever caught on camera. The specimen under glass is a bit less impressive, but it’s still a marvel nonetheless and Hank takes a picture of Bobby posing with his hands out describing just how massive the eye of the creature is. They go slow through this section of the museum, stopping often to read the descriptions and watch the short videos. “The ocean is really freakin’ weird,” Bobby says as they finally move on to the exhibits on human evolution, proceed through at a fast clip because it’s the one area in which even he’s practically an expert and he really only wants to play tourist today. He means it, too, but not just weird as in strange but also weird as in cool and Hank heaves a spectacularly fake long-suffering sigh and offers to buy him a goldfish.
They go upstairs and check out the Insect Zoo until too many legs on tiny things start to make Bobby’s skin crawl and he waits at the entrance of the Egyptian Mummy exhibit for Hank and jumps out and fails to scare him in the slightest. The Met in New York does a better job at Egyptology and he doesn’t remember as many old Scooby Doo jokes about mummies as he’d thought in any event. So they don’t bother reading many captions as they walk along and end up catching an IMAX film on volcanoes and walk through the nature photography exhibition before finally heading over towards the earth sciences section of the museum. It’s around noon by this time and they have the floor practically to themselves. Most of their fellow tourists have gone to the basement to have lunch at the cafeteria and, Bobby decides after he’s admired the Hope Diamond and thought about curses and trailed after Hank past case after case of rocks, honestly this part of the museum is probably the most boring. But there’s still the special exhibit on meteors to see and Hank’s humming ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ under his breath, which means he’s really looking forward to more chunks of rock whose only distinction is that they come from outer space. Bobby mentally tells his rumbling stomach to be quiet and promises it pie with ice cream on the side once he’s survived this last area of the museum and takes a deep breath to fortify himself before he follows Hank into the dimly lit room.
Plexiglas cases house lumps of rock and minerals displayed on velveteen fabric or raised up on clever pedestals. There’s a projection of stars across the ceiling and along one wall and for half a second Bobby thinks he hears the opening strains of the Star Trek: The Next Generation theme before he realizes it’s just an air conditioning unit wheezing away in one corner. It’s all very atmospheric and there are even those thick sausage-like fake leather ropes strung between stands to provide line guidance except that the room is absolutely empty but for him and Hank and an old security guard sitting on a chair by the other entrance. Hank is entranced, enraptured, enthralled, ensorcelled, thoroughly not likely to go anywhere anytime soon and Bobby is merely resigned. He gets the dinosaurs, the ocean creatures, even the insects and the mummies. But space rocks? He knows what real aliens look like, a whole bunch of different kinds even, and it’s pretty hard for him to get excited about the possibility of microbial life being kept frozen or captured in the dust that coats the meteorites. He sighs and follows after Hank and even puts his chin on a soft but firm shoulder in an attempt to share his friend’s perspective until Hank gives him the pointed eyebrow look and Bobby moves away to look at a reddish chunk of ore and thinks about ‘Mars Attacks’ and other movies. He’s working up a good head of paranoia as he muses on ‘War of the Worlds,’ the good one with Orson Welles, not the crappy Tom Cruise remake, and the possibility of a meteor carrying a plague to wipe out all life on earth when it happens.
“Up against the wall and nobody gets hurt!”
The voice is stern, calm, loud enough that they can hear it clearly but not actually shouted. It may or may not have the faintest hint of a Latverian accent. Bobby catches a glimpse of four faces covered in ski masks, what definitely isn’t a standard handgun but might very well be some type of laser or ray weapon, the poor old security guard’s stricken expression as he stupidly reaches for the taser in the pouch on his belt. There’s not even a shout, just a thud and the inevitable sound of a body folding in on itself and falling to the well-worn wooden floor. Bobby really hopes the guy’s not dead or not suffering a heart attack or anything and it takes all the self-control he possesses not to turn to watch what Hank’s doing. Because, while Hank might not have an actual MD he may as well for all of his knowledge and practical experience, the good doctor is going to have a very hard time not doing something stupid when a life’s at stake. He stares at the wall he’s slowly, with obvious deliberation to all of his movements, walking towards and keeps on holding his breath even when the continued silence means that Hank is probably doing the same on the other side of the room.
Bootsteps echo as the gang moves in, the quiet crackle almost like static electricity from the four corners of the room marking where they’ve shot out the security cameras, and Bobby doesn’t stop moving until his nose is pressed against one white wall, hands placed up and out against the plaster where they can clearly be seen. He fights not to cross his eyes as he stares at the minute, haphazard array of cracks running through the coat of paint. This is the worst part of any confrontation, waiting and biding his time for the perfect moment. He’s been trained for this, training for over half his life, and these guys are really only small potatoes and the one civilian is already out of the picture. It would be a simple matter to turn and fight but they’re on vacation and the last thing Hank needs is more attention drawn to him. Besides, Bobby’s been practicing his stealth moves and, as the thieves move forward unopposed, he can tell Hank is going to let him start things off. The seconds tick by like minutes and he knows afterwards he’ll realize just how fast it all has happened but right now time is practically standing still. The temperature in the room is swiftly dropping but no one mentions it. He’s depending on the adrenalin of the heist to keep the robbers from noticing and Hank will be expecting it.
There’s plenty of moisture in the air thanks to the a/c unit and Bobby doesn’t even have to exert himself as a thin, translucent layer of ice spreads out from his feet and begins to cover the floor. The ice isn’t even a millimeter thick but it’s super cold and therefore super strong. There will be no tell-tale cracks or creaks to give his trick away. It’s going to be like the Ice Capades in a moment, the funny part with the comic relief, and Bobby lets the anticipation of seeing the bunch of thugs flailing and falling cover up the moment of anxiety he still feels at times like this. He and Hank have held long conversations about it, about his powers and about frostbite and cell death and hypothermia. Robots and life and death situations are one thing but he’s never been able to feel comfortable about putting ice boots (heh, like a boot put on a car for parking violations) on criminals ever since he stuck around one time to skulk and watch the cops round up a bunch of bank robbers he and Spidey had left as a present. The webs came off easily but it took a bit more effort to remove his ice and one guy didn’t leave in a paddy wagon but in an ambulance. He’d made Hank find out what had happened, had agonized over two amputated toes until Hank and Scott and Warren took him out and got him drunk, and Hank and Scott told him about the damage they’d unwittingly caused. It didn’t erase his guilt at all but it made him realize he wasn’t alone and that had helped.
As he’d told Emma after he’d gotten over the shock of what he had been capable of with her in control of his body, he’s a lover, not a fighter. A cliché and perhaps a funny one coming from himself, but it’s true. Bobby’s still grateful to know that he has it in him to be that powerful, to be capable of freezing the very blood in the veins of these men, but he’s not a killer. Hell, he doesn’t like to hurt anything, unless it happens to be an insect in which case the gloves are OFF. Hank had gotten him out of his funk at that time, pulled him up with Dr. Seuss stories about fighting smarter rather than harder and through the application of plenty of junk food. Use his brain to fight, and once again that might sound funny coming from him, but he’s not always a slacker screw-up and it lets him gloat, privately of course because he’s not an idiot, sometimes to think that what he does is harder and better than Wolverine’s direct approach. Besides to make the ice that’s covering the floor unnoticed is harder than merely whipping up an ice slide or generating a frosty set of handcuffs.
The temperature drops even lower and Bobby finally hears one of the thieves mutter something about damned Americans and causing global warming with their air conditioners. He turns his head ever so slowly until he can just see the gang at the edge of his vision. They’re looking at one case in particular and all of his paranoid thoughts from before come rushing back. The last thing they need is for Doom or whomever these guys are working for to get his mad scientist hands on space germs. He ices up the case, too, another translucent layer just as thin and strong as the one that’s nearly all the way across the floor now. And then he sets his plan in motion. Just the slightest bump of ice, something right at freezing so that it immediately starts to melt and become extra slick, underneath a foot as it comes down is enough to start things off. The leg goes up – painfully, Bobby knows from way too many mornings spent stretching with drill sergeant Summers – and the body comes crashing down into the one next to it. It’s Three Stooges time as the foursome fall all over themselves and the floor and, mindful of the gun, Bobby cautiously turns around to watch. He’s just in time to see Hank literally leap into the fray, his footing far more sure as he knows to be careful of the ice. The image inducer is still working, making the scene that much weirder in Bobby’s eyes, as Hank methodically catches hold of a flailing arm, neatly takes the gun from a gloved grasp, and delivers what Bobby swears looks just like a Vulcan Nerve Pinch, even though Hank’s explained why that’s impossible about fifty times already, which puts the criminal out.
Several more judicious applications of Hank’s prodigious force and knowledge of human anatomy later and the entire gang are unconscious. Bobby stops putting out cold and moves gingerly across the newly dampening floor. Where his ice has melted it’s as slick as if the cleaning crew had just been by with the mop bucket but there’s not much more evidence of his power than that. Bobby grins to himself as he joins Hank; they could so totally make it as super spies. He takes over wrapping up the criminals from Hank, fighting with the sausage ropes as his friend goes to check on the security guard. The thick crowd control lengths aren’t good for much else, Bobby thinks, as he finally gives up on tying them together and just hooks two pieces around the group. Still, Hank will have ensured that they’ll be out for a while and this part is more of a formality than anything else. There’s a shout from somewhere downstairs and the sound of running feet, and that means it’s time to go if they don’t want to spend the whole day sitting in the police station answering questions. Hank looks up from the security guard and nods and they leg it for the elevator.
The cameras in this area have all been conveniently shot out as well, no doubt by the would-be thieves, and it covers their escape and ensures that grainy black and white footage of themselves won’t end up on the evening news. The elevator starts moving just before the alarms go off and they are fortunately able to step out into the confusion of crowd panic in the cafeteria and lose themselves in the frantic mass of tourists. Behind them, the elevator has shut down and the overhead lights go dim as the emergency ones over the doors begin to strobe. It’s been all of five minutes, probably less, since they were interrupted in their peaceful study of space rocks. They fall in line and follow the harried directions of the staff, shuffling back out onto the National Mall and into the DC humidity. Hank looks at his watch once they’ve joined the herd across the street, a milling bunch of confused out-of-towners who look increasingly concerned as the police cars pull up. “To the National Building Museum next, my good Robert,” he says, following the trickle of people who are wisely heading elsewhere rather than sticking around to watch what will probably be hushed up anyway if those men really were from Latveria.
Bobby’s stomach rumbles and he groans. He’s hungry and he’s probably just saved the world from a horrible space plague and architecture is boring. “Can’t we go to the Air and Space Museum instead?” he asks, not caring that he sounds about as whiny as the little girl about ten feet away who doesn’t understand why she can’t finish seeing the dinosaurs.
“Ah, but there is a gentleman there who is recreating the Capitol Building with Legos, Bobby. And a Lego build station. And tomorrow there will be lots more children about.”
“I see your point.” Hank looks like he’s positively itching to get his hands on some Legos and it does sound like it might be fun after all. Bobby sighs and gives in, leans into Hank. “Just remember that you promised me a trip to the Spy Museum at some point.”
“Indeed, Agent Drake,” Hank says with his best – and totally terrible – Sean Connery voice. “Your rendezvous is scheduled for 0900 on Tuesday.”
“Whatever, Moneypenny. Buy me a chili dog and we can be on our way.”
They banter easily on the way, jokes about the horrors of eating chili dogs while sharing a hotel room largely predominating, and Bobby has a marvelous time at the Building Museum, where he definitely builds the Eiffel Tower, NOT a totally inappropriate phallic object. Hank makes something that’s probably a genome or graphic representation of computer power or maybe just weird abstract art and they have way too much fun fighting over Lego pieces and watching what’s got to be the coolest job ever as a man spends hours working on the scale reproduction model. Later, lounging on Hank’s bed in order to share bites of delicious pie, their escapade gets a brief mention on the news and they put down the forks to exchange high fives.
“To anonymous heroes,” Hank toasts once the news is over, grinning at him, blue and furry and with a mouth dominated by fangs. He tilts his beer bottle towards Bobby and Bobby can’t help but smile in return. They have the whole weekend to themselves before Hank has to go back before Congress on Monday. “Unsung heroes,” he says in reply and doesn’t catch the way his friend’s expression softens as he clinks the neck of his bottle against Hank’s.