Work Text:
The street was quiet, single- and two-story homes lining a road that was cracked and faded from years of neglect. Roofs were lichen-spotted and crumbling, boards were rotten. Even here, in the Bay’s comparatively stunning suburbs, the decay was unavoidable.
The street’s silence was a thing born not of peace but of anxiety, the quiet fear that any significantly attention-getting act of existence would make things worse for the people who lived here. Like their owners, the houses were run-down and slope-shouldered, as if trying to hide behind their own scraggly bushes and rust-speckled pickups on blocks.
One house in particular – well, it didn’t stand out from the rest at all, really. It was perfectly ordinary in its quiet despair and disrepair both. But nevertheless, it was the destination of the man now coming up the street, on a quietly chugging motorcycle. (The engine had been tweaked – very slightly – to improve sound dampening. Nothing that was really beyond the bounds of mundane technology, just something to keep noise pollution down for local communities. The bike’s owner had managed to include a few other subtle improvements, though again nothing that would draw attention should they be examined.)
The man pulled up and parked at the curb, engine switched off the exact moment its motion came to a halt. The kickstand was flipped out and the rider dismounted in one motion, with the ease of long practice, a helmet (not only important for a motorist’s safety, but to ward off the prying eyes of traffic authorities) casually removed. Beneath the helmet was a square jaw with a beard trimmed neatly, short tousled brown hair, and eyes that assessed the man’s surroundings dispassionately.
He opened one of his saddlebags and grabbed a bottle of nonalcoholic sparkling water before turning to stride directly to the front door. He noted the rotting front step, stepped briskly over it, and rang the doorbell once. The door opened immediately.
“Supervisor Wallis,” a voice greeted him neutrally. “I ‘hope you’re prepared for an unforgettable luncheon.’”
The girl (tall, lanky, black curly hair and glasses) sounded like she was reading from a script, as if she almost couldn’t believe what she was saying. Colin (though there was only one person who called him that) kept himself from frowning, as it was likely that Monarch–Taylor, it was Taylor outside of work settings – had in fact prepared a script for this encounter. He couldn’t fault the planning, but the point of this event was to foster greater ease of improvisation and emotional openness. Not a good start.
He made a noncommittal noise and stepped over the threshold. The dining room was up ahead, with the kitchen behind another door. There was a small bucket of ice in the center for his sparkling water; he approved. He’d informed her ahead of time that he’d be playing the part of the important visitor, and she the host. In a civilian scenario, impressing him might win her some kind of promotion or simply put her in the good graces of her superior.
(The fact that he was actually her superior didn’t weigh into it – the day he let employee luncheons affect his official rating of their capabilities was the day he resigned his position as leader of the Brockton Bay Protectorate.)
Taylor went into the kitchen, door swinging shut behind her. Colin adjusted his seat and allowed himself a small frown.
He’d made it clear to Taylor that while this wasn’t going to affect her duties in the Wards, it was an important step for her proper socialization. She still had nearly two years before she could graduate and join the Protectorate officially, but given her… circumstances, she was subject to special restrictions, and in the meantime she had to abide by Youth Guard regulations like the mandatory counseling sessions. He’d heard she was improving slowly. If this event went well, he could report that she was making good progress, which would put her one step closer to loosening those restrictions.
He couldn’t officially have favorites, but after-action reports spoke clearly enough in her favor that he was willing to get more personally involved than usual, to make sure she was able to keep operating with that level of success. Hence, this event.
He’d been waiting a minute or two, and he decided it wouldn’t be untoward to check on the progress of the food. He had topics prepared for small talk, if further waiting was called for, and if she was trying to hide in the other room it was his obligation to make sure she couldn’t evade the task at hand.
He rose and walked to the kitchen door, swinging it open. He didn’t bother to knock – in her own house, she’d have felt him coming the moment he got up; that was plenty of warning.
Taylor was standing by the window, staring vacantly into space. He recognized the signs of her focusing on something far away with her bugs, and he cleared his throat.
“Taylor.”
She blinked and looked at him.
“Oh, Ar– Supervisor Wallis. I was just, uh, meditating. Mental exercise. ”
She wasn’t supposed to be relying on her insects for this – if she couldn’t do it the same way a civilian could, if she was cheating, she was only setting herself up for failure down the line.
He noticed a thin trickle of smoke emerging from her oven. “Why is there smoke coming out of your oven, Taylor?”
She glanced at it. “Oh, that isn’t smoke. It’s. Steam. From the steamed hams we’re having. Yum. Steamed hams.”
Ah yes, Colin remembered. Hamburgers were a bit mundane, but that wasn’t necessarily a detriment in this case. He’d never cooked any himself, so he couldn’t say if this was the right or wrong way to go about it, but he would judge when the food came out. He mentally deducted a few points for stiffness of manner. Was that a sign of anxiety? Perhaps it would be better to wait in the other room after all; judging by the smell they surely couldn’t be long from finishing, and it wouldn’t be helpful to pressure her unduly.
He just nodded and walked back into the dining room, pretending not to notice the quiet sigh behind him.
Thankfully it was only around two minutes later that Taylor stepped back in, holding a tray of something vaguely cheesy.
“Supervisor Wallis, I ‘hope you’re ready’ for ‘mouthwatering lasagna,’” she recited dully. Colin could empathize – he too had trouble with mundane interactions – but she ought to put at least a little bit more effort into her acting. He was the one with the reputation as the stern, uncompromising hero; it was more difficult to pull off for her. PR had already lost enough hairs trying to get her to pep up her emotionless demeanor.
Right now, though, the battle was lunch.
“I thought we were having steamed hams,” Colin said neutrally. Was there an explanation for this? He was fairly sure he hadn’t misheard–
“No, I said ‘cheesed hands.’ That’s what I call lasagna.”
He stared at her for a second. “You call lasagna ‘cheesed hands.’”
Her face briefly made an odd expression that he couldn’t interpret before it slid away. “Yes. It’s a regional dialect.”
He wished he had his helmet with him so he could play back the last few minutes of dialogue, but he decided to accept her words at face value. Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t probe a little. “Mhm. What region?”
“Uh – central New Hampshire.” She started cutting up the lasagna with a knife and dropping a square onto each of the two plates she’d brought out. She didn’t look up once. If she had been a Blaster, there would have been a hole in the table from her stare.
The unopened sparkling water was dripping with condensation. The house was oppressively silent – there was no music playing, no one moving around upstairs, no cars going by outside. Just the clink of silverware on porcelain and the wet squishing sounds of lasagna being cut up. And below that, a barely-noticeable scritching and scurrying noise that seemed to be coming from everywhere all at once, almost too quiet to hear.
“Interesting. I’m from Hillsborough, and I’ve never heard anyone use the phrase ‘cheesed hands.’”
“...Not in Hillsborough, no,” she said as she sat down. Her eyes focused on the wall to one side of his head with an intensity that seemed like she thought it was about to come to life and attack her. “It’s more of a Grafton expression. My – mother was from there.”
“I see.” He knew Mrs. Hebert had died some years ago, and it was still a sensitive subject, understandably. He elected not to pursue that line of questioning, instead taking a bit of his lasagna. It was good. Taylor poked hers with a fork.
Shift the subject. The obvious conversation topic now was the food. What could he say about it?
“You know, this lasagna is similar in some respects to the PRT cafeteria food. Much better quality, of course.”
She stared at her plate and didn’t respond. It took him a moment to realize he might have said something insulting. Damn, this was why he hated social events. He knew there’d been a reason he hadn’t wanted to come to this, he always ended up messing things up.
“Merely an observation,” he felt compelled to add. “They simply – also have lasagna. Again, far inferior to yours.”
She nodded. “It’s an old family recipe.”
“Right. For ‘cheesed hands.’”
She managed to look a little defiant at that. “Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be able to explain the name…? I am – just curious. It’s such a unique piece of terminology.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it, then closed it again. Her lips tightened.
“...It was just what my mother called it. She had – she liked to give things silly names sometimes, when I was a kid. To make it fun for me. She said it was called that because – the most fun way was to eat it with your hands, even though you weren’t supposed to, and her own mom always made sure she never did. This one time –”
She stiffened her shoulders and resolutely didn’t look at him.
“I, uh, grabbed a piece off the plate with my bare hands. I didn’t get burned, which was lucky I guess, but I got melted cheese all over myself. My mom laughed at me and – and did the same thing, and we ate it together right there in the kitchen, even though it made such a mess. I still call it that as a way to remember her, I guess.”
She sniffed very slightly, and Colin was alarmed to see a bit of a shine in her eyes. Shit. He’d made her cry.
“Sorry, I just – excuse me for one second –”
She was rising, face half-turned away, and he hastened to apologize. “Of course, it’s my fault. I’m sorry –” But she was already gone through the swinging door while he cursed himself for an insensitive ass. Why did people have to be so difficult to talk to? Monarch was still going through a lot, after everything that had happened to her, and he didn’t know how to handle it. Maybe he’d get Dragon to talk to her; she was better with stuff like this than he ever could be. He hated the thought of imposing on her like that, but at least it wasn’t for him, it was one of his Wards, which made it just barely above-board if anyone demanded proper authorization. (And made him feel less guilty about taking up Tess’ time, no matter how often she told him it was fine.)
Then Taylor was coming back out, eyes slightly red but dry, yawning in a way that was obviously fake even to him.
“Well, that was – fun. I had ‘a good time,’ she rattled off, looking anywhere except at him. He glanced at the table and saw she hadn’t touched her lasagna. His fault, his fault–
“...Yes, I suppose I should be go– hang on. What’s happening in there?”
He was out of his seat, in a combat stance, wishing he had his halberd as he focused in on the sounds coming from the kitchen. It had sounded like glass breaking, now followed by the sounds of someone stumbling around and knocking things over.
Taylor looked at him without hesitating. “Oni Lee.”
“Eh –” It took him a half second. “Oni Lee? At this stage of the gang war, at this time of day, inside your kitchen?”
“...Yes.”
Colin really wished he had his lie detector.
“...I’m going to need to see that.”
She quirked her lips to one side, looked down, then shrugged. “Sure.”
She opened the door and gestured him in.
Inside the kitchen, surrounded by broken glass and strewn-about cooking implements, was Oni Lee, covered in a blanket of writhing insects. It looked like spiders were wrapping him in ever-thicker layers of silk, binding his hands, feet, and thickly over the eyeholes of his snarling demon mask. Various knives and grenades were being conveyed away on the backs of the chitinous tide like the crowd at a mosh pit passing beach balls or musicians overhead.
“I think he was tailing you here – he probably thought you were a PRT agent off-duty. So I ambushed him with some swarm clones, lured him in here, and covered his eyes so he couldn’t teleport out. He tried to break the window and escape, but, well.” A sliver of pride crept into her voice.
Colin just took it all in.
“...I’d better call this in.”
Taylor nodded. “Probably, yes.”
A few minutes later they were on the sidewalk outside, while PRT troopers loaded Lee into a heavily-armored squad car (recognizable mask obscured with a scrounged-up t-shirt, to prevent any nosy neighbors from spreading word that Lung’s lieutenant was out of the cape scene before the PRT and Protectorate could capitalize on it) and knocked on nearby doors to inform the wide-eyed residents that they would now have to sign this, this, and these forms of nondisclosure, or risk being subject to fines of amounts not to exceed…
On the sidewalk, Colin and Taylor were standing awkwardly by his motorcycle. He would be taking a different route back to headquarters, to try and keep himself separate from the whole event. He did have his motorcycle helmet on to avoid notice. There was a certain amount of leeway in keeping civilian sides private, and it wasn’t like he would miss much if he had to burn that identity, but always better to be smart.
He folded his hands behind his back and gave her the standard Team Leader nod with a hint of approval. “Well, Taylor, I must say – your emotional engagement in casual settings could stand to be improved, but I quite enjoyed the ‘cheesed hands.’” She almost smiled at that.
“And one more thing –” He reached out and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder, before pulling his hand away. “Good work today. I mean it.” (He’d save the rest of the speech for the next Protectorate/Wards meeting.)
At that she did smile, finally, and it made her whole face look lighter. He realized with surprise that he was glad to see it. When had that happened?
(Dragon was going to tease him relentlessly about being the ‘dad hero’ now. As if she didn’t already.)
He nodded again, somewhat stiffly, and she nodded back. Then he was on his motorcycle and peeling away with a guttural growl, down the cracked streets and past the anxious houses with their anxious inhabitants.
The neighborhood, like the city, was dying slowly, like it always was. There wasn’t anything he could do about the economy or the job market. All he could do, all he had ever tried to do, was make the city a little bit safer for the people in it. Push harder. Be better.
As he drove away into the fading Northeast afternoon, the taste of lasagna in his mouth and the memory of an awkward smile lingering in his mind, that goal seemed just a little bit closer.