Chapter Text
There really is no high like being good at something in front of someone who knows next to nothing about it.
BigB slides the plastic covering of the laptop back into place and hits the power button. As expected, its screen comes on just fine, and the fans whir to life a second later. He turns away from the table and gestures to computer atop it with one hand. "And voila. You're very welcome."
Grian stares at him as if he's just done a magic trick for a split second, and then steps forward to slip the computer under his arm. "Thank you, BigB. I thought I'd have to finally transfer all my stuff."
"Nope," BigB grins. "S'long as I'm around you'll never have to buy a new laptop." He pauses, "Maybe some new parts, but still."
"My hero." Grian slides the computer back onto the table and puts his free hand on the back of BigB's neck, guiding him down into a kiss. His wings rise up and around them in a kind of faux-cocoon, painting everything in BigB's vision except Grian in shades of violet. They stay connected until BigB— always BigB— draws back for air.
Partially to keep the mood going, partially because he likes to, BigB reaches out and brushes a hand through Grian's feathers, moving against the grain as he presses a thumb to the more muscular base of the wing. It reacts to his touch, pushing further into the palm of BigB's hand The feathers feel, of course, like normal bird feathers, only attached to something much larger. Grian sighs against his neck.
It's—it's vindicating, among other things. Here is the watcher of his town, and here are his divine wings, and here is BigB touching ordinary flesh with his hands and the man who owns it wanting more. Grian's a cool guy and pretty good kisser, but they both know where he sits.
Twenty minutes later, BigB is sitting at Grian's kitchen island eating an apple. It's not from the grocery store; the man swiped it during one of his supply inspections, and BigB knows because it doesn't have a sticker. Grian never peels the labels off fruit before he puts them in the basket in the center on his island. He takes another bite. It's a really good apple. No mushy spots at all.
"Heard anything about when the internet's gonna come back on?" BigB asks. "I saw some people working the towers out by the river, so at least the broken ones are finally getting pulled off the road."
Grian puts down his glass of water on the other side of the table and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You have no idea how many letters I've been getting about that. Letters. On paper," he starts, "and in the hundreds! I think the school is doing a unit on professional communication or something, because at least half of them talk about not being able to play children's games."
"Unlucky for you," BigB hums.
"By which I mean to say," Grian waves a hand, as if to dismiss everything that came before, "I have no idea. The cape who did this has powers that aren't very rules-based, so they have to find the exact point in the cabling of this area where their curses end or else everything will just break again in a few hours when they turn it back on."
Huh. BigB wonders if he'll get that anything related to that case on his log when the internet finally comes back on. 'Curses' implies a certain kind of aesthetic, and there's only so many 'magic' capes that can also fuck with signals. "And progress on this is…"
"They don't tell me anything unless they want me to do something about it," Grian shrugs.
BigB snorts. "That sounds hard." He takes another bite of the apple, swallows it. "You know, I heard the guys over in Roche have internet. Saw someone from town messing around near the border— like, right at the border— with a phone the other night. She said she was trying to connect to whatever they have over there, since some of the service providers in Roche also work over here."
"She?" Grian tilts his head. "Can I get a name?"
"Lay off," BigB says. "She was like, fifteen. I told her nothing gets through and she just kept waving it around. You know how teenagers are. She wanted to download the latest episode of something or other."
"I'm still supposed to take her in on suspicion of terrorism," Grian's voice doesn't quite whine, but it enters the vicinity, "or send a deputy to go do it."
BigB decides to push it. "Oh, yeah, dude, I bet she's all wrapped up in No Hero's business. They disseminate all their propaganda through TV nowadays. Or maybe she's a sleeper agent for Dragon-64 and this episode's got her activation phrase," he snickers.
"That's not even how sleeper agents work, B," Grian complains.
"Yeah, it is. They just changed the definition." BigB lies, "I looked it up right before the internet went out."
Grian laughs into his palm. "Sure. Whatever you say."
"Prove me wrong." BigB throws the half-eaten apple over his head as if he were juggling it, catches it in his other hand, takes another bite. "Prove me wrong right now," he says around the apple bits.
"You know I can't." Grian's tone dips serious, "What were you doing out there?"
"Walking," BigB responds, still chewing. "There's fireflies out next to the woods, right along the barrier; it's pretty."
"I bet."
BigB swallows. "You know, I have always wondered why UV gets through but signal doesn't," he muses. "Is it just, like, a preference thing?" He chooses his next word carefully. "Uh, security?"
"I'll be honest," Grian sighs, "I don't remember. I think it has to do with wavelength and speed. The barrier isn't a solid object, it's being projected constantly. And, well, we— we don't. It flickers," he finally concludes. "So, faster stuff makes it through."
"Cool."
A few more minutes, and BigB's visit comes to an end. He waves goodbye to Grian at the door, accepts one more kiss for the road, and climbs back into his truck, which is technically his-and-Cleo's truck, but whatever. Safe within the metal shell, or if not safe, obscured, BigB watches Grian's door close and his silhouette retreat from the front door. He knows— Grian has the kind of hearing that would let him know whether or not a pin dropped seven rooms away, but could he distinguish sounds from underneath one another?
He shifts the vehicle out of park and glances at the closed notebook in the passenger seat, hidden by a few layers of papers and jackets. Then, resisting the urge to write what he'd just learned now and potentially make Grian suspicious, BigB pulls out from in front of the watcher's house and drives away. He'll just stop along the way.
As he guides the old truck through the bumpy roads and over the potholes, BigB does not feel a single lick of guilt in his heart. Or if he does, it's a passing thought, a brief ripple on a glass-smooth body of water. There's nothing wrong with mixing business and leisure. BigB is, unfortunately, a bit of a weakling in this world, and as a weakling, someone vulnerable to falling rocks and car accidents, he has an obligation to himself to get ahead any way he can. Just as Grian has a duty to stay ahead and all the capes of the world have a duty to use their powers to get themselves whatever it is they want.
It's not immoral. It's not evil. It's just good strategy.
BigB guides the truck to a stop on a particularly wide stretch of road and rips the notebook from its hiding place, flipping to a new page and jotting down the information about frequencies. Despite his best efforts, the action is almost fervent, and he has to stop and rewrite a few words because his penmanship is so sloppy. It takes more time than if he had just gone slowly. Still, the words are written, hidden among grocery lists and other assorted notes, and BigB shoves it back underneath the pile. He's not trying to do anything in particular. Watchers are one of the more mysterious capes out there, and the most notorious kind in the country. Nobody could blame him for trying to collect information. Note-taking is only suspicious, not a criminal offense. He takes a deep breath and puts his hands back on the wheel, accelerating back towards town. Everything's fine.
Besides, BigB has a second appointment today.
He parks the truck in the lot of a bar, climbing out just as the first hints of dusk start to creep into the horizon. Before BigB shuts the door, he digs around in the dashboard console, eventually pulling out a brown paper bag distorted and sealed around a single bulky object. Right on time, a woman with pastel pink hair walks out of the bar. Good ol' Lizzie.
BigB meets her halfway, and she greets him with a hug and a "It's finished already?"
He nods, smiling. "Yeah. I've had a lot of free time on my hands since the internet went down."
"Mhm," Lizzie hums, glancing down at the bag. "I swear, if you've got some kind of fancy tech abilities you're hiding from us for no reason…"
"Guess again."
Lizzie rolls her eyes. "Oh, whatever. Show me the goods already!"
Together, they walk to a slightly more secluded area, the thin stretch of pavement between the bar and some faceless concrete building that's been abandoned for so long, BigB's convinced it's a secret base. There's a dumpster inside the alley— it isn't the best venue for this occasion, but BigB's worked with worse before.
He takes a step back from Lizzie. "Okay, now close your eyes," he instructs, "and no peeking!" He points at Lizzie and she laughs, shutting the obvious gaps in her fingers where her hands are over her face.
Gently, BigB begins to ease the grappling-hook out of the bag. It's been bedazzled to hell and back, passed around the whole Fort as part of a collaborative birthday gift. He's just about to tell Lizzie to open her eyes when a splitting pain blooms between his eyes. It feels like a migraine, except he's never had a migraine come on this fast. Confused, he whips around, even as it makes him dizzy.
With every second, the pounding in his head grows louder, stronger. The pressure forces him to lean against the corner of the bar. BigB wants to call out to Lizzie, but the mere act of opening his jaw feels impossible. He makes a noise low in his throat, barely more than a whimper— he'll be embarrassed about it later— but it's enough to get Lizzie's attention. She spins around, eyes catching briefly on her gift before flicking up to…to…
There! On the rooftop of the empty building, BigB can just make out a silhouette, a head and shoulders blocking the light of the moon. The cape leaps down to the ground, using some kind of rope system attached to their belt to slow their fall.
"Ma'am," the cape is standing directly in from of him, but he addresses Lizzie over BigB's head, "you're— oh, wait, that's not a gun."
The sudden migraine doesn't recede, but its intensity dims to the point where BigB can stop fighting the urge to curl into the fetal position and look up the guy he's certain is doing this to him. BigB wants to glare, but he doesn't.
The cape has the nerve to act sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck with a gloved hand. His blonde hair sticks out at an angle from his mask, and he smooths it down as he speaks. "I've been having a long night, and I ate like, three protein bars for dinner. He looked like he was trying something and…" the cape trails off. "Anyway, we're cool, right? You're not mad?"
Neither of them say anything.
"Ah, see you all later."
BigB stands against the wall for a long moment, swaying gently with his forehead pressed against the back of his hand. The world feels surreal, and the migraine is probably half of that, but still.
'Trying something.'
He was holding— is holding— the hook by the barrel. When Lizzie touches his shoulder, he flinches.
"Are you alright?" she asks.
"Eh," BigB mutters, "he had headache powers."
"What?"
"He gave me a migraine."
"Oh." Lizzie gently pries her gift from his hands and pats him on the back. "You want me to kill him for you?"
"Don't joke about that," BigB says lightly. "We don't know where he went."
Lizzie sighs. "At least let me take you home. I don't think you're all that good to drive right now."
"And you are?"
She hooks an arm around BigB's side and tugs him to his feet. "It'd take a lot to get me drunk. I can drive. I caught a ride here anyway."
Walking with his head buried in Lizzie's shoulder, BigB makes his way back to the truck, sweeps all the stuff in the passenger seat to the floor, and hands her the keys. He balances against the headrest, trying to angle the area of contact so that it hurts the least. What a shitty end to a good day.