Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His first pet was a fish. His father made sure to buy a huge fish tank, and the fish swam in circles, its scales glistening in the water and the lights in the room.

He loved taking care of it; he loved watching it. The lights, the colors, the movement. It was something he adored.

He loved Bubbles. He adored him. He could watch him for hours.

Ten seconds. It only took ten seconds for Bubbles to become a burnt piece of flesh on a floor littered with glass shards and water.

His mother nursed his wounds. His father told him not to tell anyone about Bubbles. He told him they would figure out what happened together.

They figured it out.

Simon J. Paladino never had a pet again, much less one he'd want to spend hours watching. He didn't really see much. His house didn't have a television, but a perfectly good radio; his library was a mess of dusty shelves next to drawers full of copies and garbage bags. His ceiling was in poor condition, but the cement held up.

He liked to see himself as tidy, not boring. Even if many things in his house didn't seem that way and were "boring." They were the essentials for living, not decorations to distract his gaze, not mementos on walls, but in boxes safe from damage.

His office at work was the same; he also had the only one with a personal copier that he'd spent a good part of his salary acquiring, plenty of copies, pencils, and three chairs, although the third one was usually used for more copies of documents.

As a pro bono lawyer, he always tried to make his clients feel comfortable, complicated by the lack of decor and the fire extinguisher in the corner of his closed office. It had previously been a storage room until he asked the head of the buffet for it. He accepted when he realized the clients he wanted to work with.

"Is that all?" the woman asks in astonishment.

"Yes, just sign here and that's it." He points to the sheet of paper.

"No trial?" The woman looks him in the eye. He lowers his gaze.

"No trial. It was a minor offense. Your attendance in court and the paperwork were all that was necessary," he explains calmly.

The woman lets out a soft sob, and he looks at her again. She had an expression somewhere between joy and sadness, her features distorted by expression. He looks away again. She begins to sob for real.

"I don't know how to thank you," the woman says as drops of lava fall from her eyes.

Simón hurries to move the document out of the path of the lava and replaces it with the rock he used as a paper clip. He doesn't want a burnt desk either.

"It's my job," he replies calmly, watching the lava crash against the rock.

He takes his glass of water and pours it down, and it dries with smoke rising. He should turn on the fan. Her sobs stop, and he looks at the woman. She stares at him and smiles, a smile that shows her teeth as steamy streams of lava fall down her face.

"You're never scared, are you?" she says affectionately.

"Excuse me," he says, confused. "I don't understand." Another drop falls, and he pours another drop of water. He doesn't see the woman.

"My crying doesn't scare you," she says softly, fearfully. "Why?"

"It's my job," he replies calmly, and pours another drop onto the rock.

The woman doesn't sound bothered by him speaking to her without seeing her. He should be more polite, but he'd rather avoid having to find another desk.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Paladino."

She stands up; perhaps she's tired of him not looking at her, or perhaps she knows they're finished. He awkwardly stands up from his chair and extends his hand. He smiles as best he can at the woman, and she shakes his hand.

His hand burns, and he lets go. The woman says something, but the man looks at his hand: a drop-shaped burn mark. He hears her apologies, but all he can do is look at his hand. He's read about the effects of lava in this case, he's spoken to different experts; it should be worse.

"I'm so sorry!"

"What?" He looks at the woman, who's holding back tears, her eyes steaming.

"I'm sorry, I swear I didn't realize. Please forgive me." She speaks quickly, desperately, practically begging.

It takes him a while to realize he should speak, that he should stop looking between the woman and his hand, which is starting to burn a little again.

"It's fine," he says calmly. "I've had much worse."

The woman seems worse than before, and he doesn't know what he said wrong. Maybe she's afraid he'll report her, like what happened in this case.

"It's okay, Mrs. Martinez," he assures her. "I have a first-aid kit; it's not serious. Just go ahead, it was a pleasure working with you."

The woman nods and leaves with the face of someone who swallowed her words, or so he thinks. She doesn't even say goodbye, she leaves so quickly. Simon looks at his hand again, at the mark, the burn, and takes out his first-aid kit ready to treat his hand. He knows very well how to treat burns.

"What happened to your hand?"

He looks at Alam, snapping him out of his thoughts about the new case he took on this afternoon. When they're in the building's cafeteria, he has a habit of looking at his colleagues' coffees when they're talking to him. They usually react better than when he looks at the walls or the floor. Alam has his thermal paper cup with his name written in marker. Like every day.

"I burned " he replies, taking a sip of his own coffee.

"Your client?" Alam asks, taking a sip of his own coffee, then clamping his tongue. "Damn, I was sure it had already gotten cold," he complains, sticking out his tongue.

"It wasn't intentional. I shook her hand; she had wiped her tears with it," he explains, and Alam frowns. "You always think it's cold," he says, pointing at the coffee.

"Yeah, these cups are deceptive. I'm about to buy a real cup," Alam says, his demeanor changing slightly. "She, your client... cries lava, right?" he says quietly, cautiously.

"Yes," he replies and takes another sip.

"She didn't hurt you on purpose, right?"

"No," he says angrily. "It was an accident, it happens."

"Happens to you a lot," Alam complains. "I know you're the only one who deals with... supers? Is that the right term?"

"Yes, 'supers' is the term. Relating them to heroes is very different." He tries not to get annoyed with the repetitive conversation; he looks at his own coffee.

"Sure." Alam moves, and Simón sees his feet. "Just be careful. Call for backup if necessary."

"They're supers, not criminals," he says as calmly as he can. "It's not their fault they slip up; the only ones with training are the heroes."

"I know, Simón, don't get mad."

"I'm not mad," he replies and takes another sip.

"Just be careful, or take cases with heroes if they're safer," the dark-haired man recommends.

"I don't work with heroes; they have enough to afford specialized lawyers," he thinks for a few seconds. "Most of them, at least."

The afternoon streets are usually quiet. Walking always calms him. He looks at the ground, the sky, his hands, at anything except the passersby. Maybe that's why he almost jumped when he heard a voice behind him.

"Dicker," he says, breathing heavily, gripping his briefcase tightly. "Hi."

"Hi, Simon."

It's awkward, but no more than usual. He prefers it when Rick calls him or knocks on his door like a normal person. Not when he sees him in the middle of the street on his way home. That usually means one thing.

"I guess it's something NSA-related," he says uncertainly.

"Yeah," Rick nods and looks around; the street isn't very busy. "It's not classified, and I'd rather talk about it in a public place."

"If it's to convince me to work with them, you know my answer," he says angrily, deciding to drop the formality.

"Not exactly, but they preferred to send me to convince you," the man says, shrugging. "I'll buy you a coffee."

"If you also get a cake," he says resignedly; he can't escape the agent forever. They're, technically, friends anyway.

"Sussie's coffee?"

He nods, and they walk to the cafeteria, where the woman greets them both with a friendly smile. They order and wait. Simon looks at his shoes, his hands, anything but people and the table.

"What happened to your hand?" Rick asks after a prolonged silence.

"None of your business," he replies listlessly. "What do your bosses want?"

Rick sighs and stares at him. Simon looks away, and Rick puts his hand on the table, letting the lawyer breathe. The gesture calms him a little.

"A complaint came in on a hero, and…"

"They have better lawyers," he doesn't let him finish.

"It wasn't for property damage in a battle, not exactly," the man adjusts his seat. "It's more complicated, civil or something like that," which makes Simon look at him again, "and it turns out our lawyers only know how to defend supers against property damage and against them filing lawsuits against the agency. Besides, he's not one of ours."

"You're kidding," he says slowly. "Don't they know how to stop a simple complaint?" He feels indignant and takes a deep breath. "If he's not one of yours, you won't help him?"

"They've been handling cases without taking into account the super factor in these cases. They've been treating them as they would with the police, as a public entity." Rick waves his hand. "If he's not on our payroll, he can't be defended like ours."

Simon is speechless, and just then the coffee and cake arrive. They both thank the waitress and look at each other again.

"There must be some specialist," he says after a sip, "outside the NSA who has dealt with the super law correctly."

"Yes, the agency sought him out as a show of good faith for the superhero. Turns out there's someone who's handled every civil, rights, and property case involving supers." Simon sees the pie crust, and it begins to darken under his gaze.

"Call that guy and let me. Is he too expensive?" he asks with genuine curiosity. He takes the pie crust and it crackles. "Aren't you going to help with the freelance hero fees?"

"He's not expensive, he's a pro bono lawyer."

"No" he stares at him; Rick smiles.

"Yeah. Turns out you're the only expert in the entire city on super cases focused on their powers." Without asking, the man takes a bit of the toasted crust. "It tastes better toasted."

Simon really wants to burn something. Instead, he takes off his glasses so the world becomes slightly blurry, almost impossible to burn.

—You're going to hire my firm to hire me, right?

"That's the plan," the man nods and returns the empty spoon, "but I warned them you wouldn't take it well if we went like the NSA. Better warn you." Simon sips his coffee, which is still hot, unlike Rick's. "They also plan to pay well, both the agency and the hero."

"I hate you," he says indifferently. "You know I don't want to associate with heroes." He meets Rick's gaze.

Rick looks away, then looks back at him calmly, his eyes tired.

"I know. You'd be a good one, Simon, but I respect your decision. The NSA respects it too. They're not looking for your eyes this time, they're looking for your mind. This hero needs support.

"There's something reassuring in the man's words, something gentle. The look of someone who understands his inner conflict, one of his oldest friends. Simon nods, even though he doesn't want to. Something still bothers him about the whole thing.

"They just want him to join their ranks," he says confidently.

"Does what we want matter if the outcome benefits him?" Rick doesn't deny it.

Shit.

—It's not like I can say no.

Rick walks him home. He goes inside and sits on his couch, tired, thinking about tomorrow, when he'll get the case. He takes the bandages off his hand and looks at the burn. It looks much better than it did this morning, too much so. Ten seconds later, rays shoot from his eyes to his hand. The burn stings from the impact with the new heat, but it doesn't hurt.

His skin doesn't look any more injured.

…

He looks at his ceiling covered in burn marks. He walks to his room and takes out his notebook; he jots down quickly, in his broken handwriting:

“High resistance to heat and burns.”
“Possible accelerated healing.”

He closes the notebook without looking at the pages, afraid of burning it, and leaves it in his drawer. He turns on the radio and sits down to listen to the radio soap opera while he changes his clothes. He hopes the hero he gets will be kind. He hopes to solve whatever case quickly.

He hopes he'll never be hired again, directly or indirectly, by the NSA.

The radio plays, calming his mind.

His parents, when they were alive, bought him a radio for his room when they realized they couldn't give him books as gifts. He listens to the radio and lets himself get lost in his imagination; he gets lost in movements and colors he's no longer supposed to see.

In the end, that's how life began to be when they figured it out he was a super.

Chapter Text

As soon as he arrives at his office, Mary stops him to inform him that the boss wants to see him. Mary is always friendly and smiling, despite being the receptionist who has to deal with the most people in the entire building.

"Do you know why?" he asks the blonde.

"No, but he said he'd brighten your day," she says pleasantly.

He knows the girl is smiling at him because Mary always smiles, but he doesn't see her. She never seems offended by his lack of eye contact.

"I hope so."

He knows it won't brighten his day; he knows why they're calling him. He mentally prepares himself to be told the case of the assigned hero. He still has the bandage on; he figures it would take two weeks to heal if it were normal; he's almost certain it would heal in one.

He reaches the office door and knocks.

"If you're Paladino, come in!" he hears Mr. Johnson's voice.

He opens the door and goes in.

"Good morning."

He looks at his boss behind the desk, at the hero in his bright, warm-colored suit smiling at him, and finally at Dicker. He refuses to look at the latter in the wrong way.

"Paladino, come closer," his boss says, and he does.

"Do you need me for something?" he asks calmly, looking at the floor.

"Stop slouching, kid. You've got a great case on your hands," the man shouts happily.

He straightens his back and looks out the window behind Mr. Johnson.

"You're going to be working with Fironic!" The man points to the hero, and Simon sees him.

The suit is nice, it has flames, and from the name, he guesses his powers are fire-based. He thinks he's heard a news story or two on the radio where the hero was mentioned.

"Sir, no offense," he looks at his boss and feels Dicker's gaze on the back of his neck. "I've never worked with heroes before."

"And how does that interfere with the fact that you've done multiple cases with supers?" Dicker asks, and although he doesn't want to turn around and talk to him, he also doesn't want his boss and the hero to call him rude, no matter how rude he wants to be.

"Secret identity," he answers.

It's his last chance to get away from this case. He knows Dicker isn't happy with him, but he also knows him and knows very well that Simon isn't the type to give up.

"Don't worry about that," Dicker offers him a piece of paper. "The NSA already has a code for trials of their heroic identities. You just have to apply it individually since Fironic isn't part of our organization."

He wants to burn the paper. He sighs and nods but doesn't open the folder. He looks at Fironic, who smiles at him, a charming and gallant smile. He must have a lot of fans with that face and body.

"Then it will be an honor to work with you." He extends his hand to Fironic, who takes it very carefully as if it were something precious.

Simon remembers the bandage and burn on his hand, so his surprise evaporates. Fironic is just being nice to him, about his burned hand.

"Come on, kid, take care of them in your office."

"Yes, sir," he looks at Fironic and Dicker, "follow me."

He feels everyone's gaze shifting toward the strange group. They must look very strange: Dicker with his serious face, tailored suit, and straight back; Fironic smiling, wearing his bright colors, greeting everyone who greets him; he slouches, staring at the floor, hoping the earth would swallow him up.

Luckily, they arrive quickly at his office. Most have cubicles, but after so many incidents with his clients, everyone is grateful that he has an office away from the rest.

"Come in."

Fironic sees the chair in front of the desk and then the agent. Simon almost hits his forehead, runs to the corner of the office, removes the copies from the chair, and places it next to the other one for Dicker to sit in. Fironic finally sits in the other chair, and Simon does the same in his chair behind the desk.

"Now, what's the case?"

He asks as calmly as he can. Dicker sighs and opens his briefcase, taking out a huge stack of papers that seem intimidating to the hero.

"This is what we have. The first folder is the originals, the second, copies," Rick explains.

Simon can't help but smile at the thoughtfulness.

"I understand."

After a short discussion, not about the case but about the documentation regarding the handling of heroic identities in cases, Dicker stands up, says he has more things to do, and that the NSA isn't technically involved in the case, but anything he needs is at his disposal.

"You're in good hands, Fironic."

Simon is alone with a hero. A hero who never stops smiling at him with a perfect jaw. He looks away.

"Now I want you to explain to me what happened," he says kindly.

"Sure," Fironic shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

The story is a bit long, but in general, it's nothing he hasn't dealt with: accidental destruction of private property, although apparently the statue's owners claimed it wasn't, and their lawyers claimed it was intentional, having been made by the powers of men.

He hates the argument that if it's by powers, it must be intentional. In all his time working on these cases, he knows it's not true.

"Can I ask a question unrelated to the case?" Fironic says calmly.

"Sure," he says, a little unsure.

"Did you bring the fire extinguisher for me?" He points to the extinguisher near his desk.

"No," he immediately denies. "I work with supers. Several of them have powers that can burn things. It's just for the safety of my documents."

The hero nods.

"Another question," the man says, and Simon nods. "What's your name?"

"What?"

"You haven't introduced yourself."

He wants to be swallowed up, that's what he wants. He looks at the paperweight and then at the hero.

"I'm so sorry, that was rude."

He stands and extends his hand.

"Simon Paladino, pro bono attorney, specializing in superintendents."

"Nice to meet you" says the super shaking his hand and standing up. - Fironic

He doesn't have another moment where he wants to be swallowed up by the earth during the meeting. Fironic is pleasant, and they clear up several things. When it's over, he says goodbye to the super and leads him to the door, but not before bumping into many male and female coworkers trying to get the hero's autograph.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Simon."

He wants to be swallowed up by the earth. Fironic smiles very prettily.

"The pleasure's mine, Fironic."

He returns to the building to eat in the cafeteria, only to almost run away when many, too many, approach him to ask him about the hero.

He returns to the building to eat in the cafeteria, only to almost run away when many, too many, approach him to ask him about the hero.

Luckily, Alam saves him from this, telling everyone to leave him alone and assuring them that he'll tell them what Simon says, despite Simon being right there.

"Those people are crazy," says the man with light eyes, leading him to a distant table. "You're always dealing with supers, and just because he's a hero interests them now."

"I thought you were a fan of heroes," he says, a little confused.

"Yes, but not Fironic. I prefer Mister Incredible."

They don't talk about the hero after that. Alam dominates the conversation, telling him silly anecdotes and the last TV show he saw, always adding how Simon should watch more TV. Simon smiles.

Alam is one of the few who has never questioned him for not looking at anyone. Alam is one of the few who doesn't mind being the only one who talks some days. Alam is his friend, and he's happy to have one.

"I think you should listen to the radio more," he says in the middle of Alam's anecdote. "I feel like you'd like the radio soap opera I listen to."

The silence is a bit long, so he looks at Alam's face. He's smiling radiantly, his eyes bright, his hair highlighting his fair skin. Alam nods excitedly. Simón looks at his coffee.

He stays up late running errands. He knows he could ask someone to do them, but he always prefers to do them in person. Walking is good; it helps him sleep at night. The case will be simple, although Dicker was wrong; it was private law, not civil law. All the more reason to hire him instead of the inept NSA.

"I like you."

"Excuse me?" He looks at the super, who smiles at him.

They've worked together for a week; his hand is healed, but the bandage hasn't come off yet. The hero is looking at the documents over his shoulder. Dicker hasn't appeared since day one, which means this isn't really related to the NSA, and they've already reached an agreement with the statue's owners. Everything's going well.

"I like you, Simon. It seems you like helping," the hero says.

"It's my job" he replies, almost out of habit.

"Even so, you can tell you enjoy it." The hero speaks softly and quietly. "I can see it on your face."

He thinks of the thanks, the shouts, the paperwork, the sleepless nights, and also the tears. Many people cry when cases end, whether good or bad. He looks at his hand.

"I'm not usually called expressive," he looks at the hero, finally in the eyes.

Fironic doesn't look away from his.

"It shows, you're a good man."

He looks at the table and back at the documents. He tries not to think about the hero's eyes; they're beautiful.

"You're a hero."

"Simon, I think you are too."

He can't sleep that night, and when he screams into his pillow, he accidentally sets the bed on fire.

Chapter Text

When he was young, his plan was to join the army like his father and grandfather; he trained and trained. His mother had other plans and would sit him down for hours discussing books that seemed useless to him at the time.

He never joined the army when the war came; his country gave him another way to serve: being an agent for special cases. This came about thanks to his physical condition and quick thinking, which his mother forced him to develop with those long talks about useful books.

He didn't expect to work with supers, but he did, and one of his first cases with these subjects, more powerful than he could ever be, involved an accident the NSA wanted to erase in order to recruit the boy.

He saw the potential in the boy, so clear and brilliant, and he saw the terror of what he had done. It was the potential that ruined the recruitment; the boy was stubborn, as any good agent or hero should be.

They never managed to convince him to join the agency, either as an agent or as a hero.

Rick Dicker knew he couldn't convince him, but he never backed down. His mother then joined in due to her own work, and soon the boy was sitting with his mother, just like he had been years ago, talking to him about very important books.

An intelligent and capable boy. A foolish and reckless one who stood at his door at eleven at night, a bag in his hand covered in soot.

"Simon." He looked up and down and took a deep breath, maintaining his composure. "What are you doing here?"

Simon looked at the floor, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself smaller.

"Can I stay on your couch?" the super asked embarrassedly.

"What happened to your couch?"

He thinks he knows the answer, yet he waits for the man to respond. One advantage of living near Simon is knowing he hasn't killed himself, or if he did, he'd find out soon enough. Another is that the NSA doesn't send agents to monitor the lawyer because he lives near their main agent.

"...I burned my bed and my couch." Simon shifts his feet uncomfortably. "Tomorrow I'll buy a new mattress."

"Enter."

Rick finishes opening the door for the young man to come in. Simon walks calmly and looks at the couch where he puts its slipcover and stands looking at the house. Rick sees the second the super sees the table full of paperwork he was working on, about to ask him something.

"Nightmares?" the agent asks, looking at Simon, interrupting any questions about work.

"Something like that…"

Simon sits on the couch and looks at the floor, the wall, the table, his hands. Hands that still bear the bandage from last week.

"What happened to your hand?"

He asked a week ago, and as always, Simon was evasive. The super sees the bandage and removes it, revealing a small, oddly shaped burn scar. Simon looks at him as if he'd already answered, then looks back at the floor.

"How did that happen?"

"I touched lava on medium heat."

He tries not to sigh or scold the grown man, but sometimes he thinks Simon deserves to be treated like a reckless teenager.

"Why did you touch lava?" God, this man is going to age him prematurely.

"Work," curtly, as always.

Simon doesn't even look at him when they talk, except when he points out something obvious. He's used to it, and besides, the eyes aren't the lawyer's window to the soul; if they were, they'd have very thick curtains. Simon's body conveys what he needs to know with gestures.

He approaches Simon, letting him see his foot, letting him know he's still there.

"Thanks for letting me stay," the man speaks softly, tired, embarrassed above all. "I owe you one."

He supposes he'll have to ask him about the bed tomorrow, if he decides to answer. Knowing Simon, he'll ask him questions tomorrow too: About work, about his health, about his taxes—Simon worrying about everything except himself.

"Don't worry, I told you you'd always have a place here."

Simon doesn't answer; he begins to take items out of the bag and watches the man do something he hasn't seen in a while. Simon doesn't cover himself with the sheet, but instead wraps it up into a thick strip and puts it over his eyes.

"That bad?" he asks, trying not to show concern in his tone.

Simon doesn't move, but he's sure he's turning slightly red. Now he wonders if it was nightmares or something else. Supers have the strangest biology.

-No, I just don't want to burn your house down…

Simon isn't lying, but he's not telling the truth; he doesn't want to know. He goes and turns off the living room light, grabs his papers, and retreats to his room.

"Good night, Simon."

"Good night, Rick."

He wakes up to the sound of the door slamming shut and gets up to see what Simon has done. He finds him struggling against the door. He forgot to tell him he changed several of the internal locks.

"What are you doing?"

Simon turns around, his pupils red, then dim as he looks away. Rick crosses his arms and stares at him like a kid caught in a prank.

"So many locks are a danger. What if the house catches on fire? How would you get out quickly?"

Rick doesn't say anything. He's not going to pretend Simon wasn't trying to leave in the early morning. He looks at the clock in the living room.

"It's four in the morning."

Simon at least has the decency to move away from the door. He doesn't look at the clock, but his feet move in the direction, his hands no longer gripping the bag with his belongings so tightly. At least he's not hunched over right now.

"Let's go have breakfast. By coming, you have to be part of my routine."

"Do you still go running at four-thirty?" he says angrily.

"Yes, and be grateful they don't give you lessons at six in the morning anymore," he jokes, going into the kitchen.

He listens to Simon and sighs, then the footsteps that follow him into the kitchen. Rick puts the pot on the stove to make some coffee for them both. He looks at the counter where the esteemed lawyer is half-spread.

Some things never change.

He enjoys the silence of the early morning, and when the coffee is ready, he places the cup in front of the young man, who smiles at him and sips it despite how hot it is. Almost boiling.

They eat in comfortable silence, passing the food around without words, and the coffee doesn't get cold; it stays at the perfect temperature thanks to Simon.

"Do I have to go?" asks the super while washing his dishes. "At five thirty, it's band time," he complains.

"Yes, you won't miss much by not listening to the radio one day. Exercising usually helps with excess energy," he says, drinking the last of his coffee. "If you burned your bed and couch, it should help it go away for a while."

"It was nerves. Being around heroes for so long has me on edge," Simon complains, drying the last of the dishes.

"Hero, you're just dealing with Fironic." Rick puts his cup in the sink.

Simon looks at him with red eyes, an unspoken complaint that he's already finished with the dishes, but he picks up the cup and starts washing it, even though the water falling on it evaporates.

"More movement takes energy, less energy."

"Less lightning," the man adds tiredly, putting the last cup back in its place.

"Come on, if we hurry, you can finish listening to your hour of band time" he encourages. "You still have time for work at seven, right?"

"Yes."

They end up making a trip to Simon's house on foot so he can put on some workout clothes. He takes the opportunity to go inside and see the state of his friend's house. The sofa is indeed burned, and soot accumulates nearby. No decorations.

Simon comes out in his workout clothes, and they go for a run.

The exercise is leisurely: jogging to the public park, then doing sit-ups in the park, weight training, stretching, jogging around the park, and jogging back home.

Rick is always surprised by Simon's stamina. He seems tired but not exhausted; he actually seems happier than last time. He seems to have gained energy; he should exercise every day.

"Thanks for everything," Simon says at the door of his house.

"You're welcome," he replies and smiles. "You should exercise more."

"Maybe."

He arrives home, gets ready for the day. Arriving at the NSA isn't as official as one might expect. He shows his ID and is let in, immediately surrounded by supers and agents.

Many look at him with respect, others try not to let him see them. He's not the highest-ranking NSA agent, but he is the one who deals with supers most directly. Many other agents have asked him how he's so good at dealing with supers. He just treats them as people, that's all.

He talks to Mister Incredible. Everseer intercepts him at one point and critically tells him he should exercise less. He scolds Gamma Jack, goes to a couple of logistics meetings, and heads out to meet with Fironic outside headquarters.

"Agent Dicker," the hero always speaks with a smile.

"Fironic," he greets politely.

Fironic smiles at him, not the camera smile, but one of excitement and nervousness. He may not be very expressive himself, but in his job, he must learn to recognize every expression.

"I wanted to ask something."

"About the case?" he questions, certain Simon told him it was technically over.

"Something like that," the man hesitates. "It's more about the lawyer."

He raises his eyebrow, intrigued. He'd heard from other heroes that Fironic has been talking about Simon, always positive, even recommending to other supers that if they need a lawyer, they should hire him.

Simon would be furious if he knew this, but he's not going to interfere in hero gossip, much less in Simon getting a better-paying job.

"Well, he's very good and nice," the man hesitates. "I think he'd be better off working with us, you know what I mean?"

Damn, did Simon accidentally show his powers? If that's the case, that would explain the nerves. Why wouldn't he tell him?

"With us?" He feigns ignorance.

"As an NSA agent or lawyer," Fironic adds with a smile. "I know he's not a super, but I think he'd fit in with the heroes." Fironic hesitates. "Maybe not as part of the NSA, but with its support, he could do great things for the supers."

Rick relaxes inside. Simon did a good job, and now the hero wants him as a coworker. It doesn't surprise him.

"Attorney Paladino has refused to become an NSA lawyer multiple times," he says calmly. "He doesn't want the agency's support either."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Fironic seems disappointed by the news.

"Why would he turn it down?"

Because he wants to help everyday people, because he doesn't want to hang out with heroes, because he definitely doesn't want to be around the NSA. Simon has told him that enough times for him to know it by heart.

"I'm not sure," he replies.

Two days later, he goes with Fironic to Simón's office to thank him for the success in the case and to give him the payment. His bosses sent him to try to convince him to work with them, which he knows won't happen.

When they open the office door, they see fire.

Chapter Text

He prefers to work with supers that have physical abilities; they're easier to predict. Those that create or alter something, like himself, are more volatile.

He doesn't really know if his power is creation or alteration, although in theory, nothing can be created from nothing, and all creative powers would be the alteration of something already existing; see Frozone.

That's why he always has a fire extinguisher. Maybe not all supers set things on fire, but they seem to have the ability to do so accidentally.

The man in front of him doesn't theoretically produce fire; his power is more similar to controlling temperatures in points of the air. He can move the air and cause small meteorological phenomena, which aren't exactly intentional. That's why he's in Simon's office, really.

What neither of them thought about was that he usually alters the air or creates mini-meteorological phenomena. As he became stressed while recounting his case, the air in the room heated up, and neither of them noticed until a stack of copies caught fire. Which only further upset the man who caused the papers to fly through the air, assuming that while trying to cool the room, the fire spread to other piles.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Simon doesn't think twice and grabs the extinguisher. The fire moves erratically. The man closes his eyes in panic. Simon sees through the chaos.

"Calm down!"

The wind gets worse, making it difficult to decide where to put out the fire. The smoke thickens, and for the first time, he feels a burning sensation.

He uses the extinguisher around him. He has to get out from behind his desk and open the door. He puts out a pile, and another catches fire from the flying flaming papers. Damn.

He has to calm the man down, or no one will get out of there without smoke poisoning or burns.

"Matt," he reaches out and grabs him by the shoulders. "You have to calm down."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can," he can barely hear over the roaring wind. "It's your ability, no one else's. You have to stop the wind so I can put out the fire."

"Sorry!"

A draft, almost like a typhoon, hits him hard in the chest, and he falls into a pile of burning leaves; his new suit reaches that point.

He closes his eyes against the blow, waiting for the heat. It doesn't burn.

Someone touches his shoulder, and he thinks Matt might have managed to control himself. He opens them slowly, making sure they aren't burning red-hot. His head hurts.

"Simon?"

He looks at the man in front of him; he's blurry; he must have dropped his glasses. This isn't his client. He's looking sideways, his head hurting. His eyes adjust to the shadows.

"Simon," the man shakes him, his voice sounding strange. He recognizes him.

"Rick?" he whispers.

What's Rick doing here?

"Are you okay?" The man seems worried, he thinks, and looks away.

He can see two figures in the background. They're blurry, but the colors of one, the one standing, seem familiar.

"My glasses," he asks, still confused.

The glasses are placed on his face; they have a crack, but at least he can see better and his eyes don't feel like they're burning.

He recognizes the figures in the background and almost jumps up when he sees the next one on the ground. Rick tries to stop him, but he moves forward and crouches down to face the man kneeling on the ground. He can see him shaking; at least he doesn't look hurt.

"Matt, are you okay?" he asks, knowing the answer is no.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen," he seems desperate.

Simon nods, looking at his office full of burnt copies. If he looks at the door, people are likely coming to look, but his back is to the door, and that doesn't matter. People don't usually pass by his office, and he's grateful for that.

"I know," he speaks slowly, "but you managed to calm down. How about we leave this for tomorrow? Go home and rest, and tomorrow we'll meet in the backyard."

The man nods tiredly but doesn't speak.

"Come on, get up," he stands up and offers his hand, which his client takes.

"See you tomorrow," he says as he sees the man walk out the door.

He sees Fironic staring at him. He must look terrible. All this must make him look unprofessional. He looks at the floor with the burnt papers.

"I guess I should thank you for putting out the fire."

He looks at Fironic's face; he isn't smiling. Every time he's spoken to the hero, he's smiled at him and seemed relaxed. Now he looks serious. Simon looks at the floor, not out of reassurance, but out of discomfort.

"What was that, Simon?" Rick says, his tone sharp.

"My new client, he's a little upset."

"A little?" Fioronic asks. He doesn't see anyone, keeps staring at the floor and then at his papers.

"Yes."

He moves to where he dropped the fire extinguisher and picks it up. He'll have to buy a new one. He sees the copier and it looks undamaged. That's good. He doesn't have enough to buy a new one.

Something grabs his shoulders tightly and jerks him around, causing him to turn around. He freezes for a second, his entire brain freezes, thinking only one thing.

They're going to attack him.

He doesn't see the one who turned him around, he thrashes away in panic, his arms not moving, and he stares at the person. Fironic holds him and the super sees him, looks at him with anger, he thinks. He doesn't know how to look away.

"Fironic," Rick says, approaching, and Simon lowers his gaze. "Get out."

"What?" Fironic's grip loosens, and Simon steps back.

"Get out now. I won't tolerate you treating a civilian like this," Rick orders. "I don't care that you're not under my command."

Simon doesn't quite understand what's happening, but Rick's tone is enough to let him know he's missed something. He must be, because nothing has happened to make either man seem ready to attack. He looks at the open door; several people passing by the cubicles are trying to sneak a peek.

"But."

“Fironic”

Fironic leaves without further protest at Rick's threatening tone and closes the door behind him.

He looks at Rick, and Rick sighs, his face tired and fed up. Simon knows that face.

"What the fuck, Simon?" He doesn't shout, but he feels as strong as one.

"It was an accident," he says, not understanding. "Why are you so upset?"

Rick doesn't try to move him or shake him because, unlike the hero, he knows him and knows Simon might try to knock him down. Rick was the one who taught him how to hit.

"We walked into your office. It was on fire while a typhoon passed, and you were nearly knocked out in a corner with burning logs all around you." The man speaks clearly and loudly. "You scared me half to death, and I don't think Fironic was any better."

"You know fire doesn't bother me. I didn't breathe smoke, and it was a light blow."

"Simon, I swear," Rick crosses his arms and doesn't finish his sentence, "you don't even look worried."

"I work with supers. Most cases involve supers who don't control their abilities." He walks to the overturned chairs. "That's why the office, the fire extinguisher, I know what to do." He rearranges the chairs. "I appreciate the help, but I could fix it."

"It doesn't seem like it." Simon wants to hit Rick.

He controls himself and tries to think about how the agent feels. Rick cared. He should be grateful that people care about him. He feels annoyed and controls it.

"What's wrong with Fironic?"

"He likes you. I think he's fed up with your attitude about this." Rick shakes his head. "I'm surprised I didn't upset you myself," he whispers.

"Attitude toward what?" he demands.

"We found you in a burning room, almost unconscious. He doesn't know you're a Super. He just sees a civilian he likes in danger." Rick doesn't approach, but he knows it's because they're both at work right now and can't afford any real closeness if they want to get out of this quickly. “You get up, comfort the person responsible for the attack, ignore him, and say everything's okay. He was going to complain, but as a hero, he can't treat a civilian like that.”

"You shouldn't have spoken to him like that anyway." Simon touches his shoulder. "He was doing his job."

"I won't complain about your work if you don't complain about mine," Rick counters.

He nods, accepting that it's best to end the conversation for now. Another day, Rick will tell him what he really thinks, when no one is working. He positions his chair; he'll have to clean the place up and throw away papers.

"What did you come here for?"

"Thank you and payment."

He sits down in his chair and looks at Rick.

"Let Fironic in, let's finish this once and for all."

Rick sighs but nods and goes to the door. He steps outside for a moment to see Fironic. He takes the time to look at the crack in his glasses. He touches his suit and sees it; it's ruined. He takes off his jacket and puts it on the back of his chair. He puts his glasses back on just as the door opens.

They both sit down. Simon tries to smile at them and sees the moment Rick wants to roll his eyes but resists.

"I'm sorry about the situation before." He looks at the table and at the hero. The hero looks upset. "It's not usually this busy around here."

"Are you okay?" The hero speaks urgently.

"Yes, I didn't breathe smoke if that's what you're worried about. I didn't get burned either, just my jacket," he tries to reassure him.

The hero doesn't seem calm. The lawyer looks to Rick for some clue as to what he's doing, but he doesn't make a gesture.

"We came to thank you, Mr. Paladino," the agent's tone is formal.

Fine, they're at work. Be professional, he can handle that.

"It's my job. It was an honor working with Fiorinic," he looks at Firionic, "it was an honor to have you as a client."

Firionic nods, still not smiling. Rick does the talking the rest of the time. They both leave amicably.

When they leave, he leaves his office where several colleagues ask him what happened. He hasn't looked in a mirror yet, but he knows he doesn't see well. He goes to Oswald, the janitor, and asks him to help him. The man nods and tells him to go to the cafeteria instead; he looks bad.

"What happened to you?"

“Fire controlled”

Alam takes him to the bathroom and helps him clean his face with water and his handkerchief. The man gives him his jacket. Apparently, it's rare to see him without one.

"Ask for permission to leave early or something," Alama tells him, rubbing the handkerchief against his cheek.

"It wasn't that bad," he complains and closes his eyes.

"You won't be able to go to your office until they clean up anyway," Alam says more calmly. "Take the day off, listen to that soap opera of yours or something you like on the radio."

He ends up listening to Alam, who takes him to Mr. Johnson to ask for the day off. His boss gives it to him when he sees him. He leaves with Alam's jacket on.

"Simon"

He looks behind him, in the middle of the street, where the silhouette belonging to the voice floats and lands gracefully.

"Fironic," he speaks uncertainly, "did something happen?"

"Just," the hero hesitates, "I apologize for grabbing you like that earlier," the man offers him a card.

Simon takes it despite his hesitation and makes an effort not to show disgust on his face when he sees the card.

"I think you could be more helpful as an agent; you're a natural at it." The hero finally smiles at him, a soft, beautiful smile.

Simon could watch him for hours, but he doesn't want to. He stares at the floor.

"Thanks, but I like my job."

He leaves the hero as soon as he says that. He doesn't want to see him, and he doesn't want to explain himself. He doesn't want any more chaos in his life. He doesn't go home, but rather to the cafeteria, where he spends an hour just leaning back at the table, waiting for the hero to be far away.

When he gets home, he makes sure he hasn't been followed by the hero. As he enters, he looks at his new sofa. He sits down, even though he'll get it dirty, takes out the NSA card, and incinerates it with his gaze.

Chapter Text

The park's grass is comfortable and still damp with dew; the streetlights are still on, and the wind rustles the leaves around him. He opens his eyes when a hand rests on his shoulder.

"Come on, if we take any longer, you won't be able to listen to your show."

He gets up from the ground and stretches a little. He looks at Rick, who's waiting for him to jog back to their houses. He walks toward the man. The return trip is silent, as always; they both just jog, Rick always attentive, Simon with his head down, making sure he doesn't see anyone.

It's been two weeks since he started exercising with Rick in the early mornings. He hates that the man was right about how much it makes him feel better. He hates that Rick has been to his workplace three times in the last two weeks, not his office. His office has been visited by other people he didn't want to deal with.

"What did you say?!"

He doesn't fear for his life. He's never feared for his life. Still, the screaming hero's form is intimidating.

"I said we need more proof that you made the jetpack," he repeats slowly, looking at his paperweight.

"But I made it!"

"I know, Mr. Hypershock," he answers as calmly as he can, "but by law, I need proof to add to the record."

This isn't even his specialty; patent law is too recent for him to fully understand it, but the hero wanted him as his lawyer.

The hero takes a deep breath and sits down in the chair. Simon finally dares to look at the man, who seems to be trying to calm down.

"I'm sorry for my outburst. Just, all this to prove this is mine is so…"

"Annoying?" he asks in his softest voice. "I know, you're not the first to lose your temper in this office."

He's grateful he didn't shake anything up; he doesn't want to reorganize his files. The hero remains silent for a moment, and Simon looks at him again to find out why.

"Fironic?"

"Excuse me?"

"Fironic lost his temper here?" The hero points to the slightly burned walls.

"Oh no, that was another client." He laughs a little, though he feels it only makes the situation more awkward.

"You serve a lot of supers."

"Yes, supers, not heroes." He looks at the copy of the code on his desk, at his clipboard, and then continues reading. "You're one of my first heroic clients, I must say."

He's starting to believe Fironic recommended him to the entire heroic community. If he could yell at the hero of fire, he would. He didn't want to deal with heroes, and now he has four clients with completely different cases who insist he be their lawyer.

"I believe the original blueprints, which I can make a copy of, are sufficient for proof of authorship, although I must tell you this isn't my specialty."

"I can bring them tomorrow if necessary," the hero sounds weary again.

"It's necessary. That would be sufficient, and once your signature is approved, that would be all your patent would take."

To say he's exhausted would be an understatement. He still has two more heroic clients after Hypershock. He doesn't want to deal with heroes, but it seems they want him now.

"I understand your discontent," he says calmly, or tries to show it, it doesn't matter; if she wants, she'll know what he thinks, "but registering heroic names outside of a legal registry like the official registry of supers and the NSA registry isn't something that's happening right now.

"Well, it's something that should happen," the woman complains. "I want to publish a book as Psycwave. I think it would boost sales quite a bit."

"I suppose," he hesitates and looks at his paperweight, "but that's not possible for now. You could also publish it under your civilian identity and use your heroine name as a pseudonym, although there would be a risk that the publisher would discover your secret identity." He's not an expert in these types of registrations; he's getting fed up.

"I'll leave you alone now if you're so desperate," the woman says angrily.

What he wants is... no, he's not going to think about this now. He takes a deep breath and looks at the woman.

"I'm sorry for my attitude, but I'm not an expert on this subject," he speaks slowly. "I'm in civil law or defense of various cases," he explains as best he can. "I love working with supers, but I don't know enough about this to help you, Miss Psycwave."

He looks at the heroine, and his annoyed face changes to something softer, kinder. She smiles and nods graciously.

"I still want you to help me. Most lawyers or agents would have panicked if they saw that I picked up on a bit of their thoughts," she smiles graciously.

"It's your power. I don't know how it works, but you're a hero." He looks at the door, a trick to make them believe he's looking at the person in front of him. "You decided to use it for good. That's enough for me to trust you."

Lunch, finally. He sits exhausted at the farthest table and assumes it shows how he feels because, unlike the last few days, no one approaches him to ask about the heroes he's dealing with.

"Everything okay?"

"Yes."

"You're a terrible liar, Simon." Alam sits down. "At least lift your head to answer."

"It hurts."

Hypershock yelled. Pscywave didn't seem to hate him, but everything felt tense. Then there was Blazestone. It was one of the most stressful meetings of his life, not because she spoke quickly and didn't fully understand what she wanted, nor because she smiled when he mentioned her criminal record. What stressed him out the most was when she took his paperweight.

"So bad?" Alam touched his shoulder.

"No" he moved away slightly.

It hadn't been that bad, but he had nowhere to look when he got tired without that paperweight. Blazestone talked about how it was a volcanic rock and was surprised it was still warm. Of course it was warm, that's why he has it on his desk. He had to feign ignorance. She also half-apologized for accidentally heating up the room at one point during the meeting; he had to pretend he noticed.

"So what has you like this?"

"I don't like heroes," he confesses, finally raising his head.

"Really?" Alam seems genuinely confused. "I thought you just didn't pay attention to them."

"I don't hate them," he defends himself. "But I don't like interacting with them. I feel…" Tiny, useless, cowardly, pathetic… "Weird."

"Everyone feels weird around heroes," Alam consoles. "They're heroes. They can do amazing things, and we're just normal."

He would give anything to be normal.

"I thought you'd be used to the feeling of working with so many supers," Alam adds, listening to him sip his coffee. "Weird, I think the machine broke down. It's getting cold fast now."

"That coffee maker is weird," he looks at his friend's coffee for the first time since they started talking. "Or maybe you burned your tongue so much you can't tell when it's hot anymore."

Alam laughs.

"See, you do have a sense of humor."

Alam smiles later as he sips his coffee, agreeing with Simon that he can't tell the heat of the drink anymore as he almost burns himself.

"It's all routine if you get used to it," Rick tells him as they walk home after another early morning workout.

"I don't know if I want to get used to heroes in my office," he says tiredly.

"They'll stop coming. Very few of them have a real reason to seek out a lawyer," Rick consoles him.

"I hope so," he whispers. "I don't even know why they want me."

"You're good at your job." Rick smiles, not a friendly smile, a different kind of smile. "And I think Fironic recommended you to the whole city."

"What?"

The hero cases finally stopped coming. The routine changed: going for a jog or run with Rick every morning, with Alam sometimes visiting him in his office for no apparent reason, and even talking more with Mary, although she really just wanted to know about heroes.

"Gamma Jack is handsome, I think," the woman says with a smile. "Do you like any heroines?"

"I don't know much about heroes."

"Really?" She seems surprised. "I thought since you work with so many, you'd know about them."

"I've worked with six, Mary. That's not many." It's one of those slow days where the coffee maker decided to break down and he's waiting for the delivery guy to give his coworkers a cup of coffee. "Although I've worked with two heroines: Psycwave and Blazestone."

"They're very pretty."

He looks at Mary's face. She looks at him as if it's the first time their faces have met. Maybe it is.

"I mean, what girl wouldn't want to be them?" She smiles, and he looks at the floor.

He feels uncomfortable and sees a spot on the floor. He moves his gaze before it starts to smoke. He hears Mary's nails click against her receptionist desk. It's so uncomfortable, and he's going to make it worse.

"I guess Fironic is attractive... what man wouldn't want to look like that?"

Neither of them looks at each other, and they remain silent for a moment, more awkward than before. He feels his eyes start to heat up and closes them. He shifts uncomfortably, and although he doesn't see Mary, he knows she isn't comfortable either.

The delivery man arrives, and Simon practically runs out of the reception area to go to the building's cafeteria. He can ignore the rest of the day with simple cases, except for one that makes him forget the rest of his day.

He's not an expert on many topics, but he is an expert on supers, who are subjected to so many things that he's learned many strange facts. He's not an expert on custody; he doesn't want to hear more of this woman's crying.

"I'll do my best."

He doesn't want to lie about this. He calms the mother, explains cases to her, tells her to go with her daughter for now. He looks for documents, stops by several of his colleagues' offices to ask for help with jurisprudence, and goes to the library to look for some code he's been missing.

He comes home late, misses his novel, but it doesn't matter. He listens to music while reviewing notes, and warms his coffee with his gaze whenever he feels he might set his work on fire.

There must be a precedent, one that hasn't been hidden by the press.

Someone knocks on his office door. He stops to open it; Mrs. Tyson must have arrived early. He sees someone else.

He guesses he can't hide his face of disappointment from the way the hero stops smiling.

"Fironic," he doesn't say hello, just says his name. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," the hero seems unsure. "Are you free?"

"No."

Simon looks at his feet and takes a deep breath. He doesn't want to deal with heroes, not even this one, whom he likes. He sees Mrs. Tyson's silhouette behind the hero.

"Mrs. Tyson."

The woman sees him and approaches uncertainly.

"Mr. Paladino and..." she sees the hero.

"Come in, I have some progress on the case," she says, pulling the hero away from the door.

She passes slowly, and he finally feels like he can breathe. He looks at the hero, almost forgetting he was there.

"Sorry, Fironic, I'm busy," he says quickly, clumsily. "But if it's an urgent case, you can wait until I'm done."

"It's not urgent," the hero smiles at him. "Do your job."

"Goodbye."

He closes the door and sits across from the woman, offers her water, and begins to talk about how they can make sure she keeps custody of her daughter, given that the hospital discovered the baby is a super. He's not going to let this woman lose her baby.

He leaves work and locks eyes with Mary. She smiles at him, and he smiles back.

"Simon," the receptionist calls.

He looks at her. She takes out a box and opens it.

"Do you want a pastry?" she says softly. "They left them here, they didn't even tell me who they were for," she says with a giggle. "I don't want them to go to waste."

"That would be a shame," he says, approaching. "We can't let them go to waste."

"Yeah, that wouldn't be fair."

They eat the pastries together. He takes an extra one to go back upstairs and find Alam putting away his things and give it to him.

He returns home and stands in the entryway, feeling the breeze with his eyes closed. He can get used to this new routine. He just has to keep going as he is, and things will turn out well: he'll win the case and then help other supers.

Chapter Text

Going from one place to another, carrying documents, making copies, talking, and having appointments rescheduled due to bureaucracy. Asking the public officials he requests documents from how they are doing, going to another specialist to review his ideas and theories, returning to the office with a pile of paperwork. Lunch.

Finally, he's back to his normal rhythm.

Things have been going well. Mary and he now talk normally. Alam hasn't bought a new mug but now scratches Simon's mug with a marker. Rick hasn't returned to the building but they see each other every day for exercise.

Sometimes heroes come in whom he's already treated, but they tend to be consultations, not cases, and he's grateful that they're things he's resolved in an hour. It's still new legislation, but it's short, and he can use old shortcuts.

"Have you been exercising?" Alam asks, scratching Simon's disposable cup.

"Yes, how did you know?" Simon is writing something down about a case.

"You're looking better." Alam hands him back his cup, and Simón takes a sip. "I exercise too."

"At the gym, right?"

"Yes," Alam smiles broadly. You could come, they give a discount if someone who already pays introduces you

"I don't have time in the afternoon," he replies. "I don't like crowded places."

"Sure."

He doesn't understand why Alam chuckles, but he tries to smile and look at him. Alam just looks away at something.

"Weird," the man whispers.

Simon looks at the same spot: the cafeteria entrance, where several janitors are coming in.

"They don't usually come in at this time," Alam says.

Simon adjusts his glasses and tries to make out their faces. He stops staring when he feels his eyes heat up and looks at his coffee.

"Maybe they're new." He stirs his coffee a little. "I don't recognize any of them.

"Yeah, they must be."

"Simón, Alam," he looks at Mary, who is approaching with a box. "They left more pastries, and it's my break." She approaches, smiling. "Do you want any?"

"You're the best, Mary," Alam says, smiling, and the girl laughs.

Mary sits down, and the conversation continues, with Alam telling them about the episode of his series and then asking about Simón's radio soap opera. Simón is happy to recount the drama of the last episode he listened to while Mary asks questions.

"What does that mean?" Mrs. Tyson asks.

"It means you can win custody of your daughter. The state can't take her away from you." He smiles at her. "There's no law that protects them, but you do."

The woman smiles with teary eyes.

"You'll have to ask the NSA for help with your daughter's medical exams. They're usually free of charge. It's a fairly common practice among non-super parents of super children."

"Have you heard of other cases like this?" she asks hesitantly.

"Your case is different because your daughter is a baby. There are more cases of infants and adolescents where the family claimed they knew how to care for the minor during the time they were in their care without incident." He recalls his own case. He remembers the money running out to pay lawyers who weren't familiar with super laws. "Most cases were won, and the family kept custody."

"Aren't they going to take my daughter away from me?"

"No, we won't let them."

It's been three weeks. Three weeks in Mrs. Tyson's case, but he knows it's going to end, that they're going to win, that this little girl will have a semi-normal life and will be loved. The NSA will get involved, but at least the girl will have free healthcare for the rest of her life.

He'd have the same thing if it weren't for the fact that he avoids them like the plague. Even so, he's outside NSA headquarters; the taxi charge was too much, but that was to be expected with the base on the other side of the city.

"Good morning," he greets the guard. "I'm attorney Simón Paladino. I made an appointment."

He feels the guard's gaze on him and watches as he checks his clipboard, making sure to look away from the flammable paper.

"Agent Dicker's office," the guard says, nodding and handing him a visitor's badge. "Down the hall and to the right." He places it around his neck and nods.

"Thank you."

The place is simple yet striking. Decorated with figures of heroes, a beautiful waiting room, and he can't stop staring at everything. He stares at the floor; he can't accidentally burn or disintegrate anything here. He finally gets them to leave him alone.

There's a main hallway, and he heads down it. As he walks past, his gaze lowered, he hears people talking; he can tell by their shoes who's approaching. Office shoes or sneakers belong to agents, and colorful boots belong to heroes.

The atmosphere isn't much different from the building where he works. He bumps into something and stops abruptly. He bumped into someone; look at the boots: colorful.

"I'm so sorry," he says quickly.

"You need to watch where you're going." The voice is deep but not obtrusive.

He looks up so as not to be rude and sees a hero with colorful friezes on his suit, someone he does recognize from the newspapers.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frozone."

"Sir?" the hero laughs. "I'm not that old, I must be your age." The man is about to put his hand on the man.

Simon steps back; he doesn't want this hero to touch him. With heat or physical heroes, it's easy to hide, with normal people, less so, but he doesn't want to know if he can hide it from Frozone.

"It's courtesy, not age," he explains, and looks down the hall. Other heroes peek out from a room.

"Sure, I understand." Frozone looks at him doubtfully. "You're not an agent, are you?"

"No, sir."

The heroes see him and Frozone. He sees Hypershock's head poking out, and he wants to look down. He just has to go to the end of the hall, to the right, and talk to Dicker about Mrs. Tyson and her daughter.

"Visitor," Frozone says, noticing the name tag he's wearing. "Paladino?"

"That's my name."

He just looks at the hero when he seems to connect the dots of some mental scheme and smiles broadly.

"You're the lawyer of heroes!" he says triumphantly.

"I'm a lawyer for supers, not heroes," he corrects.

"You're Fironic's lawyer," Frozone laughs and looks at him doubtfully, now he feels like he's being scrutinized.

"It was," he clarifies.

"Paladino" someone calls out, and both Simon and Frozone look back.

Hypershock approaches with a smile, and all he wants is to get to Rick's office.

"Nice to see you again," Hypershock says, settling in next to Frozone, who seems slightly surprised.

"It's nice to see you too."

He wants to get out of this before any other supers show up to chat him up. He looks at the floor.

"Excuse me, but I have an appointment with Agent Dicker," he tries to move forward.

"Another hero got into trouble?" Frozone asks. "Gammajack?"

"This isn't a case involving heroes," he answers and moves forward.

The heroes let him pass. He stops and looks at them with a warm smile.

"Nice to see you."

He moves forward with his head down, avoiding everyone as quickly as he can, down the hallway until he reaches the office. Finally, he enters, and Rick sees him.

"Your heroes are gossips."

"Yes, they are."

They then discuss the case, and Rick assures them that they will give their full support to the girl and mother, in addition to helping with the extra payments the woman has had to make for the same process and documentation. This case will be completed by Monday of next week.

"Will you walk me out?" he asks, gathering his things. "I don't want another hero talking to me."

"And you think I intimidate them?" Rick raises an eyebrow.

"Have you seen yourself?"

Rick laughs to his surprise and accompanies him to the exit, where he receives greetings, but no one stops him. He walks to the main road and calls a taxi.

When he arrives at the building, he sees a hero at the reception desk. Are heroes going to chase him his whole life?

"Simon," Mary says, smiling. The hero turns to look at him the second he sees him. "Fironic was just looking for you."

"Fironic," he says, and sees Mary, who has a smile somewhere between expectant and playful. He should never have mentioned Fironic to her. "Do you want to come to my office? I just got back from a meeting, and I don't have any other clients."

"Actually, I'd like to invite you for a drink," the hero smiles.

A bright, kind, sweet, so sweet smile. He looks at the floor.

"Some formal business or…"

"As friends," Fironic clarifies, and Simon thinks he hears emotion in the man's voice.

"Sure," he looks at Mary, who seems to be between giving him a thumbs-up and applauding.

He's going to contact Psycwave to bother Mary if she keeps making gestures to him while the hero isn't looking.

“Let me get my things together, and I'll be down in ten minutes.”

“I'll wait.”

He hurries to his office, puts away his papers, calls Mrs. Tyson, and says goodbye to Alam, who seems to be fighting and losing against a spreadsheet.

When he gets out, the hero is still standing in front of reception. Mary smiles at him as soon as she sees him, and Simon smiles back.

"Everything's in orden", he says calmly. "Do you have a placein mind?" he asks, a little curiously, "although I don't drink alcohol."

"Me neither. Heroic work and alcohol don't mix well"he says, easing the lawyer's worries. "There's a cafe near the park."

"Guide me."

They both walk, and he keeps his head down. He feels so many people watching them. He knows they're only looking at Fironic, but if he sees them, it could put them in danger, and he doesn't want that; he hates crowds. He feels a hand on his shoulder and is a little surprised. He looks into Fironic's eyes, who smiles at him.

The hand is warm; other people's hands always feel cold.

"Aren't you a fan of crowds?" he asks kindly.

"No."

"Don't worry, we'll get to the cafeteria soon. They have a private room, and their pastries are good."

For the rest of the trip, Fironic keeps his hand on the lawyer's shoulder, who's trying hard not to burn the ground beneath his feet.

The cafe is simple but elegant. On one wall is a photo of Fironic eating there with an autograph. The owners immediately let them in, and the private room is as comfortable as the rest of the place, but without the strange looks.

He feels he can finally breathe.

They order something simple, and the two men stare at each other. He assumes Fironic wants him to start talking, but he doesn't know what to say. Normally, the others talk and he listens, except when it's a legal case.

"I don't think I thanked you properly for your help with my case," Fironic says.

"You did it properly," he assures, then hesitates. "Although I wanted to ask you a question."

"Ask it."

"… Did you recommend me to other heroes?"

"Yes, you did an excellent job, and talking to you is comfortable, and you're not impressed by powers."

He wants to yell at the man, but at the same time he can't. Fironic is smiling proudly, flattering him, and Simon wants nothing more than to yell at him that he shouldn't have recommended him to heroes.

"You flatter me, but I don't usually deal with heroes," he says, looking down at the table.

"But you're excellent at your job."

"I guess."

The silence is awkward, and Simon knows he's messed up; he wants the earth to swallow him whole. Luckily, the order arrives on time.

"Has any hero given you trouble?" Fironic asks.

"No, not really," he thinks for a second. "At least they don't cause accidents in my office," he jokes.

Fironic doesn't laugh at his attempt at a joke, and Simon looks at his coffee. He sips it, and it's good.

"Do you like coffee?"

"Yes, it's good."

"Try a pastry," the hero offers him, and Simon sees the pastry.

"I think someone leaves packages from this place abandoned at the reception desk where I work." He thinks he should ask Mary if she knows who leaves them.

"Really?"

"Yes," he takes a bite and smiles. "Mary gives me some when they leave them, they're good."

"Mary?" the curious hero asks.

"The receptionist."

"Sure," the hero's voice sounds a little happier.

Somehow, the conversation subsides; the two talk for a while. They talk about nothing, technically, Simon complements ideas, and Fironic finally takes control of the conversation, sharing anecdotes about how he's been doing as a hero.

As he leaves, Fironic insists on paying, and Simon accepts.

"I can walk you home," Fironic offers.

"No, I can go alone. You have to go help people." He doesn't want anyone to know where he lives; it's enough that Rick knows.

"See you another day?" he asks, smiling.

How could he say no to that smile? Simon thinks of all the times pretty faces and radiant smiles have gotten him into trouble, the few times it was worth it. He's learned: this is just a moment, nothing more.

"Sure, another day."

The hero flies away and watches him gracefully sail into the sunset. Simón wishes the earth would swallow him up.

He arrives home, does paperwork, listens to his soap opera, and yells at the radio when he discovers that Fernanda de la Rosa was betrayed by her boyfriend and that the guy from the store in chapter fifteen was an evil clone. He listens to music, takes a shower, and falls into bed.

He feels exhausted but fine; he's sleeping better than he has in a long time.

-----------

Bob Parr wakes up in the middle of the night feeling a bad feeling and gets ready for work.

Chapter Text

"The receptionist, they made her call the police and tell them what they're demanding." The girl is blonde, and maybe pretty, but right now she's a weepy, shaking mess. "Then all the radios stopped working, so we didn't have time to call the NSA."

"What are the demands?" she asks, approaching the woman.

"Money, freedom of escape, identification," the police officer answers, trying to keep up. "Until noon. If we delay, they say they'll kill all the hostages."

As he advances, all the officers make way for the hero, who looks at the crying woman with ruined makeup. She sees him and cries harder, but runs after the hero, stumbling on her heels and trembling body.

"You have to save them," she begs. "They're just lawyers, they're my friends."

"We'll do everything we can," he answers, carefully holding the woman. "But I need you to calm down."

"I heard them talking. They're going to kill him even if they comply with their demands."

The woman uses the singular. A specific person is the target. If they get what they want and still plan to kill a hostage, it must be someone important, or these new villains are sadists.

"Who?"

"Simon, he's a supers lawyer." She speaks quickly. "They think the heroes will take them seriously."

The name sounds familiar, but he doesn't know where it comes from. On the other hand, he didn't know there was someone specializing in that. He tries to remember.

"Simon isn't even a hero lawyer. He's only seen a couple." The woman trembles. "He's a good man, and they'll kill him if they see Fironic. I heard them!"

"If they see Fironic?"

The woman nods and lets out another sob. He sees the police. He can't risk Fironic arriving if the threat is real. He also doesn't know who these villains are. One of the villains must have a power related to waves, which explains why the police radios and apparently phones aren't working.

"You," he points to a police officer, "find Fironic and tell him not to go near the building. We can't risk a civilian." He points to another police officer. "And you go to the NSA headquarters. We need reinforcements."

He can handle several villains at the same time, but with the hostages, everything gets complicated. Metaman would be helpful, but he doesn't know where he is right now, he doesn't know where anyone is, and he can't communicate.

"Does anyone have the blueprints for this building?"

He strategizes, but the problem is that he needs at least one other hero for support. He also talks to the receptionist named Mary, who tells him the specific floor where the lawyer is, and that he has a separate office. Time is passing, and they can't take any risks; there might even be explosives.

"What's going on here?"

He listens to Frozone before seeing him and smiles. He has support. Frozone slips off his ice and looks at him doubtfully.

"Hostage situation. Four new villains want to make a name for themselves and have taken over the building," he explains to his friend. "According to the receptionist, who let them escape so they can fulfill their demands, they plan to kill a super lawyer even if their demands are met or if Fironic comes to the rescue."

"Paladino?" Fronzono asks, looking at the building's floor plan. "Damn, the guy is a nervous wreck."

"Do you know him?"

"He showed up at the NSA yesterday for a legal meeting with Dicker or something," Frozone says, frowning. "He looked like an anxious fawn. These guys are going to scare him to death."

"We don't have time. If we don't meet the demands by noon, they'll start killing people."

"Do you have a plan?" Frozone asks, his face serious.

"Yes, I have one, and I just needed one more hero to make it work."

"You always have me as your support." Lucios places his hand on Bob's shoulder, a smile on his lips.

"I know," he smiles.

He looks at the police and begins giving instructions. He's grateful the police are listening; otherwise, everything would be more complicated. The police will pretend to comply with the demands and negotiate with the villains while he and Lucios enter the building.

The main objective is to incapacitate the four villains and find Paladino, who may be isolated from the main group of hostages.

"We want to negotiate," says a police officer through a megaphone.

A window opens and a man in a mask appears with his own megaphone.

"We're listening."

The back door is closed, but that's not a problem for either of the supers. The new problem is the lights being off, leaving very little visible. A possible villain with night vision or night goggles.

They can't risk turning on the lights. They advance silently in the darkness until they reach the service staircase. They both advance silently, first locating the villains with the hostages.

"Fironic loves the guy," Frozone whispers. "If they kill him, it'll be a disaster."

"Is he that good a lawyer?" he asks in a whisper.

"I have no idea, it seems so. Hypershock even smiled at him when he saw him. Not a camera smile, just a genuine one."

"How did I miss all that?"

"You're never at headquarters, you're all over the city all the time, you don't even hear the rumors."

They advance until they reach the floor. He stops Frozone from moving forward and points to the bottom of the door. It's barely visible with the lights off, but there's someone on the other side.

He gestures, and Frozone nods. They brace themselves; they can't be noisy; this all depends on not being seen. The ice slides through the door and opens it, quickly hitting the guy who tries to free himself from the ice. He doesn't fall from the impact, but he doesn't manage to scream either.

He looks at the guy, wearing extravagant clothes, a gun in his hands, and a mask. He sees the ice figure, now completely frozen.

He looks at Frozone, and he nods.

They're going to split up now. Since Lucios is the one who knows the lawyer they're looking for, he'll search for him separately, disabling anyone he finds. Bob, for his part, will go to the main room and disabling the villain to get the hostages out.

He listens to the sound of negotiations. So far, no mention has been made of the hostages. There's a high probability they're far from the villain negotiating. That means there are exactly two villains left to arrest: the one with the hostages and the one with the lawyer. Without the guard, the hostages have a clear exit.

He walks silently through the room; his instinct doesn't scream danger, but the strange feeling is still there. He remembers Everseer; the hero wouldn't let people die. He's sure everything will be okay. They're heroes, their job is to save people, not let them die with indifference.

He hears the sobs and breathing. He heads toward the sound and sees the sign in the darkness, eyes finally adjusted to it. The cafeteria, a place big enough to hold the hostages. He can break the wall and attack, but he doesn't know if there are any hostages pressed against the wall.

He can knock on the door and wait for the guy to open it and hit him. He can go in slowly, but that means more time for them to attack the hostages. He knocks on the door and hopes the villains, due to their inexperience, haven't made a special code.

"Signal Master?" asks the voice on the other side of the door. He hears the crackle of electricity, a sob.

He can't wait.

He reaches through the door and grabs the screaming body. He pulls it out of the room, tearing off the hinged door. He hears screams of fear. He looks at the guy he's holding, bright colors, gun in one hand, the other electrified.

He slams him against the floor.

The villain rises with a savage scream and hands full of energy, that's as far as stealth goes. He dodges and knees him in the stomach. The guy nearly throws up and falls to the ground with a painful scream.

"Are there others?" he asks, approaching and placing a hand on the guy's shoulder.

He might almost seem friendly, but if the villain has any brains, he'll understand the threat of Mister Incredible's hand on his shoulder.

"It doesn't matter," the guy says in pain. "They already know you're here."

He hits him, and the guy falls unconscious to the ground. He takes a deep breath and looks at the hostages. Several are tied up and beaten, but no one seems seriously injured.

"Are you all okay?" he asks, approaching.

Some nod, others look close to tears. One gets up on shaky legs; he can see blood on his hands but no wounds.

"We're not all here," the man speaks clearly. "They have Simon."

"Frozone is taking care of it. My priority is to get you out of here," he says, approaching the man, who hesitates.

"You don't know Simon, it's reckless," the man whispers softly.

He's about to say something, anything to get them all away from danger, then all the lights come on, and he hears a scream.

"Frozone," he whispers, looking at the man, "do you know where the emergency stairs are?"

"Yes," the man nods.

"Take them outside, now!"

The man nods and signals. Several people stand and begin to move forward. He runs to where he heard the sound. The lights unnaturally go out again, and he now hears worried whispers in the distance. He breaks through the wall where he heard the noise, and nothingness surrounds him.

He can't see anything. They were wrong; there wasn't a villain who could see in the darkness.

"Did they really think it would be that easy?" mocks the voice surrounding him.

It's a villain who controls the darkness.

The silhouette appears, smiling, his suit black, his skin like paper. There is another person approaching, this one instead shines and has Frozone in his hand.

"Do you really think we'd be so stupid as to reveal how many of us there really are or leave the most talkative of the group in charge?"

"Let him go," he orders, looking at Frozone.

The figure of light laughs and knocks Frozone to the ground. He tries to get up but fails, trying to cover his eyes with his hand.

"We're the ones who will defeat the great Mister Incredible!"

He runs to strike; surprise is his best option. The darkness envelops him; he sees nothing, and then the light blinds him, causing him to stumble and fall. He doesn't know where Frozone is; he doesn't want to accidentally hurt him.

He feels a blow; it's not hard, but he feels it, and he turns to attack. The light blinds him again, his vision burning. He catches his breath and listens to the place, the footsteps, the sense of danger in the air. He strikes, hears the crunch of bones. Something throws itself at him and he struggles, trying to get him to let go. The light illuminates his eyes and he falls to the ground in surprise and heat.

"Maybe you can overcome the shadows," a female voice whispers in his ear, "but nothing beats the light." His vision still burns when he feels hands on his eyes. "Say goodbye to your sight!"

He can't take her off him; the hand is over his eyes, and darkness.

For a second, he thinks he's gone blind until he sees behind him the shining skin clutching the floor in pain, and in the corner, two bright red lights enter through a gap in the room he doesn't know when it was created.

He covers his eyes when he sees the woman launch a light attack, but instead of laughing, she screams again. He looks behind him just as the red-eyed person strikes the villain and knocks her to the floor with a forceful blow.

The red eyes see him and go out. Someone is now near him, on the floor, breathing heavily. He tries to reach him.

"Bastard!"

The shadow villain moves them against the new opponent. Heat builds in the air. He sees the figure rise, and the shadows are split into two straight red lines, accompanied by a guttural scream. The wall breaks behind the villain, who freezes in shock.

This is his chance.

He charges at the shadow being and delivers a blow that makes the room creak. The shadows return to normal, dark but visible. He looks at the messed-up room. Frozone is against a wall, still rubbing his eyes.

A noise that sounds like a sigh of relief is heard. He sees the figure, its eyes glowing red. It's intimidating, almost like a creature out of a children's storybook meant to send children back to their beds. This guy landed a clean punch on a villain without thinking, slashing the shadow and punching a hole in a wall. This guy helped them.

"What just happened?" My head hurts.

Frozone speaks slowly and looks at Bob, then at the figure, whose eyes are no longer glowing, as it begins to walk toward the door. Bob looks at Lucious, who has a couple of bruises but nothing serious, and gives a mental thank you. The light comes on, and he prepares to attack, but the feeling of danger finally diminishes.

The laser beam person had turned on the light, turned around, and saw them. It was a man in a suit that was a mess, with rips and footprints, blood trickling down his head and leg, disheveled hair, and a tired expression.

The man is a mess, yet he still looks imposing. Bob knows it. That man is a hero even without the suit. Then the guy collapses to the ground and begins to hyperventilate.

Frozone arrives before him and grabs the panicking super. He takes his hands away for a second and grabs him again.

"Breathe, Paladin," Frozone instructs. "It's okay, it's over, you're safe."

"The others," the man whispers.

"Safe, they went down the emergency stairs."

The man breathes heavily again.

"There are more villains," the man looks at the ground.

"We stopped almost all of them."

"Almost?" Panic seeps into the man's voice again.

"We don't know where the one who was negotiating with the police is yet, but he doesn't have any hostages," he explains slowly. "Now we're going to get you out of here, so someone can treat you."

"I can't go to a hospital," he whispers.

"No one knows you're a super, right?" Frozone speaks sympathetically. "The NSA will take care of it, or Dicker. You know him, right?"

The man nods slowly.

"Come on, I'm going to get you out of here," Frozone says, lifting the man in his arms. "You can't walk with that leg wound." The lawyer nods, just short of fainting.

Frozone sees Mister Incredible, who can't seem to tear his gaze away from the lawyer.

"Go get the last villain," his friend says with a serious look.

"Piece of cake."

It is. It's not difficult to catch the last one who was running away the moment he heard the noise. Luckily, there were no explosives involved. Other heroes had arrived and were tasked with securing the place and searching for more villains. The hostages were taken to the hospital.

"Where did they send the lawyer?" he asks Frozone when it's finally over.

"I don't know. Dicker saw him and took him without telling me," Frozone complains. "I didn't even get to thank him for helping us."

Leave them when the matter is over, Everseer said. On the other hand, he said it wouldn't change anything whether he decided to do it or not.

He's going to find Simon Paladino. He knows a hero when he sees one, and also someone who needs a little push to become one.

"We'll thank him later. I'm sure we'll see him again."

He'll make sure to find him.

Chapter Text

He was good at clearing his mind; a hero can't keep his mind occupied during battles. Being distracted could be a death sentence. He knew how to manage his emotions so as not to burn the world around him, to smile when people spoke to him, to continue with his work when he just wanted to fly away from it all.

He couldn't stop thinking it was his fault and no one else's. It was his fault, even if Frozone, when he came to tell him the situation was over, told him it wasn't. They were painful hours of waiting, but he couldn't do anything; if he got close, they would kill him. How could that not be his fault

The great Fironic, the greatest independent hero anyone had ever seen. What a lie! He almost got someone killed for not knowing how to keep his mouth shut. Not just anyone, but someone he respected and appreciated.

He had met Simon Paladino in a less-than-ideal situation; he doesn't believe you can actually meet a lawyer in an ideal situation. The man seemed nervous and walked hunched over, looking at the floor, distracted as he entered. He didn't seem like a reliable lawyer, in her opinion. Then he spoke.

Any doubts he had about the man vanished when he heard his voice, a deep, steady voice, like a campfire that many overlook because it's so common. He couldn't describe the lawyer as common.

"Stop thinking so much," Frozone looked at him.

"I'm trying," he said in frustration

"Are you still thinking about the lawyer?"

Not many knew, but he and Frozone got along well, not as well as Frozone, Mister Incredible, and GammaJack, but still good. Their routes sometimes clashed. Since he wasn't an NSA hero, he could choose his patrol routes.

"Have you heard from him?"

Frozone told him about the hostage situation, about the threat to kill Simon if he, Fironic, showed up. About how the lawyer was beaten but, at the last moment, recklessly threw himself at the villains and helped the heroes.

He wished he were a little surprised that a man like Simon, someone nervous, who seems to want to disappear when they see him, would throw himself at the villains without hesitation. He still remembers the last day of his case, opening the door and seeing the fire, fearing the man was dead, and then seeing him standing upright, confident, calming with his deep voice the person who could have killed him.

He knew Simon was reckless, which was why he hadn't wanted to get close. A reckless but fearful civilian with a hero as a friend didn't sound like a safe combination.

"Dicker assured me he's fine and that he'll be out of the hospital soon," Frozone sighs and sees him. "But Dicker's a government agent, he won't give me any more information," he mocks. "That I shouldn't bother civilians and so on."

"He scolded me once about that."

"You?" Frozone smiles. "You always smile at civilians."

"The civilian was putting himself in danger. I got angry at his recklessness."

"I understand, friend." He received a slap on the back from an icy hand.

It took weeks for him to realize that if Simon was reckless enough to not care if everything around him burned down, he would be in danger with or without a hero deciding to be his friend.

He bought pastries at a cafe that always gave him discounts as a favor for saving their business years ago. He went to the office, and the man ignored him. He wasn't angry. How could he be when he saw the lawyer's excitement when he told his client he was making progress on the case?

He had asked Simon why he didn't want to join a hero organization. He replied that he liked his job. He could see it in that moment, in every moment. He left the pastries when the receptionist wasn't looking. He came back but didn't dare look for him. He started leaving pastries with each failed attempt to see him.

He had never wanted to be friends with someone so strongly. He didn't want to ruin it.

He talked too much. Now the lawyer who smiled at him while they ate pastries in the cafeteria and talked excitedly about documents he didn't quite understand was in the hospital because some villains decided he was an easy target to hurt.

"Hey," he looks at Frozone when he talks. "I don't think it's your fault you talked about him. He's good at what he does." Frozone smiles. "Even Hypershock and Psycwave like him, that's complicated."

"Yeah, he's a nice person," he whispers.

"If Incredible had met him, the whole town would know about him. You had good intentions."

As a hero, he knows that good intentions can kill.

"Thanks, Frozone."

When he gets home, he takes a cold shower. His skin is steaming. He takes a deep breath. He goes to his room and looks in the mirror. He looks bad.

He smiles, it seems forced. He smiles again, it looks a little more natural. He thinks about Simon agreeing to see him again, and smiles, and then stops.

Would the man want to see him after almost being killed because of him?

He lies down and tries to stop thinking. He has to stop thinking so he doesn't catch fire, he has to stop thinking. He sleeps on the hard floor with the embers warming him and making his thoughts race.

He helps people, puts out fires, prevents criminals from committing misdeeds. He runs into Mister Incredible.

"Hey Fironic," the blond calls running to him, "I wanted to ask you a question."

"What's up?" he asks with mild interest.

"How well do you know Paladino?"

He wants to leave at that moment, finally managing to stop thinking about the man with glasses. His strange eyes: a combination of black and blue.

"He was my lawyer. We've talked a couple of times," he answers uncomfortably.

"I thought you were friends."

He doesn't know if they're friends.

"I almost got him killed for talking about him too much. I doubt he wants to be my friend anymore."

"You don't know that," the blond encourages him. "You'll only know if you ask him." He smiles. "I don't know him, not like you, I suppose, but he seemed pretty willing to forgive."

"Maybe."

Frozone tells him that Paladino is out of the hospital. Apparently, he had to ask Psycwave to see Dicker's mind since the man refused to answer.

He spends the whole night thinking about whether he should look for Simon, to apologize, to beg for another chance, to see him another day and see him make interesting contributions to the conversation. He doesn't know what to do.

He helps people, he flies, he thinks, he saves a couple of people, it's a slow day, and he sees the cafeteria. He enters, unsure why. Then he knows, he's made a decision.

"A box of pastries, please."

He arrives at the building. It's been closed for a week for security reasons. From what he knows, not everything has been repaired yet, but it's ready for the lawyers to return to work. If he's not mistaken about Simon, the man should already be returning to work.

The receptionist sees him; her expression is different from the other times they've met. She simply signals for him to move forward. He nods and continues.

He goes up to the next floor, passing through the hallways to reach Simon's office, walking slowly but determinedly. The further he goes, the more rubble he sees in the corners, and he becomes more worried. He stops when he sees the unpainted brick wall, with bricks still to be laid.

"You!"

He turns around when he hears an unfamiliar voice. A lawyer with black hair and a light complexion approaches with annoyed steps.

"Get out!"

He doesn't understand what's happening.

"Excuse me?" He feels hot.

"Go away!" The man stands in front of the hero. "You're not going near Simon!"

"Who do you think you are?" he asks, controlling himself.

"His friend, someone who cares about him, unlike you."

"He didn't mention you."

The man doesn't back down; he stands more firmly and smiles with a hint of cruelty.

"He did mention you, all the heroes he had to endure," he points. "You wore him out."

"I came to see Simon, not you."

"Simon?" he questions. "You call him by name like he's your friend. He's not your friend, he was your lawyer."

"Listen," he breathes slowly. "I understand you're upset. I put you all in danger, and I'm sorry."

"You don't understand," he mocks. "You can breathe fire, you can fly!" he laughs "you don't know what it's like to watch someone you love being beaten while you can't do anything; to be nothing."

"I came to apologize, to him, to everyone," he tries to point at him, still holding the box.

"What I want is for you to leave," the man speaks quietly, dangerously. "You don't scare me."

He understands this man's anger, his protection of his friend, of everyone, of whether it was his fault in the end. Even so, he doesn't want to leave; he won't leave without asking Simon.

"I'm going to wait for Simon," he says slowly. "I want to talk to him."

"You won't!" The man leans closer. "Simon doesn't need to deal with you, with any of this." He points at him, then laughs and covers his face. "Fuck, I recommended he take on more cases with heroes. He said heroes were the only supers who knew how to control their powers. I thought he'd be safe with heroes." His voice is low.

"I'm sorry."

"Just go!"

"No."

"Get out, you freak!"

His patience has run out, because this man shouldn't talk to him like that. How could anyone be friends with this guy? He takes a step forward, feels the heat vibrate across his skin. The man steps back. Fironic sees the terror in those eyes, and it brings him back to reality, wrenching him from his cold anger. This man recently suffered a hostage situation with supers, and now he's scaring him.

What's he doing?

"Alam?"

Both men turn and see the newcomer.

"Fironic?"

Simon looks ill even though he's dressed up. He can see the bandages still on his face, in his hands. The deep dark circles under those glasses aren't the same ones he saw him with last time.

"What's going on?" It's one of the few times he doesn't see the lawyer hunched over.

"Nothing," Alam replies. "Fironic was leaving."

"It wasn't," he says, looking at Simon. "I wanted to talk to you."

"No, you have nothing to say," Alam insists.

"Alam, I'll take care of it." Simon approaches, his voice soft and calm.

"No," Alam shakes his head. "You don't have to deal with them."

"I just want to talk," he repeats.

"Fironic," Simon says softly, asking him to keep quiet.

"No!" Alam takes Simon by the shoulders. “You’re not going to talk to him. This guy is the one who got you hurt.”

“Alam,” Simon speaks slowly, taking Alam’s hands off him.

“Be mad at me if you want, but don’t talk to him. You’ll do what you always do. You’ll forgive him, you’ll be reckless.” His anger unravels and turns to despair. “You’ll get hurt and say it’s nothing.”

"I know how to take care of myself."

"It doesn't seem like it!"

Fironic can't help but agree with Alam this time. Simon looks at the ground, then at the two of them.

"It's my decision."

"Yes, it's your decision." He advances on the man with glasses.

"Fuck you." Alam steps in between.

"Alam, stop."

"No!" the man shouts. "Stop trying to act like that!"

"Like what?" Simon demands.

"As if you were a hero!" the voice breaks. "You're not."

"Simon is a hero," he says before he even thinks about it.

The eyes of the man who until now had been angry change, a slight betrayal at the hero's words, as if he expected support for what he was saying, despite having insulted him recently.

"He's not."

"I'm not," Simon whispers. "I just want to help."

"Shut up!" Alam shouts. "You should be at home resting, you should be fine."

"He's right," Fironic whispers. "You shouldn't be working in this state." He looks at Simon, who looks away.

It seems like Simon only knows how to look away.

"What state?" the voice becomes deeper, closed. "It's just a few blows," he assures.

"Simon, come back down to earth!" Alam laughs "You're not a hero, fuck, you're not even normal" he should make the other lawyer shut up "you're a weirdo with good intentions who's going to get himself killed and no one will care because no one knows you."

"What's wrong with you?" Fiornic claims, annoyed. "You're supposed to be his friend."

"I'm supposed to be, right?" anger, pain. "Shit, I don't know. "His eyes meet Fironic's, understanding." You're supposed to be his friend?" He mocks. "Has he told you anything about his life? Do you know if he has a family?" Fironic doesn't know. "I don't know, no one knows" Alam looks at him with almost compassion. "Has he seen your face once while you're talking, not just a glance, really seen you?" The man speaks clearly.

The answer is no, he hasn't. Did he make it all up? Did he think he'd become Simon's friend, but Simon didn't care? Why does he feel guilt and anger?

"Simon?" he asks, looking at the man. "You consider me a friend, right?" he asks fearfully. "Do you consider any of us friends?"

"Yes!" the man shouts. "Why can't you believe me?"

"Say it while looking us in the eyes, damn it!"

He should stop Alam from screaming, but he doesn't; he's not sure why he doesn't.

Simon freezes and stares at the ground, completely silent. Fironic wants to hug him, wants to tell him he's okay; he doesn't need his gaze to believe him. But he needs it; he wants those eyes to see him and tell him he's okay, that they're friends.

He doesn't move. He doesn't say anything.

"Simon?" a janitor approaches. "What are you doing here? Your office isn't ready." The man speaks calmly and puts a hand on the lawyer's back. "Let's go." He gently pushes him, as if he were a child.

"Don't you dare to leave!"

"Stay," he says.

The janitor sees them; if looks could kill, he'd be dead by now. The man leads a silent Simon away from them. No one follows.

Alam hits the floor, and Fironic doesn't move. What did he just do? Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't he apologize?

He flies down the stairs, wants to catch up with the man, apologize for the hostage situation, apologize for not defending him from his supposed friend, apologize for everything.

Begs him to forgive him, to be friends, that he doesn't care that he can't see his eyes. He can bear not being seen by that gentle gaze, but he can't bear that deep voice not speaking to him, not losing everything because he's a coward.

When he gets to the reception desk, he doesn't see Simon.

"He's gone," the receptionist tells him.

He freezes and places the box of pastries on her table. She pushes them away, her gaze not angry but not kind. The woman looks at the door, not at him.

"Take them away, we don't want any more."

He leaves with the box in his hands and flies into the sky where almost no one can see him. The box burns in his hands, and nothing remains but ashes.

Chapter Text

Weird, a simple word, a word he knows perfectly. Weirdness, that which makes him different, is something ingrained in every part of his being; every fiber of him is strange, abnormal, and he would like to tear it out with his bare hands.

He can't tear out that which makes him different without tearing out his own skin, his eyes, his brain; his entire being. His absence would be more normal than his mere existence. Weird: the perfect adjective for Simon Paladino.

He walks down the street at a brisk pace; he doesn't run; he knows he shouldn't run in the street. Running is weird, and it's enough that everyone he knows notices he's a freak of some kind; he doesn't need that knowledge from strangers.

The street is crowded with people, rush hour, if you will. The time when many in the buildings go out to eat.

He always used the building's cafeteria for lunch out of convenience; it's closer, and he doesn't have to go out into a sea of ​​people to get something to eat and endure the rest of his day. His boss assured him he had permission for more days; it was Simon who insisted on going anyway.

He needed his routine, a bit of normalcy after so much action. He needed to talk to someone who saw him as a normal person. Alam never believed he was normal either.

He looks at the floor, walks quickly, wants to take off his jacket because his thoughts are boiling, but if he takes it off, the people around him will be able to feel the faint waves of heat emanating from him.

He hates his body, hates his brain, detest himself.

He told them they were his friends; he thinks they are, but he can't look them in the eye. He could have confessed, he could have told the truth. He desperately wants to be able to look them in the eye while they talk, to lose himself in other people's gazes, as he's heard others say in anecdotes and novels.

Alam called him a weirdo, a freak, Simon knows he is. He didn't think Alam would care. The man looked scared that day, yet he stroked his head when it started bleeding before they dragged him away from comfort.

He didn't think Fironic would care that he couldn't see him in the eye. Fironic is a super, he should be used to weird behavior, but no, Simón was weird, even for someone who dealt with weirdness.

Simon was always the problem.

He walks into Sussie's cafe. He's never been with anyone besides Rick, and it's not like people seek him out or have coffee with him outside of work. Why would they?

Rick was right, he should have taken his entire break.

"Are you okay, honey?" Sussie asks.

He looks at the table and the menu is passed to him with practiced gentleness. He doesn't see the woman, doesn't respond, doesn't know what to say without ruining everything.

"Simon?"

"A... a coffee and a cake, please," he whispers, feeling inept.

"Sure, honey," the woman speaks softly. "Do you want me to lend you the menu?"

He shakes his head and the menu is removed from the table. He can see the two darkening points on the wooden table. He closes his eyes and takes off his glasses. He doesn't like the frames he's currently using, but they were the cheapest he could find on the market with a prescription similar to the previous ones.

Rick told him they could get him a real appointment with an ophthalmologist. Simon reminded him he didn't have the money to pay for broken equipment of that caliber. They didn't discuss the matter. There were more important things to discuss.

They didn't argue even once at the hospital. He's sure that when he gets home, Rick will be there to talk. He can already hear the agent's words.

Coffee and cake are placed in front of him, along with an extra plate.

He looks at Sussie, who's smiling. The waitress has always been kind to him, no matter that he doesn't see her in the eyes, no matter that he's quiet. Sussie's job is to be kind.

"It's on the house," the woman says with a smile, "for our most loyal customers."

"Thank you, Sussie."

He eats the cake without burning it this time, drinks his coffee, which doesn't boil because Sussie does a good job, and eats the cookies on the plate in silence. He puts an extra tip on the bill and leaves in silence.

When he returns to the street, there aren't so many people. He could go home, he could stop avoiding inevitable conversations.

He's going to have to get back to work, he's going to have to talk to Alam. He still wants to be friends.

He walks down the street, and the further he goes, the further he gets from the path home. There aren't many people, and his mind is static, like the one on his old radio. His body is no longer buzzing, and he takes off his vest.

He walks further, blocks and blocks. He's put his tie in his pocket, he's carrying his jacket in one arm and his briefcase in the other. He walks by pure inertia, far away. He just wants a little silence, a little calm.

Rick is going to yell at him. He knows it's not true.

Alam shouted at him.

He arrives at the place he wanted, completely deserted, as always, or at least since he started coming. He passes through the metal fence and enters the abandoned park. It used to be a water park connected to the old port, open in the summer, as far as he knows, but the owner died, and to this day his children can't agree on the inheritance; he's never seen it in good condition.

He reaches the metal port where there are faded metal boats and sits on the edge. It's dark, he can barely see. Even on clear nights in the city, he has trouble seeing when it gets very dark.

He opens his briefcase, takes out several copies, rolls them up, arranges them, and then looks at them until only one catches fire and the fire spreads. Now he can see at least something.

He looks at the endless darkness, the heat beside him, his jacket on the ground getting dirty, the whisper of the sea calming his mind. He doesn't want to think.

He's not even normal.

Of course he knows that; he's not stupid, no matter how poorly he did in school, college, and university; he'd give anything to be normal.

He's never seen this park in good condition; entering it always poses a risk of tetanus, a risk of getting caught, an unnecessary risk. He kept coming back.

He lies down, the fire close to his face but it doesn't bother him, and he looks up at the sky. It's only darkness, but he knows there are stars. He closes his eyes; he's tired.

He listens, he feels, his mouth is dry, his body emanates a slight warmth, his leg aches from walking all day, but he finally feels the beginning of calm, even if the static in his mind doesn't stop; it never stops.

"Hello!"

"Ahhhhhh!"

He gets up without thinking, and a lightning bolt shoots at the figure who screamed.

Oh God. He can barely recognize the figure in the shadows, who seems fine; luckily, it didn't hit him. When did his fire go out? He can't see anything, he looks at the ground... the fire hasn't gone out, not all of it... his pants are on fire. His pants are on fire!

"Shoot!"

He's about to run into the water to put his leg in so his new suit doesn't get completely ruined when something cold hits him, making his skin crawl. He hates the cold, he detests it.

He looks at the frost where there used to be fire, and now he wants to jump in for another reason. He can barely see beyond his nose.

"Frozone," he says, staring, unable to distinguish the figures through the shadows.

"And Mister Incredible," another voice says, the voice that said hello.

"Sure…"

He definitely wants to jump into the water. Now, even if he were sure he was going to fall into the water or that there were no other people, he still wouldn't see anything.

"Before Incredible here decides to talk and scare you more," Frozone interrupts his train of thought. "Are you okay?"

"Yes" he says without thinking much.

"Is your leg too?"

"The heat doesn't affect me that much," he answers and touches his leg, barely a burning pain.

"I meant the wound."

"It doesn't hurt." That's a lie. It's barely healed. He shouldn't have walked so far.

"I know we're all technically in here illegally, so how about we get out?" Frozone continues speaking slowly, annoyed. "Mr. Incredible here, go turn on the flashlight so we don't cut ourselves on anything when we get out."

"I won't cut" says Mr. Incredible.

The image before him becomes clear. He can see the two heroes, and then Frozone pushes the flashlight down, causing the darkness to surround the heroes' features. He opens his eyes wider to see them.

"What's wrong with you?" Frozone complains to Mister Incredible "you're going to make him even more blind.

"It doesn't seem to irritate him" the blond complains back "Does it irritate you?"

He shakes his head and takes a step forward, staring at the ground, making sure not to trip until he sees Frozone's boots.

"The light doesn't bother me," he replies as calmly as he can and looks at the hero.

"Great, that's good," Frozone laughs. "Now let's go, we don't need anyone arrested."

The hero is right; he'd rather not get arrested for this. He follows the heroes; every so often, Incredible seems to want to say something, only for Frozone to nudge him every time to stop him from saying anything. He's grateful for the silence.

They leave the park and the street welcomes them; the lit streetlights make it much easier to see.

"So, Simon?"

"Really?" Frozone whispers, fed up.

"What? We're not going to be arrested anymore." Mister Incredible rolls his eyes and looks at Simon. "I wanted to talk to you."

He should have jumped into the water, definitely.

"No," he replies to the second.

"But I didn't say anything," the man says a little angrily.

"If it's being part of the NSA or a hero, my answer is still no," he replies bluntly.

"Still?"

He can still jump into the water; he's never drowned, wondering if it hurts or not.

"I'm not the first to tell you that you should be a hero," declares Mister Incredible.

"I'm leaving." He starts to walk away, but a huge hand rests on his shoulder

"Wait," the voice is kind. "Listen, we just wanted to thank you."

Simon turns slowly and looks at both heroes, Frozone nodding behind the enormous man. He still feels uncomfortable with his hand on his shoulder and looks at the ground.

"I did what anyone would do."

"That's not true," says Frozone. "You saved me, even before using your powers. You were brave, Paladino."

"I saw the end, and it was a feat." The blond finally lets go of his shoulder. "You were made to be a hero."

Their smiles are genuine, they're kind, and their voices are calm. He looks up at the sky and sighs. Simon knows what he is: he's weird, he's an aberration, he's boring, he's tense, he's rigid. He knows he's not a hero.

"You're wrong," he doesn't know why he smiles as he says it. "Thanks for rescuing my friends. I don't know what I would have done if one of them had gotten hurt." He looks at his hands. "But I'm not a hero. Nothing would have happened if I hadn't taken on that stupid case in the first place."

"Fironic feels terrible" Frozone speaks "a lot, he even wants to apologize, he appreciates you"

"Apologize," he whispers.

What an apology, what a farce.

"You don't know me," he doesn't know why he smiles. "I'm a mediocre lawyer, with an attitude people can barely stand, with "powers" I can't control, and... a coward." He looks at the street. "I'm not a hero, I'll never be one, and I hope you and the NSA understand that once and for all."

"Paladino" Frozone speaks and approaches. "You're not mediocre, and I don't know your attitude, but I'll tell you that many heroes have a fatal one, and I don't know about your powers but one can always learn."

"Above all," Mister Incredible speaks, his silhouette casting a shadow over him. "You're not a coward. A coward doesn't show they have the power to rescue two strangers. A coward doesn't hit a villain while he's wounded." He wants to shake his head, but doesn't move. "A coward doesn't give in so others don't suffer. A coward doesn't take every blow because they were assured that if they took them, the rest would be fine." The hero places a kind hand on his shoulder. "I asked the hostages what happened. I saw the reports, and I assure you, you're a hero, whether you like it or not."

"I didn't do anything. I just made everyone more scared." He thinks of Alam, of how Mary hugged him tightly when she saw him today, as if he could disappear from her arms, how they looked at him almost as if he were a ghost. He acted brave, and now everyone is afraid and sorry for him.

"Simon, can I call you Simon?" – Mister Incredible waits for him to nod before continuing "Simon, I don't think you're a coward, and if you don't think you can be a hero, I understand, but I assure you that you'd be a good one, and it would be an honor to work with you if you ever consider it."

He doesn't know how to respond, so he doesn't move. He looks at the ground and closes his eyes, feeling the heat in his eyes.

"We supers should stick together," Frozone adds. A cold hand touches his shoulder, and he shudders. "Whether you're a hero or not, whether you want your gift known or not, you can always count on us."

"You don't know me," he whispers again.

"Nor do you know us," Mister Incredible smiles. "But we can get to know each other. It would be an honor to be your friends."

"Yeah, man, it would be an honor to be your friends, whether you're a hero or not," Frozon laughs. "I could always use a lawyer."

He doesn't know why he snorts at the comment.

"I left my car parked nearby, and it's late," Mister Incredible takes his hand off his shoulder. "Do you want a ride?"

He answers yes. The ride is silent, and he listens to the police radio instead of the program he usually plays at this hour. He's alone in the back seat as the two heroes joke around. At times, they speak to him, and he adds simple comments that are greeted with laughter or nods. Not a bad trip.

He walks with the streetlights illuminating his path, his leg burning from the wound and the slight burn, his pants are burned from the hem to the thigh, and his dirty jacket is draped over his shoulders incorrectly. He sees his house and walks a little slower when he sees Rick at the door.

"Simon"

"Rick"

"Bad day at work?" Rick asks calmly.

"Terrible," he smiles, fed up with everything. "But I'm done, I'm going to sleep."

"Simon"

"Can we leave that conversation for tomorrow?" he asks, trying to get his keys into the door.

"You're reckless."

"I know." The keys fit.

"You have to be more careful."

"I know." He just wants to sleep.

"You'd be a good hero, and you know it. At least there someone would oppose you better, you'd be safer."

"Good night." He opens the door and looks at the officer, sighing. He didn't mean to be so rude. "We'll talk tomorrow, I need to sleep... it's been a strange day."

"It shows" the officer sighs. "Take care, Simon."

He watches as Rick walks slowly away from the door. Tomorrow they'll have the same conversation, another one about being a hero or taking care of himself. He's so fed up with everything.

He turns on the radio, listens to the soap opera while he takes off his shoes and closes his eyes, settling into his bed just to rest for a while. He lets the exhaustion consume him; he doesn't have to go to work tomorrow anyway.

Chapter Text

He wakes up to the sound of knocking on the door. He gets up and grabs his glasses, even though his vision is still blurry. He hates it when that happens. He walks toward the door, fed up with the thunderous knocking.

He opens the door and sees Rick in ordinary clothes, not his usual suit.

"Shouldn't you be working?"

"I'm taking the day off," the man says seriously.

"It's too early for this," he complains.

"It's ten in the morning, Simon. It's not that early."

"Can I have a coffee before you decide to interrogate me?" He wipes his sleep.

"I'll make it for you," the man offers.

"You make it cold," he says, letting Rick in.

"No, you drink it boiling."

"It tastes better that way."

He closes the door and yawns again. He watches Rick enter and head straight for the kitchen. The other man hasn't been to his house much in the last few months, but he knows it like he knows Rick's, almost perfectly. He hears the stove come on and walks listlessly to the kitchen where he leans against the counter.

"You only have coffee," Rick says as he checks the shelves. "And your food?"

"It's too early for this," he complains again.

"Ten in the morning," he emphasizes.

"I haven't had my coffee yet."

"Simon, where's your food?" he asks again.

"Bottom shelf on the left," he says angrily. "There's nothing in the refrigerator. I haven't bought any meat yet."

He hears the shelf open and Rick's disgruntled sound. He doesn't want to deal with it, even though he hears the water bubbling with the fire grazing the pot.

"You only have rice."

He doesn't want to answer, so he doesn't. He feels the hand on his shoulder and wants to move, but he doesn't. He looks at Rick, barely raising his head from the counter.

"Don't look at me like that," he says slowly. "I have rice and beef for dinner, it's good." He stretches and straightens. "I have breakfast with you and lunch at work."

"You can't have the same dinner every day."

"Yes, I can," he assures me. "It's easier."

Rick sighs and returns his attention to the coffee. After several minutes, he turns off the burner.

"It's not even boiling yet," he tells the agent, who sighs.

"If it keeps boiling, it'll evaporate," the man pours the water into the strainer where the coffee is already, and the smell fills the room.

Rick ignores him and pours two cups, leaving one by the stove and the other on the table. Simon takes the cup with both hands and sips it, enjoying the warmth of the drink even though it fogs up his glasses.

"Better?"

"Yes," he replies, setting down the empty cup that's still steaming without liquid. "Aren't you going to have yours?"

"I'll wait for it to cool, like always."

He enjoys the silence, the sensation of the coffee in his mouth. His mind slowly clears from the exhaustion that kept him asleep for so long. Was it really ten in the morning? He fell asleep a little late with the whole thing of staying in the park for several hours, but sleeping until that hour wasn't common for him; he must have been exhausted.

"What happened yesterday?"

Fantastic, he doesn't want to answer that.

"The interrogation can't wait?" He taps the empty cup.

"You've had your coffee."

He wants to scream, hit something, or burn something, but no. He takes a deep breath and looks at Rick, who's looking at him neutrally. He hates this. Even so, he resists doing anything; either way, they'll end up talking.

"I went to work. My office wasn't ready yet, so I left, took a walk to... clear my head, and came back."

"Why did you have to clear your mind?"

"Because I wanted to," he answers softly.

"Wasn't there an event that required it?"

"Isn't being a hostage enough for me to be worried for a few weeks?"

"It didn't worry you before," the voice is monotonous, and yet he can hear the slight annoyance. "Why now?"

"Didn't you want me to take the whole thing more seriously?" he questions, shaking the cup.

"Yes, but why now?" he emphasizes.

"There was an argument at my work," he looks at the cup, "nothing I didn't know before."

"Did you need to clear your mind because of the argument or the hostage situation?"

"Both," he moves the cup, "neither." He corrects himself and squeezes the cup, his story unraveling as always. "Stop doing that."

"Then tell me what happened, and I won't have to interrogate you properly to find out."

"Or you can mind your own business." He sees the first crack form in the cup from his grip and lets go.

"You're my business, Simon."

"I don't want to be."

"Too bad." The man places his hand on the cup. Simon sees the hand. "It's not what you want."

"It never is." He looks at the man.

"It never will be if you don't say what you really want."

"I want you to leave me alone." There's no anger; it's not true.

"Don't lie to me. What happened yesterday? Why did you go to the park?"

"How do you know," he stops mid-sentence, "what are you talking about?"

"Your shoes were rusty, your jacket was dirty," the man drops the cup, "and I know you."

"There was an argument at work," he laughs, "nothing I haven't been told before," he repeats.

"So why do you care?"

He wants to get up and leave. He looks at the ceiling, the holes, the burns. The lightning bolt naturally leaves his eyes and creates a new hole, a bit of gravel falls on them. He looks at Rick; he doesn't move.

"I thought" he doesn't want to talk about this "I thought Alam, my... friend... didn't care."

"A lot of people care about you, Simon."

"Not like that!" he slams the table "I thought he didn't care that I was" he stops "weird"

"You're not weird," Rick says slowly "just different"

"Different and weird are fucking synonyms, Rick" he tries to calm down,he feels hot "I know what I am, you know it too"

"What did he say to you? Does he... know?"

"He told me the usual: weird, that I keep to myself , and that... I'm going to get myself killed. It's harder to kill me than he thinks." Laughs. "He doesn't know the rest of me, everything I am. If he knew, I'd kill myself."

Silence. He knows he's made the wrong comment when he sees Rick's serious face, neutral, calm, methodical, and yet worried.

"Simon," the man says softly, as if he were a child, "take off your shirt."

How dare he?

"Fuck off"

"Simon."

He doesn't want to. Even if there's nothing wrong, even if he knows the reason and it's logical, he should never joke about it, not with Rick, not with Mrs. Dicker, not with his grandmother.

"Trust me," he demands.

"Simon, I trust you, but I also know you." His tone is serious and worried.

"I didn't do anything this time!" He doesn't want anyone to worry.

"I believe you," the man doesn't see him, "but I need to see you, so I can sleep in peace. Could you do me this favor?" He sees him now, really sees him.

He looks away.

He understands Rick's feelings more than he would like, understands why he's asking, so he begins to slowly take off his shirt. He feels the change in temperature as he takes it off and how the heat in his body is released. He looks at the floor.

"I told you, I didn't do anything," he whispers as he feels Rick's gaze.

"It's okay, Simon, I know."

"Can I put it back on? I'm fine... as good as I can be," he whispers at the end.

"Have you thought about that today?" The man speaks so calmly. "Or yesterday?"

"No," he thinks about the harbor and straightens his shirt. "Just jumping into the water to escape your supers. I didn't even mean it."

"Simon."

"It was just a thought. I always think like that."

"I know." Rick leans closer and puts his hand in Simon's way. "You didn't think about doing that, did you?"

"No, I didn't." He's so tired. "Everything's been so stressful, but no, I haven't thought about it. I've got it under control."

Rick says nothing, stands up, and picks up the coffee cup, which is no longer steaming heavily. The man sits silently and places the cup on the table.

"You ran into supers yesterday" It's not a question.

"Yes," he answers anyway. "Fironic was in my office." He takes the cup in his hands. "Alam found him and they argued... I don't think Fironic or Alam want to... be my friends." He sighs. "Not anymore, at least."

"After that, you went to the park."

"I wanted silence, I wanted nothing to matter." He sets the cup down. "I just lay down and listened to the water." He laughs. "Then your supers appeared, and I accidentally burned my pants."

"Which ones?" the tone is serious

He smiles and shakes his head

"They were fools, but I'm not going to let you reprimand them at their jobs if I tell you," he smiles weakly at Rick, "one wanted to convince me to be a hero, and the other seemed to just want to thank me."

"So, Mister Incredible and Frozone," Dicker says with a smile

"Yeah, they were nice, although Incredible is a little…"

"Intense," Rick says before sipping his coffee.

"Yeah."

They both remain silent for a moment while Rick sips his coffee, Simon looking at his cup.

"They said they wanted to be my friends," he hesitates, "that supers should stick together, whether I'm a hero or not."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing," he looks at Rick. "If they knew me, they wouldn't like me."

"They're understanding people, especially Frozone," Rick says slowly and calmly. "I don't think they would mind."

"What?"

"You know, everything."

"What everything?" He hates the way his voice trembles. "That I'm a queer sort of man"

"Simon," the hand is placed on his, "it's okay."

"Do you really think so?" He doesn't know why he wants to make fun of it. "I accepted it a long time ago, Rick. I know what I am. I know there's something... different." Not bad. He knows it's not bad,

There's nothing wrong or evil with him. He has to tell himself that for respect to the rest of the people who are like him.

"I know there's something different about me. I hide it, I ignore it, but it won't go away. They always care."

"You'll find someone who doesn't care, someone who's like... you." He sees the doubt.

"Will I find a miserable, retarded, deviant man who, for a change, is a super who has killed someone?" He doesn't shout it, but he feels like it.

"Don't call yourself that."

"Deviant?" He asks angrily. "It's a medico-legal term. You know there are worse ones, you know I know worse ones." He's so tired. "Retarded is also the medical term, if you don't remember."

"Miserable"

Simon remains silent; neither of them seems to know what to say.

"Do you want to die?" The question is direct and doesn't surprise him.

"Not yet, not without another lawyer to take care of the supers," it's the truth.

"If there were..." Rick hesitates and then looks him in the eye. "Would you kill yourself?"

"I don't know," he doesn't want to lie. "But now I have it under control. I'll get back to my routine, I'll get on with my life, I think."

"What will you do with Alam?"

"I'll confront him, I guess," he says hesitantly, looking at the ceiling just in case. "He wasn't wrong about anything he said, but he shouldn't have said it in front of Fironic. He shouldn't have insulted me or him, and he doesn't have a say in my decisions, whether we're friends or not." He says it as confidently as he can. "At least he doesn't seem to suspect that I'm a little peculiar, just a... retarded person, or he doesn't even suspect it and just can't stand me."

"I don't think you should be his friend again."

"You told me you don't judge someone by how they act after a traumatic event." He looks at Rick. "It's been very little time since his hostage situation."

"You went through the same thing."

"I'm not like him. I'm slow. Give me a few months to start processing." He doesn't smile this time, luckily. Sometimes his face doesn't obey him.

"Did Fironic say anything?"

"He asked if we were friends. I thought we were, but... I'm usually wrong."

More silence. Rick gets up and puts the cups in the sink.

"Go change."

"What?" he asks, watching Rick start washing the cups.

"Let's go out. I know a place."

"I don't want to go to the park," he says uncertainly. "It's usually crowded at this time."

"We're not going to the park. There's a garbage dump two hours from here," the man explains. "There's never anyone there, and there's a beach nearby." Rick turns and smiles at him. "Change your clothes. I didn't take my day off so we'd both be stuck here."

"Sure, let's go."

When he comes out in casual clothes, Dicker is already at the door. They walk to the agent's house to get in the car. Simon sits up front and leans against the window. The only companions on the journey are the wind, the radio, and their voices.

They don't speak, but when songs they both know come on, they sometimes sing along. It's relaxing.

He gets out of the car, his back aching from being glued to the open window the whole time, and stretches. Rick teases him about it, in his own way, of course.

The place is effectively deserted, and they run, almost like every morning except for one thing.

"Let go," Rick says. "Run with all your might."

"But."

"There's no one around, do it," the man smiles. "I'll try to catch you."

He nods and runs. Luckily, they're running shoes, because otherwise, he would have destroyed his feet. He runs as fast as he can until he feels his muscles screaming, the wind in his ears, the whole path a blur. He keeps going and going and going until he laughs as he does so. There's only the wind and him.

He trips and falls so hard to the ground that he's sure there's a hole in his shape.

"Simon, are you okay?" Ridk approaches and Simon laughs

"Excellent" he knows he’s smiling when Rick does too

They end up at the beach. Rick sits far from the shore, watching, and Simon stands with his feet in the water, listening to the tide, his nose red from hitting the ground and his knees scraped, but he feels fine. It's a good day despite everything.

Everything's going to be okay, he has to belive it.

Chapter Text

Simon looks better, which makes him happy; he's a good kid.

Oswald has worked in the same building for over ten years as a janitor; he's seen and heard it all. No one watches their tongue or their actions around the janitor. Except for Simon, but Simon is different; anyone who's dealt with someone like the lawyer would know that.

The first time he saw the boy, he thought the young man wouldn't return to the building after a few months. A nervous intern with a crooked tie who looked like he wanted to be swallowed up by the earth, and whose voice seemed like it was going to give out when he greeted Oswald out of courtesy, wasn't going to last, in his opinion. A lawyer couldn't make that impression.

He thought Johnson would get rid of the college student as soon as the internship ended. It turned out the boy just had to get used to it. He always arrived on time, greeted him and Mary, in fact, all the janitor, when he entered the building, and never used the elevator.

When he saw him interacting with real lawyers, he was the perfect errand boy. He never refused to go out to run an errand, deliver a document, sign, or review something. Maybe he wasn't a good secretary because of the times he heard an older lawyer tell him to type faster, but the younger one remembered things in a second.

"Simon," he called out when he saw the man.

The man turned and looked at him for a brief second, never more than a few seconds. Simon wasn't one for seeing people. That hasn't changed.

"Oswald," the man spoke up. "Is my office ready yet?" he asked uncomfortably.

"It's ready. Mr. Johnson wouldn't have called you if it weren't."

Simon became very good at the office, almost indispensable, the perfect worker except that several didn't like him, could barely stand him. Mr. Johnson wanted him as an employee, although nothing could be confirmed; no one else wanted someone like Simon there.

"So what's happening?" the man spoke with more hesitation.

"I wanted to ask you how you've been."

It was the same young man who inadvertently became the most coveted recent graduate in the city by all the legal groups. The only one who had studied and knew how to apply the new supers code.

"Fine," the boy looked at a wall.

"Sure?"

"As best as I could be." It was a small smile, almost imperceptible but present. "And you, Oswald?"

"I was sick that day, I was lucky."

The hostage situation was a nightmare he hadn't had in all his years of work, but it happened. It happened when he was sick at home with his wife taking care of him. He found out the next day, and when he returned, his colleagues told him everything.

He heard every whisper about it, everyone's fear, those who blamed the supers, those who thanked the heroes, those who wanted to talk to Simón: to thank him, to complain.

"Alam hasn't arrived yet, if that worries you," he added, seeing Simon's hesitation to come up.

"I'm not worried," he replied monotonously.

"I know you don't have to listen to an old man like me, but that guy isn't that nice. It would be better for you to get away from him for a while."

"Oswald, don't treat me like I'm still an intern."

The first time he heard that Simon was going to court to represent his client, he felt sorry for the client; he didn't have a chance. When he heard that Simon had won the case, he was a little surprised. Then he heard him speak one day to important people, hearing him rant about rights for all: men and women equally, no matter what.

The man had an extraordinary voice, capable of commanding the attention of a room, of being cold and methodical, yet still calming everyone. He would have been a danger if he had gone into politics.

"Sorry," he smiles, "but I can't help it, kid. I've seen you here for over five years."

"That's not that long."

"It is for a young man like you," he smiles, knowing Simon doesn't see it. "Look where you are now. You started as an ordinary intern and now you have your own office and you serve great heroes. I'm proud of you."

He looks at the boy, at the man in front of you who seems paralyzed. Surprise, disbelief at Oswald's words, and the janitor wonders how cruel life was for someone like Simon.

"Thanks, Oswald."

"Stay kind, Simon." He places a hand on the boy's shoulder, who looks at the ground and nods.

"Always."

The boy answers as he walks away to do his job, cleaning the building, making sure everyone can work in peace. He hears the whispers of others, the rumors; things are finally calming down after almost three weeks since the attack.

It's lunchtime, and out of pure curiosity, he decides to go to the cafeteria. He just wants to see if everything is okay; he can't help but worry.

He had a neighbor when he was very young. He was a quiet, but always smiling, child. The other children played cruel jokes on him, but the boy just laughed; he didn't seem to understand that they were mistreating him. One day, the boy's mother knocked on their door asking if they'd seen him; he hadn't come home.

The smiling but strange boy from the neighborhood was never heard from again

He's old; he's taken all kinds of jobs to support his wife; they've never been able to have children. He's seen a cruel side of people, that side that jumps to detect something different. Luckily, Simon is good at hiding it; if it weren't for the fact that he knows his fair share of people, he wouldn't notice, except for the obvious lack of eye contact.

Many people who are different clung to others as if they were their lifeboats so they wouldn't be alone. They would accept anything for a little company. In the end, their lifeboats were what killed them.

Simon was just the kind of boy who would accept any hand if he thought it was a friend.

"You" he looks at the person speaking to him "have you seen Simon?"

He looks at the boy, Alam. He heard what he said a week ago, how he shouted with venom. He doesn't care about the regret on his face, he cares about what he said.

"No."

The man sighs and walks away, not even a thank you. He smiles when he sees Simon isn't there. He goes to the office and finds it locked, with a sign that says closed.

He smiles to himself and continues with his work, trusting the boy to figure things out. He's strong, he's smart. If he endured being held hostage, he can endure losing a bad friendship and remain steadfast in the face of it.

The boy deserves to live a long life, no matter what the world thinks.

-----------------------------

Everseer rubs his eyes and sighs. He knows he can't do any more. It's started, and he's not even sure what it is; he knows he can't stop it.

He's thought of so many ways, or small warnings to stop it, but they all end the same way: with a devastating feeling of doom, with pain, sorrow, and mourning. With his death in the distant future. He thinks it's with the deaths of many others.

"Are you okay?" He looks at Macrobust, who sees him worried.

"I'm fine," he smiles as best he can.

"Did you have a vision?"

Many heroes don't believe in his clairvoyance. Macrobust doesn't really believe him, but at least is kind about it. Everseer knows when to keep quiet, when to say nothing. When changing the future is more dangerous than working with what will come.

"No, none"

He knows, after many attempts and heartaches, that Mister Incredible is involved in whatever will happen, but he's not the catalyst for everything, for the good ending, even if this ending smells like death. He knows who it is that paves the way for a heartwarming end to whatever it is that tastes like death.

He knows it's Paladino, the hero's lawyer who can shoot lightning bolts from his eyes. He knows he'll become a hero no matter what he does, and he knows that if he doesn't, they're just as lost, if not more so.

He doesn't know what will happen, but he feels it in his body, like images from a nightmare, and he doesn't believe he can stop it, because it's already begun.

As it always begins, meaningless to him but setting Incredible's survival in motion like an event of the distant future. Mister Incredible walks into a cafe for lunch, and for some reason the lawyer is eating there.

Everyone is going to die, but if they don't, the future doesn't taste of death, but of doom, the end of the world.

He's afraid that if Paladino becomes a hero, his team will die; he can't lose them. He's afraid that if Paladino doesn't become a hero, the world will die.

So he stays silent. He knows that for now, he can't and shouldn't do anything.

Chapter Text

He's not hungry, he's almost never hungry. He eats for hours, out of necessity, just like getting out of bed. In the last few days, he's started to worry about the fact that he doesn't really eat.

It turns out that being home from work for a week and without Rick breathing down his neck made him realize, to his deep chagrin, that Dicker was right: he needed to buy food.

The first day, he slept almost all day, not even realizing he'd skipped breakfast and lunch. The second day, he ate breakfast with Rick but didn't eat lunch, and hardly any dinner. On the third day, the pattern repeated itself, until he began to feel his stomach churning with the hunger he'd apparently ignored for hours. In the end, he had to buy vegetables to make a soup.

He ate soup for lunch all week.

He's back at work. He can go to the cafeteria, as always, and get a coffee and some carbohydrate nearby, but he doesn't want to go to the cafeteria. He's managed to avoid Alam all morning. Locking his door has helped keep the man from showing up at his office like he used to.

He knows he has to talk to the man at some point. He doesn't want to be cruel, and it's cruel to stop talking to someone without explaining anything; he knows this from experience. Simon knows he's not ready for that conversation yet; he just needs a little more time to get back into his groove at work, at everything.

He ends up going to Sussie's cafeteria, passing through a sea of ​​people that suffocates him and stumbling several times. Luckily, the place isn't crowded. He feels he can breathe and sits at the farthest table he can find near a window.

"Do you have lunch?" he asks.

Sussie seems genuinely surprised by the question.

"Yeah, I think this is the first time you've come for something other than sweets."

He needs to fix his diet if that's what Sussie thinks. He really doesn't eat well. How has he survived on just carbs and coffee?

"I want to improve my health," he says, smiling. "So... do you have lunch?"

He ends up ordering a cream of broccoli soup, and now, looking at it, with the steam now reaching his nose and the smoke fogging his glasses, something he hates happens; he's not hungry now.

He stirs the spoon again and again. The soup is still steaming; he should eat it while it's still hot. He stares at the soup until it bubbles from the heat, looks out the window, preferring not to make the soup explode.

People pass by, the street is full, no one sees him, and he doesn't see anyone in particular. Oswald told him he's proud of him. It's so strange to hear those words from someone he's not truly close to, that they feel like a way of reassuring him that his fears aren't real, that he should calm down. The words almost feel real this time.

There's nothing to be proud of about him.

A shadow falls over him. Someone has stopped near his table, and Simon doesn't want to look at him. It must be someone huge. He turns to look at the person, recognizes the super, and hopes he can hide his disgruntled face.

"Simon," the hero greets enthusiastically and bends down to give him a side hug without warning. He doesn't have time to move away.

Simon feels crushed in the man's arms, enormous, muscular arms surrounding him. He wants the earth to swallow him up, or to let him go now. Better both.

"Oops, sorry," the man lets go with a nervous smile. "Are you okay?"

He fixes his tie and glasses. Mister Incredible looks at him with a wide smile; he looks genuinely excited to see him.

"A little crushed," he says slowly, trying to calm his nerves; he can still feel the arms around him.

"Sorry, I'm excited to see you here," he says cheerfully. "Are you having lunch?"

The blond man points to the plate on the table, the plate that, despite having cooled a few minutes ago, still has smoke on it; he doesn't know how long he's been staring at the window. Simon sees the plate, the steaming cream, and he should eat it; he's been staring at the plate for too long.

"Yeah," he's at least trying.

"Would you mind the company?"

"No offense, Mister Incredible. I don't know how much of a good idea it is for a super to accompany me to eat in a public place."

He watches the super's smile slowly fall, becoming serious and cautious. It's horrible to see heroes stop smiling; it makes him feel like something's wrong. Maybe he's that something.

"Is there a private room?" the super asks.

"I don't know," he answers honestly.

The super signals to the waitress, who stop by the table, and Simon sees his soup. He takes the spoon, ignoring the conversation going on next to him. The taste, although flat, explodes in his mouth.

"Shall we?" He looks at the hero speaking to him.

He swallows and looks at the supermarket and the waitress. The hero looks slightly confused, but Sussie doesn't.

"Where?"

"There's a private room, so no one bothers you and... nothing happens to you." Incredible says it seriously, his voice low, as if trying to calm him down.

How peculiar. It seems the hero is more afraid of another attack on Simón because of his proximity to the heroes than Simon himself is.

"Of course."

He has no idea why he agrees. Maybe he's already used to the conversation while eating, to the company. He must talk to Alam; he misses the man telling him about his series.

He looks at Incredible, who's reaching for his bowl of boiling soup, and Simon grabs it before the hero reaches it. He feels the heat of the bowl by touch, certain that if the hero's suit isn't heat-resistant, he'll burn. So he stops him from taking the bowl.

Incredible smiles at him again, watching Simon stand with the bowl in his hands. He hopes he hasn't been upset. They both go to the private room and sit down.

"So," Mister Incredible groans, "do you come here for lunch often?"

"No, I usually eat at work."

"I understand... Why aren't you there today?"

This is awkward. He just wants to leave. Why did he accept?

"I wanted to try something more nutritious," he stirs the soup.

"I'm more of a meat person than a vegetable person," the blond points to the bowl.

"Is it because..." he points to the muscle doubtfully, "of your power?"

"Yeah, you're smart, and yes, a little," he says with a smile. "I need more protein than average, but I also love a good barbecue." He continues smiling. "And you, Simon? Do you need something extra for your power?"

They fall silent, and he puts another spoonful in his mouth. He's never spoken so openly about his powers. He doesn't talk about it, he just doesn't. He's talked more about his various quirks with the Dickers than about his powers.

"Don't you like talking about it?" Incredible's voice is soft.

He looks at him and then at the soup. All these people are too patient. He swallows what's in his mouth and looks at Incredible.

"I can handle high temperatures better than the average person." He moves the plate toward the man. "I like eating boiling hot food."

Incredible looks at the plate and touches it, moving his hand away from the touch.

"How is it still so hot?" he asks with some surprise and concern.

"If I look at something for a while, it heats up," he whispers, "or it burns."

"That's great!"

The table shakes from the impact of Incredible's arm as he makes the excited gesture, and Simon flinches at the noise.

"I'm sorry," the man says, smiling.

"Great?" he asks, a little confused. He needs to control himself. "I burned my bed like that," he says, looking at the table. "It's dangerous." He needs to control himself.

Mr. Incredible doesn't say anything. He finds the silence strange with this man so... expressive, but on the other hand, he likes the fact that there's finally silence. He looks at the soup and takes another spoonful. At least he's eating now.

"Simon, why don't you want to be a hero?"

He swallows what's in his mouth and looks at Mr. Incredible, who smiles gently, as if he should be careful. Simon hates being treated like a child. He's not stupid, he's not delicate. He looks away.

"I'm not made for that," he answers, not looking at him.

"What does a hero need?"

"What?" He looks at him in confusion.

"You say you're not made to be a hero, well, tell me what makes a hero."

"Well," he hesitates, "they're heroic, they're strong, good, brave, they're," he looks at the hero, "incredible."

The blond man smiles at the last word.

"I still think you're made to be one."

"I'm not heroic or strong, much less brave," he stirs what's left of the cream.

"Are you afraid of your power?"

He stops, stirs the cream again; there's very little left. He doesn't look at the hero, he doesn't want to. He takes off his glasses and places them on the table. No one says anything, no one moves, and he wants the hero to talk or leave, but as always, Simón just stays silent.

"I played basketball when I was young. One day I didn't measure my strength and broke the entire backboard, I destroyed it," the man speaks calmly. "Several of my friends were injured by the glass, but nothing happened to me."

He looks at the hero, his face distant yet still wearing a slight smile. He has blue eyes.

"I'm incredible. I'm almost indestructible, but those around me aren't. They're so easy to hurt." The man looks into his eyes, and Simon looks away. "Being a hero means being responsible with our gifts. It's a burden."

"So why do it?" he asks, uncertain but eager for an answer.

"Because?" the hero stops and smiles at him. Simon doesn't look away this time. The super snorts.

Simon doesn't understand why.

"You defend people, right?" Simon nods, confused by the change of subject. "As a lawyer, I suppose you've had some annoying, dangerous, and often underpaid cases. Why do you do it? Why keep doing it?" the voice is kind "anyone after the whole hostage-taking thing would have given up or at least stopped defending supers" the man looks at him seriously and Simon is always surprised by the intensity of the looks, so used to the lack of them "Why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do, it's my job, and everyone deserves to be defended. There's no one else defending normal supers, so I can't quit. I want to do it because... it's my job."

"Same," the hero smiles. "It's my job, and it's the right thing to do."

The door opens, and they both turn to see the waitress, who appears with a smile, carrying the menu.

"Do you want something, Mr. Incredible?"

"Yes, a steak, please."

They're alone again, and when he tries to take another spoonful, he realizes there's no more soup. He should get back to work.

"Are you going to keep insisting?" he asks the hero.

"About you being a hero?" the man says with a certain humor. "Definitely."

"Just because I'm a super?" he says, annoyed. "Is that the only reason I have an obligation to become a hero? To not have a normal life?"

"No," the blond shakes his head. "It's not because you're a super, it's because you're a hero, Simon. I can see that, and I can see that you want to be one."

"You don't know me," he feels like he's repeating himself.

"And you don't know me, but we can get to know each other," the hero hands him a piece of paper. "I'll stop being so insistent if you convince me you don't want to be a hero," the man speaks with such force, "that you don't want the thrill of using that power freely, of helping others beyond the papers, of letting go of everything and making it the right thing to do."

He looks at the paper, a number.

"In case you ever want to talk," the hero points, "it's from The Incredible, my car, and my house."

"Why do you trust me so much?"

"Because you saved Frozone and me when we first met," the man reaches out his hand, and Simon steps back. "And because I can say it, you're a good person."

Simon looks at the paper; it begins to smoke, he turns away and puts it in his suit. He looks at his watch.

"I must get back from my break; I have clients."

"Duty always calls," jokes Mister Incredible.

Simon nods and heads for the door. He doesn't know why he's hesitant to leave. All he wants to do is leave, for the heroes to leave him alone.

"Mr. Incredible?" He doesn't look at the man. "Was it a coincidence that we met here, or were you looking for me?"

"Believe it or not, a coincidence, maybe it's fate."

He doesn't know why that makes him want to run, why it also makes him stand in the doorway, unable to take a step back to his job, back to the normalcy where he doesn't belong.

Let it all go and let it be the right thing. That's not something he can do.

"See you another day, Simon?"

He should say no, he should reject him.

"Sure."

For some reason, he can't get away from the heroes; for some reason, this doesn't terrify him as much as he thinks it should. He says goodbye to Sussie, who's taking a steak to the private room, and looks out at the street; it's still a sea of ​​people.

The rest of the day, he works normally, avoiding Alam, and in those brief moments of rest, he looks at the notepad with the phone number and realizes it's the first time he's had the option of talking to someone else with powers since he was fourteen and ruined everything.

The next day, he returns to the cafeteria, and Sussie approaches him with a smile.

"Someone's waiting for you in the private room."

For some reason, he smiles at this and enters the room, happy to see the huge man sitting there.