A Preference for Rare Pairs

Laundry day in the Gilmore household could be interesting, given that the various adventures they had were not easy on their clothes. Francoise was thankful that her turn had fallen on one of the less interesting weeks; the most she had to do was gather up the stray clothes that inevitably ended up strewn around.

Her circuit through the house – surprisingly short, resulting in a shirt from the lab and a pair of pantyhose that were most definitely not hers in the bathroom – ended in the den, where Junior sat reading a book. She dropped a kiss on his temple and reached for the sweatshirt piled in the throw blankets next to him.

Junior caught her hand just before she grabbed the cloth. At her surprised look, he raised a finger to his lips and tilted his head down.

Now that she was giving it more than a glance, Francoise could see the fall of red hair coming from the hood and the hand loosely grasping Junior’s shirt and the whole thing resolved into Jet taking a nap in the hoodie he’d stolen from Junior ages ago. The hoodie he only wore when he was having a particularly bad day.

“Did he say what’s wrong?” Francoise asked in a whisper, carefully pushing the hood back to brush her hand over Jet’s forehead. He shifted at the touch, the edge of strain in his face smoothing out.

“Nightmares, I think,” Junior murmured back, and Francoise nodded. They all had them, and they had their own ways of coping. There were certainly worse ways to get through the day.

With one last brush over Jet’s hair, Francoise hefted the laundry basket and smiled at Junior. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” She started humming as she left the room, the soft sound drifting in her wake.

“That tree still has fruit at the top.”

Junior obligingly walked over to the tree Chang indicated, hand held up so the other cyborg had something to hold on to, riding on Junior’s shoulder as he was. Chang balanced a basked half full of apples with his free hand, and cheerfully whistled.

“Do you want to get down?” Junior asked. “It would probably be faster.”

“I like it up here,” Chang said, inspecting the apples on the tree before picking one. “Between the two of us, we can get more of the higher fruit this way, and it’s easier to carry the basket. And while I’m up here, I can do this.” He tilted Junior’s head back and planted a kiss on his lips.

“Those are all good points,” Junior agreed, smiling against Chang’s mouth. “You’d better stay up here.”

Later, Albert would have time to think. After the tests and the pain and the surgeries and more tests, he would have time to think about everything.

But in that first waking moment, stretched out on a hard metal table, numb shock filled his mind. Slowly, he registered the blank gray ceiling above him, the lack of cold rain against his face, the faint hum of machinery, his empty arms.

He was alive.

He let his head fall to the side, eyes sliding over the equipment lining the wall below the observation window. A hospital? Wherever he was, he was alone in the room.

His fingers dug into the table unconsciously; the sound of metal scraping over metal didn’t even register. “No,” he snarled, bile building in his throat. “This isn’t real. I’m not—I can’t be here.” He flexed his fingers again, the ghost of Hilda’s body still in his arms.

He was alive, and he was alone.

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“I know that look.”

Pyunma looked up as Kabore slid into the seat across the table, setting two mugs down. “What look?”

“Wistful. Adoring.” Kabore’s grin took a teasing edge, and he poked the letter Pyunma was holding. “Did you meet a girl while fighting evil?”

Pyunma snorted, letting the letter drop to the table. “Hardly. It’s from 002.”

“Really?” Surprise crossed Kabore’s face for a second before he asked, “He’s doing better, then? He was still in bad shape when you all left before.”

“He’s fine.” A fond smile curled over his lips when he glanced back down at the letter and skimmed over the end of Jet’s scrawled rant. “Getting himself into as much trouble as ever.”

“Good to hear.” Kabore sipped his coffee. “You didn’t deny being wistful and adoring.”

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“—and what do you call that? She’s so off pitch that—”

“What are you watching?” Albert interrupted GB’s rant, looking dubiously at the act playing out on the television.

“Eurovision,” GB answered. Albert waited, hoping for some elaboration despite GB’s tone implying that that one word was the only explanation necessary. GB finally glanced over after the silence stretched, an edge of incredulity on his face. “You know, Euro…” he trailed off, gaining the faintly guilty expression everyone wore when they’d forgotten when, exactly, their teammates were from. It was quickly replaced with determination, and he motioned for Albert to sit with him on the couch.

“The Eurovision Song Contest,” he began gravely, “is the most important event of the year. You see…”

It took until GB got to the contest being a replacement for war, his studied tone laid over a backdrop of glitter and Europop on the television, for the ridiculousness of it all hit Albert. He covered his mouth to hide his chuckles, trying not to interrupt the history lesson.

To no avail; GB cut himself off with a delighted grin. “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”

Albert let his hand drop. “It’s because of your way with history.”

“Wait until the voting and I’ll tell you how it reflects our geopolitics.”

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Jet froze, ears straining to pick out any movement in the trees around him. Even after all this time, the sounds of fighting in the forest was still less natural to him than a back alley brawl; the relative quiet around him told him nothing about what was going on.

Until a crack sounded from the bushes a few meters away.

He spun, bringing is gun to bear and cursing his inability to use his accelerator right then, but he could already see the muzzle of a rifle aiming straight at him and—

A body slammed into his, sending him sprawling across the forest floor. Joe crouched over him, already firing at the shooter.  He stopped after a few shots and peered into the underbrush. “I think he’s gone. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Jet sat up and glanced over at the blue paint dripping down the tree that had been behind him – Pyunma’s paint color, no wonder he hadn’t heard him coming – and grinned. “My hero.”

Joe grinned back and leaned down to bump his helmet’s face plate against Jet’s in lieu of a kiss. “I almost lost you. You’d better stick close to me.”

Movement over Joe’s shoulder caught Jet’s eye; he whipped his gun up and fired before he quite processed it, and cursing echoed through the trees as his shot hit true. “Maybe you’d better stick close to me.”

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“I’m just saying, if you’re going to spy on me, at least—”

“Grant Britton!”

GB wasn’t the only one who stiffened at the shout, though likely for an entirely different reason than the others. He turned on his heel to see an older woman in a blue cardigan and matching pillbox hat determinedly bearing down on the group. “Mum?!”

006 had time to repeat, “Mum?” while 003 murmured, “Grant?” before he found himself yanked into a crushing embrace.

* * *

“I was afraid someone would find you dead in a ditch.”

GB stared down into his cup of tea, the sadness and guilt of the past few days a familiar lump in his chest. They’d relocated to a nearby pub, a light lunch providing GB with something to give him time to think. If only so he could think of a proper revenge on his traitorous teammates who’d disappeared as soon as they’d realized exactly what was happening.

“If I hadn’t read the reviews, would I have even known you’d resurfaced?”

“I’m sorry, mum. I wasn’t planning to be in town that long…”

The glare he received told him exactly how well that excuse went over. “And where have you been?”

“Rehab.” While she blinked at the lie, he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “And after I got out, I needed some time to figure things out. So I’ve been traveling.”

She made an intrigued sound. “With your friends from before?”

“Yes. We’ve been…” He laughed, relaxing away from the lies and half-truths. “We’ve all been going through some hard times. Being there for each other when we can has helped.”

She made that sound again, slowly sipping the last of her tea and setting the cup down with a sharp click. “You are coming home to dinner tonight.”

“Yes’m.”

“And bring your friends. If you’re traveling with them, I’d like to at least meet them.”

“Yes’m.”

She nodded sharply and stood up, rounding the table to drop a kiss on his head. “I’m glad you’re safe, my darling boy.”

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Jet stared at Joe in disbelief, uncertain of what he was looking at exactly. Joe shifted uncomfortably under the look, holding the cupcake up almost as a shield. “I know last week wasn’t good, but,” he sped up, seeing Jet’s face darken at the mention of the disaster that was his birthday, “I still thought—happy unbirthday?”

He held his breath for a long moment as Jet just stood there, eyes hidden behind his bangs. Suddenly, finally, the tension left his shoulders and he muttered, “Since when did you read Through the Looking Glass?”

He still took the cupcake.

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Pyunma nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, his hands taken up with the mugs he was carrying. “Hot chocolate’s ready.”

Jet didn’t move from his sprawl on the bed. Pyunma might’ve assumed that he hadn’t heard it, given the headphones he was wearing, if he hadn’t known how good Jet’s hearing was. He set the mugs on the bedside table and leaned over to run his fingers through Jet’s bangs. It was enough to pull Jet’s attention to him, eyes dark and face pinched. “Want to talk about it?”

Jet scoffed, but tugged Pyunma down to sit. He curled his arms around the other cyborg’s waist and pressed his face against his hip.

What little amusement Pyunma had felt evaporated at the move. Stroking over Jet’s hair served the double purpose of soothing his boyfriend and pushing off the headphones; the sound of guitars spilled out until he managed to find the mp3 player. “Hey. Talk to me.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Jet muttered. “Just want the storm to end.”

Pyunma glanced up at the window, already knowing the shade was shut against the storm going on outside. “I thought you liked snow.”

“I like snow,” Jet grumbled, pressing closer to Pyunma’s hip. After a moment, he added, his voice a little softer, “I don’t like blizzards.”

Pyunma kept petting his hair, remembering the feel of snow against his neck when they were coming back from getting groceries. “At least we got in before the worst hit, right?”

Jet’s arms tightened. “Not everyone does.”

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“When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”

Pyunma had heard that old saying about looking into the abyss, but he’d never quite considered applying it to a situation like this. Probably not a fair thought, but when he’d tried to understand 002, he’d underestimated just how much 002 returned the favor; he’d also underestimated how horrible 002’s ideas could be.

“You’re going to get shot,” he told the flier as they climbed into the torpedo tube.

002 just barked a laugh and said, “They’re not going away, and you want to get out there and do something as much as I do.”

And he was right, the anxious itch in the back of his mind easing as 002 contacted the bridge; Pyunma didn’t have to admit it out loud, though, so he just smiled as he tightened his grip around 002’s hips and said, “You’re just a horrible influence.”

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