Heather Brendon loves reading her son, Maxwell, his favorite comics, Hellboy, mainly because of how ludicrous the entire thing is. Demons, fish-people, vampires, elves; she enjoys the fantasy, even if she isn't a huge lover of the comic itself. But when a main character suddenly appears in her kitchen, cookie in one hand and beer in the other, her entire perception of what she thought was reality is thrown into question. She and Maxwell are thrust into something straight from textbook mythology, put under the protection of a government organization that doesn't exist, and given a room a few doors down from a cranky red demon.

She thought her life was chaotic before. Boy, was she wrong.

Pigeons and Snicker-Doodle Cookies

ONE

She made it home in record time, walking in the front door at 8:17, the earliest she had all week. Dark grey eyes scanned the small living room. The television was off, a backpack thrown carelessly on the couch in front of it. A small piece of paper lay on the table next to it. Balancing dinner in her hand, she bent forward and snagged it while making her way to the tiny kitchen. The only word on it was 'pigeons', which let her know Maxwell was on the roof. That explained why the television was off.

Smiling softly, she ran her hand through her dark auburn-brown hair, collecting it in a bun before pinning back the shorter strands with a few bobby pins. Moving about the kitchen, humming, she took note that the pile of cookies she'd made for Max were missing three. Next to the plate sat a carton of milk, a small spill next to it.

"Oh, Max." She huffed, expecting the carton to be warm when her hand clasped around it. "Hm.. I must've just missed him." She gave a slight frown, placing the milk back in the fridge alongside her dinner before cleaning the counter. After the counter was back in order, she trudged over to the couch and collapsed. Her poor feet cried in the confines of her sneakers, back throbbing when she sat up to remove them, just like it did every day.

At only twenty-five years old, Heather Brendon had the energy levels of a sixty-year old. At least, that's what it seemed like whenever she got home. Part of her, a very large part, hated herself for allowing her jobs to occupy all of her time, leaving none for the one who needed it the most. That's who she was doing it for, though, she reminded herself.

Maxwell hadn't been planned. Like very many teenage mothers, Heather thought being on the pill meant she didn't have to use other means of birth control (particularly the thin, latex kind). It worked for a year or so, until she accidentally missed a few pills during a weekend spent in the apartment of a nineteen year old.

When her body first showed signs of her condition, she'd brushed it off as the flu. However, when she realized she'd failed to receive a visit from Aunt Flow for close to two months, she begged her friend Molly to take her to the corner market so she could buy the test.

After the first one, she made her take her back so she could buy five more.

A gallon of grape juice and five smiley faces later, Heather was curled up in the bathtub, sobbing, while Molly held her hand and told her everything was going to be okay.

It wasn't, of course.

Soon after finding out for herself, she told her parents. Her father was a successful banker, her mother an elementary school teacher. They were decent parents, teaching her the ABC's and right from wrong. That was where the good parenting ended, though. They never really bothered to truly learn about their daughter other than the occasional chat at the dinner table, which were few and far between. They knew she wanted to be a dancer (a notion that made her father laugh and inform her that dancers rarely went anywhere in life unless they were good), or maybe an artist (but art degrees were useless, therefore she was forbidden from pursuing it). They knew she preferred the color green to any other color, and that she had an affinity for red lipstick (because they took it away every time they found a tube of it in her room; it was too bold a color and no daughter of Clint Brendon was going to have the lips of a harlot). Though those few examples painted a rather harsh picture, they did have their nice qualities. Her father was generally amicable, when he did make an appearance. Her mother enjoyed crocheting her hats and throw blankets. Both loved her, she knew that. They just weren't good at showing it.

She wasn't sure how they'd take her news. She knew they would be far from happy, but she had no idea their reaction was going to be so cruel.

They gave her thirty minutes to pack a bag and kicked her to the curb, then informed her that she was disowned. No good daughter went out and got pregnant at 16. Not the daughter of a banker and a teacher. Not a Brendon.

She made a vow then, when the door was slammed in her face, that she would never make her child feel the way she'd felt then. She would never slam the door in their face and leave them to fend for themselves, ever.

The father, a man named Tristin O'Malley, lived on his own. She went to him first, and he let her in immediately, albeit awkwardly. They hadn't been dating at the time of Maxwell's conception, and hadn't planned on dating. They talked about the situation, she told him he didn't have to be there if he didn't want to, but she needed a place to stay while she got on her feet. He agreed to let her stay until she had enough money for an apartment and a steady job, but let her know that he had absolutely no interest in a child. He said he would give her money for six months after the birth, so she could be with the kid, but after that he didn't want to be contacted.

Three months later, she was in a 400 square foot apartment under the name of Tristin O'Malley (until her 18th birthday), was working two jobs, saving up money, and preparing for the birth of her son, Maxwell, Max for short.

Max was born in the wee morning hours of August 18th, weighing 6 pounds, 8 ounces, with a full head of reddish brown hair and keening wail. Other than the delivering nurse and doctor, she'd been alone, facing the challenge of birth by herself. It was a painful challenge, she realized when she'd began sobbing and begging the doctor to stop the pain. None of the books had told her it was going to be excruciating; just uncomfortable.

But when she had the little bundle of baby in her arms, she'd instantly forgiven him for the pain. He was perfect, with his tiny features and shaky whimper, and she could already tell his hazy blue eyes would become her own dark grey.

She cried harder that night than she ever had during her pregnancy.

After six months, Tristin stopped sending her money, and she returned to work. Molly, who had graduated early, watched Max almost every day while she did homework for college. Heather always returned at lunch to find them asleep on the floor surrounded by textbooks.

It was bizarre, going from not only being responsible for yourself, but a little human being as well. Mostly, it was smooth. Max was a bit of a crier, but that wasn't anything a soft song and arm rock, or a passage of whatever book she'd been reading (unless it was Stephan King) couldn't cure.

As he grew, she wasn't surprised to find that he was a reader. He ate up books faster than she did, which meant she was always on the lookout for new titles to add to their always increasing collection, which had doubled in size since their move to a two-bedroom apartment. It went from her reading to him, to them switching back and forth every night, to him reading to her as she cleaned or made dinner after work. The cooking didn't happen very often. Her evening boss always sent her home with leftover food and a slice of pecan pie for Max.

"Oh, oops." She tore herself from her thoughts, rising from the couch to grab her bag. A small box appeared from the inside, the very same pie previously mentioned inside. Another quick trip to the fridge later and she was reheating her dinner. Glancing at the clock, she saw the time was now 8:40. Making two plates, she exited the apartment and took the stairs up to the roof. Pushing the heavy door open, she poked her head out.

"Max?"

"Mom!" He called out, appearing from behind the pigeon cages. A bright smile spread across his face.

"Hey there, squirt. Did you like the cookies?" She kissed the top of his head when he wrapped his arms around her torso and nodded.

"Yeah, they were good. What's for dinner?"

"Just burgers and fries. The fries are probably soggy now. I fell asleep on the couch when I got home." She sat on the roof, her back propped up against the concrete rail, and noticed he still had his pigeon in his hands. "Put Chester away. Here, I have some hand sanitizer." She set the plates down next to the two glasses of milk and empty cookie plate. "Oh, did you have company?" She motioned to the still half-empty glass of milk closet to her. Had she been looking at him, she would've seen him stiffen.

"Nope." He popped the 'p'. "Just thirsty."

"Mm.. You won't mind if I drink that then, will you?"

"Don't drink it!" He snapped. Heather raised an eyebrow, watching him. Max came forward, sitting next to her and holding out his hands. She squirted the hand sanitizer in his waiting palms, waiting for him to rub them together, before offering him a plate.

He took the offered plate graciously and noticed her questioning gaze.

"I have cooties." Was all he offered.

Heather rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, my cooties. I made you, squirt. But I won't drink it if you don't want me to." She took a big bite of burger, licking the ketchup that ran down her pinky finger.

Max seemed to think for a moment, before shrugging and popping a fry in his mouth.

"I guess it's fine."

"Don't talk wif yo mouf full." She eyed him with faux seriousness. Max laughed.

"Ew, mom! Gross!"

She chuckled and swallowed, crossing her legs to set her plate down on them.

"How was school?"

"Fine. We made paper doll families."

"Oh?" Heather smiled. "Did you bring them home?"

He bobbed his head once.

"Yeah. Mine isn't very good, though."

"Psh. I bet it's fantastic."

"It's okay.." His voice was quiet, his head down a bit. She shifted, facing him.

"Hey, what's the matter?"

"Nothing." He murmured. "It's just.. A couple of the kids were laughing because I only had two dolls."

".. Oh." She captured her lower lip in her teeth, running her tongue along it. ".. Did Ms. Nelson do anything?"

"She told them to cut it off and said lots of kids only had one parent. They stopped after that."

"Good." She released her lip, deciding that she would give Ms. Nelson a call the next morning.

"Mom, what does 'bastard' mean?"

"It's a bad word for someone who has unmarried parents. Did someone call you that?"

He didn't say anything, but his posture told her everything. Heather sighed softly, scooting closer to him until she was able to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

"Who was it?"

"Ethan Reynolds."

"I think I'm going to have a talk with Ms. Nelson tomorrow."

"No!" He cried suddenly. "Then he'll know I told you, and he'll bother me more."

"Squirt, this guy's harassing you. I'm not going to sit back and let that happen. I'm sure you can fight your own battles, but this guy's been bugging you for ages. I think it's about time I got involved."

Max lowered his head again. She frowned lightly, before leaning forward to press a soft kiss against his temple.

"How about you and I go inside and finish this up with a little Clare Fader and Hellboy comics? These pigeons don't smell all that good."

He perked up instantly at the mention of Hellboy, nodding enthusiastically.

"Yeah!"

She smiled, having known that would've dispelled his dark mood. Ever since she'd brought home the first issue from the comic book store next to her evening job at 'Domonique's Diner', Max had been completely obsessed with the fictional red 'destroyer-of-things-that-go-bump-in-the-night' and his sidekick, Fish-Face. Heather wasn't the biggest fan of comic books, but she did enjoy the artwork. Plus, they made Max happy.

The pair collected the cookie dish and milk glasses, moving down into the stairwell that would lead them to their apartment. Once inside, Heather turned on Clare Fader's 'Cabin Fever' before plopping down on the floor across from Max, who had grabbed an issue of Hellboy; Colossus, judging by the cover art.

"Am I reading, or listening?" She asked between bites of burger. Max pondered his answer then thrust the comic into her lap. Heather chuckled, setting her plate down before opening her legs and arms. "Reading, I take it. C'mere, Squirt." Max crawled over to her, settling between her legs with his back against her chest. She bent her knees, resting her arms against them while blowing his hair away from her face. "Dang, you're getting tall. Pretty soon I won't be able to see over your head." She kissed the top of his head, opening to the page they'd been at last time. After scanning it, she found the panel they'd last been on and began to read.

Not long after beginning, with Heather only a few pages further into the comic, she felt Max's head droop slightly. Smiling, she continued, stopping a few minutes later when he made a small sound in his sleep, curling up against her. After marking the page, Heather slid one arm around him.

"C'mon, Squirt.. Bedtime."

"No.." He mumbled, obviously still asleep. She chuckled, bending at the knee to scoop him into her arms with a groan.

"Won't be able to do this for much longer, either…" She huffed, adjusting.

"Mommy..?" Max's voice was soft.

"I'm right here, honey."

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight? I don't want the monsters to get me."

Heather raised an eyebrow.

"Monsters?"

"Hellboy.. On a mission.. Spying.." He mumbled, burying his face in her shoulder. ".. Bad guys.."

"Squirt, the comic isn't real." She kissed the side of his head, carrying him to her room. "But I don't mind if you bunk with me tonight. Just don't get mad when I wake you up when I get up at four, okay?"

"'Kay.."

Heather gently rested him on her bed before disappearing into his room across the hall. She reappeared a moment later with a pair of Batman pajama bottoms and a black shirt.

"Sit up, bud."

She helped him get into his pajamas, folded his pants and shirt and set them aside, then got ready for bed.

When she finally crawled into bed, Max instantly molded to her side. She giggled softly, wrapping an arm over him.

"I love you, Max." She whispered softly.

"Love you, Mom."

She was up at four the next morning, like usual. After brewing a pot of coffee, showering, and eating a quick breakfast, she packed Max a lunch and got dressed. At 5:15, right on cue, a knock came from the front door. One shoe on, one in her hand, Heather opened the door, greeted by the sight of Gretchen Langley, the kind old woman from apartment 32A down the hall.

"Good morning, Dear." She greeted, coming in after Heather gestured for her to do so.

"Mornin'." Heather pulled on her other shoe, hopping around the couch to grab her backpack.

"Is Max still asleep?" The old woman inquired, noticing his door was left wide open.

"Yeah. He's in my bed. Will you make sure he showers when he gets up, please? His lunch is in the fridge, as well as some Pecan pie for you."

"Oh! Thank you kindly, Heather." Her dark blue eyes warmed. "I'll be sure to have him in the shower by seven."

"Thank you, Gretchen. Again, I can't thank you enough for everything you do for us."

She smiled, pulling her grey hair into a messy bun.

"It's no trouble at all. Now, you best be getting to work young lady. I know how Logan gets when his workers are late."

Heather nodded in agreement.

"I'll be off in a moment." She moved back into her room, smiling when Max rolled over and opened his eyes.

"Leaving now?" He asked, voice heavy with sleep. She bushed his hair from his face.

"Yep. I'll be back around lunchtime. You're off early today, right?" He nodded. "Good. I'll see you around one, then. Love you. Now, go back to sleep."

"Love you too." He plopped back down and fell asleep. Heather watched him sleep for a second, before turning and exiting the room.

"Have a good day, Gretchen."

"You too, Heather. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Heather Brendon, coffee in one hand, backpack in the other, trudged out the door and down the hall, fighting off the Z-monster while she prepared herself for the day.

'Smile, get lots of tips, pay rent.. Smile, get lots of tips, pay rent..'

She repeated her mantra throughout the day as she bused tables, smiling even after an angry patron 'accidentally' spilled water over her uniform.

'Smile, get lots of tips, pay rent..'

This will probably be a story with updates that are relatively far between.. I've just had this idea in mind for awhile and thought I better write it down before it gets lost. This first chapter is a bit dull, but it will pick up speed eventually. Mainly just introducing the characters. Review if you'd like! Reviews are always nice. ;)

Have a good night!