Enigma & T-Bone: An Origin Story

by EFAW

The origin of LA's first (and most dysfunctional) superhero duo! Too bad they hate each other. (Sort of.) And are stuck with each other. (Only sort of literally.) Wesvis. Superhero AU. Oneshot.

1. Chapter 1: The Enigma Project

Summary: The origin of LA's first (and most dysfunctional) superhero duo! Too bad they hate each other. (Sort of.) And are stuck with each other. (Only sort of literally.) Wesvis. AU. Oneshot.

Warnings: Superheroes. Canon pre-story character-death. Some swearing. Some torture. Mention of suicide. Bad science. Seriously. Don't come here for real science. Superhero clichés.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

This story is inspired by a Valiant comic called Quantum & Woody. It is hilarious and my first thought upon reading it was how very Wesvis the two main characters acted, so I knew I had to write an AU. Because I love AUs. Also, superheroes.

OOOO

Enigma & T-Bone: An Origin Story: The Enigma Project

"Love me or hate me, both are in my favor… If you love me, I'll always be in your heart… If you hate me, I'll always be in your mind."

—William Shakespeare

XXXX

In hindsight, maybe starting a fight at his best friend's funeral and getting arrested wasn't the greatest idea in the world.

To be fair, it is entirely Travis's fault. He's the one who strolled in like nothing had happened, like seven years hadn't passed full of bad feelings and bitter memories turned sour. He's the one who quietly stood in the back of the crowd with his hands folded in front of him and his head bowed, but he hadn't even been there, he hadn't been there for seven years so he had no right to be here now, where was he, where was he when Paekman needed him, when Wes needed him—!

Wes will admit that he may have lost his head for a moment there. He's not entirely certain how he ended up across the grass, throwing a punch at Travis's big stupid face. He does know how he ended up wrestling with the man, because Travis was never the sort to back down from a fight, especially when he was provoked.

Wes also isn't sure who called the cops, just that one minute he was reeling from a blow to the side of his head and the next he was being pulled off of Travis and cuffs were being slapped on.

So now he's sitting in the sterile interrogation room, staring at the industrial grey walls and cursing Travis's name. This is in every way Travis's fault.

XXXX

Travis has, over the years, had plenty of experience in interrogation rooms. He knows the drill. So when the pretty brunette cop walks into the room, Travis is lounging in his chair, his boots up on the table, smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world. The key is to not let them get to you.

The cop pauses in the doorway, one eyebrow going up, but she doesn't comment. Instead, she sits down, setting a plain manila folder in front of her. She's got a cup of coffee in her other hand, which she takes small, dainty sips from. "I'm Detective Amy Laroche."

"Nice to meet you. Do I get one of those?" He nods towards the coffee cup.

"No," she answers without hesitation. She flips open the folder, angling it so he can't see what's inside, though he has a pretty good guess. Sure enough… "Travis Marks. Or should I say, Michael Ealy? Ricky Nash? Jake Attica? Oh, how about Darwyn al-Sayeed?"

"Nice," Travis whistles, "Didn't think you guys had that last one."

She makes a noncommittal sound, staring at his file over the rim of her coffee cup. "Looks like you've been busy. Let's see…got arrested for drag racing at sixteen…then you spiraled out on the fast track to nowhere." She flips a few more pages. "Quite a list of accomplishments you've got here. Breaking and entering, larceny, grand theft auto. Even a few charges for assault. Get in a lot of fights, Mr. Marks?"

Travis tenses slightly, but forces the easy, devil-may-care smile to stay on his face. No need to let the lady cop know she's hit a nerve. "Today was self-defense. Wes hit me first. Ask anyone."

"No, I'm sure. And I'm sure you did nothing to provoke it, right? You're the innocent party here?"

Since Travis has no intention of airing his dirty laundry, he just keeps smiling and says, "Damn straight."

"Right." Detective Laroche purses her lips and shuts the folder, studying him. "What brings you to town, Mr. Marks?"

That throws him for a second, because he would have thought that was obvious. "My friend died. Or, am I not allowed to come to his funeral? There a law against that now?"

She ignores his sarcasm. "When was the last time you talked with David Paek, before his death?"

"I don't know, a couple months ago?" He drops his feet off the table and leans forward, hands folded in front of him. "Why are you asking?"

She stares blandly at him and takes a sip of her coffee.

XXXX

"You have quite a history with Travis Marks, don't you?" Detective Kate Cafferty asks.

"What gave you that clue?" Wes asks sourly, crossing his arms and scowling his fiercest. It doesn't have much of an effect. The blonde detective doesn't so much as blink.

"How did you meet?"

"What is this, my biography? How is that relevant?"

"You're right." The detective smiles blandly and taps her pen against her lips. "It's not. Suffice to say there's…history between you two, yes?"

Wes clenches his jaw and stares stonily at her.

Unperturbed, Cafferty studies the file in front of her. "How long has it been since you've seen him?"

"Travis?" Even the mere mention of his name is enough to get Wes's blood boiling. He knows

better than to show it in the middle of an interrogation room, though he can't quite get his jaw to relax. "Seven years. And I would have happily gone seven more without seeing his stupid face."

Cafferty makes a vague noise, and it annoys Wes because he knows these tricks, has used some of these tricks in his own practice, and now they're being used on him like he's some sort of common criminal and it is just insulting.

"What about your friend, Paek?" Cafferty suddenly asks, which is enough to startle Wes out of his anger because isn't this about the fight at the cemetery? "Did Travis have the same sort of history with him?"

"Definitely not." God, the idea is laughable, except Detective Cafferty isn't laughing. Wes exhales, runs a hand through his hair. "Look, we all knew each other in college. We were friends. Then Travis and I had a falling out, bad enough I punched him in the face the first time I saw him again. I don't know anything about Travis and Paekman's relationship after that point."

"So you don't know when Paek might have had contact with Marks before his death?"

"No. He wouldn't have mentioned it even if he did. It's kind of a sore spot." Wes leans forward, using his best courtroom look to stare her down. "Why are you asking all these questions about Paekman? He's dead."

Cafferty shifts uncomfortably—he's hit a nerve. "We are simply gathering facts. Trying to answer some questions we still have."

"And you think Travis has something to do with it?" Wes laughs, a short, sharp sound. "Look, Travis is a lot of things. A liar. A thief. A con man. But he'd never do anything to Paekman." He leans back, waving a dismissive hand. "Whatever you're looking for, Travis is not the answer." The hand pauses midair, and Wes frowns. "Wait, why are you asking? Paekman's death was ruled an accident."

The detective looks down, bites her lip, and for the first time her cool composure cracks. "Like I said. We still have some questions."

"…unofficial questions," Wes supplies, mind jumping to the most obvious conclusion. "Because it was ruled an accident. So whatever you think happened, you didn't have enough evidence for."

Cafferty purses her lips, then nods her head ever-so-slightly in acknowledgement.

All Wes can do is chuckle sourly and shake his head. "Whatever you want to think Travis did, he didn't. Trust me. I hate him. If I thought he did it, I'd throw him under the bus in a heartbeat. But he didn't have anything to do with Paekman's death."

XXXX

"Are you kidding me?" Travis stares incredulously at the cop in front of him. "You seriously think I had something to do with my friend's death?"

"That's not what we're saying," Detective Laroche protests, "we're simply trying to get all the facts."

"All the facts. Right. I know how this goes. Black man with a record, he must be guilty of something, right? And hey, we have this random unsolved murder lying around, let's pin it on him!"

"That's not what—"

"No. You know what? I'm done answering questions." Travis sits back, crosses his arms. "I want to leave now."

Nonplussed, Laroche stares at him. "Leave?"

"Yeah. Or am I not allowed to do that either?"

She tries to placate him. "Look, Mr. Marks, no one is accusing you of anything. We just have a few questions."

"Well, I'm not answering them." Travis scowls at her. "You haven't read me my rights, which means I'm not under arrest. And you can't pin the fight at the funeral on me, because I didn't throw the first punch. You have no right to keep me here. So either charge me with something, and get me a lawyer, or let me go." He grins, a mean sort of look. "I know my rights. I used to date a lawyer."

Slowly, Laroche exhales and starts gathering her things. "Of course, Mr. Marks," she says pleasantly, but it's the sort of forced civility people in retail use, the kind that says 'I really don't like you but I have to put up with you.'

She opens the door and waves him out with a sarcastic little flourish. "After you. And I hope if we have any more questions, we'll be able to contact you."

"Yeah," Travis scoffs, stomping out the door. "Whatever."

XXXX

Wes is standing on the sidewalk in front of the station when he emerges, scrolling through his cell phone. For a second, Travis is motionless, struck dumb by the sight. It's been, god, seven years since he's seen Wes, and some things are different but so many other things are the same. Travis knows that curve of Wes's back, the tense line of his jaw, the way his fingers tap tap tap when he's annoyed. Seven years, but standing here, Travis feels like almost no time at all has passed.

Despite knowing he won't receive a warm welcome—the blooming bruises on his face prove that—Travis crosses the distance between them and clears his throat.

Wes glances up, bland disinterest turning to a fierce, undisguised loathing. "Oh," he says, venom dripping from every letter. "It's you." He gives Travis a quick scan. "I see you didn't get stabbed in there."

Well, wow, Travis really shouldn't have expected anything less. "I was in an interrogation room, Wes. And even if I had been in holding, I wouldn't have gotten stabbed in two hours."

"Shame," Wes tsks dismissively, turning back to his phone. "What do you want?"

Wes's tone is a clear Back off fuckface, but Travis has never been good about nonverbal boundaries. He's always been pretty loose with verbal and written boundaries, too. He tucks his hands in his pockets and shuffles an inch closer to Wes. "Wanna talk to you."

The glare Wes shoots him says he totally saw Travis move that inch and he doesn't appreciate it in the slightest. "Absolutely not. The time for talking is long past." He thumbs his phone off and slips it into his pocket, turning on his heel to walk away.

"What about Paekman?"

Wes stops dead. He doesn't turn around, but he stops. Travis takes the opportunity to jog up beside him. "What about Paekman?" he repeats. "You're just gonna leave it at that?"

"Leave what at that?" Wes demands, glaring at him. "What about Paekman?"

"You heard what they said in there!" Travis waves a hand at the police station. "They think something's going on with Paekman's death! They don't think it was an accident! Don't you want to know who killed him?"

"They didn't say it was murder."

"They didn't have to!" Travis bounces a step closer. "Come on, isn't it eating at you?"

"No." Blunt, flat, and utterly uninterested. "You know why? I'm not a detective. And even if something was going on, finding it out won't bring Paekman back." Wes takes a step back, putting some space between them. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

He starts heading down the sidewalk again. Travis stares after him, not entirely surprised that Wes is going right back to work after their friend's funeral. Wes always did like to distract himself from things that upset him.

Things like Paekman's death, or Travis's presence.

"What about me?" he calls to Wes's retreating back, a pointed lab jab that he's still here. "What should I do?"

Without looking back, Wes calls over his shoulder, "Why don't you leave? You're good at that."

Travis doesn't have a retort for that one.

XXXX

Back In The Day

"Hey, Wes," Paekman says as he emerges from his room, "What's up?"

Wes doesn't move, just continues to stare at the empty drawer in front of him. "He took the silverware."

"What? Who?" Paekman moves up beside him, looking at the drawer with its empty plastic dividers. "What the hell?"

"He took the silverware," Wes repeats. The words come out dull, empty. Beyond anger, beyond shock, to that cold, hollow place where pain goes to die. "Why would he take the silverware?"

"Wes," Paekman says suddenly, "Where's Travis?"

"I don't know," Wes mumbles, and he knows he should move, should do…something, but he can't stop staring at the empty drawer in front of him. Empty like the hole in his chest, the place where his heart used to be until he woke up alone.

Empty like Travis's drawers and Travis's shelf in the bathroom, empty because he's gone like he never even existed at all.

There's a rustle of paper behind him as Paekman finds the note. Wes hadn't even realized anything was wrong until he'd seen the note. He'd thought it a bit odd that Travis wasn't there when he woke, maybe, but Travis did that sometimes, stayed out late and didn't come back until late in the morning. Wes didn't ask a lot of questions—sometimes he was afraid he wouldn't like the answers.

The note had been sitting on the counter beside the coffeemaker, folded in thirds with Travis's customary scrawl on the front. He hadn't expected much of anything—he certainly hadn't expected what he got.

"Oh, geez," Paekman says, but Wes still can't move, standing still because he's afraid if he moves he'll just flounder.

"He took the silverware," he says once more, the part he's stuck on. Because Travis might have left, might have packed everything up and vanished into the night and said callous, terrible things in his note that left Wes feeling like his insides had been gouged out by a spoon, but why did he take the silverware? That doesn't make any sense.

"I know he did," Paekman sighs, wrapping his arm around Wes's shoulders. He moves carefully, like Wes is a fragile, brittle thing, but Wes takes comfort in the touch. "Come on, Wes, come sit down. Just sit down for a minute."

Wes allows himself to be led away from the drawer, guided to the couch. Wes sinks into the cushions, staring at his hands. He can hear Paekman dialing his phone, but that won't work. Wes tried; Travis's cell goes straight to voice mail.

Travis is gone.

"Why did he take the silverware?" he asks again, but Paekman is cursing in the kitchen and doesn't answer. "It's not even real silver."

The silverware drawer hangs open, as empty as the space inside his heart.

XXXX

Now

PC Labs is a series of nondescript concrete buildings with too few windows and a really crappy security system. Or maybe Travis is just that good at B&E. Oh, sure, the keycard he lifted off one Mr. Kelvin Yu in the parking lot helps, as does the fact that Paekman has used the same three passwords since college and Travis knows all of them, but even with all of that Travis wouldn't be sneaking through the silent halls of the labs if he wasn't awesome.

Okay, so in some circles being so confident in his breaking and entering skills wouldn't be considered the best thing in the world. But it's effective, and it gets him where he needs to go, which, right now, is inside PC Labs. Because Travis went through Paekman's apartment this afternoon, looking for any possible clue to what happened, but there was nothing.

That just leaves Paekman's work.

At eleven at night, PC Labs has one security guard at the front desk watching the monitors, two guards roaming the halls, and a bunch of stationary cameras that don't overlap nearly as often as they should, which makes it really easy to slip through the blind spots.

Travis has been doing this a long time. He's not proud of it, but he is confident. There's a difference.

He slides around the corner, and there's his destination: a plain green door at the end of the hall with a keypad above the doorknob and a small sign on the wall beside it. Travis pauses a heartbeat, staring at the little sign. They haven't had a chance to take it down yet—it still reads David Paek, Research.

"Let's see what you were researching, Paekman," Travis murmurs, punching in Paekman's passcode, the same one he used back in college as the code to his personal safe. (He used to keep his cigarettes in there, because Wes had a bad habit of throwing them out when they were just laying around, and Travis would sneak smokes on particularly restless days.)

After a tense five seconds, the light on the keypad turns green and the door clicks open.

(Seriously, they haven't changed Paekman's codes yet? This place has terrible security. Sure, Travis is totally using it to his advantage, but come on.)

He slips inside, closing the door behind him. The laboratory is dark—Travis stands by the door until his eyes adjust, not willing to risk the lights. Not just yet. Instead, he pulls a penlight from his pocket and starts searching.

He doesn't know what exactly he's looking for, but he's working with the theory that he'll know it when he sees it.

XXXX

After a solid ten minutes of riffling through drawers and attempting to break into Paekman's computer (unsuccessful, because this is the one time Paekman has ever used a password Travis doesn't know), Travis is about ready to throw his hands up and call it a night. He's found nothing. There has to be something, some reason Paekman was killed, but Travis is having no luck.

"Maybe it's at his apartment?" he wonders, muttering to himself under his breath, though he doubts that because he already tried Paekman's place. Or maybe Paekman has another workspace here, and this is just his office?

Either way, he's not making any headway tonight, and if he stays too much longer he's afraid he's going to get caught. He should leave now and try again later.

Sighing dejectedly—because damn, he thought he was gonna find something and totally solve the case—Travis heads for the door.

The low rumble of voices makes him pause with his hand on the doorknob. Holding his breath, Travis leans in, presses his ear against the door.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" Hissing under his breath, Travis backs away from the door, scoping the room. How is it that the one night he decides to break into his dead friend's office, the security guard decides to take a stroll his way? If he gets caught in here, there is no way the lady cop at the precinct will buy Travis's innocence.

Fuck, fuck, fuck… The only real place to hide is either behind the filing cabinets or under the desk. And the filing cabinets aren't ideal because if the guard takes even two steps into the room, he'd be in plain sight. So the desk it is.

Travis dives across the room even as he hears the chirps of the buttons on the keypad. He makes it under the desk as the door handle turns.

In and out, Mr. Security Guard, he prays, just take a quick look and go away. In and out.

He holds his breath.

"Thank you so much," a familiar voice says, and Travis stiffens, biting his lip hard to keep from shouting in outrage. "I really appreciate your help."

"You're welcome," a second voice says. This one is unfamiliar, and young, and a little nervous. A rent-a-cop from out front, maybe? "Um…should I stay and help you look for…whatever you're looking for?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't take up any more of your time. You need to get back to your job, not stand around babysitting me." Travis is actually kind of impressed at the smarm being delivered right now. It's a level of con artist technique he really wouldn't have expected. "Like said, I really do appreciate this."

"But I—"

"I will call you if I need you. Thanks." And the door closes.

There's a long minute of silence, where they both wait in tense silence. But then the guard's footsteps sound, fading as he walks down the hallway, and Travis hears a slow sigh of relief.

Travis takes that as his cue to leap out, slamming his hands on top of the table. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Wes jumps, knocking his elbow on the door he turns so fast. "Travis? What are you doing here?"

"I asked first. What are you doing here?" His eyes widen. "You lying bastard! You said you didn't care about Paekman!"

The blonde stiffens, eyes flashing. "Say that again. I dare you."

Wes's voice is low and dangerous, and Travis may be reckless but he's not stupid. He changes his attack. "How did you even get in here?" he demands, coming around the desk. "That guy just walked you to the door?"

Wes lifts his head, sticking his jaw out. "I subpoenaed him."

"You what? How? You can't subpoena something if a case hasn't gone to court, and we know this one didn't because hello, it was ruled an accident." Travis's eyes widen again, that same spark of realization. "Oh my god. You lied to him. That poor rent-a-cop was just doing his job and you bamboozled your way in."

Wes rolls his eyes, which would look a lot haughtier if he weren't also blushing furiously at the same time. "That's a ridiculous word. I don't know why you continue using it."

"Wes. Wes. Did you do that thing I taught you? Talk talk talk at 'em, distract and confuse 'em, make 'em do what you want." Wes's flush deepens, and Travis grin. "You did. Oh, I am so proud of you. Mr. Upstanding Citizen, sinking down to my level. This is a red letter day."

"Fuck you." Wes crosses his arms and does that hunchy thing he does when he gets all defensive. "Why are you here? How did you even get in?"

"As it turns out, this place has shitty security. Well, you know. If the rent-a-cop is their first line of defense, then they're in trouble."

Scowling, Wes rolls his eyes and stomps past him, towards Paekman's desk.

"Oh, hey, I already checked there."

Wes ignores him and yanks open the top drawer. Shaking his head, Travis heads towards the filing cabinets again.

XXXX

Frustrated, Wes puts his hands on his hips and glares at the room in general. "There's nothing here."

Travis, who has spent the past ten minutes sitting on Paekman's office chair, spinning in circles, chirps, "I told you."

"Shut up." Wes bites his lip, wracking his brain. "He's gotta have something in his lab."

Travis stops spinning. "What lab?"

"Well, he didn't do his research in here, now did he?" Turning with a flourish, Wes heads for the door.

"Hey, hey!" Travis leaps out of the chair, wobbles for a minute as his equilibrium realigns, and scampers after him. "Where are we going?"

"I am going to the research building. You, hopefully,are going somewhere far away where I can neither see nor hear you."

Travis ignores him. "Right. Because Paekman was in research, so he'd have a lab in the research building." He thumps his forehead with the flat of his hand. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're a dumbass."

"Ah, Wes, you always remind me of the better times."

Wes lengthens his stride. Sadly, he is unable to outrun Travis.

Luckily for them, the research building is the squat concrete building next to the one housing Paekman's office. Equally lucky, PC Labs' crappy security holds, and they meet no one on the way. This time of night, there's absolutely no one about, which definitely makes things easier.

"So," Travis breaks the silence, "what's the wife think about you sneaking out and breaking into labs in the middle of the night?"

Wes almost walks into a wall. "What? That's not…I'm not married."

"Oh." Travis's voice is carefully bland. "Bummer. Separated? No, you're not wearing a ring. Divorced? She finally realize what an ass you are?"

Wes glances over his shoulder, but Travis doesn't look like he's mocking Wes. He looks like he's genuinely asking. It pisses Wes off, for reason's he's not entirely certain of.

He turns back ahead, glaring at the end of the hall. "I'm not divorced, and I'm not separated. There's no wife, Travis. No ex, either."

"Oh." Travis is quiet, a pause pregnant with expectation, and Wes waits for Travis to bite the bullet and just ask whatever he wants to ask.

"What about Alex?"

This time Wes does hit the wall, elbow banging into the plaster as he whirls around. He barely notices. "How the hell do you know about Alex?"

Unapologetically, Travis shrugs. "Paekman."

That means Paekman was telling Travis about Alex, about Wes, things Travis had no right to know, and for a second Wes is so enraged his vision goes dark. If Paekman were here—

But he's not. He's dead and buried and Wes has to remember that. Has to forget all the stupid assholeish things Paekman did while he was alive and focus on the here and now. Slowly, Wes relaxes hands he didn't realize he'd clenched and takes a long, slow breath.

He whirls and starts moving again. "Not that it's any of your business," he snaps, voice projecting all the rage he is very valiantly not demonstrating right now, "Alex and I never married. The engagement fell through."

"Oh," Travis says again, a quiet, surprised little sound. "What happened?"

"No." Wes's voice could melt steel, or freeze it. "Absolutely not. I am not having this conversation with you."

He expects an angry denial, or a hotheaded remark, something Travis is so good at. But there's just an awkward silence, and then a quiet mutter, almost too low for Wes to hear.

"Yeah, I guess that's fair."

Wes clenches his jaw and bites back all the angry, hurt words that threaten to spill out. No. He's kept it all in for seven long years. He doesn't plan on ever having this conversation, and certainly not while he is (mostly) illegally someplace he shouldn't.

"Hey, Wes."

Wes whirls on him, about ready to explode, he's so pissed. "What?"

Travis hooks a thumb towards the door beside him, a plain steel door with a big, bold sign on it saying DO NOT ENTER WHILE LIGHT IS FLASHING. Wes glances up, and there's a red light—quiescent, this time of night.

Travis points again, this time to the small plaque beside the door. "I think we're here."

The Enigma Project, the plaque says, David Paek.

XXXX

"Alright, what's the cigarette code?" Wes asks, hand poised over the keypad.

Travis blinks. "What?"

"Paekman only has four passwords, and the only code with all numbers is the one for that stupid little safe you guys used to keep your cigarettes in." Wes gives him a sardonic look. "What, did you think I didn't know? It's kind of hard to miss it when your roommate and your boyfriend are sneaking out to smoke."

"Huh." Travis pulls a face, rocking back on his heels. "I always thought we were so sly."

"Well, you weren't. What's the code?"

Travis gives it, and, just like the office door, this one pops right open. With a quick glance to make sure no one notices, they slip inside.

This room has no windows, and it's big enough Travis's little penlight doesn't illuminate much. They risk turning on the lights.

The room is large, at least fifty feet square. There's a single workstation against one wall, with a lone computer and a handful of office supplies. The majority of the room is taken up by a large, circular raised platform in the center of the floor. Surrounding the platform are metal panels, steel and silver, and circuitry and wires and Travis doesn't even know what else.

The two of them stand there silent, studying the strange device.

Travis can't help himself. "It looks like alien technology."

"There are no such things as aliens, Travis," Wes snaps instantly, the buzzkill. He was probably just waiting for Travis to say that. "And even if there were, Paekman was not working on alien technology in this shitty lab complex."

"…true enough." Travis waits a beat. "Though aliens would be a really good reason for killing him."

Wes face does that blotchy thing he does when he gets annoyed and kind of pissed. Travis feels a visceral amused pleasure at inducing it. All this time and he still knows how to push Wes's buttons.

"Come on." Wes moves into the room, sidestepping the platform and heading for the computers. Travis, who has always had more mechanical skills than Wes, moves up to the strange (totally alien) machine and studies it.

At least five minutes pass before Travis says, "I'm sorry about your engagement."

Wes's rustling noises pause momentarily. "…right." His tone clearly says Shut up, I don't want to talk about this anymore.

Travis ignores the tone. "It's totally a shame. I mean, I got you an awesome wedding gift and everything."

"What?" Wes straightens, frowns at him. "No you didn't—wait. Wait. Are you—the fucking silverware? That was you?"

Grinning unrepentantly, Travis nods. "It was nice, wasn't it? Only the best for you, baby." The sarcasm is lethal, but it had been a very nice set of silverware.

"You—!" Wes's face is getting mottled red, fists clenching, like a volcano about to erupt. That was one of the things Travis had always found interesting about Wes—the man always seems so calm and collected, but he has a temper underneath it all, and when he lets it out, he explodes and it is glorious. God help anyone who gets in his way.

Of course, now Travis is the one it's aimed at and this is totally not the time or place, so he probably should have thought this through a little, but still.

"You bastard!" Wes storms across the room, grabs his collar, and Travis just barely blocks the punch aimed at his face. "You fucking bastard. I should have known it was you the second I saw there was no card."

Oh yeah, getting Wes wound up is all sorts of fun. Travis grins. "Chill, man. It's just silverware."

"Just silverware? You stole my silverware, Travis! Stole it! I had to spend forty bucks on a new set!"

"Forty bucks? Wow," Travis whistles. "You know, I bet you could have found it cheaper. Or used a coupon or something."

"You bastard. You waltz into my life, steal my silverware, then mock me with it years later! And here you are now, like nothing happened—"

This is going way beyond mere silverware, Travis abruptly realizes. And as much as they probably need to hash all of this out, they really need to find a better venue for this fight.

"Wes, shut up."

"You have no right to tell me—"

"Shut up." Travis slaps his hands over Wes's mouth, cutting off the angry ranting. He hisses, "I thought I heard something!"

Abruptly, Wes goes silent and still, Travis's hands still clasped over his mouth. Travis holds his breath, listening intently.

There. A faint scuff at the door, and the sharp sounds of metal scratching metal.

Travis's gaze meets Wes's; both of their eyes are wide.

Shit.

XXXX

"There are no other exits," Wes reports, "not even a drain."

"What the hell?" Travis rants, returning from his own frantic search of the room. Which didn't take long because for all its size, there's not a lot in it. "How can this place not have an emergency exit or something? Isn't that some kind of safety hazard?"

Wes darts a worried glance at the door, where the sounds of people trying to enter has escalated into dull hammering thuds against the steel door. "There's nowhere to hide, either. Not even a closet."

"Shit." They are going to be in so much trouble. "Okay, when they burst in here, play dumb." Wes gives him a look. "Trust me, play dumb. Security can only charge us for trespassing if we don't say anything."

"You would know," Wes mutters, but he sounds more freaked than like he's trying to pick a fight, so Travis lets it slide. He moves up beside the blonde, solidarity in numbers, and faces the door.

The door bursts inward. Almost instantly, Travis knows he's wrong wrong wrong about this one. These guys aren't security; these guys are dressed for battle. Black gear and armor and masks that cover everything but their eyes. And the guns they're carrying really aren't standard issue for rent-a-cops.

Travis has no idea who these guys are, but all of a sudden he wishes he really was getting arrested for trespassing.

The leading masked man stops, gun snapping up, barking, "Who the hell are you?"

Well, playing dumb was the plan with the rent-a-cops. Maybe it will work on these guys.

"Hey, man, I don't know—"

"Grab them," the leader orders before he can finish, and two of the men step forward.

Travis takes a hasty step back, bumping into Wes, who staggers back. There's a tiny little "Oomph!" from the blonde, and the sound of something falling. When he turns, he sees Wes has tripped over the edge of the platform and fallen on top of it.

"Wait!" the leader orders, gun dropping towards the floor. Travis looks between him and the mystery machine and Wes pushing himself upright, and his eyes widen in a sudden flash of insight.

"Oh my god!" Before one of the goons can grab him, Travis takes two steps, hauling Wes up and fully onto the platform. He points accusingly at the leader. "You! You want Paekman's work. You're the people that killed him!"

"What?" Wes squawks, so surprised he doesn't even pull his arm out of Travis's grasp.

The leader glares at him through the mask. "Get down from there."

"Oh, fuck that. This is the only thing keeping you from shooting us." Travis looks at the machine around them, heavy metal panels and a variety of motors and wires. "What could you possibly want all this for?"

"Travis," Wes hisses, low so the goons can't hear, "What are you doing?"

"Distracting them," Travis whispers back. He digs his flashlight out of his pocket, slipping it into Wes's hand without the leader seeing it. "When I give you the signal, throw it at one of the goons and we'll make a break for it."

Without protest, Wes takes it, tucking it behind his wrist. "What's the signal?"

That's another thing he's always liked about Wes. When it comes right down to it, you can count on him.

"Baby," Travis whispers, and turns back to the leader. "Are you here to steal Paekman's research? Cuz that's kind of a dick move, stealing his stuff when he's dead. That's practically grave robbing, don't you think, baby?"

Wes's glare has little effect, because he swings around and flings the flashlight at the nearest goon. The aim is perfect; it hits the guy smack in the eye and sends him reeling back.

Unfortunately, the nearest goon is standing right in front of the computer terminal, and when he tumbles back he falls right into the computer. He hits—something, because all of a sudden the computer is flashing a bunch of blinking lights and the sounds of motors revving up fills the room. Through the open doorway to the hallway, Travis can see the red light above the door start to flash.

DO NOT ENTER WHILE LIGHT IS FLASHING, the sign on the door had said, and Travis takes that as their cue to leave.

"Come on!" He grabs Wes's hand and heads for the edge of the platform.

Too late. The large panels slide down, locking into place, two layers of silver and steel separating them from the rest of the room. And then the machinery kicks into gear, and the panels start to move, slowly spinning around the platform and picking up speed.

Wes reaches out, like maybe he can stop them or something stupid, then yanks his hand back with a hiss as the panels snap at his fingers. Too fast to stop them, too fast to get out.

"Shit," Travis says. "We are so fucked."

Wes turns to him, eyes widening. "What?"

It's totally not cool, but Travis is panicking a little here. He does the same thing Wes does, reaching out, but it's like sticking his hand into fan blades—except, like, ten hundred times the speed. Travis is a little surprised his fingers aren't actually bleeding. "Man, we are totally gonna get radiated!"

Wes pauses. Blinks. Frowns. "That's not the right word."

"What? Yes it is."

"No, I really don't think it is."

Travis frowns, furrows his brow. "Well, what's the word for being bombarded with radiation?"

"Irradiated."

"How is that any different than what I said?"

Wes glares at him. Travis throws up his hands and gives in. "Fine. We're totally gonna get irradiated!"

The panels have sped up so much that the seams are invisible, a sheer silver tube surrounding them. Sparks have started flashing across the metal, sunflower gold and electric blue, energy building up inside the spinning machine.

"Oh man, oh man, we are fucked," Travis moans.

"What are you talking about?" Wes shouts. Not because he's pissed or scared, though he's probably a little of both, because Travis totally is. No, he's shouting to be heard, because the hum of the machine is getting louder the faster the machine spins.

"You don't watch a lot of sci-fi, do you?" Travis hollers back. Wes gives him a look, one that very clearly reads Are you fucking kidding me what are you fucking talking about you are making no sense. This is a very familiar look of Wes's.

Travis has to lean close now to be heard. "In sci-fi, when people get stuck in mysterious experimental machines that start spinning, they get bombarded with weird energy and start growing, like, horns and third eyes and shit." He flings horrified hands up to his face. "Wes! Am I growing a third eye?!"

Wes shouts something, but Travis can't hear it. He wonders if Wes heard anything he said either.

The energy is so thick, he can barely see the spinning panels anymore. He has no idea what's happening outside the walls. It's strange, though. The energy seems to be spinning just as fast as the walls, flashing around them in a tornado of light, but it's not mixing into green. In the midst of freaking the fuck out, that's what stands out to him.

Paekman, he wonders, what were you working on?

Wes flails his hands, mouth moving, and Travis can't hear what he's shouting but he can pretty accurately guess. This is all your fault, you told me to throw the stupid penlight, I'm sorry for all the hurtful words I've said over the years.

Well. That last one might be wishful thinking, but they're very probably about to die from irradiation, so Travis is allowed his little fantasies.

He holds out his hand, reaching for Wes, and their eyes meet. The terror in Wes's gaze is only matched by the fear Travis feels curdling his stomach.

Wes reaches out, but he never makes it.

XXXX

Within the machine, the energy builds up, a unique form composed of two opposing yet equal forces. What Wes and Travis don't know is that whenever David Paek tested this machine, the energy would build up, reach a certain point, and then collapse harmlessly back to an inert state. He never could get it to do what he wanted it to.

With the introduction of two foreign bodies into the machine, the energy does not collapse, and it does not dissipate. It continues to build, careening around the small chamber, rocketing around the two men inside.

Rocketing through them. The energy builds to a blinding whirl, and Wes and Travis are torn apart, down to their very atoms, then reassembled, all in the space of a blink, so quickly they don't even notice. But in that blink, the energy passes through them, tearing apart the old bonds and creating new ones.

In an instant, Travis and Wes are remade.

The energy stills. Though the panels still spin beyond, within the chamber it is silent and still. Hands still outstretched, Travis and Wes lock eyes, a thousand things passing wordlessly between them.

The world goes supernova.

XXXX

Back In The Day

"You know," Wes sighs, draping himself across Travis's chest, "this really isn't how things were supposed to go."

Travis drowses, basking in the afterglow, and makes a vague noise to show Wes he hasn't fallen asleep and is totally listening, no really.

"I was supposed to join a large firm," Wes continues, "find a nice girl to marry—preferably a successful lawyer—and be partner before I was thirty. Instead, I ended up with an ex-con artist who has a penchant for getting into trouble, and who is also male."

Travis's eyes crack open at that last, and he frowns at the top of Wes's head. "Also male? That's not the part you're focused on?"

Wes shifts, props his chin on his folded arms and blinks languidly at him. "I think if you were a successful lawyer, my parents would eventually overlook your man bits."

"You love my man bits and you know it."

Wes does that adorable crinkly thing with his nose and smacks him. Travis pretends it hurts more than it actually does.

"What about you?" Wes asks. "Did you ever have any plans for your life?"

This is the part where Travis says something flippant and snarky, deflecting the question away from all the things he'll never have.

Instead, he stares at the ceiling above him, and because it's Wes, he admits, "I wanted to be a cop when I was little. A detective." He lets a small, sad smile creep into the corners of his mouth. "Detective Travis Marks. Has a nice ring, doesn't it?"

Wes doesn't say anything for a long time, processing. "What happened?" he asks, softly, gently, like he's afraid of pushing too hard.

Sighing, Travis wraps an arm around Wes's shoulders, relishing in the contact, in the warm press of skin grounding him from painful memories. "I don't know. I got in trouble. Got arrested. Got in more trouble. Eventually it was just…too late. No turning back."

Normally, this is the part where Travis would expect pity for everything that went wrong that ended him where he is, or derision for all the bad choices he made that led him here. Wes, being Wes, silently takes this in, and then shifts the conversation a little, so it's not as painful.

"Why a cop?" he muses. No recrimination or pity. Just mild curiosity.

That's one of the things he adores about Wes.

The smile he makes this time is bittersweet, and he closes his eyes again. "I always wanted to be a superhero. Being a cop, that was the closest I could find."

XXXX

Now

Wes feels…fuzzy. It reminds him of college, when he stayed up too many nights in a row working on papers, living off of coffee and processed sugar, and then Travis came and pushed a beer into his hands, lips quirking up in a grin, and he said, "You need to relax, baby," and the booze hit too fast too hard on a near-empty stomach and Wes felt like he was disintegrating a little.

It's kind of like that, but not really.

Wes sighs softly, snuggling against Travis's chest. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know it's Travis—he knows Travis's body as well as he knows his own, sharp planes and gentle angles and the spicy-smooth scent of his skin that can both calm and arouse Wes like no other. God, he's missed this.

"Hey baby," Travis mumbles thickly, clumsily stroking his shoulder, and Wes feels a sleepy smile crossing his face. He won't admit it, but he has missed this, the casual intimacy of being with someone, of being with Travis, and he shifts, wrapping his arm around Travis's waist to pull him closer—

Something metal hits metal with a happy little 'klung!' Wes feels in his bones, and the fuzziness disappears.

Wes's eyes snap open.

He's lying in a pile of rubble that had once been PC Labs, a massive swath of destruction that no one should have survived.

That's not the first thing he notices.

The first thing he notices is that he's 100% buck naked, not a stitch of clothing on. There's a thick metal gauntlet-type thing on his left arm, but he barely gives that a passing glance because something much more pressing has come to his attention.

Travis is just as naked as he is.

"No!" Wes leaps to his feet, putting a good yard of distance between them. "No, no, no! I have a rule about this!"

Travis, who knows all about Wes's rules, sits up with a wary, disgruntled expression. "Which rule is this?"

"It's a new one. About never ever getting naked with you. Ever."

"Harsh." Travis climbs to his feet, poking a piece of golf-ball-sized rubble with his toe. "Any idea why we're naked together?"

"Obviously our clothes were vaporized in the explosion that leveled the building!"

Travis's face shifts from annoyance to concern. He crosses the space between them and cups Wes's face in his (warm familiar comforting) hands. "Wes, baby, you gotta breathe."

Wes is dimly aware that he's freaking the fuck out. Under the circumstances, he thinks he's justified. "We were in the middle of an explosion! So either I'm dead and this is my own personal hell, which wouldn't surprise me at all, or something is very wrong!"

"I know, okay, I know, and we will figure it out, but right now you gotta calm down and breathe for me, Wes."

Travis is probably just as freaked out as Wes, but he's not showing it because Travis is an asshole who doesn't show any emotions and dammit, Wes is kind of grateful for it. One of them needs to think rationally right now.

Then he hears the sirens (because duh, explosions), and he calms down a little. The police are here. They'll take care of everything.

That's when Travis goes, "Oh, fuck."

XXXX

This is how Wes knows his life has gone to shit: He's crouched naked behind a pile of rubble, arguing with his ex about whether they should reveal themselves to the police or not.

"Absolutely not," Travis snaps, "They will shoot you in the face!"

"What? Why? We've done nothing wrong!"

"So?" Travis peeks around the edge of the rubble pile, ducking back so quickly Wes is certain he didn't see anything of value. "We're the only survivors of a massive explosion. Innocence has nothing to do with it."

The full meaning of Travis's words sinks in, and Wes feels like hyperventilating again. "You mean they think we did this?"

Now that he thinks about it, there's an awful lot of shouting about coming out with your hands up. That probably should have been a clue.

"I can't be a bombing suspect, Travis! I have a life and a job and a reputation that won't handle this!"

Travis ignores him. "If only we could come up with some sort of distraction, we could slip away…"

Sneaking away is a surefire sign of guilt. "We just need to explain it to them." Cops are reasonable people. Wes has worked with enough of them to know. If they explain what happened, they might get hit with a trespassing charge or two, but the police will see the explosion wasn't their fault and everything will be fine.

He takes a breath, braces himself. "We just need to explain it to them," he repeats.

Travis looks at him in alarm. "Wes, what're you—"

Wes steps out into the open, hands in front of him. "Officers, I can explain—"

Someone opens fire.

XXXX

"Wes!"

Travis has had nightmares about this. Wes going down in a spray of bullets, jerking like a puppet before falling, bloody and gone and all Travis's fault. The cry he makes is anguished, grieving before the first bullet hits, and he closes his eyes because he doesn't want to watch this. Then he opens his eyes, because Wes deserves better than to die with no one watching.

The bullets don't hit. Wes lets out a frightened shout, throwing his arms up over his head, and this, like, bubble pops up, glowing bright neon blue and deflecting the bullets away holy fuck.

Wes ducks behind the rubble, looking more pissed than freaked. "What the hell? They can't just start shooting!"

"They kind of can," Travis says absently. The glowing shield is gone now, like it was never there. "How did you do that?"

Wes shoots him a more venomous version of his Travis you're not making sense you dumbass look. "Do what? Hey!" He squawks as Travis grabs his hands. "No touching!"

"Another rule of yours, I suppose?" He only got a glimpse before Wes yanked his hands back, but Travis didn't notice anything different. Nothing that would indicate Wes can create energy shields, at least.

In fact, the only thing strange about Wes, aside from the naked-in-rubble thing, is the metal gauntlet on his forearm. Now, maybe Wes is trying something new, jewelry-wise, except Travis has an identical gauntlet on his arm, and he know he's never owned anything like this before.

Ignoring Wes's fresh freakout (or maybe it's the same one continued, Travis can't tell anymore), Travis studies the gauntlet. It's made of some shifting silver metal, like mercury, except it's totally solid when he touches it. And it's seamless, molded perfectly to his arm; he'd have to cut off his hand to get it off.

Somehow, Travis doesn't know how, these gauntlets are the cause.

"Sorry about this," he says, and before Wes can question it, Travis shoves him out into the open again. Wes screams curses at him, bullets start flying again, and that blue bubble forms, perfectly encapsulating Wes.

Wes sees it this time, freezing in shock. Travis looks down at the gauntlet on his arm, and he feels a grin cross his face.

"Cool."

XXXX

Throwing his arms up doesn't do anything. Travis frowns. "Come on, I gotta have a power too." Wes is still frozen, bullets pinging off the shield, and they're running out of time. Travis starts throwing his hands around.

Finger guns get a reaction. A stream of golden-orange light shoots from his fingertips, scoring a patch through the nearest stretch of rubble, and holy fuck Travis can shoot lazer beams.

Utterly aware that his grin is totally inappropriate for the current situation, Travis leaps from hiding and plasters himself to Wes's back. "Don't drop your arms, baby!"

"Travis?!" The blonde turns to glare at him. "I have a rule about this!"

"Just a minute and I'll be off." Travis sticks his arm over Wes's shoulder, aiming, and makes a gun with his hands. "Pow!" he whoops, golden light firing from his fingertips. His aim holds true; the light hits the side of a cop car and makes it explode this is the coolest thing ever.

"Travis!" Wes shrieks without dropping his arms. "This will not keep them from thinking we're terrorists!"

"Get ready to run!" Travis aims again. Another cop car goes up in flames. "Now!"

Travis grabs Wes's hand and makes a break for it, leaving flames and destruction in their wake.

XXXX

Back In The Day

"We're going to get in trouble!" Wes hisses, shoving at Travis's shoulders. Travis barely moves, clinging like a leech with his lips locked to Wes's neck.

"Travis!" Wes snaps again, jabbing his boyfriend.

"Ow! Jesus, you have harpy claws on your hands." Travis rubs his shoulder, adopting a wounded expression that doesn't fool Wes one bit. He pokes Travis again.

"We are going to get caught."

Travis smirks and pushes him up against the tree, fingers roaming down towards Wes's pants. "We're only gonna get caught if you don't shut up." He rucks Wes's shirt up, grinning ear to ear, and unbuttons Wes's pants. "You want me to stop, you just tell me."

"I'm going to get caught and they will put a black mark on my record and I will forever be known as the guy who had a quickie on the green," Wes moans. But he doesn't say no.

Travis's grin widens, and he attaches to Wes's neck once more. "That's the spirit."

Most of the bad ideas Wes gets caught up in seem to be Travis's, so when campus security strolls by and starts shouting at them, he blames Travis. "This is all your fault!"

"You could have said no!" Travis grabs his hand and gives him a daring, devil-may-care grin. "Now, let's run!"

Hand in hand, they flee, laughing into the night.

XXXX

Now

It's a picture of the three of them, Travis and Wes standing side by side and Paekman popping up between them, his hands on both of their shoulders. All three of them have matching grins on their faces, and looking at the photo, Wes finds himself unexpectedly jealous. These guys, these versions of themselves seven years ago, they're young and happy and the future is wide open to them.

How sad, that Wes is jealous of his past self, simply because he can't picture himself that happy anymore. Sometimes, that period in college feels like nothing more than a dream.

"Hey, Wes, be honest, how many of these hair products do you really need?"

Wes slaps the photo facedown on the bed, glaring at the face in the doorway. "Don't touch my stuff."

"Time is of the essence, baby, we gotta get moving. So, hair products?"

Wes grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that killing Travis will only get him in more trouble. "The blue bottle," he says through clenched teeth. "I can leave everything else."

"Gotcha." Travis gives him a thumbs up and disappears from the doorway.

Wes looks at the photo and sighs, climbing to his feet.

After running from the ruins of the labs, Travis found them clothes; Wes didn't ask where or how, and his usual protests about wearing other people's clothing were overridden by his need to have something on. As soon as he'd gotten home, though, he'd stripped and changed into his own clothes. It didn't make him feel much better, but it helped.

And now he needs to be packing so he can go on the run. They'd had a long, heated argument about that, before Travis finally said, "Look, Wes, they're gonna figure out we were at the labs sooner or later. And now the labs are nothing more than rock and dust. You can let them lock you away and question you about something you didn't do—not that they'll believe that, since we were the only survivors of something we shouldn't have survived. Or you can go into hiding for a while, figure out what the hell is going on, help me find the guys who killed Paekman, and clear your name. The choice is up to you."

Put like that, there really isn't much of a choice. If Wes hadn't seen it himself, he never would have believed in force fields and energy beams that can take out cop cars.

Even if the police do believe he had nothing to do with Paekman's death or the explosion, this new ability of his would earn him a position as a lab rat in some government lab for the rest of his life.

Experimentally, Wes raises his arms in front of him. A neon blue bubble forms in front of him, clear enough to see through but, as he knows, strong enough to deflect bullets.

"What were you working on, Paekman?" he whispers, but his friend is no longer there to answer.

Wes sighs and starts packing. It takes him fifteen minutes to get everything he thinks he'll need. At the last second, he grabs the photo from the bed, slipping it into a frame, behind a picture of Alex that sits on his dresser.

He's tucking the frame into his bag when he emerges from his room to find Travis in the kitchen, rummaging through his cupboards. He's reaching that point of shock where he can't even bother getting upset. He just blinks, zips his bag, and asks, "What are you doing?"

"Stocking up on provisions," Travis says, tossing a box of power bars into a bag on the counter. "Kudos to you for being so healthy, man, but canned and processed foods are better on the run. Last longer. We're gonna need to make a grocery run."

"Do we have a plan?"

"Sure." Travis tosses one more thing into the bag and gathers it all up. "We're gonna go to my place. It's off the grid and no one will connect us to it. We're gonna eat, we're gonna sleep for about ten hours, and in the morning we're gonna figure this all out."

A part of Wes can't help thinking that none of this would have happened if Travis hadn't come back into his life. But he knows that's not quite true—whatever was going on with Paekman started long before Travis returned.

"Here." Travis tosses a small black toiletries bag his direction. He catches it and shoves it into his duffel without checking it over. "We're got everything we can use right now. Let's go."

With little other option, Wes follows him out the door.

XXXX

Travis's place is a tiny little loft on the shady side of town, rented under an alias the cops don't know about. He expects some derogatory comment from Wes, but the blonde just wrinkles his nose and asks where the bathroom is. A few minutes later, Travis hears the shower start up.

Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, Travis can feel himself lagging, grey creeping into his vision. This was not how he expected his weekend to go. He was planning to swing by the funeral, say hi to Wes (and dodge the punches he knew were coming) and head right back out of town.

Instead, he's already been questioned in his friend's murder, he was involved with an explosion, and he's on the run with a man who hates his guts. Oh yeah, and he somehow has superpowers.

It seems pretty safe to say he's well and truly fucked.

By the time Wes gets out of the shower, Travis has already put the food away, wiped off the worst of the dust and grime with a wet washcloth, and crawled into bed. He can hear Wes hesitate, a tangible pause in the quiet room.

"Travis?"

"Don't have a couch," he mumbles into his pillow. "It's either this or the floor. Promise to keep my hands to myself."

There's a long moment of indecision, long enough Travis almost drops off right there. Then the bed dips, and Wes pulls the covers over himself.

Travis chances one quick glance over his shoulder and finds Wes's back to him, curled up on the far side of the bed. He was expecting it. It still hurts.

Sighing, Travis rolls back over and stares at the far wall.

Despite how tired he is, it takes him a long time to get to sleep.

XXXX

Back In The Day

It's rare that Travis wakes up before Wes, because Wes gets up obnoxiously early for his morning run and Travis likes sleep. But Wes crashed after his finals last night and Travis turned off the alarm, so he has the rare privilege of seeing Wes dead to the world.

Like always, Wes ended up wrapped around him during the night, a blonde octopus. Wes always sputters indignantly and says he's not an octopus, it's simple a way to preserve warmth, to which Travis snickers and says That's what blankets are for, baby. Admit it, you just like cuddling with me.

He smiles softly, running his fingers through soft blonde locks. Wes sighs gently, arm tightening, nuzzling into Travis's shoulder. He doesn't open his eyes.

Travis can feel the smile on his face growing increasingly sappy and fond. He tucks Wes close and closes his eyes, relishing the warmth at his side.

I am, he thinks, the luckiest guy in the world.

XXXX

Now

Wes wakes up warm and snug, a familiar sensation be knows he shouldn't be feeling. Sure enough, when he opens his eyes, he's visually greeted with a thin cotton shirt and a stretch of chocolate-brown skin.

Carefully, Wes extracts himself from Travis, moving slowly so he doesn't wake him.

He sits up on the edge of the bed, looking around the room and definitely not at the man in the bed behind him. The loft is a big empty space, utterly impersonal—the only sign of occupation is their bags on the floor.

If Travis up and left tomorrow, there'd be no sign he was ever here. Maybe that's just the way Travis likes it—he never did appreciate being tied down. But it just reminds Wes of too many things he can't let himself wish for. The memories just ache.

He exhales and rubs his hands over his face, pushing it all down. He's good at that.

"Damn it, Travis," he mutters without heat, and gets up to make breakfast.

XXXX

Travis wakes to a cold bed and the sound of crunching. When he opens his eyes and rolls over, he can see Wes sitting at the tiny, two-person table, reading a newspaper with a bowl of cereal in his hand.

For a second, it's just like Travis remembers; Wes up and ready for the day, and Travis watching without him knowing.

So of course he has to go and ruin the moment. "Did you go out?"

Wes doesn't look his way. "Yes," he says flatly, turning to the next page of the paper.

Travis pushes himself upright. "What part of 'going on the run' didn't you understand? Oh god, you didn't use a credit card, did you?"

Wes shoots him a nasty glower. "Yes, Travis, because I'm completely stupid. Give me some credit here." He sets the bowl down, rolls up the paper, and tosses it at the bed. "I wanted to see if they had anything about last night. They don't—probably too late to make the morning edition. I can't say anything about the news channels."

Travis quickly flips through the paper, but Wes is right, there's no mention of the lab explosion. "I, uh, don't have a TV," he says absently.

"I noticed."

If words contained poison, Travis would already be frothing at the mouth from Wes's. He rubs his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. This is gonna be fun.

"I'm going to take a shower and drink about a gallon of coffee. Then we'll figure out our next plan of attack."

"Have at it," Wes mutters, waving a hand that's just shy of flipping him off.

"I've missed you," Travis says insincerely, which does earn him the middle finger. Travis huffs a laugh through his nose and heads to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, he's clean and ready to take on the day. Wes is still sitting at the table, his dishes put away and the newspaper neatly folded beside him. (The bed has also been made, but Travis knows better than to comment on Wes's nervous habits.) He pours himself some cereal—cornflakes, not even frosted, oh boy—and sits in the other chair.

Wes is looking down at a framed photo, gaze distant. The picture is Wes and a pretty, dark-haired woman with blue eyes, smiling serenely at the camera. They look happy.

"She's pretty," he comments neutrally. "A friend?"

"Alex," Wes murmurs, and his voice is so unbearably fond it sends a sharp pang through Travis's chest.

"You went on the run, but you just had to have a picture of your girl, huh? Nice."

Wes's gaze sharpens, focuses, and his hands tighten on the wooden frame. "This frame holds the most important picture I've got," he snaps, setting it facedown beside him. The glare he levels at Travis is truly lethal. "I wasn't going to leave it behind."

Another pang shoots through Travis like a bullet. He grins and leans back and doesn't show anything on his face. "Hey, I'm not complaining. She's pretty."

Wes looks about three seconds from jumping across the table and throttling him. Travis does in fact have some self-preservation instincts, and he quickly says, "We need a plan."

Reluctantly, Wes settles, though his glower doesn't abate. "I made a list," he declares, picking up a piece of paper that was hiding beneath the newspaper.

"Of course you did."

"Shut up. We need to figure out what we know to plan what we're going to do."

Okay, Wes kind of has a point. Travis starts chowing down on his cereal. "I'm with you, go on."

"Swallow before you talk, dammit." Wes looks down at the list in his hands. "Okay. First off: Paekman died in a car crash. It was ruled an accident, but something must have made the cops think differently."

"Second," Travis interjects, "the cops think I had something to do with it."

"That's hardly one-and-a-half," Wes scoffs, hurrying on before Travis can come up with a witty retort. "Second: Paekman was working on something called the Enigma Project. Maybe that was what got him killed."

"Third," Travis says, "the Enigma Project gave us superpowers."

Wes scowls at the gauntlet on his forearm. "Fourth, PC Labs blew up last night, possibly as a result of us getting our…superpowers." He says that last word distastefully, which doesn't make sense because superpowers are the coolest.

"Fifth, the cops by now no doubt think we are the ones who blew up the labs—as such, they almost certainly think we had something to do with Paekman's death."

Travis seems to be handling that last bit better than Wes. But then, he's been accused of all sorts of things he never actually did, so this is pretty par for the course. Wes has probably never even gotten a parking ticket before.

"And sixth," Wes finishes, "We know there were men at the labs who wanted Paekman's work—"

"Specifically, the one that gave us superpowers."

"—but they almost certainly all died in the explosion last night, so we can't ask them anything."

They sit in silence for a long minute.

"We're fucked," Travis concludes.

"Little bit." Wes taps the last item on the list, frowning thoughtfully. "We need to figure out who these men were."

"Yeah, sure, let me grab my Ouija board. They're dead, remember? And we don't have any clues. We don't even know where to start."

"Well." Wes smirks, leaning back smugly. "That's not exactly true."

Travis narrows his eyes. "What do you have in mind?"

XXXX

"My contact is a little…odd," Wes says when they get to the apartment building.

"Contact?" Travis perks up in interest. "You have contacts?"

"Mostly just the one," Wes admits. Travis probably has a dozen contacts for every not-so-legal escapade he can think of, but none of them can help right now. Wes takes some pride in that.

"Anyway, she's a little strange, so let me do the talking, alright?"

Travis's eyebrows go up a little, and he waves Wes in front of him. "Go for it, man."

Wes takes the lead. The apartment building is a sleek, twenty-story glass and steel construction. The lobby is done in black and white and chrome, very modern in design.

"This looks like an office building," Travis mutters in a hushed voice. Wes understands—there's a solemn, impersonal feeling to this place. It doesn't condone lingering.

"That's the point," Wes tells him without elaboration. He guides Travis across the lobby, steps echoing in the tiled, vaulted room. Travis pauses in front of the elevators; Wes doesn't slow, moving past, and Travis hurries to catch up with him.

Their goal is a small white door in the back corner of the building, tucked away behind the elevators. A matte silver plaque says, "Maintenance."

"What the hell?" Travis asks.

"You'll see," Wes assures him, pulling out his key ring. He unlocks the door, ushering Travis inside. The door locks behind him.

Inside the small room there is a steel door with a keypad beside it. Travis blinks, staring at the cheery, sunflower-patterned doormat in front of the door.

"What the hell?" he asks again.

"I told you she's a little odd," Wes says, and presses the intercom button above the keypad.

There's a whir from the camera above the door, focusing on them, and then a brisk female voice says, "Wes Mitchell, what do you want?"

It's blunt and unfriendly, and with anyone else, Wes would get offended. Now, though, he half-smiles into the camera and says, "I need your help, Kendall."

Travis coughs lightly into his fist.

"We need your help."

The camera whirrs again, and her voice comes back, tight with suspicion. "Did you blow up that building, Wes?"

He feels Travis stiffen behind him, but he's not surprised she knows. This is the riskiest part—if she doesn't believe him, she could easily have the police here before they can even make it out of the building.

He takes a breath, looks straight into the camera lens, and says, "No."

There's a long pause. Wes isn't sure Travis is breathing; he knows he's not.

Then, bright and chipper, Kendall says, "Good enough for me!" and the door unlocks.

Wes grips the door handle and leads the way in.

XXXX

Travis's first impression of Wes's contact is that she's awfully energetic. She bounces out of a doorway, a five-foot-nothing redhead in jeans and a pastel blue cardigan, and comes right up to Wes and hugs him. Travis is not jealous at all.

"Wes!" she chirps, "You never come by!"

"Sorry, Ken," he tells her, and he's hugging her back the traitor. "I've been busy with work."

"That's what men always say." She pulls back, sees Travis, and brightens, releasing Wes and barreling towards him with her hand outstretched. "And you! Travis Marks! It's nice to finally meet you!"

Travis takes her hand, eyebrows going up as he looks at Wes. "You talk about me to her?" He's a little…well, flattered probably isn't the right word, since anything Wes said was probably derogatory and not nice at all, but it's probably something similar.

Wes gives him his Are you stupid? face. "Don't be stupid, Travis, of course I didn't. Kendall knows everything."

"It's true, I do." She releases Travis's hand and heads for the doorway she'd appeared out of. "Come, come in, sit down and you can tell me what you want. Do you want anything? I have coffee, soda, water…?"

"Water would be fine," Wes says easily, following her like it's an everyday thing, getting affectionately assaulted by little redheaded bombshells with too much energy even though everyone knows Wes has personal space issues and isn't all that fond of being touched or hugged or even stood too close next to.

Travis shoves his hands in his pockets and squashes down all the annoyed, jealous feelings running around in confused tangles inside him. "Soda, please," he calls to Kendall, and then, lower, to Wes: "What are we doing here?"

"You'll see, sit down and shut up," Wes snaps, and he takes a seat on the left side of the leather couch. Travis, who is not actually stupid and knows better, sits at the opposite end of the couch, tucked up by the arm to put as much distance as possible between them.

Kendall returns with a glass of water for Wes and a bottle of Coke for Travis and plops into the matching leather armchair. "So," she says, steepling her fingers in front of her. "What can I do for you?"

Wes launches into an explanation about everything, from Paekman's death to the explosion last night to the accidental superpowers. Travis sits back and sips his soda, letting Wes lead like he said he would, and looks around the room.

Honestly, it looks like any other living room he's been in. There're magazines on the coffee table and framed art prints on the wall and a TV angled so everyone seated could see it, if it was on. He can see a little dining nook, a table covered in papers and two bright red plastic chairs, and the edge of what is probably the kitchen counter.

It's a completely normal living room, and Travis has no idea why they're here.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" Kendall asks, drawing Travis's attention back to the conversation.

Wes sets his glass down and leans forward, down to business now. "The men from last night were looking for something. I don't know what. But I'm hoping the assault on the labs wasn't their first crack at it."

"Ah." She leans forward as well, mimicking Wes's pose. "So you want me to see if they contacted your friend before he died, maybe tried to…get him to sell his work, or something."

"That's right. Anything that might lead us to these guys."

"I see." Kendall leans back, tapping her fingers together and staring speculatively at Wes. "And what are you going to do when you find these guys?"

Wes hesitates, and Travis sees his chance and jumps in. "We haven't exactly figured that out yet. But we do have superpowers, so, you know, it's probably going to be awesome."

"Hmm." Her gaze moves between them. "Superpowers, you say…"

That's an invitation if Travis ever heard one, and normally he'd jump all over the chance to show off. Wes's power is much less destructive, though, and they're trying to get her to help them, not get pissed and kick them out because Travis blew a hole in her wall. He looks at Wes.

Wes rolls his eyes, but obligingly sticks up his arms. On cue, the bright blue shield pops up.

Kendall's eyes go wide. "Oh, wow." She leans over the table, poking at it. "Oh, this is so cool." She picks up one of the magazines from the table, rips off the front cover, and wads it into a ball. It bounces harmlessly off the shield. "Oh man, this is awesome." Looking like Christmas has come early, she turns to Travis. "What can you do?"

"I blow shit up," he grins, feeling the same awe bubbling up in his chest. Because yeah, being on the run is no fun, and there are very possibly armed men out there looking for them, but dammit, he has superpowers. That's the coolest thing in the world.

"So will you help us?" Wes asks, dropping his arms. The force shield disappears, and Kendall looks a little disappointed. Travis totally understands.

"Are you kidding? This is amazing. Of course I'll help you!" On a mission now, Kendall rises to her feet and strides into the hallway. "Well, come on, don't sit there forever!"

Biting back a smile, Travis follows her down the hall, Wes only a second behind.

XXXX

"So how do you know this girl?" Travis asks halfway down the hall, when Kendall isn't quite out of earshot.

"Work," Wes replies. "Kendall is the best digital forensic technician in the greater LA area. She got involved in a case I was working on, and…long story short, we became friends, and she offered her services if I ever needed help."

"Services," Travis says slowly, "Like what?"

"You'll see." Travis is probably getting annoyed by the mystery. Wes just likes pissing him off.

Kendall leads them into a small home office, consisting of one chair, one desk, and a desktop computer. She doesn't stop at the computer, though—no, she moves through the room and pulls open the closet doors, revealing a tiny space packed with office supplies. "In, in," she ushers, and it's a tight squeeze but they all manage.

"What—" Travis starts to say, and then the walls shudder and the entire room starts to move.

Wes, who knew what was coming, gets to see Travis's face go from confused to puzzled to absolutely astounded.

The tiny elevator jolts to a stop, and they pile out. They step into a sort of break room area with couches and chairs and a little kitchenette type thing, but Kendall heads for the open doorway at the end of the room and Wes follows, Travis tight on his heels.

The space they emerge into is like every computer mecca in every cyberpunk movie ever—dim lights with half a dozen monitors on one wall and racks of servers and wires and Wes doesn't even know what else. He's a lawyer, not a computer guy.

Travis stops dead, jaw hanging open. "What the—" He turns to gape at Wes. "Are you telling me she's got a secret lair in her office closet? How?"

Wes shrugs, enjoying the flabbergasted look on the other man's face. "She owns the building, so she can do pretty much whatever she wants."

"She owns the building? How? She's like, twelve!"

"I've learned it's better not to ask." Wes is pretty sure she acquired her wealth through not-so-legal means. He's also pretty sure 'hacking' would be a better way to describe what she does than 'digital forensics'. That bothers him less than it probably should.

"Have a seat," Kendall calls, waving a hand over her should. She's already seated in front of the computers, typing away. "This should only take a few minutes."

The only place to sit in the main room is the computer chair Kendall is currently sitting in. Wes and Travis exchange a look, then linger awkwardly where they are and don't say anything.

In less than five minutes, Kendall claps her hands on the edge of her keyboard. "Alright alright, I think I got something. Check it out." They move up behind chair, and she points at her screen, which shows several emails. "So your friend, it looks like he was contacted by this guy, Derek Henry. Henry apparently works for, and I quote, 'a group of people interested in the research being done,' and wanted to…either talk about it or buy it, he's pretty vague on that. Anyway, your friend politely turned him down, which didn't stop Henry from contacting him several more times."

"So what?" Travis leans forward, staring at the screen for clues. "I bet Paekman got all kinds of people wanting to know about his work."

"Ah, but what's interesting about Derek Henry is that, according to the public record, he's been out of a job for over a year."

Wes and Travis meet each other's eyes.

"Can you figure out who these 'interested people' are that Henry is working for?" Wes asks.

"Sure, but it'll take me a bit longer than five minutes." Kendall cranes her neck, looking up at them. "What are you guys gonna do?"

The grin Travis makes is positively lethal. "I think we're going to have a little chat with Derek Henry."

XXXX

Back In The Day

"What do you want to be at the Halloween party?" Travis asks, running his finger down Wes's chest.

Wes, who is feeling sated and warm and a little bit sleepy, blinks lazily at the ceiling fan. "What?"

"The Halloween party. I can't decide if you're one of those people who would want to do something couples-matchy, because you're unexpectedly romantic sometimes, and other times it just sort of goes right past you."

Wes rolls over and stares at Travis. "What? What are you talking about?"

"The Halloween party, Wes." Travis squints his eyes and purses his lips. "I'm seeing you don't know about the Halloween party, because you live under a rock. So. Wes, we're going to a Halloween party. What do you want to be?"

"I don't like parties."

"I know. That's okay, baby. We're going anyway." Travis gives him an encouraging grin. "We can slip out and avoid social interaction for a few minutes every, oh, say, half hour or so."

"I haven't dressed up in a costume since I was ten."

"Luckily for you, it's nothing like riding a bike. There's no actual skill involved." Travis grins and claps his hand on Wes's shoulder. It lingers there, thumb sweeping in short arcs over his skin. "Don't you worry. I'll come up with awesome costumes for us."

Wes just frowns. "That's kind of what I'm afraid of."

XXXX

Now

Kendall gives them Derek Henry's address and promises to call if she finds anything. They head out, using back roads and avoiding any cops they see. Aside from whispered instructions, they don't talk much.

Henry isn't home. They find a good place to wait, in sight of the apartment but out of the way. They continue to avoid talking, until Travis says, "Hey, Wes."

Wes glances over and is met with a shit-eating grin, the kind that never bodes well.

Then Travis says, "I have an idea."

XXXX

At seven twenty-three, Derek Henry walks into his apartment. He turns on the lights, tosses his keys on the entry table, and goes to take off his jacket.

He doesn't get the chance. The living room window explodes inward, and a man in a dark blue and gold mask bursts inside.

Derek Henry turns to run out the front door, but the door is kicked open, smashing him in the nose. He staggers back, dazed, and a second figure in a suit strolls inside, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. "Can't get away that easy," he chides, shepherding Henry into the living room.

The two intruders pause, looking each other over. Then the man in the mask points accusingly, and Wes shouts, "You bastard!"

Travis grins and holds his hands out, presenting himself for approval. "What do you think?"

Travis is in a navy blue suit, the jacket hanging open, with a bright gold shirt underneath. He's wearing white sneakers, wraparound sunglasses, and he's got the sleeves of the suit rolled up, showing off the metal gauntlet on his arm.

Wes, in comparison, is wearing body armor, a dark blue spandex suit with gold accents, and a blue-and-gold mask that covers everything but his eyes.

"You said we were going to wear costumes!" he snarls. "You said superhero teams needed matching costumes!"

Travis had had a similar outfit to Wes, only with the colors reversed—gold where Wes's was blue, and vice versa.

"Yeah…about that…" Travis fidgets, rubbing the back of his neck. "I had the costume on, I did! And then I realized it looked really stupid, so I changed." He does the ta-dah motion again. "But I kept the colors going, so it's all good."

"It is not all good. What about secret identities? You said we had to protect our secret identities."

"Yeah…" Travis bites his lip, pushes his glasses up his forehead. "But that costume's really stupid, man."

"It was your idea."

Derek Henry takes their distraction as a chance to escape, bolting for the front door. Wes throws up his hand, and Henry slams into a blue force field that knocks him to the ground.

"You're not going anywhere." Wes points at Travis once more. "Don't think this is the end."

"Yeah, yeah." Travis strides forward, hooking an arm around Henry's throat and dragging him back inside the apartment. "Where ya goin', buddy?"

"Who are you?" Henry gasps, struggling weakly. "What do you want?"

"We just want to talk," Travis chirps, bright with false friendliness. "And you're going to tell us everything."

He's smiling, but there's nothing genial about his expression.

Derek Henry goes pale.

XXXX

With Henry tied to a chair, Travis takes the lead with the questioning. He puts his hands on his hips and leans forward menacingly.

"Do you know David Paek?" he asks.

The man in the chair juts his jaw out stubbornly. "No."

Travis lashes out, almost casually, his fist rocking Henry's head to the side. Ignoring Wes's startled protest, he shakes his head sadly. "Not a good start, Henry, lying to us. We have your emails. We know you were in contact with Paek." He flexes his fingers, pacing jauntily in front of the bound man. "Let's try an easy one. What did you want his work for?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

This punch rocks his head the other way, and blood dribbles from Henry's split lip to the floor.

"Hey!"

Travis shrugs Wes's hand off his shoulder. "You can make this easy, man. Just answer the questions. Did you have anything to do with Paek's death?"

Henry spits a loogie on the floor and glares mulishly at him. Travis's fist in his gut wipes the look off his face, sends him doubling over gasping for breath.

"Stop!" Wes grabs his arm and, with more strength than Travis expects, pulls him away from the chair. "What the hell are you doing?" he hisses, giving Travis a sharp shake.

Travis yanks his arm free. "I'm doing what I have to."

"Like this?" Wes waves a hand at the chair and their hostage. "Beating up an unarmed man?"

"You got any better ideas?" Travis snaps. "He's not gonna talk unless we make him talk."

"There are better ways to do this!"

"What's your plan, Wes? You think we have time to sit around, ease this guy into giving us what we want?" He steps up close, right in Wes's face. "We need to know what he knows."

Wes is tense as a bowstring, hands clenched into fists, but he doesn't say anything.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Travis backs off a step. "You don't like it, then stand back."

He hears Wes exhale sharply, practically on the other side of the room. That's fine. Travis has got this.

Henry glares up at him, splitting another gob of blood on the floor. "Do your worst. I'm not saying anything."

Travis smiles, sharp-toothed and vicious. "Hey Henry, wanna see something cool? See that picture frame on the wall? Watch."

He points at the frame, and concentrates. A short burst of gold light lances from his fingers to the frame, melting it into slag. The wall barely has a scorch mark.

He presses the tips of his fingers into Henry's thigh, just the bare hint of a golden glow bubbling forth.

"Now," he says, friendly as a shark, "I have some questions."

XXXX

They're halfway down the block when Wes quietly asks, "Did you really have to do that, Travis?"

"You know what?" Travis whirls on his ex, making Wes stop in his tracks. "Yes I did, Wes, okay, it's not like I had any other options. We needed answers."

"But—"

"No! Dammit, Wes, don't you get it? We are on the run! Our friend was killed and that man had something to do with it! We don't have time to play nice!"

"The authorities—"

"The authorities think we did it! Even if they believe us about Paekman, they saw us at the labs! You really want to leave your fate in their hands?"

Wes pulls off the mask, looking upset and worried. "Travis," he says, and his voice matches his face, with a dash of exhaustion thrown in. "Would you have really shot his leg?"

Travis's vision goes white with rage for a second. "Fuck you, Wes," he roars, jabbing Wes's chest. "Fuck you and your moral fucking high horse. Not all of us can live in gilded towers where the system works for us and we can do anything if we just work hard enough. Some of us have to do things we don't want to get by, and you don't get to fucking judge until you've been there yourself!"

Wes, for once, is silent, stunned speechless by Travis's tirade. Good. One word out of Wes's mouth and Travis would definitely make a scene.

He steps up to Wes, practically chest to chest, and jabs him again. "Get off your high horse and shove your morals up your fucking ass, 'cuz right now, you can't afford 'em."

He whirls around, stomping down the sidewalk.

"Hey!" Wes hollers, "Where are you going?"

"Out!" Travis throws the middle finger over his shoulder without looking back. "I need a little time without seeing your face."

Right before he turns the corner, he fires one last parting shot.

"And your outfit is still fucking stupid!"

XXXX

Back In The Day

Wes leaps to his feet when he hears the lock click, crowding Travis against the door. "What did you do?"

Travis blinks and holds up a bag. "Got takeout. I felt like Chinese tonight."

"Travis, what did you do?"

The other man blinks again, and if Wes didn't know better he's think Travis really was that clueless. "Is this about your dishrags? I'm gonna replace them, really, I just haven't had the time."

Wes grabs Travis's hand, turns it to expose bruised and bloody knuckles. "Travis. What. Did you. Do?"

The change takes him by surprise, watching the geniality slide off Travis's face, leaving behind someone cold and determined and a little bit dangerous.

Despite himself, Wes takes a step back.

"He was gonna drag you through the mud," Travis tells him, voice full of ice. "Had a whole smear campaign planned. So I found him and we had a little chat."

"With your fists?" Wes can't help sounding a little hysterical, but he thinks he's probably warranted. "There wasn't a better option?"

Travis takes a step toward him, slow and sinuous like a panther. "He hated you, Wes. He wasn't going to listen. Sometimes the only way to stop people is to make them stop."

He turns, heads for the kitchen. "He won't be bothering you again. Now, you want any of this food? 'Cuz I am starving."

Wes can only stare at Travis's back, shaken to his core. He knew Travis had a rough side, knew Travis did things Wes couldn't exactly approve of, but he thought that was all in the past. This…

God, it's like he doesn't even know Travis at all.

XXXX

Now

"Hey," Kendall says when he gets back, swiveling her chair towards him. "Where's Travis?"

"I don't want to talk about him." Wes stomps into the lair, tossing the stupid mask into the corner. Superheroes. Yeah right. They may have gotten stuck with these ridiculous powers, but that doesn't make them heroes. That makes them the unluckiest bastards in the world. "Did you find out who Henry was working for?"

Kendall, bless her soul, knows when not to push. "Not yet. Whoever these guys are, they know how to cover their tracks."

"Well, maybe this will help." He holds out a tote bag, inside which is Derek Henry's laptop, snagged as they made their escape from the scene. "Maybe it'll have something on it."

"Yeah, I'll see what I can find." She takes the bag, then hesitates, looking more uncertain than Wes has ever seen her. "Do, um…do you want to talk about it?"

"Absolutely not." He stomps off to change. "Do you mind if I borrow your couch for a bit? I can feel a headache coming on."

XXXX

Travis has been nursing his pint of beer for the past twenty minutes when the woman in the green halter top slides into the seat next to him. She orders a Bloody Mary, studies him for a long moment, the lights glittering on her earrings.

"What's got you so down?" she asks, nibbling on the celery from her drink.

She could be a cop, he muses. As a fugitive on the run, it's entirely possible sitting in plain sight at the bar is not the wisest plan.

On the other hand, getting arrested would significantly lower his chances of seeing Wes tonight, so there really are no downsides here.

"Regrets," he answers, after a bit too much time has passed, "And asshole exes and terrible breakups."

"I can drink to that." She raises her glass, and he lifts his in kind, clinking together and exchanging heated looks over the rims.

Well. If he's lucky, Travis knows he won't have to deal with Wes's crap at least until the morning.

XXXX

Wes must doze off because he wakes, disoriented and confused. The feeling doesn't abate right away—he feels muzzy-headed, like cotton is stuffed in his brain, and it's hard to focus. When he stands, the floor spins beneath his feet, and he has to clutch the wall to keep from falling over.

He staggers out of the side room into the lair, and the only confidence he has that he's walking in a straight line is that he's following the wall.

"Kendall?" he calls, voice thin and tremulous to his ears.

The redhead turns from her computers and stops dead, mouth dropping, eyes so wide he thinks they're about to pop right out.

He sways unsteadily. "I don't feel very good," he informs her, as clearly as he can.

Kendall rushes forward to catch him as he falls.

XXXX

Halfway to her apartment, Travis knows something is wrong. He feels dizzy, fuzzy and vague, kind of like he's floating. It's possible he spontaneously developed the ability to levitate, which would be awesome, though he's pretty sure Green Halter Top Girl would be freaking out a bit more if he was floating off the ground.

More likely she just roofied him, which sucks and would totally be where this day is heading.

"Hang on," he mumbles, leaning against a conveniently placed brick wall. "Just give me a second." He presses his forehead against the rough brick and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. It doesn't help much.

His phone jangles, at full volume but it sounds muffled. Without opening his eyes, he fumbles it out of his pocket and answers. " 'llo?"

Right about then, Green Halter Top Girl goes, "Oh my god!"

"Travis," Kendall says, and Travis isn't even going to wonder how she got this number when he definitely didn't give it to her. "Travis, you gotta come back, something's wrong with Wes."

That makes him perk up. "What? What is it?"

"I don't know, he's just…he's sort of dissolving, it's really strange and he shouldn't be doing it!"

Green Halter Top Girl, again, says "Oh my god!"

She's staring at him, Travis finds, looking horrified and panicky. Travis follows her gaze.

Oh. Well. Yeah, dissolving is a pretty good word for it. Travis's body is sparking, flashes of gold and neon blue, and there are places where it seems to just eat him away. There's a hole the size of a quarter in his forearm, he can see the asphalt through it, it's even eating away his clothes.

No wonder he's feeling so strange.

The only thing that doesn't seem to be affected is the gauntlet on his arm.

"I'll be right there," he promises Kendall, the words thick and distorted. He attempts to pocket the phone, but it misses, clattering to the ground. He doesn't bother to pick it up. It's a burner anyway.

He does attempt to tell Green Halter Top Girl their little date has to be cancelled, but she's already halfway down the street.

Concentrating as hard as he can, Travis staggers towards Kendall's.

XXXX

It feels like an eternity has passed, and Wes can feel himself fading with every second. He wonders if he'll just dissolve away, and how poor Kendall is going to feel.

He wonders if this is happening to Travis too.

"Wes!" Kendall rushes into the room, pulling him to his feet. "Travis is here, come on!"

The thought of Travis spurs him on. He staggers forward, one foot in front of the other, letting her guide him.

Travis looks as bad as he feels, huge patches missing and surges of gold and blue light rushing over him. Maybe this is it, Paekman's experiment catching up with them. Should have known superpowers weren't all they'd get out of it.

At least they'll die together.

Wes stumbles towards Travis, one arm outstretched. The one with the gauntlet, which wouldn't mean anything except Travis is reaching out with his gauntleted arm, and Wes can feel an almost electric hum coming from the metal, drawing them together like magnets.

He falls, and Travis falls, and right before he passes out, he hears a heavy 'klung!', deep and sonorous, and something inside him snaps into place.