Nobody likes media conferences. Not a single damn person.
It had taken a five-super effort to bring down the supervillain known as Calamity Jake, and of course the newspeople wanted a slice of the aftermath. The villain had terrorized bank vaults and terrified tellers across the great golden state of California for nigh on a month, and his defeat was a momentous occasion. And so, reporters hailing from every news station from San Diego to Crescent City had arrived, and were now standing below the grand marble steps of Municiberg City Hall, clamoring and shouting, microphones shoved forward, clunky cameras flashing, packed tighter than a pack of sardines.
On the top of the steps, five superheroes stood, each half-concealed behind their own podium. City Hall loomed behind them with its pillars and grandeur, an imposing figure that reminded all—including and especially the supers—that the government stood above them, and always would. Its shadow, in the midday sun, shrouded all.
On the podiums, from left to right, from the perspective of the clamoring reporters: Gamma Jack, Elastigirl, Mr. Incredible, Dynaguy, and Plasmabolt. They'd teamed up—reluctantly and tenuously, for none of the young supers really liked any of the others—to defeat the menace of Calamity Jake and earn some media glory. Now—tired, on-edge, battered, sick of being awake—they had learned that sometimes, you don't really want what you thought you wanted.
Beside them, Rick Dicker, the perpetually-cross NSA agent with a tattooed-on scowl, pointed into the crowd of reporters. Miraculously, one reporter responded, realizing the question was for him. The rest quieted, allowing him to speak.
"This question is for any super who wishes to answer. I'm sure the entire state is eager to learn exactly what has been done to Calamity Jack. Has he been killed or otherwise incarcerated?"
None of the supers responded. This was a question for Rick. He cleared his throat and answered gruffly: "That's NSA business. The villain's fate can neither be confirmed nor denied. That's kid stuff; you know this. Does anyone have a serious question?"
The clamoring started again, and Rick again pointed to a face in the crowd. "You."
Elastigirl—red-headed, red-gloved, red-booted, white-bodysuited, heart of gold, heartbreaker—exhaled and bit her lip, allowing the reporters' questions to be drowned out in a wave of blessed numbness. She was so damn tired. But at the very same time, every single nerve in her body was vibrating, buzzing. She'd never been in such a mood—so dead and alive, so asleep and awake. She could collapse gratefully into a mattress or she could go out and conquer the world. What she did next only depended on the availability of opportunities to collapse into mattresses or conquer something. In the mood she was in, perhaps both at the same time.
That was the buzz that came with a successful day of hero work. It was unique, and she'd never trade it for anything. Hellish though it was.
She hadn't been paying attention to the question, but to her left, she heard Gamma Jack—blonde hair perfectly coiffed as always, despite the day's work—tap the mic and answer in his smooth baritone. "We live a life of danger and intrigue," he stated. "Things don't always go smoothly for us. But they did today. We worked perfectly, every cog fitting together in unison. I'd say us five make a great team."
He flashed a look over at Elastigirl, white teeth practically blinding her. She rolled her eyes, reading the not-so-hidden meaning in his words. All Gamma Jack ever wanted to do was fuck. And he was good at it, sure, but pillow talk—and every other kind of talk, actually—wasn't his strong suit. There was a thin veneer of charm on the surface, and underneath there was festering terribleness and not much else. She'd seen it and she didn't want to go back, no matter how many smarmy hints he dropped.
Rick Dicker chose another question from the crowd; this reporter asked Plasmabolt a question about her wings, which the chipper super answered with her usual candor. Once again, Elastigirl shut it out—almost unconsciously.
She cast a quick, subtle glance over at the super to her right. Mr. Incredible. Before today, she'd thought he was dumb as a brick and not worth her time—an overrated, arrogant bonehead. Today… well, she still thought that, but something had changed. They'd been in tune.
While the five superheroes worked together to dismantle Calamity Jake's gigantic, nuclear-missile-armed submarine from the inside out (preferably without drowning—a goal which, thank god, they'd achieved), it seemed to Elastigirl that she and Mr. Incredible had been the most in-sync of any of them. She'd suggest something and he'd latch right on, adding onto the idea with one of his own, and before they knew it, they'd figured out how to destroy the ship's core heat processor by working together so that Calamity Jake would be forced out of the submarine's engine room by the mounting heat. And when the villainous Jake, one eye closed as he aimed, shot a rather enormous shotgun straight toward Elastigirl, Mr. Incredible lifted an easy hand and deflected the bullet.
"I've got a jar back at home labelled 'Bullets that bounced off my chest.' Now I'll have to get a new one—'Bullets that bounced off my arm,'" he quipped easily at her before rushing at Jake, bullets bouncing off his chest just as he'd described. She rushed after him and they worked together, chasing the villain through the bowels of his labyrinthine ship. Sure, they'd worked as a team of five, but the other supers had seemed to melt away. There was only her and Mr. Incredible, working in perfect harmony as a team. They could claim the victory alone.
Yeah, he was arrogant. After today, though, the arrogance was hot rather than infuriating. Or maybe it was hot because it was infuriating.
You know the almost-alcoholic buzz that arises from the aftermath of a hectic day during which you almost died multiple times and saved the Earth from nuclear winter? Well, that makes an excellent aphrodisiac.
She gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye. Blonde, square-faced, huge. He looked tired—didn't they all?—but in that face, she saw an easy kindness she'd never paid attention to before.
Elastigirl was feeling impulsive.
As Dynaguy fielded a question about his hero name from a particularly salty reporter—"It is not stupid!" he insisted in defense—Elastigirl surreptitiously slid a hand to her right. Their podiums were close enough (only a few feet apart from each other), and enough attention was focused on Dynaguy, that no one might notice. And what if they did? She wasn't feeling particularly careful.
Her hand squeezed Mr. Incredible's (Jesus, massive) thigh.
He jumped half a foot in the air, eyes suddenly wider than dinner plates and casting frantic glances around. He finally looked to his left at Elastigirl. Her hand didn't remove itself. She didn't look at him, instead looking forward carelessly with a neutral expression. She squeezed harder.
If he'd pushed her hand away, or otherwise expressed disinterest, she would have given up the ghost in a moment. He did no such thing. His own (Christ, enormous) gloved hand covered her own and pressed it down. Heat flared between her legs.
Elastigirl felt waves of annoyed malice coming from her left. Her eyes moved sideways. There was Gamma Jack. He was looking, possessively, jealously.
Good.
She moved her hand slowly inward, crawling at a snail's pace. Mr. Incredible's hand loosened on her own, allowing it to continue its ascent.
They didn't look at each other, and, as far as she could see while scanning the crowd, neither did any reporters look at them. And if they did, so what? She was giddy with survival. Let them look.
Her hand stopped just short of the apex of the super's thigh. Couldn't risk that much. But still, he knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to celebrate a successful day. And, as far as she could tell—call it a woman's intuition—Mr. Incredible was in a celebratory mood, too.
His hand curled around her own, giving it a squeeze. The squeezing of a hand isn't exactly the most erotic action possible, but when one is stranded among a sea of reporters, one does what one must.
She gently withdrew her hand, stretching it back to its normal length.
Gamma Jack was still watching. She felt his annoyance. Elastigirl wasn't going to be stretching over there any time soon.
She quickly looked over at him. He was seething, and the look of irritation and possessiveness sent a blast of anger through her. What the hell did he have to be possessive about? The bastard needed to learn that he didn't own her. Never had. Never would. No one would.
Without looking to either side, she extended her arm. It clasped onto Mr. Incredible's thigh again, this time giving a tighter squeeze than she'd done before. A squeeze which meant she meant business.
She heard his sharp intake of breath, and her lips curled into a small smile.
Their scope of possible activities were severely limited by where they were and what they were doing, but some things were possible. With the help of hyper-extendable and flexible fingers, she rubbed and caressed her fellow super's (Jesus! Massive!) thigh. With each movement of her fingers, she felt the hero grow tenser. She looked over for the barest moment; his face was growing red. Christ, he might come just from this.
The skin under his suit was hot, supple. The heat in her core was growing, growing, and she was so tightly-wound that—
"This question is for Elastigirl," a nerdy-looking reporter with acne stated, breaking through her reverie. "How do you balance your home life—social life, I mean, such as romance or perhaps a husband and children—and your hero work? How can a modern woman do such a thing in today's hectic world?" He was awkwardly reading from a paper which he held in front of him, no doubt shoved into his hands by a senior reporter.
She didn't miss a beat, answering the question while continuing her ministrations on Mr. Incredible's poor, poor leg. "Would you ask a man that question? Come on." She allowed the wave of nervous laughter to run through the crowd—and a shudder to run through Mr. Incredible as her hand inched ever upward—before she continued, shrugging. "I balance my personal life and hero life just like every other super does. I don't have a husband and children, and I don't plan to settle down anytime soon, and that makes things a lot easier. As for everything else…" She extended a finger. Mr. Incredible was barely holding on at this point.
"I'm flexible," she said with a half smile.
By the time the reporters focused on another superhero with a different question, Elastigirl had realized that the reporters, from their vantage point—perhaps due to the shadow the town hall cast on them—couldn't see her hand on Mr. Incredible's lap. Maybe she could add her other hand…
No, from the way the poor guy was barely holding onto his sanity from the mere action of her rubbing his leg, adding another hand would just be torture for him. Nope. She withdrew. Couldn't have him all tuckered out now, not when she intended the real fun to begin later.
She knew Gamma Jack had watched and loathed every second. She loved it.
The sun broke above the building just then, tracing its arc across the sky, and though Elastigirl couldn't see herself, if she'd been watching from Mr. Incredible's perspective, she would've seen her bobbed hair lit to a honey-red glow that drove the bulky superhero absolutely nuts.
The last question of the day was for Mr. Incredible. The reporter asked how the super planned to celebrate after his victory.
Mr. Incredible cleared his throat. He opened his mouth. Elastigirl waited for him to say something corny like, With a bottle of champagne. Or, With my feet propped up watching myself win on the evening news.
Instead he said, "Vigorously."