"Fu-fudge!" Tommy corrected himself automatically even though the younger Kaplans hadn't come home from school yet. Newfound habit, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan.
The rapid shake of his injured limb splattered blood across the television, and Tommy cupped the hand against his chest instead. "Fluffy fudge-ing feathery flipping foxes," he grimaced, adding a few more descriptive terms in his head. "I cut my hand on the paring knife," he informed his twin without turning around.
Tommy wasn't sure why he felt compelled to explain himself to Billy when the other teenager had done little besides stare listlessly out the window for months. It was just what a person did when they broke into sudden bursts of G-rated profanity.
True to form, there was no commentary from the statuesque figure in the window.
Tommy nodded, willing to take what he wasn't given, and tossed the blood-stained apple in the trash can. When he looked up, there was something . . . off.
Billy had flinched or something. There was maybe half an inch of New York skyline around his twin's face that Tommy had never been able to see from this angle before.
And the hand at Billy's side was clenched in a fist.
Obviously, Tommy's storm of cutesy swearwords did not elicit this reaction. There were limited potential triggers at hand, and only one was currently on the speedster's mind. He glanced from his bleeding hand to Billy's clenched fist. Tommy had always thought that the bullshit about twins feeling each other's pain was just that—bullshit. But what did Tommy Shepherd, high school drop-out extraordinaire, know? They're not exactly normal twins in the first place.
So Tommy did what Tommy does best; he pushed.
To be more accurate, he pressed a finger against the deep cut across the heel of his hand and dug until it tore open a little further. There was no reaction from Billy. Theory shot down, Tommy stuck his bloody finger in his mouth, and wiped his bloody hand on the shirt he had stolen from Billy's closet. It should have infuriated the dark-haired boy, but still no response from Tommy's twin.
"Would you look at this? I'm getting blood everywhere." He waved his hand over the back of the sofa, but Billy didn't even blink. "Earth to Billy, I might be bleeding out and some magic would be great right about now . . ." Tommy flipped over the back of the sofa easily and perched on the ledge next to his twin. Nothing.
Well, Tommy hadn't actually expected that one to work even if Billy had forgotten about Tommy's accelerated healing. One of Billy's little brothers had tripped and cracked his head a few months ago, and the frenzy surrounding that incident hadn't gotten through to Billy then. Of course, Tommy had been on hand to whisk the kid and Mrs. Kaplan to the ER pronto . . .
Tommy shook his head to clear it, and waved his hand in Billy's face with no visible results. Not as impressive when the bleeding has almost stopped, the speedster decided.
Tommy absently stressed the cut again, and then—Tommy being Tommy—he did the most immature thing he could think of. He smeared his bloody hand down the side of Billy's face.
The fleeting look of disgust was awesome and awful at the same time.
"You really are ignoring us, Kaplan . . . you jackass," Tommy confirmed quietly. Then he deliberately shifted to block Billy's view out the window with his other hand, because he's been quiet. Maybe not at first—at first, Tommy had threatened and teased. He had tried to reason with Billy and trick his brother into giving up his vigil. The last few weeks, however, had been a cautious experiment with Altman's supportive approach and Mrs. Kaplan's psychobabble. Adjustment, acceptance . . . whatever.
Teddy might have the patience of a saint, but Tommy had tried to pretend nothing was happening at all.
So when Billy tried to ignore his deliberate invasion of space—tried to ignore Tommy—the speedster proved his staying power until the dark-haired twin finally pushed his hand away. Billy couldn't even give the illusion of anger or allow Tommy the satisfaction of his annoyance. He just kept staring out the window.
Tommy's hands are clenched into tight fists before he knew what was happening. Sometimes the speedster was capable of surprising even himself and there was an impossibly long second of 'real time' where Tommy wasn't sure whether he intended to break the window, punch Billy, or hurt himself in the restraint of both impulses.
Then there's a split second of his time when Tommy belatedly realized that he still had the knife in his dominant hand.
Fortunately, a green hand caught his wrist before Tommy got around to making any kind of decision. Whatever Teddy was trying to say gets lost in the warp between 'real time' and Tommy-time. The speedster can't focus on distinguishing between the two at the moment; he was vibrating too hard, but Hulkling's skin could take it longer than Teddy's.
That explained why Teddy bothered to shift at all, since it was the blonde's human hand that slapped Tommy upside the head.
That settled the fuzzy time stream as Tommy burst out with: "What the fu-fudge, Altman?"
Because the kiddie Kaplans were right there; it must have been Teddy's day to pick them up from school. The littlest one is almost as white as Tommy's hair, and of course Tommy had decided that it would be a good idea to smear Billy and himself in blood right before the kids got home.
He flushed, looking to Teddy for some kind of fix because that was what the blonde did, and Teddy wasn't paying the kids any mind at all which annoys the snot right out of Tommy. Really . . . priorities.
Teddy raised an eyebrow slowly and repeated himself: "That's enough."
Tommy's had more than enough, thanks.
But when the speedster tried to twist free, but Teddy didn't let go. The blond easily confiscated and discarded the knife in the trash can, dragging Tommy with him and back by the forearm. Teddy used his free hand to wipe the blood off Billy's face and finding no explanation there, the other boy turned back to Tommy with a critical eye.
Tommy twisted his free hand in the bloody shirt automatically to hide it from view. "Cut myself, Altman. On accident," he emphasized hastily. "Kaplan sat there. I got pissed. Ticked. Whatever."
The house rules on swearing were probably not his biggest problem at the moment, but he had to start somewhere.
Teddy seemed to take that in stride. For some reason, Tommy's confession made him turn around and swat Billy too which might make them all kind of even . . . despite the fact that Tommy had somehow vibrated himself into the twilight zone.
Teddy at least got a slow blink and a half-arsed "Sorry." It seemed to satisfy him.
Maybe not so even.
Teddy took charge of the situation in a more useful manner at last, turning to the kids. "It's okay, guys. Go grab the first aid kit for me and then you can get yourselves a snack while I patch Tommy up," Teddy encouraged, still pulling Tommy around by the arm. His alien skin remained to keep Tommy from bolting, but the hand itself was normal-shaped and smaller again. Less threatening now, because unshifted, Teddy's hands might be wider, but the twins had longer fingers. Tommy appreciated when things evened out or tipped in his favor.
"I swear, the two of you . . ." Teddy was still muttering as he pushed Tommy onto the sofa where the whole thing had started. The oldest of the mini-Kaplans appeared with the first aid kit and beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchen. Teddy cautiously shifted his grip from one wrist to the other as he cautiously prodded the messy slice across the heel of Tommy's palm. "What were you doing . . . juggling the knives?"
Tommy didn't appreciate the levity and tried to retract his wrist, but Teddy pinned it to his knee with one hand and ripped open an alcohol wipe with his teeth. "Hold still."
"Speedster," Tommy pointed out unnecessarily. "It'll heal in like an hour."
"Which is why I'm not making you get stitches," Teddy returned, smearing antibacterial cream across Tommy's hand. "Now shut up."
Teddy was actually pretty proficient at this. It only took half an eternity for the blonde to tape a gauze pad down and wrap Tommy's hand to keep the speedster from picking at the tape.
"You didn't have to hit him," jumped out somewhere in between.
"Yes, I did," Teddy informed him.
"I thought you were all about being supportive," Tommy snapped, as his thumb is carefully manipulated for range of motion.
"I am supportive," Teddy returned. "Doesn't mean he can get away with murder; Billy knows better."
Tommy didn't want to parse meaning out of that thought, so he repeated his point. "You didn't have to hit him though. Don't do that."
Teddy stopped mid-action, and glanced up.
Tommy looked away. "It's freaky." There was just so much wrong with Teddy siding with Tommy over Billy. And discord in general—Tommy's pretty sure that kind of thing didn't happen before he showed up. He cleared his throat because Teddy was still watching him carefully, and Tommy had a reputation to maintain: "Besides, knocking sense into Billy is my job." He gave a sharp tug, because Teddy was clearly finished and acting clingy for no good reason.
Teddy nodded slowly. "I'll remember that."
Tommy rolled his eyes and inspected the work the second Teddy finally released him with an order to change his shirt. Ignoring the unasked for advice, Tommy flexed his wrist and forced a grin. "Looking good, Dr. Altman."
"I've had way too much practice," Teddy grumbled, restocking the kit.
Tommy shrugged. "Should be choosier about who you spend time with. Anyway, no one said you had to waste your valuable time fixing my hand."
"Who said I was fixing your hand?" Teddy shot back and left the room before Tommy could come up with a suitable retort.