Summary: Even Virgil can be pushed a little too far sometimes. Based on a conversation with mendeia. Rated PG.

Punch Line

In all his time as the Guardian, it was safe to say that Norman did his job effectively – that is, he guarded the Mighty One very well. Through rain or shine, Hell or high water, Norman took his duty of protecting the young Cap-Bearer from any manner of aliens, demons, evil scientists, and Skullmaster very seriously. And though he occasionally found himself incapacitated, when the Mighty One truly needed him, where it really counted, he was always there.

At present, there was only one time Norman could recall that he hadn't come immediately to Mighty Max's aid; and really, he was confident that everyone involved with the incident would agree that that was hardly through any fault of his own.

It happened very unexpectedly. Max, Virgil, and Norman himself had just finished a short mission in Scotland's rolling hills, after which they'd caught a portal to France and found themselves on the streets of Paris, strolling rather enjoyably through mid-summer traffic, the majority of which consisted of tourists.

A portal near the Arc de Triomphe took them back to California, albeit still a while from Max's hometown. Somewhat fatigued, the trio stopped in a small, well-kept park, the Mighty One clamoring onto a low-slung bench. A short distance away stood some colorful plastic playground toys, occupied by about five kids. Their laughter was soft and the surroundings pleasant, and just as Norman, propped on his hands in the grass, closed his eyes and tilted his face skyward, he was reminded swiftly that he was hardly alone.

"Hey look, that kid's wearing a Chicken Run shirt." Without even looking, Norman knew that the Mighty One's face was split into a mischievous grin. "We have to take a field trip to a farm for school next week," the boy continued. "There will probably be chickens there, too."

"You don't say," Virgil replied blandly. Norman bit back a smile, his eyes still shut. Having spent some fifty centuries alongside the fowl, he knew how annoyed Virgil got at being inappropriately referred to as anything besides his rightful and proud heritage. He also knew how much fun it was to bait him, and that the Mighty One had it down to a science.

"Yeah," Max said brightly. "And I mean, they probably wouldn't mind letting me take one home if they knew how important it was for you to procreate."

"That's very generous of you, Mighty One," Virgil said, sounding weary now. "But I don't think it will be necessary."

"Really? Well, okay then." There was a small lull in the conversation. Then, as if the boy simply couldn't help himself: "I think my mom said she was going to order fried chicken tonight, too. Does that make you respect her any less? I won't tell her, I promise."

"It makes no difference to me," Virgil said, his voice strained. Max snickered; Norman coughed to hide his own mirth. "And really, Mighty One," the noble fowl started to add, "though it is perhaps difficult for you to refrain from making jokes at my expense, I am not, in fact, quite as harmless a target as I may appear."

"Yeah, okay," Max giggled, apparently sensing no palpable warning behind his mentor's rebuke. "But I mean, you're not bothered by it at all? 'Cause for me, if I was a giant talking chicken, I think I'd be worried that someone was eating part of my extended family. Like, 'oh, no, put down that barbecued chicken wing, I think it's Uncle Billy!'"

"Indeed," Virgil grumped. "Again, I really do not think you appreciate my teachings as much as you do the nature of my presence as fodder for your childish joke-making, and I must say, it can be greatly offensive …"

"Hey, that reminds me! Why do hens lay eggs? Because if they dropped them, they'd break! Get it? Felix told me that one," Max chortled. Norman was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood now.

"Mighty One, please –"

"Okay, okay. Oh! What do you call a chicken with a disability? 'Hen'dicapped!"

"It is quite rude, and –"

"Why does a chicken coop have two doors? Because if it had four doors, you'd have to call it a chicken sedan!"

"I am asking you now to cease this –"

"What do you get when you cross a chicken with gum? Chiclets! C'mon, that's funny, isn't it No-"

WHAM.

It was a soft sound, almost a thump, punctuated by a small yelp from Max and Norman, previously splayed on the grass, covering his face to shield his eyes from the sun and Virgil's wrath, shot into a sitting position, ready to draw his sword at a moment's notice.

A quick survey of the situation did not isolate any immediate danger, though the sight that greeted Norman's gaze was not entirely routine. For one thing, the Mighty One's hand was up towards his face, gingerly fingering the skin around his eye. In addition, Virgil's feathered right hand was still curled into a fist. Incredulously, Norman's mind drew the most recognizable conclusion: Virgil had just punched Mighty Max in the face.

Neither seemed entirely able to believe it. Max, blinking experimentally, gaped at Virgil with something resembling shock, mixed with a good deal of confusion. "You –" he began. "I – did you just …"

Virgil stared at his own hand, unfurling his fingers, as if he had no control over them. "I, well," he began. He peered at the Mighty One, looking both curious and concerned, and altogether somewhat pleased with himself. "I believe you will have a bit of bruising there for a short time." The ancient bird seemed to be having some difficulty keeping the corners of his beak from turning up.

"I have to tell people at school that I got a black eye from a three-foot tall chi- fowl?" Max corrected quickly. He prodded a tender area beneath his eye and winced.

Virgil seemed to be having an inordinately difficult time keeping himself from laughing now. "It would be perhaps advisable," he managed to get out, "to tell your peers that you simply acquired your injury in some more ordinary fashion. Bumping into a wall, for example."

"Yeah," Norman said, startling his two friends by joining the conversation. "Just say you tripped down your front steps or something. It's way less embarrassing than the truth!" And with that, the Guardian collapsed onto his back in uncharacteristic giggles, pounding the earth as he roared with laughter at the Mighty One's expense.

Max blinked, watching the unabated display for two solid minutes. "Okay," he finally said. "I get it. It's funny. It really was. But now I think we should just put this behind us and get going. Handle this like mature, responsible adults …"

"HAHAHAHA …"

The boy sighed and turned to his mentor, who looked almost obscenely peaceful given the circumstances. "I think I understand how you feel now," Max said glumly.

Virgil turned to him serenely. "Oh, Mighty One," he replied with a self-satisfied smile. "This is only the beginning."