Warmth.

It was the first sign somethhing was off. Freak knew his cupboard and he knew it well, No matter what season of the year is was his cupboard was never warm.

The second sigh was how comfortable he felt.

For years his bed had been nothing more then a thin hole filled blanket on a matress that was more broken springs and shattered wood then matress.

The final sign- and what really caught his attention - was the smell of fresh fish.

His Aunt would never allow fish into her home unless it had alreay been deep freid as the horse like woman utterly loathed the smell of fish almost as much as she loathed him.

Maybe his rather... strange dream hadn't been a dream after all?

Was it real?

Was Nigel real or just another part of the dream?

A part of Freak wanted to open his eyes and find out but he couldn't bring himself to.

What if he opened them and was back in his cupboard?

What if it had all been a dream?

What if he was still dreaming right now and opening his eyes would wake him up?

Honestly, he didn't want to wake up if that was the case.

"Private Lad you need to wake up for breakfast."

Nigel's voice came from near his head but all the younger could bring himself to do was shake his head as he spoke in a broken whispher.

"Can't."

He could hear the other kneeling next to him and what felt ot be flippers sitting him up as a curious tone filled the older's voice.

"And why's that?

"I don't want you to be a dream."

He would not hunt down those sorry bastards and commit mass genocide. He was better then that, better then them. He would not commit mass genocide.

Instead he would stay with the hatchling and try his damnest to reassure the young one this was not a dream, He was not dead and this was not prudery.

And later, once the little one was nice and calm the elder would drop a few clues for that mad Russian and maybe the crazy albino, Widow, while he was at it. After all he said he wouldn't commit mass genocide not that he wouldn't orchestra and encourage it.

The hatchling was small- far too small for Nigel's taste- unable to even climb into his own toddler sized chair and thin- God, the feather skin was stretched far too tight over those small bones with every little indent perfectly visible for all too see.

Hell he had meet War Prisoners in better shape then this little one.

The parental side of the spy demanded he started shoveling food down the hatchlings throat until the little one was nice and plump but the logical side easily overrode that instinct.

He wasn't sure when or how much the child last ate but to overfeed him too soon would be pointless as the smaller's stomach had likely shrunken with time and wouldn't be able to handle it.

For now he would have to take things slow unless he desired a sick and miserable hatchling on his flippers.

Nigel was a strange one, Fr- Private would give the elder that.

He seemed warm, with a smile always on his face and a friend, goofy look about his unnatural eyes. The elder didn't seem to believe he was wasting food by giving him something other than stale bread or moldy month expired cheese like horse and whale had. Instead the elder had allowed him to eat whatever he wanted till his hearts content and though Fre- Private couldn't swallow much the fish and fruit had been a delicious change of pace.

Nigel was soft, warm, comfortable- and dare he think it?- Safe. He didn't seem like the sort who could hurt anyone upon first glace but Fr- Private could read people- and apparently Penguins better than most.

Nigel was a danger to Fr-Private but considering the anger hidden within those eyes every time he preferred to himself as Freak or brought up the issue of not wishing to waste the penguin's food on him, or when those eyes glanced over him...

Well...

Horse and Walrus didn't seem to be contained in the same category of safety he was. If anything it looked as if the elder wanted nothing more than to violently tear the two apart- in the most agonizing way possible- atom by atom. Maybe it was wrong and made him a bigger freak then he already was but a small voice in the back of Fr-Private's head couldn't help but wonder if they could watch as the elder did so.

Who knew maybe those packages the elder sent out had contained tickets? Though F- Private doubted the voices gleeful opinion he couldn't help but the slight curiosity that filled him.

What had those packages contained?

To be honest the last person Widow expected to contact her was Agent Nigel. The penguin had never seemed to sort to require her... Special Services. Yet as she stared at the file before her on a Vernon Dursley- was he even human or another Dave?- it was blankly obvious something had changed.

What could have possibly caused someone usually so Pro-Humanity to seek her aid?

Had the stubborn English Gentleman finally saw things their way?

Was it a cleverly ruse trap?

Was he switching sides? Had he fallen like so many other Agents before him?

She supposed the only way to truly know was to have a little faith and show up for the meeting.

If there was one thing to sour the mood on an already rotten day this was likely it.

A sharp golden eye glared down at the package sitting innocently upon his desk with that all too familiar writing on it. How in Hell did that damn spy keep finding him?

He was certain he had gotten rid of all those trackers the spy had tried planting on him the last time they collided, so how was it the other still managed to not only find him but deliver a God Damn package into the center of his current HQ without being noticed once?!

Unable to curve his curiosity, the rouge gently picked up the package so not to jar it with any sudden movements. It was too light to be another of the spy's bomb but too heavy to be a poison- the Russian liked to think the emerald eyed nuisance wasn't that incompetent.

There was no suspicious stains or odor so it wasn't likely another body part- if he hadn't already known the annoyance had issues that would have been a incontestable sign- And there was no rattling when he took a chance and shook the package.

With only a slight hesitance- you never quite knew when the elder would try to rig a package- a sharp claw like nail tore open the seal before swiftly dumping the contents onto his desk...

Paper.

Nyet. An profile on a Petunia Dursley nee Evans and a meeting location written in that familiar cursive styled emerald ink.

Oh, this was so much more then just a profile. It was something the Russian could honestly say he never expected to receive from the Spy of all beings:

A Hit Order.

Now he was curious.