Upon moving to New York, Sam first realized that a short trip for Nationals hadn't shown him how crowded and loud the city could really be. The next thing he learned was that he was unbelievably excited to be there, even if he had scrounged up every last nickel to make the trip and even if he'd needed Rachel to call in a favor to land a crummy starting job. The third thought, which Sam had during the first discussion with his new boss, was that he'd really expected the people in New York City to have better hair.

"I'm only doing this to get in good with the team, you know," said J. Jonah Jameson, editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle. "I don't like a lot of heroes, but do I like them. They pay their taxes. But they barely do press."

"Yes, sir," Sam said. It seemed like the man liked to be called 'sir.' "Rachel did tell you that I can get you an interview with her. She really likes giving interviews."

J. Jonah snorted. "She'd better get me more than one interview if she expects me to hire some hayseed straight out of high school to cover... what are you looking at?"

"Pop culture," Sam said instantly, although he'd cover anything. He hadn't expected any sort of newspaper job to be a good fit for him, as he wasn't the fastest writer. Rachel had reassured him of the Bugle's reputation, though: too few writers writing too many articles, since J. Jonah refused to hire more people. As they were tethered to their chairs, he could be useful as a man on the ground, running high and low across the city with a camera and recorder. "I'm totally ready to interview people and get all the photos for your staff writers. Like how they actually got Bioware to debut a game at PAX East this year. Just get me a press pass."

"You're speaking gibberish," J. Jonah said, "and my readers don't speak gibberish. That's for the Post." He turned toward the door and barked, "What?"

"Sorry, didn't see you were in here," the newcomer said as he entered the office and belatedly realized he'd interrupted someone's meeting. "Don't think we've met. I'm Peter Parker."

"That's okay!" Sam said cheerfully. He extended his hand. "Sam Evans. I'm from Tennessee and Ohio."

"Hi, Sam Evans from Tennessee and Ohio," Peter repeated with a grin as he grasped Sam's hand and shook firmly. He seemed nice.

"This is an office, not a debutante social." Sam turned back to their editor and saw him glaring. "You're perky, kid," J. Jonah said to Sam. "I hate perky."

Peter squinted. "Isn't that a line from The Mary Tyler Moore Show?"

J. Jonah snorted. "No."

"Yeah!" Sam said. "Yeah, it is. Lou Grant said it to Mary."

"No, he said something similar," J. Jonah said. "I changed the wording enough to not count as plagiarism, and I don't appreciate the accusation. Try it again and you two will be reviewing hot dog vendors in Alphabet City."

Peter plucked at Sam's sleeve and gestured to the door. "We're just gonna go to work now, Mr. Jameson, and get you lots of great pictures and stories."

"I'm not paying you to talk, Parker!"

Sam let himself be led back into the main office of the Daily Bugle. "Is he always like that?" he asked his new co-worker as the door shut behind them.

Peter laughed. "Pretty much. Did you just start working here?"

"This week," Sam said. "I've been saving up to move out here, and... here I am in New York City!" he said. "I like it so far. I mean, someone peed on me in the subway, but other than that."

"That happens," Peter said. "Well, welcome to the Daily Bugle. And New York! Try a bagel. People aren't kidding, they're just better here."

"I will!" Sam said and scribbled 'BAGEL' in his notebook. With a quick glance around the office, he pulled out the trump card that would definitely earn him some cred with this potential new friend. He leaned in close and confided, "See, I'm sort of tight with a bunch of people who're practically superheroes. And I'm dating one of them. So I think living in New York's gonna be pretty great."

Peter gave him an odd look, but then he smiled broadly. "Superheroes, huh? Well that's gotta be pretty neat."

"It is," Sam agreed. "Hey, I've gotta go meet her, but we should go out for lunch or something!"

Peter looked ready to burst out laughing. Weird. Maybe he was just a happy sort of guy. "Sounds like a plan, Sam Evans from Tennessee and Ohio."

With one last jaunty wave, Sam headed for the elevators, down to the first floor, and out onto the sidewalks of midtown Manhattan. It was going to be a beautiful day.

•••••

Sign workers had just finished the lettering that proudly announced the "Chang • Cohen • Chang Agency" to all who passed by. Indirect sunlight filtered through the office door window. It had the look of late afternoon to it, and that put Finn in mind of leaving for the day.

"Shouldn't that be a line between your names?" Finn asked as he looked at the letters, reversed from his position inside the room.

Tina frowned in thought at their door. "The guy at the shop said that those little circles are... classy, I guess."

"I think they look totally classy," Mike agreed, swooping in from the side to kiss her on the forehead.

"I just wanna know why our names aren't on there," Mercedes said. She looked more than a bit unimpressed with their attempt at carving out a Manhattan life.

Tina busied herself with sorting papers like she hadn't heard Mercedes, and then finally turned and smiled at her when Mercedes cleared her throat. "Because, um, well... Mike and I thought of the idea and five names would be really, really long to fit into a little door window. Sorry!"

"She has a point," Finn said, shrugging.

"Hey," Mercedes said and poked him in the arm. "You and me are the worker base for this operation. We have to stick up against the management, or they'll exploit us."

"Yeah, that really sounds like something we'd do," Mike said. Without reading his mind, Finn wasn't sure whether he was kidding.

But really, he did think that Tina had a point. The group had moved to New York, not in perfect unison but with a staggered desire to return home and join the other movers and shakers in the business of having superpowers. Kurt and Rachel arrived with people already interested in them, as did Artie, Quinn, and Santana. Puck and Brittany were content to carve out their own paths. That left the four of them uncertain as to how they should put their powers to enough use to pay their bills.

An idea from Mike and Tina won out: launching a private investigation firm. They knew about another superpowered firm in town, and so the market was clearly there. Plus, they'd explained to Finn, having a telepath on staff would be a huge bonus. He'd definitely be justified in reading people's minds if it would help save lives. As for Finn, he was just happy to have somewhere to work where he could prove himself. Even if he hadn't been part of their original vision, he was thrilled to join up.

The idea had indeed sounded solid until they'd realized just how many people were in New York and how implausible it was for Finn to scan that many strangers. Still, he could be useful. Sometimes. Mike and Mercedes were also solid at gathering intel, since they never had to worry about someone pulling a gun or knife on Mike as he snuck around. When it was time to zero in, Tina's emotional manipulation could get anyone to spill the beans. Between everyone, they were able to solve just enough cases to make ends meet and keep their office presentable. (Well, the three of them did that. Finn wasn't allowed to touch any files.)

"Ugh, look at them," Tina sighed as she saw a flyer drift into their stairwell. It was for X-Factor Investigations, based down in the Lower East Side. Even though they were well north, near the Port Authority, it felt like constant competition with that other superpowered agency. "With their ads. And their name recognition." She turned a mournful face to their tiny, narrow office. It was below street level, at the bottom of a narrow concrete staircase, and they could see feet walking past their door. "And their office that probably doesn't smell like cheese."

"Well, we've got a leg up on them," Finn said. "We're government subsidized." Ever since he'd learned that term, he refused to let it go.

Mercedes rolled her eyes again. "You mooching off Kurt's place doesn't mean we're 'subsidized.' It means we're just barely able to pay our office rent, 'cause we can hold back apartment money from you."

Finn pointed at her. "I still think that counts." He went still, and then hissed, "Someone's actually coming with a job, look cool."

A man entered the office hesitantly. When all four rounded on him with bright smiles, he nearly turned right back around. Small and worn, he gave the impression of being fragile in every aspect of his life, including his ability to pay. That was all right: they were building up their reputation, and in the meantime they could help the people most in need of it.

(Besides, Finn could always borrow money from Kurt if they hit a really bad dry spell.)

"Ah, hello," the man said shakily as he looked around. As Finn was nearest the door, he turned to him. With a glance to the new sign he addressed him hesitantly as, "Mr. Cohen?"

"Finn!" Finn corrected cheerfully. "Finn Hudson. Hi."

So who did he think I was? he heard from Mercedes.

"I have a... certain problem with a co-worker," he said.

"A certain problem?" Tina repeated.

Clearly not wanting to do so, he forced himself to add, "And my wife."

"Oh, that problem," Mike said.

"I need proof before I start any divorce proceedings," he continued, "and the investigators good enough to get them through normal means charge far too much. When I heard you had other methods, and your prices... I thought I'd come talk to you." That was pretty clearly an insult, but it wasn't the worst they'd heard.

"Well," Mercedes said, clapping Finn on the shoulder, "did you ever come to the right place. Because this guy can—"

"Oops!" Finn said as his watch beeped at him. "Gotta go."

Mike, Tina, and Mercedes boggled at him. "Now?" Mike asked disbelievingly.

"I can totally solve this problem for you," Finn told the man, and just resisted the urge to point at him with fingerguns. "Totally. No problem. Just not right this second. I, uh, just found out that I need to go to my apartment before a security lockdown keeps me out all night. Kind of short notice. Bye, guys!"

He grabbed his things and ran for the street without any further excuses. It was true: the money that he didn't need to spend on an apartment was the money that was just barely able to cover their office rental. Because of that, Finn had impressed upon them the importance of always following the orders of his watch.

Unwilling to risk a bus, he hailed a cab and used Kurt's emergency credit card to pay for it. Normally he didn't want to lean on his brother for anything more than a place to stay, but it was Kurt's schedule that demanded that speed. Finn bolted from the cab when it came to a stop on 59th, a world away from their gritty office near the bus station. Kurt's building was a gleaming tower of glass and stone that stared over Central Park, without anything but glossy cars and horse-drawn carriages between. It was also one of the most secure places in the city, and was a favorite place to stick anyone who was regularly at risk and had the right connections.

Finn nodded at the doorman as he walked in. A quick beep said that he was human, not an android constructed to match the man who'd had his appearance authorized, and he proceeded into the lobby. His thumbprint and retinal scan activated the elevator. When it set into motion, Finn found himself humming along with the piped-in music until he was deposited at the end of a plushly carpeted hallway. Aware of the ticking clock, Finn hurried that last distance to the keycard slot. His metal card transmitted some sort of bodily reading as he grasped it and held for five seconds, and then he leaned down for one final retinal check.

Finally, he thought as he heard the series of locks click loose, and he pulled open his door. Coming home every night was a bitch. They couldn't even get food delivered in that building. Sure, the doorman could scan a guy and say they were human, but they weren't allowed to have the receptionist accept packages. They could be full of poison gas or something.

He missed ordering from Amazon. At least they could ship to the office.

Once he'd made it through the hassle of getting into the place, Finn was struck anew by how ridiculously nice their apartment was. (At some point it had stopped being just 'Kurt's apartment.') The far wall was made of more glass than plaster, and showed Central Park in a view that people would pay millions of dollars to see. Finn's bedroom was small and windowless, though; it was a converted office, as the place hadn't been selected with two people in mind. He changed quickly, grabbed a drink, and flung himself onto the couch next to that spectacular park view. The sixty-inch television screen on the wall soon showed an episode of Family Guy.

Huh, Finn thought as he looked around the apartment, yawned, and scratched himself. That had been a big security warning. Whatever was going on, it had the risk of drawing some real attention.

He wondered just what it was that Kurt was doing.

It was probably something pretty neat.

•••••

In the depths of the Carlyle Hotel's basement, Kurt carefully unfolded the green and silver servant's livery he'd stolen from possible enemies to the United States of America. Then, with a sure hand, he uncapped a Sharpie and wrote two words across its front: DOOM SUCKS.

It wasn't an elegant plan, but he just needed it to work.

Kurt shimmied out of his clothes and dumped them into the incinerator chute. The hotel was known for hosting guests of high political concern and had included all necessary amenities in its design. That included a special disposal system that burnt absolutely anything to ash on a twice-daily basis, with one cycle right about—

A flash of light shot through the tunnel.

—Now.

Soon he was in clothing identical to everyone else the visitor had brought along from Latveria. Victor von Doom had supposedly sent his top lieutenant to serve as a peacemaker with the United States. S.H.I.E.L.D. had run every scan they could and he appeared to be human, but Colonel Fury still had a gut feeling that they were facing a Doombot who would explode and take out half the United Nations when he gave a speech there on the day after tomorrow.

Of course, simply assassinating the man with a sniper had its own risk: if Fury was wrong, then he might spark World War III.

They generally tried to avoid that.

If this was a Doombot and it passed all their scans, Kurt thought as he illusioned himself into unmarked livery and walked out into the halls, then it was definitely top of the line. The trip through the hotel wasn't smooth, made worse by his distracted concern over what weapons such an advanced machine might have. Everyone he met overlooked his apparently unremarkable outfit. Security cameras still dotted the hallways, though, and he had to keep on constant lookout lest the message on the front of his jacket be seen too early or they catch a glimpse of the equipment S.H.I.E.L.D had provided him.

"I came for your dinner order, sir," Kurt said politely when he'd been allowed into the diplomat's room on the twenty-fifth floor. It was luxurious beyond measure, with a beautiful view of the darkening city beyond, but Kurt barely noticed. He had a mission to complete.

The diplomat turned, clearly annoyed. "I already—what is this?" he asked in outrage as he pointed.

Kurt smiled. Everyone in the hallways had overlooked the insult to Doctor Doom scrawled across his chest, because his psychic illusions fooled their minds.

Psychic illusions could never work on a machine, though.

Two swords tucked securely against his back bloomed in his hands. The Doombot barely had a chance to react before Kurt's swords plunged into his neck, scissored, and separated its sparking electronic head from its heavily armed body. One precise stroke gutted its explosive payload. An alarm started blaring, but Kurt had expected that. He quickly secured the head to his belt for evidence, pulled a mask over his head for protection against what would happen next, and then flung himself through the window.

His grappling hook caught before he'd fallen more than a hundred feet. Kurt swung up and onto the rooftops on the opposite side of Madison Avenue. He didn't hesitate, he just ran. The head smacked painfully against his hip with each leap, but he took the trek like a parkour expert. At the end of the block he leapt into the sky without hesitating and without using his grappling gun.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. helicopter was waiting, ladder down. Kurt ascended it as the chopper peeled away from midtown Manhattan and toward Colonel Nick Fury's helicarrier.

•••••

"I'm telling you," Artie insisted to Fury as they waited for any news from Kurt's mission, "it's not a Doombot. Every scanner I built for you said no."

"I know it did," Fury said calmly. He seemed totally convinced that Kurt would come out of things okay.

"Then why—" Artie cut off as an alarm started sounding on the monitor, but Fury shook his head at Artie's huge eyes. Apparently this was expected. He watched nervously as Kurt's small blinking dot left the hotel, darted across a block of buildings, and then took off into the air toward their location. "Did he have to run?"

"He left when his mission finished," Fury said with satisfaction. "And has a Doombot's head on his belt."

"...Oh," Artie said. It was difficult not to pout.

"Sometimes you need intuition," Fury told him, clapping Artie on the shoulder. "And a man on the ground."

Artie grumbled as he wheeled after him. He hated being wrong.

"My offer still stands," Fury said as he checked the readings on another monitor.

That offer was for Artie to sign on with S.H.I.E.L.D. full time, as opposed to his current consultant role. It wasn't all that tempting, honestly. The more Artie worked with machinery and electronics, the more his intuition grew. He was becoming quite the capable inventor. His new data storage format would hit the market in a month and—not to jinx himself—Artie was pretty sure he was going to be a billionaire.

He had the best powers.

"How's your launch going?" Fury asked when Artie spent a little too long daydreaming about his future fortune.

"It hasn't happened yet," Artie pointed out, "but when it does..." He trailed off when a stack of papers landed in his lap. "What's this?"

"Injunctions that are going to be filed against you tomorrow. I got early copies." Fury quirked a smile. "Sounds like the people working for you didn't check patent filings as closely as they should have."

His ideas were new, but any improper bits and pieces around them would tie him up in court for years if he went to market. Artie grumbled. Time for some redesigns. "The, um, launch might be delayed a little." So he'd have to wait to be a billionaire. Just a year or two. That was fine.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has a good legal research team," Fury said. "Could have found that out beforehand if you'd been on staff. We don't mind if you invent things in your spare time." Artie looked at him flatly. The man really didn't give up.

With his full powers in place, he was sort of a genius. (Artie used 'sort of' to make himself sound less conceited. It seemed to go over better.) He'd blown through the rest of school, and moved to New York even before some of the other kids who'd stayed in Lima.

He just needed to become a little more familiar with how businesses worked, was all.

Fortunately, Fury was distracted from any more arguments by Kurt's arrival. Artie couldn't help it; he openly stared at the giant scribbled DOOM SUCKS across Kurt's chest. "Good mission?" he asked with bemusement.

"That was fun," Kurt enthused as he unfastened the android's head and handed it to Artie. "Do I get to do that again? Hi, Artie."

Fury checked the computer. "Nothing currently on the schedule. Might be two weeks off or—"

"Might be two hours, right," Kurt finished.

"Hi," Artie said, and smirked. Someone had found his niche.

"Sir, if we're done, I need to go give my debriefing and pick up takeout. If I don't bring home food, I'll have to deal with him whining all night," Kurt said to Fury, and then turned to Artie. "Do you want to grab dinner this week?"

"Sure," Artie said. "Just not Thursday, I'm catching up with our resident hottie."

Kurt's eyebrow rose.

"And resident coldie." He'd just wanted to see Quinn—they'd settled into a nice friendship—but Santana had been there when he made the call. Somewhat surprisingly, Artie found that he wanted to see her, too. Even more surprisingly, Santana was all for it.

"Oh," Kurt giggled. "Um, good luck with the former, and enjoy the latter." He nodded crisply to Fury, who dismissed him, and then headed out the door.

"Wildfire and Snowfall?" Fury asked when they were alone. "I know Lopez wouldn't be interested, but don't tell me you're already doing the player game with Fabray. You're not Tony Stark yet."

"I'm just catching up with friends!" Artie protested as he wheeled after Fury. You make one sex robot, he thought grumpily, and everyone hears about your 'priorities.'

•••••

"I'm so glad I worked my butt off with those tutors," Tina said over the club's loud music, "to graduate early." Mike grinned at her, and she clarified, "I'm being sarcastic."

"Oh," he said sadly. "Did you not want to come to New York?"

"Of course I'm happy about everything we're doing," Tina said, patting his hand. "I'm just griping about our cheese office."

Mike was about to respond, but instead stood to wave. Mercedes and Sam soon joined them at their table.

"Hey," Tina said and leaned over on her stool to hug Sam. "You made it!"

"I made it," Sam confirmed, and hopped up on his seat. He'd been dealing with his new job, and his dad had been delayed with driving his furniture in from Ohio. "Everything gets here tomorrow," Sam said excitedly. "And you know what that means."

Mike held up a key and grinned at him. Sam grinned back. He'd been staying at a hotel near work on those first few, confusing days, and told them that he considered it a wise investment.

"It means that Tina and I get our place back!" Mercedes crowed, and held up her hand for a high-five. Tina returned it.

As they'd cycled through the complicated dance of apartment sublets and short-term leases, Sam had announced New York plans just as Mike's minuscule studio ran out. Mike suggested that Sam and Mercedes could get a place, and used it as an excuse to ask Tina to move in with him.

It was tempting. It was unbelievably tempting. But Mercedes and Sam had taken a near-break while they were apart, and they were all still teenagers. Tina thought that she and Mike could be together forever, but not if they ruined it by moving too quickly. Having signed an official lease on top of that would make any issues so very much worse.

Mercedes and Sam not being close to ready to share a place? Having moral objections on top of that? It was all the perfect excuse to set up two new apartments: Awesome Girls and Smelly Boys. It wasn't like they couldn't still date, and for now, platonic living might be the right way for her and Mike to go. It was definitely smarter for Sam and Mercedes.

(When two interim weeks with Mike on their couch had revealed how stinky his gym socks could get, Tina became solidly happy about their decision.)

"Finn's not here?" Sam asked after the excitement for his and Mike's imminent apartment move-in faded.

"He got summoned by his magical S.H.I.E.L.D. watch," Tina said, with appropriate finger-wiggling gestures. At Sam's confusion, she explained, "He's totally mooching off Kurt, and sometimes he has to get over there before lockdown."

"Oh." Sam hesitated. "Wait, does Finn seriously not have to pay rent?"

"We pay him less and it goes straight toward our office bills," Mercedes said, and shrugged. "It all works out." She hesitated, and then added slowly, like it wasn't her place, "And he doesn't say much, but... okay, Kurt likes what he's doing? But from the sound of it, there are some missions that are seriously, seriously hard." She looked down at her hands. "So I don't mind that there's someone when he gets home, for those bad days."

Sam exhaled. "So, uh, how's it been for you guys? Any... bad days?"

Tina caught the undercurrent of nerves. He'd moved with plans to live comfortably on the fringes of superheroic behavior. If they were too caught up in death-defying antics, he might need to reconsider his roommate, or even his girlfriend. "Just with the cases we solve. They can get pretty rough."

"Even in New York, they don't always investigate hate crimes against mutants," Mike said sadly.

"And kids get taken, sometimes," Mercedes added. Her eyes were haunted. "Not just mutants. They... they make them do things."

Sam stared between all of them. "Wait, on that last one... why didn't they call the police?"

"The family didn't have papers," Mercedes said. "They thought if they went to anyone official, they'd be deported and they couldn't even try to find their daughter. So they came to us."

"And you found her?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Tina said proudly. "Yeah, we... we found some buildings and Finn started reading people." She shivered at the memories of Finn throwing up from what he read. "It, um, didn't look fun for him."

Sam stared at his glass when the waitress put it in front of him. "Well," he finally said, "good thing none of you are alone, huh?"

Tina thought back to that night, and how shaky Finn had looked when he left them. By the next morning he was much better. He and Kurt must have had good conversations. Sam was right: they weren't alone.

"So," Mike said, and clinked his glass against Sam's. "We move in tomorrow."

"My dad's probably not gonna be here until evening," Sam said apologetically.

"So, what," Mike began, "I'll have to move stuff really fast?"

Sam grinned. They all matched him.

•••••

In the end, Mike wasn't able to move as quickly as he liked. His speed didn't mean he could angle a desk with the same ease as his body, nor could he lift a full bedframe alone. They worked late into the night.

"The plan was that we'd get me a frame and mattress this evening," Mike said as he and Sam surveyed their new apartment. The second 'bedroom' had exactly enough room for a twin bed and tiny dresser. The kitchen had just enough counter space for a toaster; they'd have to eat takeout. But it was in the general vicinity of clean, didn't have a notably horrible view, and was only two buildings away from a laundromat.

"I'm glad my dad didn't mind me taking this stuff," Sam said as he looked around the living room. They didn't yet have a couch, but they had a bookcase, an overstuffed chair, and various small tables. "Not that it's nice or anything, but you know."

"So things are good?" Mike asked.

"Yeah, he's gotten raises a couple of times," Sam said. "Not big ones, but..." But they had to be votes of confidence.

Mike smiled at him, and then returned his attention to the room. "My dad made it really clear that the stuff he'd bought with his money would stay in his house."

"Oh," Sam said, and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Mind if we both crash on yours?" Mike asked, and gestured to the one bed in the place. "No couch, and we'll get mine tomorrow."

"Sure, but it should probably have..." Sam trailed off as Mike began moving in a near-blur. "...Sheets on it. Yeah. Okay. I think you should be responsible for cleaning the apartment."

Mike grinned, and threw himself down onto the sheet-covered bed.

The next morning, Sam's dad dropped them off at IKEA and then drove to Costco, to best use his remaining hours in the city. "So, how's your dad taking, uh, all of this?" Sam asked, and gestured broadly around them.

"Tina and Mercedes' families have sent checks a couple of times," Mike said after getting a cart. "We made a big deal about not wanting to accept them. Then Mercedes started taking some business classes. Basic bookkeeping and stuff," he explained. "We also needed someone to go through this superhero training program with the city, so we can license our business. It means we can advertise on their website," Mike explained. "We drew straws. I got that licensing one. Uh, I'll be late some nights."

"Oh, sure thing," Sam said.

"Anyway," Mike continued, "Mercedes heard that it's normal for a new business to not make a profit for years. And, um, we sort of need profits. We're happy with what we're doing," he quickly added. "It's just..."

"You need electricity and groceries, right," Sam finished.

Mike didn't continue talking, and Sam seemed to take the right conclusion from that: Tina and Mercedes' families were being supportive. As they'd been excluded from the discussion, Mike's family was not. His mom called him, yes, but his dad was still getting over the insult of having a son who'd blown off top-tier schools.

The boys made careful selections to fill out their apartment, leaving a couch for another month, and made it back home with Mike's new mattress tied securely in the back of the Evans' truck. "Thanks, Dad," Sam said, and hugged his father. "Means a lot to me that you came here."

He hugged his son back. "You let me know if you ever want to move back home," he said, and then nodded to Mike. "No offense to current company, I just think the big city might be rough."

"None taken," Mike said. They spent the rest of their Sunday putting together furniture. Over the weeks to come, they began to focus on smaller things: replacing the shower curtain with a design they liked. Claiming a perfectly good couch from a neighbor who was going to have it hauled away.

"Hey," Sam said one afternoon, and threw a letter at Mike. "From your folks."

Mike opened it and saw his mother's handwriting.

Hello, Michael. I keep telling your father about everything you're doing. Even when he acted tired of it, I kept sharing what you've told me. Eventually, he had to admit that it was good. I finally got through to him.

Mike looked back in the envelope and retrieved a single check. It wasn't an enormous amount—one month's rent—but it would cushion them from any sudden blows. On the memo field were three short words: "Keep working hard."

After a few seconds, Mike smiled. "I'm going to go hit the ATM," Mike said, and carefully folded the check. "And call Mercedes if you guys want to come along later. Tonight, I'm going to take Tina out to dance."

•••••

"This is ridiculous," Quinn said as she stood inside her new home. Without the help she'd gotten, it would have been difficult to find an apartment near the university just as students rushed in. Of course, without that help, she never could have afforded it to begin with.

Her agent smiled nervously. "What's ridiculous?"

"This commercial," Quinn said, and gestured at the television. The video preview finished, and then cut to black. "I signed on to help people, and get college paid for. Not so they could have a thirty-second closeup on my breasts."

"That closeup's only about... five or six seconds," he began, but sighed when Quinn stared at him. "I'll make some calls."

Quinn brightened. Good. She liked having an agent. He handled all the busy work.

A few hours later, she walked across the campus of New York University with cameras in tow. "No one registers in person," she said. "I should just be signing up online."

"That doesn't give good optics," the director said apologetically.

"I thought this was going to be a reality show," Quinn said. "Emphasis on the reality."

He smiled. "That's cute."

Fresh teasers would soon start for Unmasked, the anticipated show that NBC had secured for their fall lineup. Overall network ratings were low, and they were willing to try something new: a show tracking the real lives of two conveniently gorgeous superheroines with conveniently paired superpowers.

Quinn didn't want to do this forever. Honestly, she didn't want to do it now. But as Quinn looked at her bank account, she knew two things: she was going to graduate from college without a single dollar in student loans, and, if she managed her money well, she wouldn't be forced into doing anything that she wanted to avoid for decades to come. Even if her career prospects fell bizarrely flat, she could live modestly and securely, and never feel like she had lost control over her life.

Thinking of Judy's stories told Quinn that autonomy was the best present she could give herself. She was more than willing to spend a few years on a silly television show in exchange for independence.

Santana was at their ridiculous fake registration process, too. She and Quinn smirked at each other, and then started reading college catalogs as they waited for lighting and video tests. "I'm thinking pre-law, maybe," Santana said. "I don't know. I just really like the idea of being able to yell 'lawyered, bitch!' in an argument."

"You're going to sign up for classes together, right?" asked the director.

Santana and Quinn looked at each other, and then at him. "No," Quinn said. "I am not doing pre-law. Ever." He seemed to want more, and so she looked back at her packet and mused, "Maybe psychology. And they have all these really interesting minors..." She saw the director looking at her with dismay. "We never promised to take the same classes."

"Fine," he mourned. "We probably just won't have much of an academic focus. It'll be more about your social connections on campus. You need to start dating," he informed Quinn, "as soon as classes start. We'll want a lot of shots of your girlfriend," he added to Santana. "The camera loves her."

"I'm not dating anyone," Quinn said, "unless I really like them and I want to date. All right?" She saw him about to blow a gasket and folded her arms sharply below her breasts. "I know exactly what was in that contract, and nothing you're saying here is covered."

"Lawyered, bitch," Santana said under her breath.

"Fine!" he snapped, and stalked away, muttering something about 'the talent' as he went.

Santana and Quinn waited until he'd vanished, and then started giggling in unison. "I think we made a big mistake," Santana said when she'd regained composure.

"What, you mean having some of the most expensive tuition in the country paid for? Or getting big fat checks every month?" Quinn started ticking off points on her fingers. "Living expenses covered, wardrobe... and in return, all we have to do is make a lot of special effects for the camera." She held up her hand and a silent snowstorm drifted from it. She could practically hear sleigh bells jingling, until the flakes landed on the warm pavement and melted.

"All of that is great," Santana admitted. "But are you worried that we're, like... ugh. I hate to say this. It's so Martha Stewart, while everyone else is doing big stuff. Important stuff. Not building some media empire."

Quinn looked at her phone. "Straight to us from the NBC news department, something just invaded Little Italy. Eight buildings are already on fire." She smirked at Santana, who smirked right back when she realized she'd been proven wrong. Yes, there was a real benefit of what they were doing: they were still superheroes, and now they had the entire resources of 30 Rockefeller Center directing them toward hotspots that could use a round of fearless heroics.

The camera crew came scampering up. "We've got the van ready," said one, breathlessly.

Their new costumes—brighter, sleeker, and significantly smaller than what Kurt had made—were under their wardrobe-chosen clothes, like some sort of Gossip Girl take on Superman. By the time they arrived at the scene, they'd stripped down and donned their product-placed sunglasses.

"You're sure these are fireproof?" Santana asked, and then shrugged. "Well, guess it doesn't hurt me either way. What do I care if they melt?"

The director considered that, and then quietly pulled the glasses from her face. "Only Quinn will wear them," he said. "We couldn't use any footage of you if they're melting. We'll have to test before the next field shoot."

"Fine," Santana said, and she and Quinn burst out of the van. As they rounded the corner and came into view of who would soon be their adoring public, they shifted into elemental form. Santana's suit, red and orange, nearly vanished into her phoenix-like body. Quinn's was pure white. It marked her translucent form as she slid toward their foe on a slick sheet of ice.

It was so much easier to deal with supervillains, Quinn thought as she froze and broke the energy gun their foe was aiming at those school children, than to handle NBC's management.

•••••

Avengers Tower loomed over New York, sleek and gleaming. It inspired awe in all who saw it. They knew beyond a shadow of any doubt that the heroes inside were the stuff of legends. Surely, their war room was filled with constant plans to save the world. To protect mankind.

"We are not doing karaoke," Tony Stark said in that war room, and pointed at Rachel. "No more karaoke."

"I kind of like it," Steve Rogers said almost sheepishly. "It boosts team morale."

"No it doesn't," Tony said. "It boosts her morale, because she always wins."

Rachel smiled. Yes, that was true.

Steve frowned. "But karaoke's not a competition."

Tony narrowed his eyes at her, over his sunglasses. "I know. Which is why I'm not sure how she wins."

"Well, I'm very good," Rachel said with complete honesty. Since Steve had discovered that he liked that piece of technology, she thought it unfair to discourage him. Steve Rogers made a wonderfully appreciative audience, and occasionally she needed to take a break to rest her voice. When he sang for those intermissions, he sounded very nice on all the old standards.

Tony saw the argument coming. "No karaoke," he said, pointing at her, and then began to storm off before Rachel could reply. He was interrupted by Jesse St. James teleporting in front of him, directly into the heart of the Avengers' skyscraper headquarters.

"Jesse," Rachel said, her hands on her hips.

Steve, realizing that Rachel knew the intruder and didn't consider him an immediate threat, lowered his shield.

"Rachel," Jesse said. "I thought I'd tell you that I'm on my way to a Broadway audition. My powers are ridiculously useful for making it to every casting in town. Other people have to pick and choose. I don't have to deny anyone the chance to see me. And I can't say how much I've saved on cab fare."

"Mmmhmm," she said.

"Want to come with?" he said, and extended his hand. "There's a role that's perfect for you. Minor, but you could get some of the right people looking."

"I am not auditioning for a minor show role, Jesse," Rachel said. "Didn't you see this week's papers? We saved Chelsea from a pulse bomb! I have other things on my mind."

"Really?" he asked with clear disappointment, and looked distrustfully at Steve. Apparently, Captain America's clean-cut appearance had been held responsible for seducing her attention. "Too bad," Jesse said. "It really is a shame, Rachel. You could have been as great as me." He vanished. There was a small 'pop!' as displaced air rushed back in.

"Who was that?" Tony asked, frowning at the empty space Jesse had left behind.

"Oh, Jesse was nearly killed getting empowered to lure us in," Rachel said, waving off the question. "He recovered. I'm... generally glad about that. And now he's focused on Broadway, apparently."

"I like him," Tony decided. "Can you get him back?"

"No," Rachel said flatly. With visible determination, she ignored Tony and returned her attention to Steve. "I'm going dancing on Saturday night, so we can plan a karaoke party on either Friday or Sunday." Maybe she'd invite her friends to come sing, if the Avengers didn't mind.

"You never let me take you dancing," Tony said with mock offense.

"Because you are not my boyfriend," Rachel said. When he seemed to want more, she added, "And when you just 'tried to show me a move,' your hand went far too low." He grinned impishly and she rolled her eyes.

Steve cleared his throat politely. "Is there going to be good music there? I sort of miss going out with my pals."

"I'm sorry," Rachel said. "You can't go. You've met Finn." When Steve's brow furrowed in confusion, she explained, "Finn doesn't let anyone who's met him before see him when he tries to dance." She didn't even bother turning. "Don't say anything about Finn unless you want one perfect note to knock those sunglasses off."

"This is workplace harassment," Tony said, "and I won't stand for it."

As Tony left, Steve chuckled. "Great, Friday night it is, then. I'll tell Thor."

•••••

Blaine got off the train on a bright day in October. It continued to Boston without him.

With so much of his collegiate interest focused on the Northeast, his family had agreed that it would be much more pleasant to travel next to a broad train window, rather squint down from an airplane or deal with traffic. They'd even added a few trips to his original plan, since they were easy jaunts and he wouldn't mind going to the schools: Penn, Rutgers, Carnegie Mellon. Dalton had a week's break mid-term, and the faculty looked the other way when seniors took more time off for college visits, besides.

Some business had come up for his father in Philadelphia. Blaine offered to go on ahead. As it would serve as a nice dry run for living on his own the next year, his father accepted. The second he'd found privacy, Blaine called Kurt, who promptly used his connections to assure that the hotel in Boston would report that Blaine was there, checked in right when he was supposed to be. Next, he organized a new itinerary. Blaine's new ticket for Boston was three days later, putting him in the city a half-day before his dad would arrive. That should be enough time to investigate the immediate area and make any lies seem plausible.

Now, Blaine was in New York for that secret trip. His bright smile began to fade slowly as he looked around the crowded station. He'd expected Kurt to be there, waiting for him. Finally, he saw a man holding up a sign reading 'ANDERSON.' Blaine shouldered his bag and headed that way.

The man cleared his throat and glanced down at a small note in his hand. "What were the two biggest failures on the part of the American voters?'"

Blaine stared back at him, befuddled, until he remembered the rants that Kurt had once made. "That George W. Bush won," he replied, "and that Adam Lambert didn't."

The man snorted, smiled, and shoved the note in his pocket. "One of the weirder ones I've asked," he said, and gestured Blaine toward the entrance. He was massive, and looked like a bodyguard for billionaires; Blaine had to hurry to keep up. "He wasn't sure that he could get over here in time, so he asked me to take you to the hotel. So you wouldn't be kept waiting."

"Oh," Blaine said as he was escorted to where a black town car waited. It was double parked, but no officer had dared ticket it. "Hotel?" he repeated. He'd expected to just stay on Kurt's couch.

"The Plaza," his driver said as they pulled out into traffic.

"The Plaza," Blaine repeated, amazed. Kurt must have a great expense account. He knew there were other hotels in the city that were just as nice, or nicer, but it was the Plaza. It had the romance, the history, the location. As the skyscrapers of Midtown crowded proudly above, Blaine began to feel that the city was seducing him.

There were good universities there, he thought wistfully, and brushed his fingertips against the windows. Maybe...

Walking into the Plaza was like entering a fairy tale. He watched the suited bellhops a bit too openly, and wondered a bit too long on what the other guests would do in the city that never slept. Blaine felt almost dizzy by the time he got to his room and turned the handle. It took him a few seconds to realize that Kurt was already in there, curled comfortably on a chair. "Hi," Blaine said in surprise.

"Hi," Kurt said, and bounded off his chair. He hugged him, then gestured to the room. "Do you like it? I can trade up if not. Not too far up; I don't think accounting was pleased with me taking out a hotel room for a civilian. But then they saw that old note on your file about how I'd authorized a college acceptance letter for you and it was fine. How was your trip?"

"Oh, it was a good trip," Blaine said. "I have a file?"

"Everyone has a file," Kurt said. "I picked the Plaza because it's just down the street from me. And look," he added, practically bouncing over to the window and throwing open the drapes. He seemed beyond excited to show Blaine the place that had been home for most of his life. A huge fountain was below Blaine's room, and he could make out a sliver of the park to the far left. It was a perfect New York vista. He began to feel heady again at the overwhelming list of things they could do.

"Down the street," Blaine said. "I was actually expecting to just stay with you."

Kurt hesitated.

"On your couch," Blaine instantly added.

"Oh," Kurt tittered. "It would have taken nearly your entire trip to get you authorized for the building. A hotel was much easier. Okay, go freshen up, if you need to. I am about to show you my city."

Blaine grinned at him and grabbed his bag. As he closed the bathroom door, he let himself settle with dangerous comfort into the world around him. Each stroke of his toothbrush was like some drumbeat, setting up a song in his mind:

He's so happy to see you.

You've missed him.

He's able to pay for the Plaza!

Kurt looks so settled. His city, indeed.

He looks so comfortable. So... safe.

If this is what his life is like...

Blaine closed his eyes and shook his head. He rinsed away the last lingering feeling of travel, but a conclusion battered its way in even as he tried to focus elsewhere: ...Maybe it would all be fine. Maybe we could make it work, after all. It had been well over a year since his abduction. That seemed less real than this Kurt who was happy, healthy, and living the high life in the city of their dreams.

Blaine carefully organized his toiletries and then walked back out to join Kurt. Maybe they would make pilgrimages to some historic sites, like Strawberry Fields and Stonewall. Maybe Kurt had secured Broadway tickets for them. The possibilities were endless, and the world ahead of them seemed suddenly full of potential. "So," Blaine said, and smiled to match Kurt, "where are you taking me?"

"I have unbelievable dinner reservations," Kurt said, "and then—"

Blaine risked guessing. "Broadway."

"Of course," Kurt said, and laughed. "All right, which do you like more?"

Confused, Blaine hesitated. He had no idea what Kurt meant. It became quickly clear as Kurt's appearance morphed into someone vaguely like him, but definitely not Kurt Hummel. "What?" Blaine asked. "I don't understand."

Kurt flashed through two more appearances, then popped back to himself. "I won't change too far away from myself. If someone was watching on video, a big difference would really catch their attention. They might look twice."

Blaine stared at him, still confused.

"You want to stay safe," Kurt explained. His enthusiasm began to slowly die. "So I'm... just in case anyone knows my face, they won't associate it with you. It's not total protection, but it helps."

So that was what it would really be like when they were in Kurt's city. Blaine's heart ached anew; he'd been foolish to pull off that scab. Kurt was being as considerate as anyone could, yet they were staring at each other from across a canyon that seemed twice as wide as ever before. "That's a great idea," Blaine said. "And thanks for planning all this for me. Really, you didn't have to go to all this trouble."

Kurt relaxed when Blaine did, and Blaine realized Kurt had never considered whether the two of them could start up again. Of course he hadn't; Kurt had seen all those dangerous people firsthand. He'd accepted that life on a daily basis. He'd never think of pulling Blaine into it. He must have assumed that Blaine was willing to take on some risk by the simple fact of visiting him, and he'd promptly started thinking of ways to limit it.

He was a good man, Blaine thought, and the fresh ache in his heart began to numb again. Blaine hoped he would have a good life, too. "So," he said as he quickly put away a few last things and traded jackets, "have you started seeing anyone?"

Kurt looked awkwardly at him as they made their way out of the room and toward the elevators. "Do you really want to know?"

"Of course. I want to know what my friends are doing."

"Not yet. I've been settling into work, and it's a little hard to date when you have a roommate in a locked-down building." Kurt ducked his head. "But... maybe soon."

"Good," Blaine said. And it was good. He didn't really like hearing it, but it was good.

"So... any college preferences yet?" Kurt asked as the elevator descended.

"I haven't been there yet, but just from the literature I think my heart's set on Brown. I can really study whatever I want, there. If I want a giant program of theatre and public policy, well, done."

"Then I hope you get into Brown," Kurt said, and didn't bring up his old offer again. Still, Blaine had the sense that it was there if he wanted it. He glanced at Kurt to confirm his suspicions and swallowed. Kurt had put on his illusion. He still sounded like him, of course, but when they walked out into the lobby, Blaine was going to dinner with a stranger.

"I also hope," Kurt said after the front desk promised to call them a taxi, "that you make lots of friends there, and take beach vacations straight out of a J. Crew catalog shoot. Or Abercrombie, if you get adventurous." He nudged Blaine and looked down at his pants, shorter than what Kurt ever wore. "You're all ready to go clam digging."

"Funny," Blaine said with good humor, and Kurt laughed.

"You need to make friends with boat access," Kurt decided. "You'll be on the Atlantic Coast. People seem to like boats. You have to get into the whole culture."

"I'll make sure that I do," Blaine said. They got into their taxi to start his vacation of three days, and no longer. Then he'd finish his college visits, make his choice, and tell his friend what he'd decided.

•••••

Their home was tiny, their big-ticket clients few and far between, but Mercedes didn't care. It was nearly Christmas. She and Tina had discovered the wonders of the cheap stores that could only be found in New York, and they were happily making the most of their apartment.

"Where did we get these?" Tina wondered as she held up three red-and-green plaid dog costumes.

"Pet supply clearance. With the really high shelves."

"Oh, right," Tina said, and smoothed them out. It had been a long day of popping into stores with no advertising, cracked signs, and fascinating discoveries inside. "And we were going to put them with..." She dug through their bags and retrieved three stuffed reindeer. They were all Rudolphs, and all of their red noses were missing. "You guys were great deals," Tina said cheerfully as she squeezed the dog outfits onto their new reindeer herd.

"And now you've got your noses back," Mercedes said as she finished her work with a glitter pen on soft foam cat toys. Soon, three near-identical Rudolphs stared back at them, dressed in their holiday finest. "That's really cute."

"Let's do more," Tina said, and they looked around their apartment appraisingly.

Two hours later, basic white strands of Christmas lights decorated every wall. Construction paper snowflakes hung in tight clusters, and the rest of the foam toys had been glittered and turned into a garland for their small plastic tree. "This looks so cheesy," Mercedes said as they looked around their home, "and I totally love it."

"Me too," Tina said, and they grinned at each other. "When do you fly out?"

"Twenty-third." Her family had settled nicely into Lima. "Just in time for the busiest possible flight. Did you decide to go?"

Tina shook her head. "My parents are going to fly out after the New Year, when the crowds go down and sales are on. They've never actually been here. They're pretty excited."

Things were tight some months, but they could see a trajectory to follow until their next Christmas, and then the one after that. Through sheer determination and hard work on all of their parts, they were actually turning their little business into a success. Mercedes was about reminisce over the hardest days past when the buzzer sounded.

"It's me," said Kurt, and Mercedes buzzed him up. Soon he was at the door with Finn; both had trays in their hands. "Here, this is for you."

"We're having our party at a restaurant, though," Tina said in confusion as she accepted the gifts.

"I know, it's not party food. It's holiday food for you." Kurt gestured toward their kitchen that barely earned the term. "Both of those need a ridiculous amount of counter space if you're going to do it right, so... enjoy."

"Well, thanks," Tina said. She peeked under the foil and showed the desserts to Mercedes, and found spots for them in their fridge. "Yay, we have sugar."

"Hey, speaking of that counter space: why didn't we party at your fancy place overlooking the park?" Mercedes asked Kurt. "Wasn't your whole dream for the future that you'd be making a difference and throwing parties in some big apartment?"

"I'll be happy to host you all," Kurt said. "Just as soon as you provide the necessary fluids to S.H.I.E.L.D. for DNA analysis."

Mercedes and Tina looked at Finn.

He sighed. "Yeah, there were fluids."

"Ew, never mind," Tina said. "Keep your coats on, we're ready to go."

Clearly, Kurt's place was out of the question, Mercedes thought as the four of them decided to walk the relatively short distance. Rachel had offered an event room in Avengers Tower very hesitantly, and explained why when pressed: they would not be able to keep out any other members of the team. Thor and Tony Stark would bring liquor, and things would get very crazy, very quickly.

That actually sounded fun, but they decided to save it for after the holidays. It would be good to have another excuse to get together. When they were all off on their own, it was too easy to drift apart for good.

Brittany, Santana, and Quinn were out of the question, too. Coming near their places equaled being filmed and broadcast nationwide. Mercedes thought it would be great to invite themselves over and talk about their investigation firm—free advertising!—but they actually wanted to be out in the public eye. Rachel was trying to maintain some sort of personal life, and Kurt's was on total lockdown. The three girls had just barely managed to slip off on that night.

And Artie's apartment, although also big enough, was one hundred percent off-limits. He informed everyone of that before he was even asked. They would disturb his precious work, apparently, and get grease all over his fancy doohickeys. So: a restaurant it was.

Mercedes frowned as she ran over everyone's names one last time. "Uh, hey. Have you heard from Puck?"

Kurt nearly stumbled, and Finn was the one to answer. "He's traveling a lot," Finn said neutrally. "You know, working on himself. He's not around."

"But he's okay?" Tina asked.

"Yeah, yeah, he's good, last I heard. He tells Rachel or me where he is, now and then. He was going... somewhere. Don't know if he's back or not," Finn said.

Mercedes studied Kurt appraisingly. "Do you miss him?"

"Yes," Kurt said, not bothering to even attempt a lie. She didn't know if he sounded like someone in love, but he definitely sounded like someone with a hole in his life. Whether that was simple friendship or something more, Mercedes didn't know, and she gave him his privacy. It was supposed to be a happy day, after all.

"Sam's back with his family already, so it's just us," Mercedes neatly segued as they reached their destination. They pushed open the door, introduced themselves as the last members of the party, and were taken to their table. Everyone there waved at them: Mike where he sat next to Artie and was happily chattering away, Santana and Brittany with the hands that weren't entwined, Quinn as she pointed out the promise of vegan menu items at this specially chosen restaurant, and Rachel, who bounced up to give Kurt a hug. That done, she pulled Finn down next to her. "Happy holidays, everyone," Rachel said.

Everyone was ready to say something more, but then the first server came by with his tray. They all quieted down and let Finn start grabbing food. By then, they all knew better than to get between him and dim sum.

•••••

Being a superhero was pretty tricky, Brittany had discovered as the months ticked by. During the depths of winter she'd considered trying to teleport. What would have been dangerous before their powers stabilized was at least possible, now. Jesse showed up and mocked her attempts. Fine, so her teleporting sucked; Brittany was much better at transfiguration (as Professor McGonagall put it), and a handful of snow turned into a handful of mud when she smeared it on his head.

So: flying it was. She wasn't the fastest flier, and she'd shivered her way through January winds a hundred feet up, but at least she didn't have to walk through any dirty slush. She was really glad they'd hit spring again.

She wondered if Puck was in the same spot, wherever he was. At least Brittany had support as she struggled through the first tricky years of establishing her name. (Although Santana told Brittany not to call her a 'sugar mama.' At least, not on camera.)

New York City had enough problems that she never needed to look elsewhere. On that day, she happened to notice a squirrel running along powerlines with a pencil in his mouth. She followed him to his source: a girl about her age, dressed like she was some squirrel team mascot, with a fluffy leotard, giant tail, the works.

In other words: Squirrel Girl. Or Doreen. (Brittany liked 'Squirrel Girl' better.) "Hey!" Brittany said as she landed next to her. "Whatcha doing?"

"Oh, hi!" Squirrel Girl said. "Um, I was looking at the monitors at the Tower and saw this icky slime monster. So I'm making my big battle plan and then I'm going to fight him." The squirrel sighed. More than likely, the plan she was writing would involve him.

"Incorrect!" boomed a third voice. Both girls turned to see a man in a red and black costume, festooned with guns, swing down from a rooftop. "That giant icky monster is mine." Deadpool took in who was actually standing there and his demeanor softened. They'd run into each other before, and by that point felt like friendly rivals. "Oh, hey, Haywire." Deadpool hesitated. "That's funny. 'Hey, Haywire.'" His voice dropped an octave and he said in a rolling tone, "Hey, hey, hey!"

"Why do you sound so weird?" Brittany asked him.

He boggled at her.

"You do sound pretty weird," Squirrel Girl confirmed.

"I was quoting Fat Albert," Deadpool said, close to gasping. "Don't you two appreciate high American culture?"

"Like Cheech and Chong?" Brittany asked.

Deadpool burst out laughing. "I like you." He gestured loosely with his gun toward the rampaging slime monster as it rounded a corner and came into view. "Anyway, this guy's mine."

"I'm actually okay with that," Squirrel Girl said. "I just put the girls down for a nap and wanted to get out into the city, you know? I'm totally cool with not fighting slime." She was Jessica Jones and Luke Cage's nanny; not only for their birth daughter, but the other they'd adopted: Beth. It was how they'd all had come to know her, even before Rachel started living with her bosses.

"I hate fighting slime, but I'm trying to get people to notice me more," Brittany said. "Sorry."

"Look," Deadpool said. "A guy who hates this other guy owes money to this third guy and the third guy is allergic to slime and chickens."

Squirrel Girl looked around. "There are chickens?"

"No, he's just allergic to them. Weren't you listening?" He pointed at the slime monster again. "And one of those guys—I forget which, by this point—is paying me a lot of money to take that thing out. Don't step on my toenails, ladies! I just got them painted!"

"Okay," Brittany said, and shrugged. If he already had a paid job, it really would be a jerk move to ruin it. "Go ahead."

Deadpool saluted them, yelled something about wombats, and raced into the breech.

"Hey, any of you guys want to come over to the Tower this week?" Squirrel Girl asked as they watched Deadpool hop around and fire bullets wildly. "Even Thor can't keep up with Rachel's karaoke. And he's a god."

"I do miss singing," Brittany said. "Sure, I'll talk to people."

"Great!" the other girl said, and the squirrel on her shoulder clapped. "Oh, and say hi to Santana."

•••••

"Oh," Brittany said as she blinked awake the next morning. The sun, still low in the sky, silhouetted her body against the window. "Squirrel Girl says hi."

Santana poked her head out of the bathroom, finished brushing her teeth, and leaned back to spit in the sink. "Now?" God, she so did not want to have squirrels delivering telegrams.

"Yesterday," Brittany said, and stretched. "I forgot to mention it."

Whatever. Santana didn't understand understand anyone who scampered around the city dressed like a cartoon character. "Cute or not?" she asked Brittany as she held up two outfits, and started dressing in the left one when Brittany pointed to it.

Their show was a hit: not on top of all the ratings, but in the top tier of NBC's schedule. Season two was confirmed. Fan wikis tracked their episodes, which was how Santana knew that she and Quinn had taken down three 'major' villains and ten 'minors' by that point. Those fans had strong opinions about their lives, too. Santana tried to ignore conversations about her and Brittany, but she did enjoy seeing the speculation on who Quinn should date. Anyone who had ever been in the public eye, whether a fellow superhero or a Hollywood celebrity, had been paired with her.

Supposedly, she and Quinn lived together in an adorable college roomies setup. They filmed a few domestic scenes each week, and then Quinn left for her real door down the hall. The second bedroom in Santana's apartment was never used except when Brittany's parents visited. The network turned a blind eye to all of it.

They didn't mind that Santana was dating Brittany; they thought it made them look progressive. They even showed them kissing and cuddling. But, as they explained, they weren't about to have one of their stars living in an unmarried relationship during her first year of college on a major network show. They'd pass some threshold of angry letters.

Satisfied that Quinn would have gotten that lecture, too, Santana went along with the charade. A college degree and villains getting locked up where they belonged: behind all the artifice, they really were doing good. It was funny, she thought as she checked the morning news and saw a story about the Avengers: if she'd guessed which of them would get their own TV show first, Santana would have put money on Rachel. Huh. Out of curiosity, she also searched for 'Kurt Hummel' and found nothing. She knew Kurt had saved even more people than her by that point. He seemed totally happy with what he was doing, even if he stayed as invisible as if he'd been using his powers.

"Gotta go," Santana said after chugging coffee, and kissed Brittany. "Midterms."

Quinn's exam schedule was different from hers, and so Santana left on her own that afternoon. People on campus occasionally glanced at her. They'd gotten used to the celebrities in their midst, and it wasn't like the Unmasked girls were the only famous people there. So long as she was on campus, Santana could walk around largely unnoticed.

The streets outside were a different story. "Hey!" shouted a girl who couldn't be more than nine years old. "It's her! Wildfire!"

"Hey," Santana said warmly as the three girls came up to her, accompanied by someone who might be a nanny. Attention had become obnoxious when she just wanted to get somewhere on a tight schedule, but she'd slowly grown to like all her younger fans. "Sure, I'll sign autographs," she said when asked.

"When we play heroes," the girl in front of her said gravely, "I always play you, and I make my sister play Quinn." The sister stuck out her tongue.

"You are super smart," Santana said. "What's your name? Ashley?" She scribbled that down, applied fresh lipstick, and kissed the sheet next to her signature. It was her trademark.

"Hi!" said another girl. "I'm Olive, and I always play Brittany."

The nanny laughed awkwardly. "Yes," she said, and Santana could see a familiar sheen of judgment in her eyes. "They do, whenever Olive comes over to visit."

For a second Santana felt old, secret pain bloom in her chest. She met the nanny's eyes and was the first to look away. She was secure in her life, yet still, seeing all that judgment reminded her of the years she'd spent living in fear.

Then she looked at the girls.

Those little girls were growing up with her and Brittany, and they didn't think twice about saying they were in love. They wouldn't go through the confusion she'd felt during those locker room conversations. So what if this adult hated seeing what they felt for each other? These girls didn't have any hatred in their hearts. Their heroes were strong women, whether NYU students or an independent hero. The fans followed Santana's love life with the same enthusiasm as Quinn's.

Even more than having NBC's resources pointing them to the right villains, Santana thought, this felt like she was making a difference.

"The next time I see Brittany," Santana told Olive very seriously, "I'll tell her that she has the best fan in the world."

All three girls grinned at her. The nanny smiled tightly, her lips barely seen, and Santana brushed past her without a word. Halfway down the block, Santana found herself grinning. Santana Lopez: Unmasked. Before then, she'd never really appreciated the show's title.

•••••

"You won't be able to get inside anyway, Noah," Rachel said. "Because of security."

Puck sighed into his cell phone and looked up at the building looming over him. "You couldn't tell me that before I hauled ass up to the park?"

"I didn't know you were going there when you asked for his address!" she protested. "You didn't even tell me that you were back in town! Are you here for good?"

"Yeah," Puck said. He'd stopped fights in Arkansas, stabilized a crumbling bridge in Oklahoma until trucks were clear, and helped some kids in a tough spot in Los Angeles. That city made his heart ache. All of Kurt's old daydreams about a better future were right there in person. His daydreams hadn't included a band of brown smog or bad drivers or graffiti, but those inaccuracies hardly mattered. So long as Puck was there, he was thinking about the wrong topic: Kurt.

He asked around and was steered toward paths to try next, each longer and more distant than the last. They wouldn't win anything or anyone, but were places that would make him a better person and hero.

It was coming up on two years since the Awesomes had officially dissolved. Puck didn't think he was perfect, or that he ever would be, but he'd decided that it was time to come home. He felt like a good enough person to start helping there. Hopefully, he'd match up to all those other heroes.

"Yeah, I'm here for good," Puck finally finished, and wondered which window was Kurt's. He'd avoided talking to him directly; Rachel and Finn made good proxies. If he never talked to Kurt, then he could stop himself from giving his journey the wrong focus. Even now, all he really wanted to do was see that Kurt was okay. It had been a long time spent in a risky field of work.

Besides, it wasn't like Kurt would care. He'd been living the high life in the big city, surrounded by tons of people. He probably had a boyfriend. (Puck had avoided asking about anything but Kurt's physical safety, but he'd definitely avoided that.) Kurt wasn't like Puck, who'd spent all that time as a near-hermit on the road, only flirting with people for convenient mutual comfort. Kurt had probably gone through big, dramatic movie love again.

Puck just wanted to see him breathing, alive and well. Yeah. Really.

"Well, if you don't mind checking somewhere else," Rachel continued, and Puck snapped to attention, "sometimes he and Finn go to this restaurant when neither of them remembers to bring food home. For all I know they're all locked up tonight, but..."

"But it's a shot," Puck said as she gave him the address.

"And if not," Rachel brightly continued, "then you can just call him tomorrow!"

Right. He could. But Puck just... Puck wanted to see him breathing, first, before he heard him. He wanted to know that Kurt was alive before they started exchanging words about how Kurt was planning his wedding with some superhero who'd never hurt him and had been conveniently in New York all that time. Nothing Puck had done had been for Kurt; he'd made sure of that with how carefully he controlled his thoughts and actions. Kurt had his own life. Puck had no claims to it. He didn't know if he'd still use that big L-word toward Kurt; how long could a person go without even seeing someone and still feel it?

Still, that had been Puck's big movie love. If it smacked him across the face again when he saw Kurt in front of him, at least he'd get a few seconds where it could stay precious and pure. Puck thanked Rachel, hung up, and started walking.

The restaurant was easy to find with Rachel's directions. It was very busy. In the crowd of people, Finn clearly didn't notice him.

"I'm with them," Puck said distantly as he stared at the duo. He could only see the back of Kurt's head, but he was lively and animated, and very clearly breathing. Maybe Puck should have just walked away and not tempted fate. But now his stupid feet were walking toward them. Finn saw him and grinned, and Kurt turned around.

He looked perfect. Puck knew it wasn't because of any illusion. "Hi," Puck said.

"Hi," Kurt said, and swallowed. "I didn't know you were..."

"Just got in. Rachel said you guys might be here." Puck blinked only when his eyes began to burn. His world had been entirely reduced to Kurt's startled face. Crap. He was in so much deeper than he was ready to handle.

"Oh," Kurt said.

"Do you want food?" Finn asked, and Puck finally looked away from Kurt.

"Uh, sure, thanks," Puck said, and debated between his seating options. It didn't matter; either chair he picked was next to Kurt, and when he did sit down, their legs pressed together. He'd lied to himself hard, Puck thought as his breathing sped. The only total truth was that he'd bettered himself for his own good. But thinking that he was fine if Kurt had moved on... no.

He'd still accept it, but it'd hurt more than he'd ever wanted to admit.

It had been years. It wasn't supposed to hurt.

Wrapped in his surging emotions, Puck almost missed how Finn looked between the two of them and colored slightly. That left Puck confused. Finn had control of his powers and had turned out to be quite a strong telepath. With his shields in place, there should be no way he was feeling Puck's emotions toward his brother.

Oh, Puck thought a second later. He risked looking at Kurt: the one person who Finn couldn't reliably keep out of his head.

"Are you here for a visit, or...?" Kurt asked. It was so good to hear his voice.

"No. I'm back for good. Not gonna say I'm the best person in the world, but I'm... you know, okay."

"You took all this time to just be 'okay?'" Finn asked.

"He's making that call after everything, Finn," Kurt murmured. "Saying it about himself is... it matters." Neither of them believed in Purgatory, but the concept had played out on earth.

"So, uh, what's good here?" Puck asked and stared fixedly at the menu. It distracted him from all the signs he could see in Kurt: shallow breaths, bright eyes. What if he also... no, Puck thought. Puck had just surprised him, and that was all. That was why Kurt looked so overwhelmed. Before Finn could answer about the food, Puck continued, "So, Kurt, you seeing anyone?"

Whatever the answer was, at least he'd know for sure.

Kurt swallowed at the blunt question, and Puck turned to look right at him. He wanted to see Kurt's face, whatever the answer was. He'd accept being turned down. He'd watch it happen. That seemed like the right thing to do.

"There is someone," Kurt hesitantly began, and Puck felt himself begin to crumple. He'd prepared for it. Didn't make it any easier. "Just recently."

"Wait. Victor?" Finn asked in disbelief. "You're talking about Victor? The dude on the X-Men? You didn't say that was a date."

"Yes," Kurt said, and traced patterns on the table.

"The green guy with the big lizard arm?"

"He is very nice."

Finn kept boggling. "I remember you freaking out over getting Crayola colors and horns and stuff!"

"Only for me, Finn. I'm not prejudiced against other people with them."

"So he's nice, huh?" Puck asked, gentle and barely sad. Well, that was good. Kurt's guy should be nice.

"Very much," Kurt said, and then looked down at his lap. "We, ah. We've only gone out once. It's not serious." He took a deep breath, and added, "We haven't made a second date or anything. Not yet."

"So he's not really your boyfriend," Puck said.

"No. Not really."

"Oh my god," Finn groaned, and buried his head in his arms. "Kurt, ask him and get it over with, or I'm going to the bathroom or just going home. Because you are like a freaking love radiator right now and it's weirding me out."

Kurt glared at him, mortified and blushing.

"Sorry," Finn said, who clearly wasn't. "I'm not up for you making me feel like I'm in love with Puck, just because you can't turn the dial down from eleven."

"You're..." Puck began to repeat Finn's words, but couldn't finish.

"Forget it," Finn said, and stood. "Puck, I'm going to the bathroom until Kurt's brain stops making me feel like I should be making out with you. Kurt, order my usual when the waitress comes." He stormed off, entirely without remorse.

"I've missed you," Kurt admitted after they'd sat in silence, an island in the crowd's dull roar. "There have been hard nights. Not often, and I haven't been alone. Finn lives there, and I see friends, but... but there were times I just wanted someone to hold on to."

Puck met Kurt's eyes again. Kurt's were shaded, and Puck's were full of concern over how bad those nights had been.

"I'm glad I'm doing what I'm doing," Kurt assured him. "It's just been hard sometimes."

Puck thought back to his time on the road. "Yeah. The stuff worth doing... it's hard." He was hyper-aware of Kurt's leg where it pressed against his. "Okay. I'm just going to say it. I think I'm a good guy. And that doesn't mean you owe me anything, but I think I could be a good guy for you. I'm pretty good to hold on to, and I think that you smiling is pretty much the best sight in the whole world."

Kurt swallowed, and said nothing.

"And I've seen some pretty great sights over these past couple of years," Puck continued. He wished Kurt would respond. "Huge mountains and the ocean and everything else. I even saw Los Angeles, and until I got out of there, all I could think of was you. Every single street made me think of getting you away from anything that made you unhappy, and to a place that would make you smile."

"Puck," Kurt said, but stopped there.

After giving him enough time to add more if he liked, Puck finished, "And if you don't say anything, I won't push you. I've said what I wanted to. I'm hoping." The more he talked, the more he felt like he was babbling. "That's it. But if you want to date your big green lizard-arm guy, then I'll cheer you on as you—"

Kurt leaned over, cupped Puck's cheek in his hand, and kissed him. "I still love you like I'm fifteen," Kurt whispered when they broke apart. "I want to know what it's like now."

Puck showed him, kissing with the passion of reunited lovers separated by time and geography. They were in the middle of a crowd of people, but might as well have been alone. If they were making a scene, fine. Let them all see what love looked like.

The city felt like it was pulsing around them. Puck remembered his life in those heartbeats: friendships and loves and soft sounds as movies played. He could pick Kurt up and run them to the first spot they'd kissed, and then do a slow, lingering tour of every place that had followed. Somewhere above them sailed the helicarrier that had set their lives on a different path; now that vessel let Kurt shine. And right there in front of him was the boy Puck loved. He didn't care who watched. Let them all see something special.