"I like to add the soy sauce when the pan is hot and most of the butter is gone."
"Deglazing, right?" Jemma muses.
Vic breaks into a grin. "C'mon, you said you didn't know anything!"
Her returning smile is triumphant. "I may have done a little research."
Shaking his head, Vic releases a woeful sigh. "And here I thought I was just a good teacher."
"You're a fabulous teacher." Her right hand covers his where it rests on the counter, the left adding soy sauce to the pan.
Her touch is so casual. So brief.
Vic's chest tightens, heart throbbing as she laughs and steps back over to the cutting board, her hand leaving his.
"I hope that was right, I didn't measure."
"I never do either." With a nod, Vic snaps back to reality. "Okay, now we have to stir. It's gotta be almost constant, because you want to scrape up the stuff that sticks to the pan. That's how you get the rice to brown and fry."
"Hm. I thought it was a bad thing when food stuck."
"Depends on what you're after." Vic turns the rice and vegetables over, careful not to lose any ingredients out the side of the skillet. He's just as carefully not watching as Jemma leans against the counter, crossing her arms and flipping her bangs out of her face.
She has no idea how distracting she is. …Or maybe she does. Maybe she's teasing him, flashing tantalizing half-smiles and bare shoulders that tempt his mouth. Testing how much of a gentleman he really is.
He never knows with her.
"It, uh– it doesn't take long." Vic clears his throat and nods at the stovetop. "Some recipes have a specific cooking time, but I just wait until everything starts to turn brown on the edges."
"You fascinate me."
He starts. "I– what?"
Jemma grins, granting a glimpse of those enticing canines.
"Why do you say that?" Vic grabs a towel and dries the grease from between his fingers. Methodically, one by one, channeling all his jittery focus into scrubbing the metal clean.
"Oh, I just thought you should know."
"...I still don't get it."
Her head tilts. "Layers and layers. I never know what's going on in your head, Vic. There's so much you don't say."
"Funny." He sets the towel aside. "Because I think the same thing about you all the time."
Her eyes flash. "There. Just like that. You've never said that before. But you've thought it."
Vic's hand presses into the counter, steadying him. Bracing him against the magnetism of her presence, the steady gaze dissecting his core piece by piece. "What are you looking for, Jemma?"
The smirk freezes across her face. Her eyes leave him, suddenly a coast away.
Outside, a car honks at the intersection. A faint siren drifts through the open window.
The spell breaks and Jemma laughs, here again.
"I want the world, Vic."
Vic switches off the burner, filing the conversation with the dozen other mysteries surrounding Jemma. "How about that. Wanna eat supper first, oh Great Warlord? Before it gets cold?"
The half-smile returns. "You can just say you're starving, you know. You don't have to make an excuse. Nothing gets cold in five seconds."
"Alright, alright, if you insist: I'm totally starving, so let's eat."
"You always are. Such a boy."
"Oh, not necessarily! Our new Titan, Tara? Man, can she put it away!"
"No wonder, with the way she fights. I've never met anyone so scrappy. I like her."
This is the easy part. Teasing, bantering, joking, whatever he wants to call it. But in the moments between? It's getting harder and harder to tell who's serious. And who's just screwing around.
Two envelopes with Vic's name sit on the living room coffee table, reminding him he's still gotta get the address changed. Now that he knows for sure he wants to be out on his own.
LeeLand Electric, reads the first envelope.
He shoves the bill in his pocket, reaches for the other.
Time rolls in slow motion as the name printed across the return address catches his eye.
Vic freezes. A scowl mars his face as he lifts the envelope from the table. It crinkles in loud protest when he crushes it in a metal fist.
"Yo! How you doin', dude?"
Vic tosses a glance over his shoulder. His fingers tuck the crumpled ball into his letterman jacket. "Uh, I'm good." He heads for the hall.
"Good." Gar jogs to keep up. Even after the growth spurt, he's just a little guy. "'Cause we haven't seen you much. Thought maybe you were feeling under the weather or something."
"Been busy."
"With what?"
Vic grits his teeth. "Well, it certainly couldn't be all the fighting could it? I mean, not like us vigilantes gotta take down criminals or nothin'."
"Whoa, whoa." Gar holds up his hands. "Whoa, dude. What's up with you?"
Vic's fist traps the mangled envelope in his pocket. "Nothin'."
Gar's eyes narrow. "Sure, bro."
Heat spiking up his spine, Vic opens his mouth to say something he'll regret.
"Oh, greetings Victor!" Kori leans into the room, clinging to the doorway. "I was just entering to inform Beast Boy of our chosen game."
"Don't we have training in, like, five minutes?" No way is Vic gonna get in trouble for messing up Dick's schedule. These morning practice sessions are the dude's daily devotionals.
"Indeed, only I have dedicated the post-lunch portion of the day to visiting Tamaran."
Gar puffs out his chest and jabs his thumbs toward himself. "And this guy has a date tonight. Tara said yes!"
"And where shall you do the dating?" Kori asks gleefully, voice saying she already knows the answer.
"The arcade, baby."
Kori lets out a squeal. Then she turns wide, hopeful eyes to Vic.
"As we do not have training, shall you join us in playing Machi Koro?"
He turned her down a couple days ago. And as much as Vic hates to admit it, he really hasn't been around much…
"Alright."
"Glorious!" She snatches his hand and Vic stumbles forward a step. "Proceed this direction!"
The local news hums and mutters in the background of the main ops room as Vic takes a seat. Dick lounges with arms crossed, leaning back in his chair to watch the TV in the corner. Would it kill him to turn it off every once in a while?
"Have all participants played previously? Are the rules well understood?" Kori assumes the role of gamemaster, as per usual.
"Nope." Tara fingers a piece printed with the number ten, flipping it over to examine both sides.
In the corner, a weather forecaster predicts an early blizzard as massive and white as the smile on his chiseled face. From here to the Midwest, that is. For the southern half of the country and state, the usual blazing wildfires.
"Very well! The purpose of this game is to collect the most tiny cardboard currency."
"By stealing."
"No. Garfield, the stealing is not the primary mode of currency acquisition."
"It's the most fun, though."
"The wind chill doesn't help either, so hold onto your hats while you're out there!"
What a moron.
"What about the blue and purple cards?"
"That is the true method of play."
"I mean, depends on how you want to play!"
Click.
Seriously? Another TV? Like they really need to hear about the nation, it's been crap for two years now. Not even the news anchors are delusional enough to deny that.
In fact, they revel in it.
"–reporting from the Jackson High School, where a shooting has tragically taken the lives of two students–"
Vic's hands fist against his thighs, digging into the coarse fabric of his jeans.
"You make money either way, so long as the right numbers show up. If they show up. I always end up with the stupid six. But anyway, the red cards take from whoever rolls the dice and can totally put you ahead."
"Uh, cool."
"–both were sixteen and highly involved in extracurriculars, including–"
Sixteen. Gar and Tara are sixteen.
"I suppose you may play his way… But I encourage more ethical methods, such as the use of the blue-bannered 'forest' or 'mine' cards. They are capable of generating large amounts of revenue without collateral damage."
"–but thankfully, next week is going to be a bit nicer. We're looking at highs in the 40's, with little chance of follow up from that nasty storm headed for–"
"I wouldn't waste money on the wheat fields or ranches. They're pretty lame."
"Friend Beast Boy! I am doing the explaining. And that is untrue, in life real and unreal. Agriculture is the backbone of society, here and on Tamaran!"
"Wow, that is so tragic. I can't imagine what the families of those kids are feeling right now. In other news, another telemarketer scam sweeps the nation. Callers claim to be a long lost uncle needing cash for–"
A sharp sting. Vic hisses and lets go. Metal hands versus human thighs. Guess which loses.
"–President Jameson, delivering an address today on the state of international relations. Several parties are predicting the United States' entrance into another conflict on the global stage. Tune in to our evening programming for the results of our poll on American opinion of–"
"Just sayin', being important doesn't make it–"
A screech, wood against wood. A clatter.
Gar's eyes flick to Vic, body freezing before his mouth. "–cool…" he finishes slowly, voice dipping hollow and low and uncertain.
Then it's just heavy silence. Nothing but the war-mongers enthusing about the possibility of World War III in the background.
The Titans are all staring at Vic now, at him standing ramrod straight and his chair sideways on the ground behind him.
Dick mutes the TVs and sits up. Slowly. Like he's tryin' not to spook a wild animal. "Cyborg?"
"Is something wrong?" Worry swims in Kori's emerald eyes.
Tara sends wild, deer-in-the-headlights glances between faces.
"Just remembered I got somewhere to be." Vic's voice bounces hollow against his ears.
"You just got here," Gar points out quietly.
"Yeah, and now I'm getting out."
Gar flinches and guilt shoots down Vic's spine. But it's weak and thin, quickly lost in the inferno of everything else ripping through him.
"If something is wrong…" Dick stands up.
"I can tell you guys, yeah, yeah." Vic runs a hand down his face and shakes his head. "I just have to go."
Out, out, gotta get out.
"I'm sorry."
Head down, Vic marches from the room before they can ask again. Before he says something he can't take back.
It's howling outside. A precursor to that storm the perfect-faced showpony so joyfully announced during his little performance.
Can't they ever get something besides a storm?
Vic ducks into the T-Car, plugs in his hard rock USB, and jabs skip until he lands on Three Days Grace. The music blares on the thin edge of what his sensors can handle the ten minutes to his apartment, blotting out the world beyond his car with charged lyrics.
His apartment door flies open, rebounding against the stopper with a shuddering sproing. Vic slams it shut behind him.
Stupid, stupid jerk, he has neighbors.
And he doesn't care. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters in this hell world anyway.
His mother would disagree. His mother would never let him talk like that. She'd pull him aside and calm him down and help him see straight. Tell him exactly who to turn to.
But she's been gone a long time. Reduced to nothing more than a framed portrait next to the frayed family Bible Vic hasn't read in years.
And her God? Her source of strength, wisdom, peace, her everything?
He hasn't been around since she died.
"Where are You, man?" With a growl, Vic rips off his coat and flings it onto the couch. It slips to the floor.
"Augh!" Hands clenching, he marches toward the punching bag in the corner.
Crunch.
Under his high top, a stiff, thickly creased envelope. A half-unfolded ball of pristine, off-white paper stock.
Doctor Silas Stone, the neat, balanced handwriting screams at him.
713 Two Pine Road
Detroit, Michigan 48221-1012
Who writes out their state? Who writes out their full freakin' zip code?
"I don't want to know." Vic snatches up the envelope, pivoting to slam it into the trash can. "I don't want to know where you are, what you're doin', why you wanna talk to me. I don't wanna know any of it."
His voice cracks. He sucks in a deep breath.
The corner pokes out of the can.
Silas Stone
Victor grits his teeth.
"I don't want anything from you!"
He falls to his knees and shoves the envelope down, down, down. Pushes until it hits bottom and a shard of double-thick plastic packaging finds the strip of real skin above his prosthetic forearm.
Hissing, Vic withdraws his shaking hand. Deep red drips to splatter the hardwood in almost perfect circular stains. A jagged gash marks his bicep.
A shudder rolls through his shoulders. All those voices burrowing in his head, making Vic want to bash it against a wall. He lets it list to the side. Propped against the wall to stay afloat. Hot tears slipping down his nose and cheeks.
Pathetic.
It's bad enough he's crying. Worse still when he realizes he's not alone.
A muffled sound from the kitchen. Tentative footsteps. Vic watches silver-gray converse flats appear around the corner.
"Vic?" Voice abrupt in the silence, a wind chime in the sullen night. Her shoes hover in the doorway. The beanie she forgot here yesterday is clasped at her side.
"Vic, what happened? You're bleeding."
He closes his eyes.
A beat of silence.
"Do you want me to leave?"
Doesn't recognize her low, careful tone.
"...Or can I take a look at it?"
"Whatever," Vic manages.
She's not supposed to see him like this. No one is. It's why he stormed out of the tower, told the others to leave him alone.
But he's just too tired to fight.
A whisper of movement as Jemma settles next to him.
"Are you okay?"
He huffs a laugh. "Sure. 'Course. Ain't it obvious?"
Bein' a jerk again. She doesn't seem to care.
"What's going on?"
"Everything's goin' to crap is what's goin' on." Vic shakes his head, the cool wall rubbing against his temple. "And I'm just so done."
A pause. "The team?"
"The whole freakin' world." He stares at his knuckles. Bulky and metallic. "And I can't do a dang thing about it."
"Vic…"
"I'm wastin' my time." Vic shoves violently to his feet. For two seconds he sways, off balance until his internal systems recalibrate.
It all runs smoother than butter when he's calm. When he's upset? Whole different story. One of the many flaws he's driven himself mad trying to fix.
He clenches his teeth. "What am I doing here, whining like a baby. Get a grip."
"Vic."
"Complaining about things I can never fix. Stuff no one can fix or even tries to." His hands fly toward the ceiling. "How stupid is that?"
No one tries. No one even wants to. They just accept it, like being messed up is the way the world's meant to be. Like they're just stuck living through it.
It is just him? Doesn't anybody else ever feel like this? Like their head's gonna blow if they hear about one more tragedy from the practiced frowns of plastic faces acting like they care? Offering empty platitudes to pretend they don't profit from fear and death?
The rising anger halts, like it's hit a wall. Vic's voice catches. He swallows against the emotion in his throat, the throbbing, rising pressure in his head. The anger crashes back over him, warped into a wave of hopelessness.
"Doesn't anybody else care?"
His chest rises and falls in deep, rushing breaths that echo in his ears. His fists shake, clenched tighter than his systems advise, than the nanomotors are meant to withstand. "Stupid– It's so stupid…"
His words break off as slender arms wrap around his waist. As Jemma sets her forehead against his back.
"You're not stupid," she murmurs, "for caring."
Vic chokes on a sob. Jemma loosens her hold as he twists to face her, wrapping her up in his arms. She's so small, short and light enough to throw over his shoulder without effort.
But in this moment, she is his anchor.
Jemma's hand finds the back of his head, cradling it to her shoulder. "It's okay."
"It's not," Vic says into her sleeve. "My father sent me a letter."
Her head tips to rest against his. "Mm-hm."
"And I threw it away. Didn't even open it." Vic's teeth clench, face crumpling into a hidden snarl. "I hate him. You get it? I hate him. What kinda person does that make me? If I care so much, what's up with that?"
Jemma leans back. Studies his expression. Shakes her head. "There is nothing wrong with you."
"Didn't you hear me?"
"There–" her hands lift to cup his cheeks "–is nothing wrong with you." Gently, she tilts his head down.
Her touch light on his face, their foreheads pressed together, Vic gives up. Gives in to the burning confusion, and shame, and ache for her comfort. Jemma's already seen it. Already felt him shaking with tears in her arms. What point is there in bottling any more up?
So he lets it out.
When the waterworks run dry, Jemma sits Vic on the couch, tending to his wound with silent skill. Neither says a word until she finishes. Until she returns from storing the supplies to take a seat next to him.
With the grounding reassurance of his hands interlaced with hers and the fresh bandage wrapped around his bicep, Vic spills his guts. Every heavy, gray-chained ghost pinning him to his shadow, every little thing that got caught rolling off his shoulder, piling up until he couldn't choke down the helpless fury.
"They're so fake, man. Just… nothing but lies and hypocrisy. They talk and talk but nobody does anything." Vic shakes his head. "Don't know how Robin can stand to watch that crap. It's all bad news." Working his jaw side to side, he snorts. "If the world is ending, I don't wanna know about it. Not if I can't do anything. I can't punch through these problems."
"It wears you down," Jemma observes. "It's overstimulating."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's exactly it. I can't… I can't deal with that darkness all the time. I don't know how he can."
Vic talks and talks, in circles half the time. Jemma listens to every word, her sharp, inquisitive eyes turned soft and serious. Asking careful questions and saying nothing when he doesn't answer some. Just moving on, just pulling the tension from his chest, coil by coil with quiet words and gentle presence. Drawing the poisonous cynicism out until his wounded heart has drained, leaving an echoing hollow behind.
For the first time, she stays the whole night.