Chapter XVIII
Fates and Family
"Happy Birthday Violet."
Someone kissed her temple, and Violet murmured incoherently as she was roused from sleep. Her bed dipped low and she knew it was her father sitting beside her. Opening her eyes, she smiled blearily at the man. "Thanks, Dad."
"Don't tell your mother." He produced a plastic wrapped Ding Dong. "But everyone should be allowed cake before breakfast on their special day."
Violet grinned and immediately sat up, ripping open the package. "Where'd you get these?"
"Well, I knew we'd be having your birthday on ship so I grabbed it before we boarded. No, no honey. You eat it." He waved off one of the halves she had broken the chocolate cake into. "It's not what you deserve but…"
"I don't need anything Dad," Violet assured, taking a bite of cake, grinning at the flavor and slick sweetness of cream.
They had spent about two weeks on the ship, and the monotony had laid their nerves and fight to rest somewhat. The work was hard and long, the food bland but necessary, and the sea seemed endless. But the routine had given them solid ground to rest on, ironically enough. They as a team were kept mostly separate, except for the odd meal taken together in the galley, which also may have helped.
Violet usually worked through, tending to the various injuries that came with working around heavy machinery and trying to keep the stock bottles from sliding off the shelves after large waves rocked the boat. Even when she did break, she sat with her family, or even just her mother. Bob and Dash had, as usual, done well making new friends and blending in with the crew. She rarely ever saw MacConnell or Mirage, whom she suspected were making the most of their limited freedom to enjoy each other, since they had to sleep separately for the time being.
And as for Buddy-he stayed away from everyone. Except her.
But that was later.
Now, Violet was focused on devouring the little cake in two bites, licking the cream off her fingers and humming with pure hedonistic bliss as she chewed. "That hit the spot."
"I'll bet." Bob chuckled and touched her face. "I'm real glad to see that smile again, kid. It's been too long since it showed up."
She wasn't sure what she could say to that. It was true, she hadn't smiled for her father in a long while. Violet tried to keep this one, even as guilt lapped at her chest. Her smiles had been for another person recently. "It'll get better, Dad, when this is all over."
When this was all over. Violet had been thinking a great deal about when this was 'all over'. It seemed almost impossible, a future too distant to see beyond their current hurdles. When this was all over, when Fell was caught or dead, and the Echo the same, there would be life afterwards. The question was, what kind of life would that be, and whom would it include?
That was what Violet was determined to settle.
"I know. I wanted to talk to you about that." Bob patted her legs through the blankets. His hand was large, warm, and comforting on her knee. "I know I've been a big pain, kid. And I know I haven't been the easiest to work with. But I'm really proud of you. None of this would be happening if it wasn't for you. You've grown up into a real hero, Vi. A better one than your Mom and definitely a better one than me."
"Dad-"
"No-no. I know what I'm talking about. You're smart, and you're restrained. And you're so wise." He gave her that trademark Incredible grin. "I dunno how you got so wise, honey. But I'm sure glad you did. I'm proud of you Violet. And when this is done, and everything is fixed, I'll make sure everyone knows who they owe it to."
For all the things Violet learned in the past year, taking compliments wasn't one of them. She ducked behind her curtain of hair. Everyone accredited her for bringing them all together, which she supposed was correct. But it hadn't seemed like wisdom. Just what needed to be done. Still, she hoped this gratitude would extend to what she was planning.
Maybe I could ask for Buddy not to be maimed for my birthday. After the talk she planned to have, she would be lucky if the two men didn't come to blows at last. She snorted and lifted her face, responding to her father's jocular tone with her own. "That's what I do. I am an Incredible after all."
Bob grinned and kissed her head again before leaving her to dress.
The day's routine calmed her nerves about her plans. First to the galley for something to eat (she was finally able to keep something more than broth down since finding her sea legs), and then to the med bay. The nights swaying always put everything out of order, and the older medic was happy to have Violet and her strong young legs and even stronger eyes do the work of filing the rattled and fallen bottles within the cabinet. She almost always finished before the first patients of the day came in. Seasickness, food sickness, general complaints of head and limb aches, pulled muscles, and everything that made up a clinic's busy work.
But she was glad of it, happy again to be in her element. Six months of being trapped in an office, in a pencil skirt, and at a small desk hadn't seemed so bad when chasing Echo through the shadows of the NSA had been paramount. But now, back in a pair of (albeit borrowed and ill-fitting) scrubs, Violet remembered why she had gone into medicine; the small joys of someone finding relief in either a prescription or merely a diagnosis of their pain, sending people away better off than they were before. Her fellow residents would have had a nice chuckle, thinking that dreaded clinic work had given her such joy again.
But her hands and mind were engaged, delving deep into her knowledge and skills that had been dormant for almost a year. It gave her some peace, and a clear goal; this was what she wished to return to. This was also a part of the future she wanted to craft. Violet may never revert to the girl she had been before Fell's laboratory, but it did not mean she had to leave everything behind. She would pick out things of value from the ashes of her rage and revenge, and carry them on, kept close to her heart; an organ that was also having the neglect blown off it by the sea wind.
When the medic finally released her, she had to hurry to change and meet Buddy on deck. She came upon him waiting for her, watching the distant shore, and considered the figurehead of her current work.
Since their almost kiss in the darkness of their bunk, Violet had been mulling over "The Buddy Problem."
There was no denying that what lay between her and the scientist was more than the mutual care of partners who didn't wish to continue the mission alone or with one less ally. And it was something deeper than the surface-level sexual attraction of two touch starved individuals. While dismissing the attachment had for a moment soothed her pride, allowing her to keep the last vestiges of comfort from her once narrow worldview, she was too intelligent to play that dumb for long. The trappings of hero and villain had been discussed, dismantled, and disregarded early in their reacquaintance.
Still, this was so different than any type of affection she had felt before, as it did not come in the sweet flushes of being noticed or even in the gentle support of one survivor to another. It came to the gates of her mind in the shape of a warhorse-invasive and frightening with the depths of emotion masked in fear, purpose, and mutual rage for a creature that had done them both wrong. But within that wooden excuse had been warring emotions that razed Syndrome's place in her heart to the ground, leaving in its ashes a space of safety.
Insane laughter no longer echoed along the halls of her brain when she thought of his cold eyes and bloody hair-that harrowing sound was replaced with a warbling tenor singing over the sound of a saw. Instead, Buddy's icy gaze soothed the heat of anxiety and cut through the flush of panic. Because so long as that gaze was alive and clear, she was safe. So long as they were together, there was hope; even if it did get them killed.
She cared for Buddy, just as Mirage had predicted. In fact, she believed she was beginning to love him. And while she could accept this fact, and did indeed have an appreciation for the trappings of romance-the shy hesitance, the magnitude of minuscule touches and smiles-she had no patience for the nonsense. Violet didn't pine.
She planned.
Much like she had attacked sussing out the leak, Violet had applied herself to the problem of falling in love with one Bartholomew Pine. He was absolutely everything she didn't want: selfish and sarcastic, snide, unaffected, broad, and red-haired. But all the same, even when she hated him, she had come to find him clever and hardworking, his mind always spinning and turning; a mirror of her own restless thoughts. His system of morality was more bent and rusted than she would have liked, but the fact that he upheld it, despite the accusations of 'monster' she had flung at him, was admirable.
And while her affection was unlikely enough, once accepted, his reciprocation was becoming clear to her, and she began to wonder at her own competency at how she could have missed the signs.
It wasn't just base attraction either. Shadow's air of mystery had only increased the public's desire to see her, and when they did they found they liked the pale, raven-haired woman, willowy form and all. Megamesh was both forgiving and revealing, modest in only the most technical of terms. So she knew the difference between the glimmer of lust and the spark of real attention.
Buddy had burned bright with both that first night on ship, kissing her hand neither for bragging rights nor entirely from gratitude. Even afterward, she felt his eyes on her always, not merely roaming over her body, but seeking her out whenever she was in proximity to him-like opposing magnets they were drawn to each other with a force neither could quite explain, but were helpless to resist. I've watched him watch you…
So there were two options open to her. She could rip out this vine of affection with its bulbs of love before it snaked around her soul and blossomed in earnest. Starve it of sun and attention and care so that it would shrivel up and die, nothing more than dry leaves on the floor of her heart. She could ignore it, retract completely from the man and act as familiar but indifferent partners.
But when she had considered it, Violet realized the ludicrous nature of such a choice: they would never be indifferent. Fate had taken the unfinished tapestries of their lives and used the red string of Fell to sew them together, knotting them hopelessly and leaving the loose threads dangling until Violet and Buddy were utterly tangled up in each other.
Denying it was impossible, ignoring it was improbable, so what was left?
To proceed. To sit down to the mangled mess their entwined lives had made and start picking at the snares, pulling the threads free and braiding them together into a pattern that resembled something like a future; to become the weaver of her own fate. And she did have a knack for doing the impossible, did she not? She was an Incredible after all.
She and Buddy, unfortunately, got on rather well. They wanted each other, and when they had completed this mission, he would have his freedom again, under his real name. Violet wasn't sure of much, but she was absolutely positive that she'd be handing back her credentials as an agent and returning to her career. There was a chance for them, unfettered by his villainy and her responsibilities to the NSA, slim though it was. There, two threads untangled from the mess.
But there was a bigger knot: history.
Violet could never forget what he had been, and what he had done. He made no attempt to scrub it from his history, not even to apologize. In fact the closer they drifted to the shores of Japan, to the confrontation of her own idol of hatred, Violet began to understand the loss of sense that came with rage and how it could drive a person to do terrible things.
In Syndrome Violet saw a version of herself she could create if she was careless with her loom's shuttle, letting anger rather than love be her pattern.
But that masked monster who had rage etched into every line and gesture was separate from the man she loved-because it had been the creation of a different person. The man now waiting for her at the bow of the ship had paid for his crimes, even rectified his actions. When given the chance to torture the very people he had spent years using as lab rats, he did not take out his rage over his slavery on them; Buddy had saved them, given them the freedom he longed for over and over again, risking discovery that might rip him away from that end forever.
That was the angle she would have to plead in defense to her family. Violet had asked her father what more he would have done to the man in retribution. What more could Buddy do to prove he had changed, even if he denied it? That the man who had saved her, protected her and pushed her was molded totally different-or, perhaps time with Fell had cut through more than flesh, tearing away at the marble hardness of the villain to find the man still alive beneath to abuse.
After all, men could be tortured; monsters could only be caged.
And as she approached, Violet's eyes raked over Buddy's form and found he was very much a man. He was leaning against the railing, checking his watch. She was later than usual today for the practice.
The first week on ship, any free time Violet had she'd spend walking on deck, and enjoying the sunshine and air before being cloistered in their metal bunk again. Everyone else usually ran straight to the galley and the showers, and she had been grateful for some time on the mostly abandoned deck. Since she couldn't practice with her shields as was her usual, lest someone see and find out they were shuttling supers to Japan, she had taken to going through her karate moves, trying to remember the stances she had learned. A fight was coming, and while her powers were stronger and more complex now, Violet would be useless if all she could do was avoid damage. She wanted to be able to strike back. To win.
Buddy had found her on the third day of their journey, tired and sweating from his work, and watched her move before going to block one of her punches to an invisible assailant. He had no formal training of course, but his brain and body had been wired to know what to do. They had started to spar that day, and the next and the next until it became a part of their routine. After the work was done, they found each other to fight, and when the mock battles were done, to talk.
It was so natural, so much of their peculiar relationship being through the back and forth of conversation, that they fell into the rhythm without misstep. Mostly they had debated, so the winding, explorative discussions were a welcome cease-fire, and soon became as comfortable as any war of wits they had.
He usually smoked and spoke about music and technology. They would be going to a safe house of his in Japan he told her, and he became animated, informing her of all the things he wanted to create during the short week and change they had before the festival. She had voiced concern about the time crunch, and he had boasted with all the enthusiasm of a child listing off their favorite dinosaurs, just what his basement lab there could do, even eight years out of date.
Violet, always standing upwind, peppered him with questions. As a childhood and closeted science fiction fanatic, she wanted to know if any of the unique gadgets she had read and seen in various media were actually possible, and they had almost missed the dinner call several times dreaming up ways to make phasers and laser swords a reality, though for her part, would do anything for a tricorder.
One night they had discovered a shared love and almost fanatic admiration of Dune and had gone on debating best scenes, quoting favored lines, and discussing themes until they had no company but the stars; only to be chastised to bed by Mirage who had been elected by the team to go looking for them.
Violet asked him about the novelty of being so young and a powerful CEO, listening as he described the sleepless nights, the aching feet and eyes and pounding head that came with the work, and gladly sympathizing; his experience nearly mirrored her own in the four years she devoted to medical school, cramming eight years of learning into half the time. For every office story he had, she had a lab one to match, and they delighted in laughing over similar experiences.
Violet noticed when he was excited, he grinned so wide that the faint freckles stood out on his cheeks. And she noticed when she finally took a breath while ranting about some mishandling of a patient or a fellow resident's willful arrogance in the face of suffering, he leaned his cheek on his hand and gazed at her without blinking, his cigarette wasting in the wind without care. It was the same intense focus he gave when examining her minor sparing injuries despite examining the only person aboard with a full medical degree, or placing a hand at her back when they went below deck despite her relatively acclimated sea legs.
She was admired Buddy's waiting figure leaning against the railing, watching the sun begin its hours-long descent when he sensed her approach and turned around. Violet decided she liked his hair this length-short, but not shorn, on the sides and long in front, always in danger of falling into his eyes. It was fire-like in the sunset, and she wondered if it would blaze the same color in Metroville, watching the rays disappear behind the hill of their house. She planned to find out.
"Took you long enough, princess."
"Oh, sorry, I was just off being a little old doctor today." She tied up her hair and began to stretch.
Today they were working on her back foot- a bit of a weakness of hers. She was used to shielding and putting all her weight on it to overwhelm her enemy. Without it, she just ended up putting too much pressure on her forward foot, leaving her support weak and eventually getting knocked on her ass. An hour in she had only made marginal improvements, and as he helped her up again, she ventured, "Can I ask you something?"
"You're asking?" They readied up, and he grinned, ducking her right hook. "Must be big. About my mother again?"
"No!" She grabbed his wrist as he threw the next punch and twirled under his arm, taking the appendage with her until it was pinned against his back. Letting him go with a push she continued, "I wanted to ask about the Muscle Memory."
His expression flickered for a moment, but he shrugged it off, rubbing under his nose. "Oh, not big. Just horrible. Well go on, but I'll let you know that I passed out halfway through, so if it's about the actual surgery, I can't help ya."
Violet swallowed down her gag. She was genuinely curious about it, horrific as it was. But she figured if he spoke about Fell first, talking to him about her father wouldn't seem so bad. The old pain would seem slight in the face of the new nightmare. And she must talk to him about her father. It was the other stubborn knot that could end up around the neck of their infant romance if not dealt with. "How does it work? I mean, do you know what you're doing? Or do you just do it?"
"Just do it," he replied, dropping his fighting stance and running a hand through his ruddy hair. "It's not like he implanted actual memories into my head. I don't know the names of the moves or how to explain them. Like when you see something drop, and you just catch it? It's just reflex."
"So you couldn't teach it?"
"I suppose I could through repetition and practice. But actually tutoring? Like an instructor? I'd be pretty useless. Put it this way-he installed a code, rather than downloading a database." At Violet's blank look, he waved a hand and said, "When we get to Japan I'll show you the difference in the lab. C'mon, I need a break."
Buddy pulled his pack from his back pocket as they took up their usual places at the railing. Violet couldn't help but watch his hands as he lit the cigarette-so elegant in practice but such a nasty habit. She took comfort in the fact that he usually wasted half of it as he unconsciously gestured when they spoke, the embers flickering as they fled, carried on the breeze. Violet liked his hands, long-fingered and calloused; the hands of a working man, not just an intellectual. She liked the way they made her feel small, but not captured when he held her during their spars-and she wanted to feel them hold her in other ways too.
She wanted Buddy, and she wanted him for a long time. Not just here on the ship, not just a victory fling, but for long after as well. She wanted to see him actually try to create a phaser, or make cloaking devices and military shields that mimicked her own powers; wanted to talk about her science and hear his and discover what they could do when their two fields collided. Violet wanted him to challenge her and push her and examine her without a mad doctor's pendulum hanging over their heads.
She wanted to know what it was like to have a real dinner with him, not through glass and over hospital food, but on a balcony somewhere, their feet sore from dancing or walking or whatever would bring them there so long as it was together and it was normal. Violet wanted calm days without a word about the world, or danger or horrors, just bickering over philosophy and teasing and dreaming up impossibly possible things.
For the first time, Violet wanted something that was not merely out of necessity, like freedom from prison or an escape from her own genetic responsibility. This want was purely selfish, and she desired something that helped no one but herself. She gave so much of herself away, to citizens, to family, to patients-and gladly! But this, Buddy, was the only recompense Violet longed for. A future with him, even if it ended poorly: at least it would end freely. She couldn't go back to just living with the phantom of him, and never knowing the man her mind mimicked.
But her family. But his past. But everything that was between them that had made them enemies in the first place, and made their trust so tenuous in the lab. I've conquered bigger things she thought, remembering her father's praise. I've done a lot. I did it, all on my own, and without this much planning. I can do this too.
"What are you doing?"
"Hmm?" Violet blinked, realizing she had zoned out staring at him.
"Your face is all screwed up and pinched. I know we need a shower, but damn."
"Oh. It's not that. I mean," Violet shrugged, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. "You do need a shower, but I wasn't thinking about that."
"Well, go on."
She leaned her elbows on the railing of the ship, folded hands propping up her chin as she cocked her head at him. "What makes you think I'm going to tell you?" The banter was delicious now that she leaned into it rather than shrunk from his teases.
Buddy blew a stream of smoke into the wind and leaned closer. "Have you ever had an unexpressed thought?"
"Have you?"
"No, why deny the world my genius." He winked and took a long drag. "C'mon. I'm waiting."
"I want to ask something else."
"Something worse than Fell playing Etch-A-Sketch across my pre-frontal?"
Violet winced but turned to face the sunset. Like a needle, she needed to jab quickly and inject to avoid most of the pain. "Why my father?"
The question dropped between them like lead. Buddy leaned his forearms against the railing, and lay his forehead on top, rocking back on his heels. "O-o-okay, much worse than Fell, then."
Worse than Fell? Well, that plan backfired. He had already told her once to leave it alone, but if she was going to orchestrate her future and weave him into it, this was a wound she'd need to stitch closed, if not attempt to heal. She hoped the festering place could still be salvaged; her family, for all their foibles, was one limb of her life she could not amputate.
Buddy rubbed his face, and glanced at her, seeing she was still waiting for an answer. He took a long time to give it, even paced away from her once, collecting his thoughts. "He was Mr. Incredible," he finally cried, stalking back up to her. "He was great! What else is there?"
"Well so was your father," Violet pointed out. "You spoke pretty fondly of him, so it wasn't like you were lacking. And you claim you're immune to all that psychological claptrap about looking for a parental figure in idol worship. So why Mr. Incredible?"
"I don't know-he…" Buddy gestured looking for the words. He found them soon enough. "He was strong and smart-or so it seemed-and witty. He had catchphrases, knew exactly what to say at the right moment. He was everything a man should be-independent and confident. Loyal to his friends-you know he saved Dinaguy from the mafia once, right? He went into this compound without his super suit just to get Dina out, under gunfire and everything all by himself. He was everything someone would want to be."
Those were excellent reasons. It made the fallout have an even more bitter taste. "And all that is what made you...y'know. Incrediboy?"
Buddy acted like she had slapped him, cocking his head away and wincing. "Don't."
"I'm sorry." She scooted closer and placed a hand on his arm, more to keep him from storming off than comfort. He was warm through his long-sleeved thermal, and her fingers were glad of it in the coastal chill. "I just want to know. Please, Buddy?"
The sound of his name on her lips seemed to deflate him. You talk, he listens.
"No. It wasn't what he did. It's what he said." Buddy rubbed the back of his neck. "We weren't exactly rolling in it when my mother was alive. Pop didn't own his garage yet and she was just a phone operator. When she passed and we lost her income we were pretty dogshit poor. Dad didn't have a degree or certification, just a lot of good experience and a hell of a lot of talent, but there were no jobs.
"So we moved to Metroville, and I saw Mr. incredible-heard him talk at my school. He'd go around, you know, giving all these talks. The same stay in class kids bullshit they do to keep little truants from forming. Be true to yourself, was a big one. He'd talk about his strength, and say that it was just glamor without his mind-" Buddy stood straight and pretended to flex, doing a horrifically fantastic impression of her father. "'This ain't worth a lick without this'." He pointed to his temple. His finger hovered over the scar Fell had made. With a sigh, he returned to leaning on the railing. "He said you didn't have to punch hard, or make ice, or control the weather to have powers. His car and his suit were created by smart people, people who were normal, and that was power in itself.
"And I guess I just fell for it. If I looked at it like that, I wasn't just some country bumpkin in the city, the weirdo taking college courses in high school, the little prick that kept correcting his teachers. If I looked at it like that I was...I was super." Finally, he looked at her. "Everyone wants to be super, princess. That's the why. Everyone wants to be the hero of their own story. No one sets out to be the bad guy. Nobody looks to fail. People would give up a lot to be like you."
When he blindly reached out and brushed her arm in a gesture that was almost comforting and said, "But I guess they would have to give up a lot being you, huh?", she loved him a little more for realizing it without being told.
Buddy continued without prompting: "I loved him. I loved him, and sometimes I feel like I still fucking do."
Violet let out a surprised snort of disbelief, then apologized as he glared at her. "Sorry-no I didn't mean it like that. It's just...you still love him?"
"Sometimes I feel like I do, don't get it twisted," he snapped. "I...I see him with your mother and with you. And he's just...the same! I tried to murder him, and ScreenSlaver tried to capture him and he's still just the same. He just goes on, like he's totally unaffected. I don't think he's ever doubted himself once! He certainly doesn't act like it."
She raised both her brows. "I don't know if anyone's told you this Buddy, but neither do you."
"I know!" He threw up his hands as if she finally grasped the point. "Don't you see? I'm like him, he's like me! I got that from him. There are these things I do and I say that are just him from when I loved him. And they're a part of me, so much so that I can't change it! I've had almost every part of me totally rearranged and replaced and I still can't cut him out of me."
Buddy leaned back against the railing. "I was inspired. I started his official fan club, I organized the meetings and the meetups, and even made a newsletter. I spent every moment doing odd jobs for any bit of money for the thing-it's what honed my work ethic. My first foray into business-even my future was stained by him.
"And when he sent me away I just wanted to prove him wrong. I was so angry-I was so determined not to be no one, to be more than just a kid in some line in the paper, that I kept working. Kept inventing, kept trying to find a way to be a hero. No one would buy inventions or invest in some kid fresh outta high school or college with the ink barely dry on his diplomas-so I started selling them on the side, under Syndrome. And people ate. It. Up.
"You can imagine the kinda market I was selling to, and they had money to waste and needs to be met. To them, Syndrome was a hero, and the accolades were addicting-the most addicting drug you'll meet. That's why your father's withdrawal was so bad, why all supers' were. That's why they were so easy to find…" He went to take a drag and looked down at the cigarette, almost burned up and having only taken a few pulls. He dropped it, crushing it under his boot with a huff.
Violet settled beside him again, unsure how to go on. Should she tell him her father wasn't always so self-confident? That she had seen him more than once, bent over his copy of the Syndrome file, head in his hand and sighing? That it was the only time she'd ever seen her father drink something harder than dinner wine? Would he even listen when she told him that Mr. Incredible's smile always dimmed in wattage when someone exclaimed "I'm your biggest fan!"
How could Violet ask Buddy to accept someone he viewed with the same revulsion as the scars he got from Fell? She was a doctor, but despite her enthusiasm, when it came to the heart, she may as well be a freshman taking basics. She didn't know how to heal this wound. Didn't even know where to start. Defeated, she pushed off the side and started to head towards the stairs below deck.
Maybe this is too impossible. Her heart ached a little already, anticipating the cutting she might have to do to remove Buddy from it.
His hand shot out and grabbed her shirt, pulling her back to stand between his feet. "Uh, I don't think I dismissed you." His face was clear of the stress and sadness it had borne moments before. Now he wore his usual almost constant smug smirk. Buddy was back, shaking off years of betrayal and crushed dreams in a blink. Incredible, he really is like one of us already.
Violet, still beaten down, smacked his hand away. It left her shirt to hook a thumb through her jean's belt loop, his other coming to her other hip to mirror the action. "You don't get to dismiss me, you're not my supervising."
"You're right, I'm a villain. I can capture heroes any time I want," he reminded.
"All offense, you're a pretty crap villain, Buddy." And that was what had convinced her as she laid in bed, thinking about his soulful kisses, choosing whether to weave him into her future or take scissors to the strings that pulled at her heart. It was the little extra weight that tipped the scale from hesitation to decision.
Buddy made an excellent show of pretending to enjoy the pain of others, would bare his teeth and declare until his voice ran hoarse that he was bloodthirsty, ruthless, and without mercy. But Violet's evidence contradicted such a hypothesis; she'd seen him panic at the sight of her tears, work hard to hide his friend's involvement in his plans, going so far as to risk dying rather than exposing his ex lover and her husband in an attempt to save his life. It was no small thing to swallow a betrayal that ended in slavery; not only that, but to go so far as to stand by his Judas' side whilst she pledged a vow of happiness. He wasn't the villain he attempted to embrace now that his dreams of heroism had gone up in flames.
He had been seeking vengeance to satisfy his broken dreams, yes. But he hadn't hunted Mr. Incredible down like an assassin. Nor had he tried to destroy supers with blood and hypnosis like Winston's sister. He had focused all his attention on being something better, bigger than himself. Even in his villainous plan, while it had the by-product of eliminating the need for supers by making everyone 'super', at its heart he had wanted to be the hero; going so far as to great a threat simply so he could thwart it. Schrodinger's Super, both hero and villain at the same time. Even to Jack-Jack, she realized, looking back.
Violet knew the world did not become worse as she grew older. Only that her understanding of it brought the realization of its true horror. Syndrome could have murdered her little brother. He may have been a super child, but he had been sleeping in his arms. Syndrome could have snapped his little neck and made his revenge truly complete. It would have been so easy-they had been frozen and helpless to do anything but watch.
And yet, he hadn't. Oh, Syndrome had tried to kidnap him, take him away and make him a weapon against his own flesh and blood. But even in his vile act, he had wanted to mentor the boy-to fix a wrong he had lived with all his life. If she merely turned the memories slightly, she could slant the light another way, and observe a different color of understanding. Even with his killing as Ultra, his shady deals, and Syndicate; even with his horrible methods, he had held the line. He had done what he thought was right, in the end, under all the bluster and anger and selfishness. He was the kind of person who could handle the choices of a super-determined and bold.
Buddy had wanted to help in one way or another.
But right now, he wanted something different. "I'll have to work on that then. I'll start by keeping you here, for as long as I please."
Violet warmed to the idea but didn't let it show on her face. Their little game was lifting her spirits from the hopeless task of uniting these two houses nothing alike in dignity. She gripped his wrists.
"Move." He brought her closer. Now she stood between his knees, placing her hands on his chest to keep him from dragging her further. She mourned the lack of heartbeat. "I meant move your hands, not me."
"You're going to have to be more specific." He straightened, pushing off the railing and standing straight, hands still holding onto her belt loops. Violet had to tilt her head back to look at him after a quick look about. Everyone was still about their business, and none of their team was up here. "Like now."
"Now?"
He cocked his head, raising both brows as if she were exceptionally slow. "You don't interrogate without some kind of motive. And you aren't trapped now, so this little bonding ritual can't be about snowing me over."
"I'm not-not everything I do is underhanded!"
He grinned. "I believe that-trust me. You still suck at lying. But you've always got some sort of scheme going on in that head of yours. I can almost hear the gears going when you look at me. So, it's your turn to answer a few questions. You tell me what's going on here: what is this, princess?" He glanced down at her hands, still resting comfortably on his chest.
Violet supposed this could be her out, to back up and claim they were just bantering. Just keeping the status quo. That it meant nothing, that this was nothing between them. She could abandon this plan as too difficult, and too fraught with choices where there was no clear 'good' option. That would be what the Violet from before would do.
But this Violet, who stood looking up into Buddy's half sneering, half hopeful face, didn't. This Violet slid her hands down his chest to circle his wonderfully slender waist and slip straight into his back pockets, and indulged in her well earned selfishness. I will make this work. This-he-is mine.
The transformation of expression on his face was always a fascinating sight, no more so than when surprise washed over his features, utter and complete. "O-oh. Um. Okay."
That...wasn't the best reaction, was it? She tried to pull her hands away, but Buddy grabbed her arms, keeping her where she was. "No! No, that's...well honestly that's pretty fucking great. I'm just a little, um, shocked."
Flustered Buddy might have been Violet's new favorite expression. She smiled up into his stuttering and assured, "Well, I am a doctor. I can treat shock."
"Ye-e-eah?" His grin was predatory and sent a shiver up her spine, quickly followed by his large warm hands, drawing her in. His bangs brushed her forehead as he bent closer-
"Mm." Violet sharply turned her face away. Before he could get the wrong idea (which clearly he did by the look of hurt surprise we currently wore) she said, "smoke."
"Ah." He slapped at his front pockets (his back ones were still occupied) and swore. "And I don't have a mint."
"You should brush your teeth anyway. And that's a really bad habit you know-especially in your condition. You're not supposed to smoke after heart surgery, and with what you've g-"
Buddy clapped a hand over her mouth. "That's enough out of the doctor, thanks."
Violet grinned against his palm, tempted to lick it just to watch him flush and stutter again. And she might have, had a crewman not called her name.
"Doc Parr! We've got another bleeder!"
The two immediately separated. Despite finally coming to something like an understanding, they both silently agreed that, for now, it was an understanding best kept between them. Violet waved her acknowledgement. "I should get that."
"What's the medic doing? Sitting with his thumb up-"
"He's doing all the paperwork, which I'm thankful for." Violet reached up to slide the clasp of his necklace behind his neck. She went on tiptoe, brushing the lightest of kisses against his cheekbone. She turned to follow the crewman.
Buddy stopped her one last time. "Listen, Parr. You've escaped this time, but I'll remember this."
"Is that your villain speech?"
"First draft. Needs work, I know."
"Actually...I kinda liked it."
Buddy let her go. Before she turned away, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes, holding it before her eyes, and flung it as hard as he could out to sea. "For next time."
The next time Violet saw Buddy was right before bed. Unfortunately it was also one of the only times they gathered as a team, however unmeaning. Helen had tied back the curtain so that they could converse freely without having to peek around the cloth constantly. They couldn't talk about anything important; the mission, Japan or Fell, as there was always a risk of being overheard, but they made due. Dash had grown enamored of MacConnell and his mechanical expertise, while Helen and Mirage found equal ground on the complaints of constantly moving and trying to keep a house at the same time. At least they weren't eyeing each other with distrust anymore.
It was progress, and it was good to see bonds of commeradre forming. But for Violet, it lacked where she needed it most.
Buddy kept to himself on his bunk, climbing in and, after another overdose of medication, immediately scribbling at his notepad. He was always working on something or other, whether it was lengthy equations that spanned several pages, or gadgets designs. Violet wanted to peer over his shoulder and look, but knew the familiarity would give the tentative 'them' away and add one more hurdle to their relationship; the biggest of which was currently dealing cards. Violet took her delt hand from her father, forcing a smile even as she cast glances towards the mechanic and his writing. When she lost her fifth game of gin, she finally broke:
"What are you drawing?"
"I assume that was aimed at me," Buddy murmured as he scratched something out. "Seeing as you never harass anyone else."
"Is there anyone else here filling the trash up with paper," Mac pointed out. "It's no use lass, if it's a new gadget he won't tell you anything about it until he'd burned his fingers off twice trying to build it."
"I've never burned my fingers," Buddy rebutted. "But I did know a certain mechanic who got a very interesting lazer scar on his-"
MacConnell very suddenly had a small coughing fit that conveniently ended that story. "There are ladies, here, Pine. Act like it."
"Is it a blueprint," Violet continued to wheedle.
"No, I wish. There's nothing interesting here to tinker with-and the brat's calculus homework only entertained me for so long."
"My wh-" Dash immediately dug in his bag, pulling out his math binder and flipping through the pages. Most were his chicken scratch, but on the last ten pages was a very evenly and neatly written list of equations. "You did this for fun?!"
"Oh no." Helen reached for the book, but Dash was quicker at evading her. "Dashel! Syndrome-you are not helping him cheat."
"It's not cheating. He's never going to use it."
"That's not true!"
Buddy sighed and finally lifted his eyes to look at Dash over this pad. "Are you going to be an engineer?"
"No."
"Work for NASA?"
"Uh, I don't think so."
"How about advanced biological studies?"
"I...just thought I'd be a superhero."
"Right." The villain gestured at the boy, staring at Helen as if that proved his point. "He's never going to use calculus in his entire life. He might as well get an 'A' once."
"How do I know this is an 'A' assignment," Dash asked, eyeing the man.
"Seeing as I was taking linear algebra in my sophomore year, it's a pretty safe bet."
"Hey, alright!"
Helen huffed and began explaining that Dash was going to sit down and study that work later. Violet handed her father the deck and wandered over to see what Buddy was doing herself. "Still doesn't answer my question."
Buddy raised an eyebrow at her, but this close, Violet saw he was trying hard not to smirk. She wondered if he had simply been acting invested to get her to come closer. He flipped a page on his pad, and started fresh. "If you must know, and I know you must, I'm writing to my father."
"Really?" He pulled the pad back when she bent to look.
"Yes-hey, you need a remedial lesson in basic manners, princess? It's private. But as some annoying little girl told me lately, I probably owe him a visit. Since I can't do that, this'll have to do."
"Tell Mr. Pine hello from me," Mirage said, leaving her bed in favor of taking Dash's abandoned seat beside MacConnell.
"And me," Mac chimed in. "Mr. P is good people. When this is over I'd like to see him again."
Buddy's pencil hesitated for a moment, and he only gave a non committal noise.
"It's been a long time," Mirage agreed, looking distant. "Too long." Then, to Violet she informed, "Mr. Pine really is a very entertaining man. You will like him."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, he'd flirt with you enough to forget any insults," Buddy muttered as he wrote.
Mirage laughed. "True, he is a bit of a flirt. But he's also an amazing cook. I practically lived at their apartment when I was a kid."
"And then you actually did," Buddy reminded her.
"And I've never been so well fed."
"That's because you can't cook."
Violet was ashamed to say she was a little grateful for Mac dividing the former lovers' banter: "And he's got the best stories. Have you crying in minutes. First time I ever met the man, he told me about how his father used to sell liquor during the prohibition-and he had to shoot the jugs in the back seat of the truck while driving away from the feds. When they caught him, technically they didn't have any evidence!"
"Seems like upstanding citizens run in the family," Bob muttered, but he was watching the conversation with interest.
"He's not bad at all. He's just...unluckily lucky," Mirage assured, defending him as she would her own father. "He has a story about accidentally making friends with the Irish mafia because they thought he was one of their cousins." She gestured to her platinum helmet. "It's his red hair."
"Or how about how he met Mrs. Pine?"
The memory of that anecdote sent both Mirage and Buddy into laughter. Violet, infected by the good humor, sat on the edge of Buddy's bed expectantly, grinning. She liked family stories, having grown up on a steady diet of glory day tales. Their own stories mainly centered around hero work or constantly moving, seeing as both of her parents had none of their own to speak of.
Buddy folded his hands over his stomach. "Oh, you think I'm going to give you a retelling?"
Violet shrugged. "Well, it is my birthday."
"SHI-" Dash immediately ran over and flung his arms around his sister. "Sorry! Happy Birthday!"
Violet patted his arm, nodding at the others chiming in their own birthday wishes. "It's fine, Dash really."
"It's really your birthday? You should have told me," Buddy said, and Violet saw that his eyes had darkened. She suspected she knew what kind of gift he would have given her had he known on the bow. "So, how old are you? Can you vote now?"
"I have a doctorate you know. I'm not that young."
"Good thing too." If he was going to keep looking at her like that, their little secret was going to be very open very soon. Then he regained his attitude of bored annoyance. "Are you really going to make me do a show-and-tell in front of everyone?"
"Just a 'tell'."
Buddy sighed and set aside his pad. "Fine, but then I get peace for the rest of the night-no questions, no interrogations, nothing. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Good." He crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling, thinking on how to start. "Well, my father was born into a very poor family in West Virginia. As my disgustingly Scottish friend implied, my grandfather kept the lights on at one place after the prohibition, and it wasn't the house. So my dad did what any self-respecting sixteen-year-old did and stowed away on a train out of town to make his way in the world. He ended up in Louisiana, found a job in a mechanic's shop and worked his way up. Intelligence, as well as good looks, run in the family."
"Modesty too," Violet mentioned. At his narrowed eyes she pointed out, "Not a question."
"Technicality-you're on thin ice. Anyway, he had a nice little shack by the creek and lived a very happy year by himself. Well, one day as he was washing his clothes in said creek, he caught sight of a very fine young blonde across the way.
"Now, this little river divided the good and the bad parts of town, all very Fitzgerald. And Miss Maybelle Lee might have lived in the worst, smallest home on the other side of the creek, but they were on the other side. But did that stop Al Pine?"
"I don't think anything stops a Pine who's determined to get themselves killed," Mac muttered, having settled back with his bride in his arms.
Buddy rolled his eyes but continued: "He gathered up every spare twig and log and made himself a little bridge. Then took a plate of his good old Pine cookin' over to the Lee's house and asked very kindly if Miss Maybelle would be so inclined as to join him for tea one Saturday.
"Mr. Lee, however, was not inclined. In fact, grandad was so disinclined that he chased our hero back over that bridge with the family shotgun and told him never to step foot in their house again. Damn near got him too.
"But that 'ole Al Pine, he was quick and he was slick, and never found a problem he didn't like to fix. So he went right back over that bridge the next night and decided that if he wasn't going to be allowed inside, he'd court from outside. Very romantic, you know. Attempted serenade her at her window."
"That's sweet," Violet said, and despite her distaste for pining, she did have a soft spot for the old romantic gestures. Tony had been full of them, being the literature fanatic he was.
"Well…"
"Just one thing, lass," Mac chuckled even as Mirage had already descended into giggles. "Mr. P cannae sing."
"Oh no," Helen laughed, having taken her daughter's seat on Bob's bed. Everyone had turned to listen to the story.
"Oh no," Buddy echoed. "Three rounds of attempts at Annette Hanshaw later, Mr. Lee was once again chasing our Al back over the creek, two sons in tow, no matter how Miss Lee found it amusing. So, completely at a loss of how to capture the time and attention of his fair Helen-"
"I thought you said your Mom's name was Maybelle," Dash cut in, and Violet pressed her fingertips between her brows. How they shared the same genes was still, at times, beyond her.
"I think you need to be more invested in that history book," Buddy reprimanded. "Anyway, my father took his problem to God. He followed the family to church one Sunday and decided to sit in on Mass. The only problem being that our dear Al Pine was a very Baptist boy, and did not understand that no matter how moved you are by the priests words, you are not meant to call out the good Lord's name in the middle of the service."
By this time, even Bob had a hand over his mouth, shaking with laughter. Helen had tears in her eyes, and the MacConnells were hopelessly attempting to catch their breath.
"The Lee boys, rightfully miffed, decided to wait for our hero outside the church where God wouldn't be too angry at them beating him to a pulp. Of course, my father sought sanctuary, and my mother decided to join him and give him a lesson in proper Catholic etiquette. A very long lesson, as you can imagine, until her men gave up and went home.
"So every week Al walked himself over that creek to Mass and every week had a rather lengthy study with the Miss Maybelle Lee in the safety of the church until one day he walked back over that bridge with a passenger." Buddy hesitated and in a stage whisper added, "Technically they ran, and technically it was two passengers, but they didn't know it at that time."
"In the church," Violet exclaimed.
"No questions," Buddy reminded, but his grin was wickedly amused. "It was a teenage wedding, but the old folk didn't exactly wish them well, despite how Pine did love the mademoiselle. In fact, they left that wedding not only driving from the chapel of love, but driving from the Lee's all the way over the state line. And my father kept on driving until he was back in good old West Virginia."
"Hey, wait a tick," Mac said, wiping away the tears of mirth from his eyes. "I thought Mr. P fought your uncles so that he could marry your mother?"
"He told me that Mrs. Pine stood at the church with her family's gun and dared them to stop the vows," Mirage added, finally able to breathe again.
Violet raised her brows at Buddy, wondering if anything he had just told them was true. He shrugged with that signature grin. "It's like an Arthurian legend, it alters with each retelling. Though the gun at the church part might hold some weight since Ma had it over the mantle when I was growing up."
Helen, who was not bound by a promise not to ask questions, put to him: "If your mother's from Louisiana, did she speak French?"
"Oui madame," Buddy confirmed. "Mais seulement quand elle s'est disputée."
Helen laughed. "Elle doit avoir été très animée si vous parlez couramment."
"I didn't know you spoke French," her husband said.
"Well that just means we don't argue enough," Helen teased.
Buddy sat up a little straighter. "What part are you from? Your accent sounds more norther than Pop's." Helen waited for the expected snipe to come from the villain, and answered slightly surprised when none followed.
Mac leaned over to Violet as they watched Buddy and Helen begin an actual civil conversation, whispering, "Do you hear that? Their accents are growing thicker with each word."
And Violet grinned at him large and bright. But not from his comment (which was very true, as she listened to Buddy and Helen talk about similar memories in familiar haunts).
Finally, Buddy sat back, folding his arms behind his head. "Now I have a question."
Violet leaned back on her hands. "I'm terrified."
"Don't worry, it's not for you, but your mother."
Helen raised a brow, still suspicious of the villain despite their shared backgrounds. "Oh?"
"How in the hell did you two happen?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Buddy freed a hand to gesture between Helen and Bob. "That."
Bob immediately puffed up in defense, good humor dampened. "I married the perfect woman-what's so hard to understand?"
"Not you, geez. That part is obvious, I meant her. Of course, you married her, everyone wanted Elastagirl! Hell, I wanted Elastagirl-when I was younger," Buddy amended seeing Mr. incredible start to rise. "I'm just making a point! I mean...even Mac had a poster of her!"
Mirage turned slowly to look at her suddenly red-faced husband. "Did you, now?"
"I-I-had one that was very decent that I hung out of admiration for her abilities, and that was all. It was officially licensed," Mac babbled, alternating between placating smiles (to Mirage) and glares (at a snickering Buddy). "It was very respectful, nothing like what he's implying!"
"A lot of respectful solo vigils, I bet," Buddy prodded.
"That's it!" Violet was very suddenly, and carefully, lifted from her spot on the bed and dumped next to Mirage as Mac flung himself at Buddy. Dash hopped up and immediately began encouraging the Scottman just where to punch while the villain easily held off his friend, cackling hysterically the entire time.
"Well," Helen sighed, watching the display with an expression somewhere between rye amusement and exasperation. "It's been a long time since I've had men fight over me. I suppose I should be flattered."
Violet wasn't sure if she should join Mirage in attempting to break up the mock fight and chose instead to watch the scene before her with a clinical gaze. This is where the stitching starts. This I can work with.
It happened at times, focusing too much on the most gruesome-looking wound or the most concerning symptom, and missing the diagnosis as a whole. Violet had focused on disinfecting the gaping hole left by her father's neglect and Buddy's anger; pouring over the two threads giving the most trouble, she hadn't considered the knot as a whole. She had swung between dwelling on the past and fretting over the future, almost missing the most important time: Now.
In this moment, the comradery was a little chaotic, a little hectic, and very much temporary. But with all of them suddenly so relaxed and together, Violet felt the small feeble shoots of hope in her chest grow towards the warmth of this sudden togetherness; gaining strength as the vines of affections curled every tighter around her heart.
It was possible for them to be together without sniping, and arguing, and bodily harm. And if it was possible now, in the midst of all this horror, surely it was possible again when there was peace.
When this was all over.
Mirage managed to end the fight with relative ease and only a few hits with a pillow, ordering them to bed. Helen agreed that it was a wise idea and began herding her own men towards their bunks.
Violet untied the divider and set about pulling out her pajamas, considerably happier than when she woke that morning.
"Hey!"
Turning she saw that Buddy had poked his head through the curtain, checking to make sure Violet was alone on her side. "I work-shopped my villain speech. Wanna hear it?"
Violet raised her brows. They were hardly alone. "It better be good."
He crooked a finger and Violet edged closer. Buddy held the curtain back just enough to let everyone see he wasn't invading the female space but closed enough to hide their conversation from prying eyes. "So, with you about here I would start off with the usual-you know-at last I have you in my clutches sort of thing."
"But you don't have me in your clutches," Violet pointed out.
"Right! I forgot." His eyes gleamed wickedly and he reached out to touch her arm, his palm warm as it coasted over her shoulder, thumb brushing over her collar bone through her sweatshirt. And then those long calloused fingers closed over her throat, pulling her even closer.
Violet barely stifled a gasp. He wasn't holding her hard, barely at all. Still, she felt every breath she took, her pulse fluttering wildly against his thumb. Her hand wrapped around his wrist instinctually-not to try and pry his fingers off, but to steady herself. Her knees were as off-kilter as her thoughts at the sudden shift in mood. The shuffling and talking behind him seemed very far away at the moment.
"Then what," Violet murmured, glad her voice was still steady.
"Then I would say...I have you, at last, princess. You've thwarted me for the last time, and there isn't any escaping for you now."
"What if I don't want to escape?" It was dangerous, what with five witnesses right behind them, two looking for any excuse to beat Buddy to a pulp, just like his grandfather to his dad before him. Violet was very glad now that she was smaller than him, and that his body was able to block what they were 'discussing' from view. This was downright foolhardy-but even she had to admit the small danger made his touch electric. This time the shocks were much more pleasant as they coursed through her frame.
Buddy used his thumb and forefinger to shake her head. "No, try again. You're the hero, remember?"
"Right…" But it was impossible to think with him so close. How was she supposed to talk when her mouth burned? "Ummmm, I suppose I would say 'you'll never get away with this'."
"Mm-but I think I will. You've denied me twice and I'm simply coming to collect what I'm owed."
"Y...you'll get n-nothing from me."
"Oh, I will." His thumb continued its trek along her jaw until it pressed against her lower lip. Violet was tempted to bite it but was far too invested in what he would do next. "And I think you'll give it to me without a fight."
"You're wrong," she lied against his touch.
"Are you sure? You're not fighting now…" Slightly damp from her words, his finger glided over her chin to follow the line of her esophagus. "Maybe you're not as much of a good girl as you'd have the world believe. But you're not a girl, either, are you?"
"Good speech," she breathed, eyes trained on his mouth. "But I don't want to play this game anymore."
"You're right. It's a stupid game." But instead of pulling her close and easing the burning of her lips, he lifted his hand still shackled by her fingers to his own mouth and kissed the knuckles. His eyes never wavered from her face. "Happy Birthday, Princess."
"Huh…?"
Buddy reached down and pushed against her belly until she stumbled a few paces backward, just in time as her mother slipped on the other side of the curtain. "We'll talk about it in the morning." She felt something slide into her sweatshirt's front pocket.
Violet glanced at Helen, suddenly wishing her hair was unbraided so that she could hide her burning face behind it. Her mother was looking between them with a brow raised. "Uh-yes. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Buddy promised.
When she laid down on her cot, her back to the other women, she fished the paper from her pouch. Unfolding it she stared at her own visage, arms leaning against the railing of the ship, a cheek pressed to her fist as she looked out over the waves. Except her hair wasn't up here like it usually was now. It flowed freely, whipping around her, strands kissing her nose and forehead.
In the corner was a hastily written:
B. Pine 1975
For Princess on her birthday