Chapter XIX
Hera and Hephaestus
As a mother of three, Helen Parr had become a rather light sleeper, always on the lookout for nighttime sickness, nightmares, or general nocturnal trouble. She was an ace at differentiating between environmental and familial sounds in the night. She knew the sounds of a nightmare when she heard it, and it roused her from sleep immediately, forcing her up in her narrow bed. In the darkness, she peered toward Violet's bed.
She knew her daughter suffered, having seen her many mornings sleep-deprived and haunted. It broke her heart, the ground the pieces into powder when she knew there was nothing Helen could do to help her firstborn. But tonight the girl slept peacefully, her long braid snaking over her shoulder like a familiar protecting its mistress.
Leaning over the side of her mattress, Helen pulled back the curtain to check on her boys. Bob was undisturbed as usual; the man could and had slept through a hurricane as one vacation to Florida proved. And Dash was still serene, long limbs spread eagle over the side of his bed. Then who…?
She heard the creak of stiff metal springs and saw a figure sit up in bed. In the scant light, she saw light hair and knew it was Syndrome. The villain shifted, sitting on the edge of his bed. He seemed frozen for several heartbeats. And then Helen heard him retch.
Quick and silent, his tall figure stood and slipped out of their room, only the sound of the heavy metal door creaking giving an announcement to his exit. She was torn between a sedate instinct, both heroic and motherly, to aid the suffering and her own intense distaste for the man. She probably should see if he at least made it to a garbage can, if only to spare the clean-up.
But she never got her chance. The curtain beside the abandoned bed fluttered, and she saw her daughter trace his footsteps to the door, pausing only once to rifle in her father's duffle bag for a water bottle.
Hellen gripped her blankets and felt her stomach turn over. She understood the importance of this mission and violently agreed with Violet that they all needed to function together as a unit if they were to succeed. But her gut instincts, free of the maturity of her mind's logic, wanted to side with her son and husband, and give Syndrome what for. She would never wish the torture that had been heaped upon him, nor did she delight in his trials on a makeshift operating table. But she did think her husband (or her) deserved one good crack at that strong jaw.
Whenever she saw Violet and that man together, Helen could only remember Nomanisan after their recapture. She wondered if either of them recalled their very first interaction.
They had been released from his zero-point energy into the hands of his guards, and Syndrome had warned them against fighting less his entire compound of armed men descend upon them and they wouldn't want that, would they? At that moment he had leaned close to Violet, who, rattled by the various near-death experiences she had been introduced to within the last hour, ducked her head. But her hair had been put back, and she was unable to hide. Syndrome had caught a lock of her mane and flicked it into her face, making her wince and him chuckle maniacally.
It was that moment of pure helplessness to protect her child that she saw over and over whenever the man got too close to her little girl; whenever his ice blue eyes followed her as she passed, whenever he called her by that disgusting nickname. All Helen saw was Syndrome still in power, still holding them captive. But their daughter was now a force greater even than his paralyzer; having her in the palm of his hand was much more than the fear of captivity.
And his friends. The engineer was palatable, as he was mannered and usually cordial-but Mirage…
Helen had never liked her, for the most obvious of reasons. She had already apologized for the long-distance right hook long ago and tried to be congenial to the woman over the years when she thought she was rehabilitated. And Helen had to suppose that she was. Even as she hated him, if Syndrome had come crawling to their door bloody and broken, she would be hard-pressed to turn him away. Still, the secret alliance had shaken her tentative trust in the girl, something that would take much time to rebuild.
The one thing stalling it was how Mirage treated Violet-like a successor. The way she spoke in the showers that first night on ship as if giving her daughter advice on how to handle Syndrome, the both of them sharing stories about the villain as if communing over a dear mutual friend. It had raised the hairs on Helen's neck. Violet could keep up with Syndrome-she was exceedingly smart, as her short but productive stint in school had proven, but that did not mean they were compatible in that sense.
And Violet…
She looked towards the door where Violet had disappeared. Her only daughter, such an odd mixture of confidence and hesitation. She was quiet and introspective, her nose always in a book or eyes turned to the stars. Never really a part of the world around her, content to observe through the small part of her mane. Helen had seen her hide behind her hair when she was asked about Tony to keep her tears from showing, hide when Kari or Honey or even Bob offered to introduce her so someone 'new' she might like. Violet had let those locks block her expressions when she quit The Prevention Initiative, medical school pamphlets clutched in her hand, and was constantly told in interviews to let them see her face. Her mother watched her hide behind that dark curtain when she explained that Syndrome had not just kidnapped her, but saved her as well.
But Helen knew she had taken charge of protecting her brother on the island, and again on Winston's boat, deducing that her powers were best to keep them safe. Helen had been so proud whenever that look of fierce determination came over her features, knowing the wheels in that head were turning. She had known her prediction would come true: when the time came, Violet would know what to do.
Planning, always planning. Puzzling and figuring out, thinking and sorting, almost scheming. It was a look that was familiar now, having seen her daughter turn it on college applications to gain entrance, essays, and exams to become valedictorian and even her own brother when he pestered her too much about truly being a hero.
And that calculating, flinty look of hers trumping her shiness time and again never gave Helen any pause in and of itself. No, what had chilled the mother to her very bones was the look of calculated planning her daughter wore whenever Syndrome smirked at her, spoke to her, or even stood within vicinity to her. Once Helen had recognized it, she saw it every time they gathered as a group, applied it retroactively to every instance she had witnessed them together.
Like the rest of the world faded from her attention, and all there was, was Syndrome and Violet's planning around him. Her daughter looked at the villain with the same hungry determination that had taken her away from heroism for good-and might do so again.
It was real and once Helen realized it, she also knew it was happening fast-too fast to wait for her husband or son to figure out. Violet was off-kilter from her captivity, of course, she was. But it was more than just the trauma of torture- Helen's mind gagged on the word, on the horror of her little girl being tortured, the mere thought causing an almost physical reaction. Violet was becoming someone different, not an Incredible and not Shadow. Some third, new entity that was beginning to form, and easily susceptible to influence. She was harder, faster, more quicksilver and cutting. Violet was becoming grayer, not a villain but still not yet totally above table, and Helen knew the course of that discoloration.
Because Violet believed she was in love with the villain. And whether he knew it or not, Syndrome's revenge on Mr. Incredible was about to be complete indeed.
Violet found Buddy as the stern of the ship, bent over the railing still in the throes of giving his dinner to the sea. Edging closer, she waited until he spat the last of it out, and leaned heavily against the railing, exhausted and limp. She gently touched his shoulder, holding the bottle out before his face. He took it from her and used the first few mouthfuls to wash out the taste, before gulping down the rest.
Turning, Buddy slid to the deck, head leaned back and eyes closed. Violet carefully knelt before him, the slightly damp metal of the ship immediately chilling her knees. Carefully she created a shield, and slid it under both of them, protecting them from the cold. Her touch made it invisible as she sat with him.
Violet didn't press, did expect anything from him. Instead, she took a few breaths before her voice finally decided to jump from her lips; the terrible plunge of actually articulating her terrors better done all at once instead of moving inch by agonizing inch. "It's changed for me. At first, I dreamed about what he was going to do to me. Cut me open and I can't shield. Sometimes I'd be in my body...and sometimes I'd just be looking at it. Like I wasn't even there-like it happened to some other Violet."
And it had. It happened to a Violet now dead, killing by experience. An outdated model.
"You were there. You were trying to tell me something, but...I could never hear you." Buddy's brows knit, and he looked like he was in excruciating pain. "I'm sorry," Violet amended quickly. "I'm not helping."
"No!" His voice was cracked, all metal now instead of the steel-edged tenor he usually had. With great effort it seemed, he lifted his head back up to look at her. "No, it's not that. You're in mine too. But it's never that benign. It's your screaming. You're always screaming, and I can never find you in the labs no matter how many I search. I'm always too late, too slow, being pulled backward like…" Like being sucked into a turbine. "Now, at least, it's like that. They were worse before if you can believe it."
"I can," Violet assured.
But he smiled at her, a grimace of condescension and humorless amusement. His expression reminded her so much of their time in the lab-when he would speak frightening truths with such flat emptiness, as if numb to the fear; the broken Lazurus. "You can't, princess. You can't believe it until you've lived it. Until you've had your torturer spoon feed you all while he describes how he ripped you apart and put you back together, forcing you to eat even when you puke. Or when your legs don't work, and he leads you around the lab like a dog, crawling on your arms, chasing a glass of water because you haven't drunk in fifteen hours, and licking the drops off the ground when it spills. Or when he makes sure every part of you functions with his own hands."
Violet felt bile bubble in her throat, the telltale watering of her mouth, but she forced herself to look him in the eyes, to not turn away from the wretched things he was telling her. To be brave, to bear it and prove she could. Because how could she claim to love him if she could not, and shy away when he needed her most? Tears leaked from her eyes, and she swiped at them, still refusing to turn from that dry ice stare.
She could only understand shades of what he spoke, even now felt Fell's hands on her as he examined her body, covering every embarrassing inch, shocking her until her functions lost control. "I'm sorry."
A burning hand touched her face, thumb swiping off the saltwater better in one pass than her own wet fingers in several. She grasped his wrist, holding his touch to her face, finally closing her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm trying to comfort you. Not the other way around. I'm-"
"Shut up," he murmured. "You are. You're here. And you understand." His other hand came up and he held her face, waiting for her eyes to open again. "No one else gets it-what it's like to live on after that. To die in a million ways, and still have to get up and live one more time, knowing that it's just around the corner; another memory, another nightmare, another second and you're right back there and you're stuck until it finished. They can't understand how living just becomes the moments between suffering, existing in two places at once. Then and now."
Violet's face collapsed as she began to weep in silence but earnest. It was like draining a wound, feeling the pain of pulling off the scab that time had created followed by the bitter relief as his word squeezed out the darkness inside her chest where Fell festered, the infection bleeding from her eyes drop by drop. The communion between their similar pains was like a blessing, a balm, and a drug all at once.
Because he understood because he knew on a level that no one else could comprehend how their ghosts weren't just phantoms that lurked in their dreams: they slithered along the halls of their thoughts, shedding skins of memory and fear behind; brittle imitations of what had been. But as he had explained it felt like he had reached in and grasped the vipers, pulling them from the cradle where her newborn love was housed, protecting it and letting it grow larger and stronger. She loved him more with each tender touch and soft plea for her to please stop crying, princess, please. I hate when you cry...
Violet pitched forward, and wrapped her arms around his neck, burning her face in his hair. He still smelled like the forest and spice and now the salt of the sea air mixed in. It washed away the lingering alcohol and bleach that tickled her nose whenever her memory was overridden by white, perfect walls and glass dividers. His burning skin through the thin cotton of her pink pajamas scorched away the feeling of round, clammy hands roaming clinically over her flesh.
I'm here and he's with me-I am safe.
Buddy tangled a hand in her hair, The other arm crushing her to him, keeping her close as they clung to one another as if their embrace held together their shattered pieces. Violet felt his uneven breathing and knew he was trying to swallow down hiccuping sobs before they broke through. She pulled back and brushed his face, surprised that it was still dry. Her fingers trailed over his brow and cheeks, across the bridge of that crooked nose that had so obviously been broken many times. Down the scar that ran from temple to chin, and discolored one eye.
Buddy was so broken and sharp, cutting anyone who got too close. But Violet had a surgeon's fingers, steady and careful. And she wasn't afraid of a little blood.
"Will it get better," she asked. "When it's done, tell me it'll get better."
"I hope so," he replied, eyes still glued to her face in the darkness. "God I hope so. That's why I need to kill him. I need to feel him take his last breath-just so I know he's gone, dead, and this isn't a dream." He laughed shakily. "I think that sometimes. I dreamed about escaping for so long, for eight years, that I wonder if this isn't all a dream and I'm still back in that lab and finally cracked. Sometimes I dream about that room, and convince myself that it's true, and…"
Violet rested her forehead against his. She thought she had known the extent of Fell's cruelty. But listening to Buddy...knowing that Fell had, despite all her sacrifices for protection, harmed one that she loved, made her hate him with a heat that glowed anew-him and all those who would allow such suffering for their own gain. Her vengeance against the madman and his ilk was a spring that flowed eternally, one she was too tempted to gorge herself on.
"We're here," she told them both. "We are here. And that place is gone. It's a bunch of rubble in some God-forsaken forest and we're here because of you. You were quicker than him, smarter than him. I'm alive because of you pushing me. You saved me, Buddy."
She didn't say the word, the word that had haunted his life since he was a child. But it was true-in the end, through the smoke and blood and horror, Buddy Pine had become a hero. Not clean cut, suited, and smiling; but a hero nonetheless.
He nodded against her head, his eyes looked up at her, mismatched but still so coldly blue. And the longer he looked, the more she could see the haunted visage of Lazarus fade away, burned by something warmer than the chill of fear and hurt. In its place, Buddy gazed at her with such open emotion on his face, Violet's heart ached.
But when her fingers brushed his neck as she cupped his face, he hissed. "You're freezing."
"I'm okay." Her trembling had nothing to do with the cold breeze over the water. "You're warm."
"Come on. At least this fever can do something good." Buddy pulled her close between his legs, wrapping his arms tightly around her. He buried his face in her hair, fingers trailing over her arms, perhaps to warm her, or perhaps just to feel her skin under his fingers. She didn't protest, but once again wished against wish that there was a heartbeat under her cheek where it lay against his chest. She focused instead on the wonderfully heady and warm feeling wrapping her arms around his slender waist gave her. Under all her sorrow, something stirred in her stomach-something utterly feminine in response to the feel of him all long lines and firm flesh under her touch. A dull burning tried to lick at the frost creeping along her heart that thoughts of Fell left behind.
For a long time, they sat there, content to be in the moment, totally unaware that they were observed from the shadows, if only for a moment.
Buddy rested his mouth against her crown, and Violet thought he might have drifted off to sleep if it weren't for his question: "You said it changed. What do you dream of now?"
"You." A burp of ill-timed laughter broke through her sorrow. "All I do the whole night through..." She felt Buddy's quick smirk against her hair. "I dream that it's you on the table instead. But I'm wheeling down this hallway...and you're begging and I don't stop and you're just crying and-and-and-"
"You wouldn't," he said. "You couldn't."
"We're both doctors. We've both killed before-we've both cut you open-!"
"You aren't like Fell." Buddy's hands gripped her tight, nearly crushing her against him in his intensity for her to understand. "You aren't like Fell at all, and you never could be. I've seen you break, and even then you don't betray what you know is right. Do you know how rare that is? Don't you know only idiots never doubt themselves? Idiots and monsters." His too warm hand slid under her chin, forcing her to stare up into that mismatched gaze.
"Your dad never did-most supers don't. Syndrome never did. Never. You're stronger than me, than him, than Fell. He tortured you and you still didn't break. You changed, adapted but you never stopped. Christ, Violet, you're my hero."
The sound of her name on his lips fell on her heart like drops of dawn, breaking the unending night that had settled there. Tears still dripped from her wide eyes, less infection now and more hope. She wanted him to say her name again, she wanted him to hold her like this every night she woke in terror only to find herself free of the lab but a prisoner to the darkness. Violet wanted him so badly, her very bones ached with it. So her eyes closed and her head tilted back, offering her mouth to him, to cement his declaration with a kiss.
Fingers touched her lips instead of his own. "Believe me, princess, I'd like nothing better than to sit here and make out like a horny teenager," he admitted in a choked voice. He shifted slightly and she felt the truth of that statement against her hip. "But you really don't want to kiss me right now."
Violet frowned, about to protest.-then she remembered how this encounter began. So she kissed his fingertips, holding his hand as she pressed her lips to his palm, the inside of his wrist; reciprocating those tender touches that had damned her weeks ago. Buddy groaned, and buried his face in the crook of her neck, pulling away from her questing mouth only so that he could wrap her tightly in his embrace again.
So she contented herself with burying her nose against his neck, smirking when she felt him shiver. Her hand rested on his chest, feeling his pendant through the cloth of his black shirt, her finger tracing the chain idly. Protector.
And in his arms, Violet did feel protected. I was an odd sensation. She usually despised feeling small and vulnerable, always the one defending and saving. But curled in his arms, nestled against his broad chest, feeling the strength of his hands as he held her close, Violet did indeed feel very small, but not weak. Instead, she felt safe.
It was that sensation that finally carried her off to sleep.
Buddy Pine wasn't a delicate man.
It was a skill he had to develop over time, it wasn't natural for him. He was bold, in personality and touch; ran into things headfirst, and barreled forward through the tough times. He was a hard-ass as a boss, and even harder to befriend which led him to a very limited inner circle. He never stopped and contemplated, a goal always ahead and too little time to get there for overthinking. "If you want anything worth having, boy," his father had told him one day, "You'll have to learn to be gentle."
It had been a conversation over the broken parts of a toy. Buddy had always had a famed Irish temper, and had, when young, not been one to scream or even cry, but destroyed. He had not been able to get the object to work with his clumsy baby fingers and had thrown it to the floor. Buddy couldn't remember what exactly the toy was, but he had remembered his father refusing to replace it. If he wanted to play with it, Buddy would have to either figure out how to fix it or learn to live around its new deformities.
The lesson was relatively simple, but one of the few that had stuck with Buddy his whole life. He hated defeat and decided to prove to his father that he could fix it-only to be humbled and ask for help. His parent had sat him at the kitchen table while Ma was cooking, and talked him through repairing the toy, holding the end of the tools he used that were far too big for his hands. "No, Buddy. Gentle, don't go trying to rip it apart. Be careful, son."
It was a lesson he would have to learn again and again as he grew. From toys to his father's garage, to his school shop classes. When his attention had diverted from mechanics to computers-it was something he would have to hone even over his intelligence. Motherboards and computer guts were more delicate than spider silk. He couldn't simply sweep in and do what he pleased, like in relationships and business. It needed special attention, extra care with its delicate pieces. Even something as benign as a shaky hand could destroy a project months in the making.
So he had learned to be gentle in a sense and hated every minute of it. He didn't like it and viewed it as a necessary trial.
Until.
Until he had seen Violet shrieking from electric shocks.
And then Buddy wished he could just be gentle. She felt so small in his arms. Delicate, breakable. By that time the staple hospital food diet had slimmed her already willowy frame, so that had accounted for the lightness of her. But she wasn't fighting him like the first time, twisting and angry. She had lain limply, head lolling in a very good imitation of death.
He had panicked: he could pull down an entire building's infrastructure, computers, and machinery in the span of a half an hour, but he couldn't fix a human even if you gave him a decade. So he had lain her on her bunk carefully, afraid at any moment she might shatter, or worse, stop fucking breathing, and wished he had a gentle touch, afraid anything he did to aide her would harm her like the parts of a toy ripped off by toddler's hands.
Wanting such a thing had been surprising in retrospect, especially for this girl. It wasn't as if he was afraid of Fell punishing him for her death-he'd do that anyway and Buddy knew whilst still in hiding, Fell needed him. Besides the mad man hadn't been too caring for his other rats, ordering them dead after a few weeks anyway. Buddy had panicked for her welfare, not his.
She was like a virus, crawling under his skin, agitating him, making him confused and light-headed. Violet was a blend of delicate parts and pure iron will, the construction of her something that puzzled him for months. He had tried picking her apart and again and again, sure he figured her out only to be surprised and sent straight back to square one. She was vulnerable and scared, and willful and firey. The way she constantly fought back, no matter how often he explained their situation, for her own goddamn good to boot, she insisted on resisting. She was wide-eyed and innocent, but sturdy and immovable.
But in that horribly panicked moment, she had only been utterly broken-fragile and weak. And Buddy wanted to speak to her gently, but couldn't find the words, reached out touch her, but was too goddamn afraid. He may have hated her-hated her whole damn family, but even he, once Syndrome now Lazarus, would have mourned the loss of such a uniquely powered super...such a uniquely interesting girl.
It had frightened him. He had grown used to her fiery temper, her fighting, her unbreakable will crawling out between the cracks of her fear. Almost depended on it-without it, he felt like his legs had been cut off all over again, if only for a second. He had never felt more relief than, when after a few gulps of water, that fragility had vanished and the familiar rage came out swinging.
And then something so much worse flushed out his fear: Hope.
Violet had given him hope, that for all the torture and failures, there was a way to fight it. Buddy had already developed a plan to get out-as Ultra. But Violet had given him hope-an idea that they could get out sooner, get out and not only take Fell down but the whole fucking infrastructure. She had been determined to have vengeance, to know who sold her that it had, like a flame to kindling, lit his own fire to fight. Not simply assassinate Fell, but to rip him and the roots he was making with money and favors, straight from the ground.
But it didn't stop there-why would it? When had life ever cut him a break? Violet had inspired him. For eight years as a slave, Buddy had used his intelligence by rote. He was no doctor, left to fudge and slur his way through what Fell wanted him to do, always with a companion that was either silent or tritely hostile. There was no outlet for his once brilliant mind, collared like his neck. Violet, however, was different. She was intelligent, he knew, as he had rifled through her documents in her bedroom when he first captured her.
But more importantly, she was adaptable. She hadn't sunk into a depressive silence, nor had she kept up the useless heroic diatribe. Instead, she had accepted her position (at least for a few rare moments), and decided to work with it, work with him, her sworn enemy. It was a logic he hadn't expected of her, especially when she took interest in his experiments. And after, when they had been separated and she was given the impossible task of living with all she had endured, Violet had marched straight into the den where a lion lay in wait, angry and hungry for her blood, unbowed. She survived Fell and had come out fighting.
Buddy remembered that absurdly happy moment when he found her standing in Nat's hall. He knew his time was running out-his reset hadn't worked and he was going to die from the twitching his metal body was doing but was determined to get to Fell and reap his final vengeance just in time. He didn't care if he dropped dead the second that bastard took his last breath. He was sad for it, but part of him was ridiculously, and secretly, sadder still that he would not see Violet's face again. After all, he heard her goddamn voice ringing in his ears every day with memories that haunted his waking hours as surely as Fell did his sleeping ones.
And there she had been, tall in her super suit and jacket, long raven hair pulled back from her moon pale face. And he had almost smiled, happy that for once he had gotten his wish. It had all gone to shit after that of course-her family was ever a thorn in his side. But for a moment...
After that, she had proven her strength again. There was no fragility in how she had taken command of the situation, moving everyone like her own personal chess pieces with nothing more than a few words and a dark look. Even Buddy found himself obeying without a thought, even as he grumbled and cursed his way through it. He didn't remember much from the surgery, but he could recall her steady and even voice, unshaken by the horror of what was laid out in front of her. He remembered her soft touch on his forehead and even softer words that pierced him better than any scalpel.
And still, having been given such a good example, he failed to be gentle with her. He hadn't wanted her to cry-he didn't want anyone to cry, seeing as he never was one who did well with emotions. Computers didn't have emotions, they had commands and he was good at creating them. Comfort and tenderness? As alien as gentility.
So he had panicked, ordered her to comfort herself, and was surprised that he was obeyed. He knew it was a missed opportunity. He could have reached out and wiped her tears, thanked her for her saving his life. But either it had been pride or shame over his own ineptitude that stayed his hand. He'd simple watched her dry her tears, and been envious of the coth on her cheeks.
The desire had been so strong, it scared him. He scrambled; yelled at her, teased her, and pushed every button he could get his hand on in the months that followed. It was safer, familiar ground. He loved the resistance she gave, the way she always came back just as hard, as quick, and as smart as him. How she matched him.
But when it really mattered he found he didn't want to push. He didn't want to be bold.
He wanted to hold her hand and kiss her fingers softly, to linger in that simple but meaningful touch. He wanted to pull her in and erase that stupid smash of mouths from her memory. He wanted to run his fingers through that thick mane slowly, twisting the locks around his fingers and just observe the sun caught in the raven color. In quiet moments in the dark, when Violet couldn't see him struggle, he finally found the gentility he sought for, the sweetness he wanted to gift her.
Not that sweetness was all he felt for her. Jesus no, Buddy Pine burned inside and out. He wanted Violet something awful. Longer than she did, he was sure. It had been a base thing at first: he'd been surprised at how she had grown up-mostly because he didn't really remember her from the island. One snot-nosed kid just looked like another in his opinion. She was gorgeous and he was a guy, simple as that. Even when she woke up, her spitfire had been as exciting as annoying.
But it was something he had passed over quickly, shrugged off as he would thinking any woman was pretty-in the eight years since the jet, he had seen beautiful women on the outside after all, though he'd never been at liberty to do anything about it. He was always on a time clock, too busy just trying to survive his insane taskmaster. Buddy had chalked it up to a nearly decade-long drought from sex.
He had only realized it was becoming more than that when Fell had tried to bank on his partiality for the girl. To induce him into knocking her up just so Fell could cut her open and peel the baby layer by layer to find how it grew. It wasn't just the inhuman idea of harming a woman and child that had stoked his ire (he may not be partial to kids but he wasn't a fucking monster). It was the notion of doing that to Violet who he had come to begrudgingly respect. If it meant his life and death, Buddy would plow who he had to plow and figure out how to get them out before the scalpel came near.
But he knew in that split second Fell had offered it, he wouldn't do it to Violet. He barely knew her, but somehow, in her infectious way, she had wormed onto his very short list of people to protect. And he had been angry enough to break a chair over that fact.
He barely knew her and yet her accomplishments became his accomplishments. He didn't even like her, but he hated the fact that she pinned him as the typical evil mad man more than he hated her lineage. Buddy didn't know who Mr. Incredible's daughter was, but standing in that midnight forest, high on victory and disbelief, he was never more ecstatic than knowing she had survived, despite all his impatient and bold choices.
So he had grabbed her and tasted the first drop that broke that physical drought. She had grabbed back, probably out of surprise.
And Buddy had regretted it ever since.
Not that he didn't want to kiss her-oh he'd like to do a lot more than just peck her on the lips. But it was the messiness, the clumsy crash of faces that bothered him. He hated thinking that Violet thought of him as a bad kiss-idiotic though it was what with their lives and the lives of hundreds on the line, the clock slowly but surely ticking down to doomsday. Buddy wished he could go back, do something stupid but heroic-maybe tilt her backward or some dumb shit like that. He wished that gentility came naturally to him so he could have kissed her properly as he knew how. He had wanted to leave her weak-kneed, and as infected by strange attraction as he had been.
Buddy wished he had been gentle.
So he had regretted that moment like he had as a child, looking over what he had destroyed with his own hurried thoughtlessness.
Buddy wanted to give Violet something better than bold and rash. It was insane, it was stupid, but it was a very real desire. And until now, it had been secret.
He had kept his distance and had been grateful for their acidic rapport so that he could hide how he lingered over her in his thoughts. It didn't make his objections to her and her family coming along any less true-they were very behind schedule because of her lumbering father and snappish mother (not to forget the little blonde maggot always trying to pick a fight he couldn't hope to win). But Buddy hadn't wanted her close to him again, afraid that she might read it on his ridiculously expressive face how he was coming to care for her.
Violet's proximity fed into an addiction that had him harder in its grip than his need for painkillers. The attraction was foolhardy, it was impossible, and it would only lead to tears-or worse-blood. But it remained, like the hope in his chest. And it would kill him. The sickness of Violet Parr broke through the planning and the determination like a stubborn rash. He hated it.
But Buddy didn't hate her.
No. No, he didn't hate his princess-and she was his princess. Buddy hadn't wanted to believe it at first. He thought he was seeing things, wanting something so badly he began to see it in every innocent interaction. Her concern over him at the house had been clinical for sure. Her blushing when she had fixed his suit's collar had just been embarrassment over her parents, obviously. But when she had asked about the kiss, he had grown curious-a dangerous habit they both shared. Violet had passed it off as nothing, and he had tried to compartmentalize it as wounded pride-it had certainly stung his.
Buddy had tried pushing it away, berating himself for becoming focused on something so stupid-like focusing on mocking Mr. Incredible on Nomanisan and missing how Natalya was turning against him. But, like a virus always did, it flared up in the quiet moments: when she watched him work on her father's car with those big ass questioning eyes of hers, or when she had left the security of her family to sit by a pool with him. He wanted her to appreciate those quiet moments of companionship like he idiotically did.
But still, that regret gnawed at him; he didn't want her to think of him as rushed and selfish (even if he was). He wanted Violet to see him in a better light. And he wasn't stupid enough to ignore history repeating itself: he had wanted her father to see him different than what he presented as well. But this went deeper-his idolization over the super had always been about Buddy, about his own success, the place in him he was so desperately trying to fill.
This was about Violet. This was about giving her something better than Syndrome, or Lazurus-something even better than even Buddy. He wanted that for her, even if it presented as pride over a kiss.
So when he offered to give it to her, and she had protested-but not vehemently, he knew. With dizzying, reckless, foolish elation he saw through her and found nothing but a mirror, a reflection of his own desire.
Buddy had a good idea of what her absolute denial looked like, and her teasing bore no resemblance. Desire was a look he knew well. His poor Nat, with whom he had never been very gentle, had looked at him with desire for years, especially when one of their little schemes and deals went off without a hitch. And when they had been on one of their few and far between breaks, he had sowed his oats in the upper echelon of society, where love and kindness were the dirty secrets, and desire was a specimen very closely examined. Buddy was well educated in the subject, and he saw it in Violet.
So in the darkness of the night, he had kissed her hand with more gentility than he knew his body was capable of, and he had seen the response in her eyes-cause and effect, stimulus and reaction. He was a scientist after all, and no project had consumed him quite like Violet Parr.
Against his better judgment, against all his years of trying and failing, and especially against his experience with Incredibles, he had pushed it. He had let his hands linger, he had let his eyes linger too, and damn did they enjoy the show. He had assumed, like everything he had tried to have, it would be a sham. A shadow play of desire and flirting without anything tangible and real to savor.
Buddy had never been happier to be wrong-flat out, insanely wrong. Violet not only desired him-Violet understood him. Understood the darkness that welled up in his chest and throat and soul, and the desire to push back. She understood the constant fight of wills inside, between the hateful, angry creature that bayed for blood, and the desire to channel rage into justice: to make things right. It was a struggle he'd fought with all his life, something he had tried to win for the latter as a child only to be sent home, and tried to conquer with the former as a young man only to be swallowed by jet flames.
That understanding had hardened something in him, a shell so thick that years of learning, education, practice, and even a love he thought was for a lifetime couldn't break. Yet within months of knowing her, with a few whispers and one single embrace on the deck of a ship at midnight, Violet had reached in as deftly as she had in surgery and shattered the ice around Buddy Pine's heart, finding the place where his natural gentility lay.
It came easily now, holding her small frame against him, curled between his legs. Buddy didn't want her to wake, wanted to stretch this simple moment out for as long as possible, despite the cold of the deck burning through his clothes. Her shield had left at the same time as her consciousness. His fingers carefully drew over her face, memorizing the contours. Her delicate nose, her round cheeks, dark brows, and pointed chin. He wanted to kiss her gently, even though he knew it wouldn't do jack shit to quell the want.
He could have dismissed it, hauled her up into his arms, and found a quiet undisturbed place. They didn't need to kiss to have fun-Nat and her perfectly painted lipstick had drilled that into his skull over the years. And it would be something to see the poised Dr. Parr pressed up against a wall, climbing him like a cat on a post. But their kiss was a mistake he was desperate to rectify, more desperate than secret islands and murderous robots. Buddy was desperate to see what a gentle kiss would do to her: would it really knock her knees out from under her? Make her quiet and pink-faced, and oh so pliant in his arms? Or would it make her fierce-like in the hospital, blood-covered and wild eyes.
He'd never want her vengeance turned against him, but he would like to see how she channeled that wildness into more...productive pursuits.
Buddy sighed against her crown. The more he dwelled on it, the more he wanted to find a toothbrush and that aforementioned quiet place. Their time was running out, but for this, he would make time. "You really are gonna be the death of me, princess," he murmured into her hair.
Standing, he lifted her in his arms for the third time. Now she didn't fight, nor did she fall limp. In her sleep she adjusted and curled closer to him, warming her hands on his back. She was insane coming out here in nothing but sneakers and cotton pajamas whose color better suited a teenager than a fully grown woman, even if he admitted he found it rather adorable.
Carefully, quietly, he carried her back to her bed, edging through the curtain to gently lay her on the mattress. He felt her shiver when he pulled the cool blanket over her shoulders. So Buddy sat with her, hoping to warm the bed with his fever heat. He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek, pushing away a few errant locks.
Jesus, she was pretty-and she didn't even know it. He'd seen her hide behind her hair like a little fool more than once even when her hair was tied up, as if she, her beauty, and her powers were something to be ashamed of. It was probably because he hated that about himself as a kid (hiding his smarts, his advancements because it was so odd) that he loathed it in her. How could she not look back on everything she had done and not realize how amazing she was? Beauty, brains, and tenacity. A triple threat and-
-And he was in such deep shit. Like a complete fucking idiot he'd gone and fallen in love with the woman.
Buddy rubbed his forehead, but couldn't find the guilt for it. He didn't care-he loved her, and it felt good because it didn't have the aftertaste of hurt or bitterness. It wasn't how he loved supers, or Syndrome, Syndicate, or even his inventions. It was something simpler, purer, like ore compared to machinery. Fundamental and natural. Sitting there, watching her breathe, he loved every wasteful second. It was a kind of heaven living in that moment, mind peaceful and quiet, comfortable with the woman he loved.
When a shaft of light fell over him, however, he stiffened as if struck by lightning as heaven fell away from him.
But no fist grabbed his shirt and flung him from the bed, no blow met his head. In fact, nothing at all happened, just the steady light over him and Violet on the bed. Buddy turned slowly, hoping it was one of his people, shocked and smirking at the sight.
No luck. Helen Parr stood, holding the curtain back, waiting for him to stand. She stepped aside and nodded to the door.
He knew an order when he saw one-even if he bristled at obeying an Incredible. No amount of love for Violet would change that. Buddy stood and followed the mother out into the dark hall, where only the weak uplighting highlighted the finer points of Elastagirl's glare.
Buddy folded his arms, and waited for the lecture that was forthcoming-after all, she hadn't hurt him yet, nor had she awoken her husband to beat him black and blue.
"That girl is my only daughter," Helen stared after shutting the door behind her. "She's my firstborn, and she's been through hell and back. I have seen her suffer for months because of what that monster did to her. He stole my little girl, and I have been fighting to get her back. So if you think you're going to sneak in and have your fun just because she's vulnerable and you've lost your bed buddy to a better guy let me inform you that you'll have better luck sticking your cock in a cactus."
Well, he hadn't been expecting that. In fact, he was a little speechless, mouth opening only to let out a strangled chuckle. Buddy was shocked she even knew that word-she was more straight-laced than his own mom (who believed that, if it was in French, it wasn't a swear).
But shock quickly melted into indignation. Were they even looking at the same woman? Violet wasn't some shrinking flower or shell-shocked little child. The woman that lay sleeping in the room was more than just the daughter of two washed-up supers. "I'm not-listen. I'm not trying to rock your kid's bed because she's easy prey, alright? I have scars that say otherwise, and if you weren't so deluded into thinking we're still in the golden days, you'd realize that too. Violet isn't a damsel in distress, and I'm not the boogeyman you're looking for trying to carry her off."
"Aren't you?" Helen matched his position, folding her arms. "Because you've tried to get her to turn. Does it make you happy to know you've almost done it?"
"Turn? What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about what you're doing to her. You're trying to turn her against her family-against everything she is. You're trying to make her one of you. You and your friends. Vigilantes, who think you're above the law, above everyone else because you're just so smart and smart-mouthed. You think you can do whatever you want just because you're clever, you have no respect for what's right and what's wrong. Lying and sneaking and hiding in the shadows, Violet isn't like that, wasn't like that before you. She is a good person, and you're trying to change her. And I'm not about to let you drag her away from everyone she knows so you can have a nice little prize on your arm-so you can finally get back at Mr. Incredible."
Buddy was in shock-not because he had been caught. No, she was speaking absolute bullshit. Buddy was shocked that Helen actually believed what she was saying. Of course, she did, no one with that much vitriol could lie. Had he really looked up to people who spoke like this? Thought like this? He had teased Violet before, about being different because she dared question the status quo. Now he realized it was a goddamn miracle that she even had a thought out of line.
"Do you even hear yourself? Christ Almighty-turn her? If you haven't noticed, lady, your little girl is pretty hard to convince. And if she's 'turning' against you, maybe it's because you're the one who thinks you're above us all. You and your powers, the arbiters of good and evil, like gods sitting in judgment of anyone who dares to go against your rules." Buddy pointed to the door. "She's the only one between you all that has a brain in her skull. If it wasn't for her and what you call turning you'd still happily have your neck under the boot of Echo at the NSA-because they're the good guys, right? If it wasn't for her and her doubting you'd all be in cells, one by one, because that's what Fell wanted. It was happening all over again and you were just too stupid to notice!
"You're just pissed off that she's proving all you and your husband did was bullshit. Down your enemy in a jet, forget about it, and move on. Who cares what happens next, right? You got your man, you stopped the villain-no thought to the repercussions, what comes next. She knows better. She has a brain and she uses it. And if that's 'turning', if that makes her the bad guy, then I hope she becomes the worst villain the world has ever seen."
Helen didn't have an answer to that, and Buddy savored finally catching a super without a snappy comeback. "Violet swore she would never turn against her family, and she tends to keep her promises. She still loves you all and your ridiculous morals. Maybe you're too fat on the public's adoration to know what real love is."
"And you do," Helen laughed bitterly. "You're really going to stand there and try to talk to me about love? Oh, do you love her? Is that what you really think?"
Her derision slapped him harder than if she had actually struck him, and his face burned because of it. It was so newly discovered, still fresh like newly healed skin, that to have it mocked so cruelly brought a special kind of agony. His love for Violet was a new, vulnerable place-the only one left on his mangled, tortured person. Buddy felt like he was twelve again, standing before his dream only to be shot down and dismissed. But he wasn't a child, and this wasn't a dumb fantasy. Besides, he didn't have a home to go to.
Still, he turned on his heel and stormed off, wishing he could rub the heat from his face, wishing he could turn back time and just stay in that heavenly moment when the world was quiet and Violet was his. Not the daughter of his most bitter enemy, not a hero, not a woman born of powers and power, in a world so wholly unconnected with him.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled, stopping him and making him stumble into the wall. He was tired, he was angry, and he was unsteady on this goddamn boat. Helen hurried close to him again, her arm reverting to a natural length. Half horror, half shock, she stared up into Buddy's face. It might have been a few seconds, or maybe a whole hour, but he thought she'd never stop. "Oh my God, you do, don't you? You really think-"
Goddamn him, and his face. He could never hide his emotions-not from his parents, not Natalya, not across a business table. It was the primary reason Nat had done all the deals that needed bluffing and negotiating. His tells were too obvious when he really cared, and he loathed feeling exposed.
And to his horror, he felt the pinprick of tears stab the corners of his eyes. But he hadn't cried in front of a super in his whole life, he wasn't going to start now, even if he desperately felt like it. Because an Incredible knowing his heart had only ever ended up in death for him before.
"Please," Helen began his execution. "Please, if you really do love her, don't do this to her."
He was sure they weren't talking about sex anymore. "Do what? Make her think?"
"Make her choose." Helen touched his shoulder again. "If you love her, let whatever's left of her be, please. Don't make her choose between you and her family. It would tear her apart. It would kill her. You know that, don't you?"
He did. Buddy hadn't thought about it, but it required little contemplation. I will never turn on my family she had screamed in the lab. Buddy knew there was only the time for them that he made-because they had no future. If they survived, Incredible would never condone it. And if he survived, Buddy's best chances were either jail or returning to the only life he'd known. An arms dealer, an outsider, a shadow man pulling the strings, and Violet's loyalty to what was right would hate that. She would come to hate him if he lived through this, and he couldn't stand that. But he also couldn't give her the quiet, pleasant life she'd known; idyllic and peaceful and filled with family. They were incompatible. It was all impossible. And even the smallest chance of it hinged on one damning word.
If.
"I told you," he choked out when he was sure his voice wouldn't tremble. "Violet already made her choice. And it's never gonna be…" No, no, no, you've made it thirteen years without crying in front of your enemies, without weeping in defeat. Do not break. Do not. He felt his chest ache along the scar Violet's touch had made. He was in agony anew, and as much as he wanted her, Buddy knew something else for certain: If their love caused her even an ounce of what he felt now, Buddy would spare her of it, even if the rest of his short life was miserable for it.
He shook his head and adopted his snide smirk, his best shield against his overly expressive face-better even than purple hazes at the hands of supers. "You don't have to worry. I'm probably not going to make it through this anyway. She'll be back as your little girl before you know it."
Helen snatched her hand back. "What are you talking about? You think you're going to die?"
Buddy sneered and stepped back, heading back to the deck, this time, more alone than his first journey there.
"If it came down to you or her, wouldn't you?"