"She looked momentarily stunned as she stared down at the paper clutched in her hand, and her knuckles going a paler shade of green was a good indication that she was upset. He found himself scrambling backward even before she shoved the flyer toward him, furiously demanding, 'What the fuck is this?' "

The last thing he remembered super clearly was Shea thanking him again, in that gentle, nervous little way she did when she really meant it. He remembered opening his mouth to respond and then bolting off the couch instead. He hoped he'd actually made it to the bathroom before he'd been sick, taking the fact that he was lying on the floor with his cheek pressed against the cool tile as a good sign that he had.

His blanket was thrown over him almost half-hazardly. That wasn't right… Haphazardly. It was thrown over him haphazardly. As he curled his shaking fingers around the fabric and pulled the blanket tighter around himself he vaguely recalled Shea following him into the bathroom.

He wasn't sure if he'd begged her to go away or had just wanted to beg her to go away but he was sure that she'd gone and put a glass of water down by his hand and patted his hair in a way that bordered on genuinely sympathetic. And of course that made him a whole different sort of fluttery inside and he had to remind himself again that she was sixteen, and then he told himself that the fact that he had to keep telling himself that was… worrying.

After poking his tummy a few times to be sure he wasn't going to throw up again he dragged himself to his feet and wibble-wobbled his way out the door. He wasn't exactly listing expectations, but seeing Shea dangling upside down over the back of the couch like a bat with a book in her hands wouldn't have been high on the list if he was.

The sight of her made him dizzy, and instead of the greeting he meant to say, he grumbled, "Would you sit properly? You're making me nauseous."

She scoffed but did some twisty-turny motion he couldn't quite make out that landed her sitting up properly on the couch. "Happy?" she said, with that lilt to her voice that told him she was only teasing him.

He grunted and staggered the rest of the way over before flopping onto the couch next to her. "My head hurts."

"Yeah, I know. You've told me that at least once every hour since six this morning." Shea laughed, but he didn't see what was so funny, so he just glared. More grimaced at her really - the sunlight hurt his eyes. "Did you brush your teeth?"

In lieu of answering, he asked a question of his own, his fingers fluttering to his face as he realized there was more than just a hangover to blame for his blurred vision. "Where are my glasses?" He sounded whiny again. Why did he always sound so whiny? At least it didn't seem to make her angry.

He had to stifle a gasp at her fingers grazing against his skin, as instead of answering she slipped his glasses over his face for him. Blinking away his shock, he reached up to fix them on his face, mumbling, "Oh. Um… Thanks."

"You look better," she commented dryly, and after catching her looking him over almost critically he was quick to look away.

"Just do me a favor." He pulled the blanket tighter, squeezing his eyes shut. "Don't ever let me drink again."

"Yeah, no kidding…"

He managed to crack one eye open just enough to glare at her which, as happened more often than not with her, made her smirk at him. "Please, tell me you at least got a little bit sick."

Shea shrugged. "If you want me to lie to you I will, but…"

"You drank as much as I did!" Well, did she really? He wasn't exactly sure how much he'd had to drink before she joined but he knew for a fact she'd been the one to finish his last glass when she was showing him how she breathed fire. "How could you not have gotten sick?"

She shrugged again. "I think my body may just burn off the effects if that makes sense. It happens with poison too."

"With…?" He felt his eyes shoot open. "You've been poisoned before?"

Her face flushed a wonderfully alien shade of green, and she looked away.

"But you just said! Um… I mean…" He let his voice trail off at the look on her face. Gulping he asked instead, "Do you burn off medicine that same way?"

"No," she repeated, grumbling under her breath.

"How is that–"

"Some friend of yours called," she informed him, quickly changing the subject despite the fact that he'd been smart enough to fall silent at her glare - even if she was lying to him.

Drew blinked. "Who?" He didn't exactly have a whole lot of friends, and the three he did have rarely called out of the blue. Maybe she misunderstood his mother or one of his cousins. Eddie, maybe? Smart as he was, and as much as Drew admired him, he tended to be loud and brash and rushed when he spoke, and he had a hard enough time understanding him even with perfect hearing.

Shea paused for just long enough that he started to wonder if she was just lying to change the subject. Finally, with a one-shouldered shrug, she said, "I think he said his name was Robby or something? I dunno, the guy just started talking before I could say anything."

"Bobby," he corrected reflexively, then paused, blinking as surprised curiosity overwhelmed him and made his headache start to fade. So, it really was one of his friends. Strange that he would call, especially on a Tuesday of all days - if they did call it was on weekends, to talk about upcoming plans. Or sometimes for help studying, but it seemed too early for that. "What did Bobby want?"

"He was wondering if you were taking some dorky class with a name too long for me to bother remembering."

"That's not exactly– What time is it?"

Shea reeled back, hopefully just surprised by his sudden shouting and not scared or angry at him for it. "A little before one," she told him, snatching his wrist to shove his watch in his face.

Nearly cursing his earlier reckless stupidity, Drew jumped off the couch. Well, he attempted to. It shouldn't have surprised him that his foot caught on the blanket and he went tumbling face-first in the direction of the floor. He didn't get the chance to scream before Shea had shot out her arms and caught him mid-fall with a hand planted on his chest.

His ears were burning as he retreated to his room in an increasingly flustered rush. He could still hear her giggling about his tripping over the blanket a second time by the time he shut the door behind him, locking it for good measure.

He hadn't been so drunk earlier that he'd forgotten his inebriated decision to skip class, but he wasn't so hungover now that he still thought it would be a good idea. It was only the second day of the semester! He couldn't miss the second day! Especially considering his only class on Tuesdays' was one his boss taught.

Grape juice was reason enough to change clothes entirely and he nearly fell several more times yanking a clean pair of jeans on. Without looking he reached into his dresser to pull out a t-shirt, but the soft, worn-out feeling of the fabric made him slow down for just a moment. The Mighty Martian shirt he'd grabbed, still too big on him a decade and a half later, was reserved for only the worst of days. As much as it meant to him, he didn't want to risk ruining it.

Carefully folding it again, Drew turned and grabbed a white polo shirt, hoping it would help make him look a little more presentable. There was hardly enough time to brush his hair, let alone water it down to slick it back the way he liked it, so he needed any appearance boost he could get. Was that why robots needed to be so shiny? Because if they got rusted and dirty they'd be more evil-looking or scary? No, he decided, yanking the shirt over his head. No, they were shiny because being shiny is what made them scary. They were just too perfect.

Perfect just like Shea when she smiled at him from her place on the couch. Perfect and scary. And yet somehow, he couldn't resist smiling back, even as his brain pounded in his skull like it wanted to escape out his eyeballs. Ew. Another word to never use again, Drew decided. Eyeballs. Weird.

"Food," he stated, realizing only after he did that he said it out loud. "Um… Have you had any?"

She hummed, though he couldn't tell if she was answering him or just acknowledging that he'd spoken as she turned back to her book. Deciding she would eat if she got hungry - though the day before had disproven that theory - he poured himself a bowl of cereal, which he ate with one hand while attempting to tie his shoelaces with the other.

Milk dribbled down his chin and his laces were more knotted than ever, but his real mistake came after he'd dumped his bowl in the sink. Well, it sort of came the night before, when he'd done his homework on the couch rather than in his room, and had been stupid enough to leave his backpack unzipped. But asking Shea to toss it in his direction certainly didn't help.

He realized as she reached down for it that her looking inside would probably not end well for him. He never got the chance to tell her to wait. Sure enough, though she didn't bother looking up when she grabbed it for him, the loose contents of his backpack spilled out as it hurtled through the air in his direction. Paper flyers fluttered to the ground much the same way fleets of spaceships on Mighty Martian and Captain Constellation landed, which was not a comparison he should have been mentally noting at that moment, all things considered.

Just his luck, his notebooks and textbooks all stayed safely inside, and he ended up stumbling back a step as the still-heavy bag smacked him square in the chest, a yelp escaping him as he futilely tried to grab for the papers. Shea glanced up at the commotion.

"I'm– Just let me!" Drew snapped in a panic, rushing forward to grab her hand in an attempt at stopping her from inspecting the papers. He missed completely, not that she seemed to have noticed him trying to stop her as she plucked one of the fluttering flyers out of the air.

"Ever heard of closing your—" Her voice cut off suddenly, and he risked a nervous glance at her face. She looked momentarily stunned as she stared down at the paper clutched in her hand, and her knuckles going a paler shade of green was a good indication that she was upset. He found himself scrambling backward even before she shoved the flyer toward him, furiously demanding, "What the fuck is this?"

He was fairly certain, for a brief moment, that her eyes were glowing with her anger, and he continued to move backward toward the door.

"I don't– It wasn't– I thought I– Nngh!"

And with that he shoved open the door and fled, leaving Shea glaring at him from inside his apartment as he raced down the hall. He stopped running halfway down the first flight of stairs, his lungs burning already. There'd been no sound indicating the door had opened, so, for whatever reason, she wasn't following him.

Chastising himself for being such a coward all the while, he made his way to the bus stop, ripping yet another flyer from the billboard while he waited. Shea wasn't stupid, he knew, so she knew exactly what she was seeing. He'd just hoped she wouldn't have to see it, was all. He hoped even more that taking them down had been the right choice, even if not telling her what he knew wasn't.

He had figured out the truth the day they went to the library. Her story about getting struck by a comet had intrigued him, and having just seen her fascinating superpowers he was inclined to believe it. But he was sure something like that would have been reported. So, while she searched for books, he spent his time searching for… well, her. Her comet, at least.

Drew rested his head against the cold window, despite the fact that it pressed his glasses into his face and knocked his head hard enough to hurt. He still didn't understand how she'd made it all the way to Lowerton from someplace called Go City in seemingly just one day, but he hadn't known how to bring it up. Even harder to bring up was Shego, which he'd been able to tell was her even with the mask covering her eyes in the glossy black and white photo.

It wasn't that he had a problem with it! The opposite, in fact! He wanted to talk to her about it. It was pretty cool, considering the coolest thing he'd ever done was… he wasn't sure he'd done anything people considered cool. But she hadn't brought it up, and he wasn't sure she wanted him to know.

He thought he was sure, at least, that she wouldn't want flyers hung up everywhere they went. When he saw the first one on his way to class the day before, he'd ripped it down in a panic. And then he'd exhausted himself running around trying to find any others around MIST's campus. He'd been strangely offended on her behalf when they all called for help finding Shego. Then he'd questioned if she just made up the name Shea so he wouldn't figure out who she was earlier. He still wasn't sure.

All he really knew now, he thought as he wandered off the bus and in the direction of the neuroscience building, was that people were definitely going to want the reward attached to handing her in, he didn't want her to disappear (even though she was a pest), and that, now, she was mad at him. And he really, really, didn't want her to be mad at him.

An arm thrown around him suddenly made him yelp, pulling him out of his thoughts about how he was going to explain himself to Shea when he got home. So long as she hadn't run away…

The shiny metallic rims of round glasses came into his view through the corner of his eye and Drew forced a smile at Bobby Chen who hardly spared him a glance as he dragged him faster toward the neuroscience building. "So, you are in Advanced Neurobiological Chemistry with me right, Lipsky?" Bobby asked. "I'm thinking I could use that brain of yours."

"Sure, I am," Drew muttered, only just paying attention to what was being said to him.

Bobby elbowed him gently in the ribs, and he blinked, focusing his attention on him. "Family visiting or something? I tried calling, but you weren't the one who picked up."

"Oh, that was just my new roommate," he explained, with what he was sure was an unnoticeable hint of resentment in his voice. He didn't want to remain upset about his three friends ditching him all the way out in Lowerton for a house on the outskirts of Upperton, but he was hardly able to help it. It wasn't even that he was mad at them, so much as at the fact that he couldn't possibly afford to join them, even splitting the cost between the four of them.

Although, he thought brightly, if he had moved in with them he never would have been able to meet Shea. So far, he didn't think he'd make that trade. Sure, he was more than a little nervous about going home after class now, but he still liked her. She was interesting, even before the superpowers. There was just something about her that he was drawn to. Hell, even the night they'd met he had been secretly thrilled when she continued to follow him after he'd told her to leave him alone.

"Your roommate sounded an awful lot like a girl," Bobby said with a slight grin, and before Drew could point out that that was because she was, they'd entered the classroom and were immediately hushed and told to find seats. Cringing back slightly at the glares shot their way for the disruption - although class hadn't officially begun yet - the two shuffled to seats at the side of the room, as close to the front as they could get, wearing matching blushes.

"This will not be an easy class," the accented voice of the professor declared, as he walked to the front of the classroom. "As students here at MIST, I expect all of you to be able to handle the work."

Dr. Cyrus Bortel, a short, dark-haired, man in his early forties, was a genius in every way, and Drew had never admired another human being more. Dr. Bortel had been the one to scout Drew out when he was just thirteen, offering free tuition for him to attend some of his introductory courses.

Although it took a few years for his mother to agree, the offer was never dropped. In exchange, Drew had had the privilege of working alongside him since his very first day of college. Sure, sometimes he wished his tasks went beyond grading, fetching lab equipment, and teaching the occasional lecture, but he still knew he was incredibly lucky to watch the man work at all. Not to mention the perk of practically being paid to attend college.

"You can come to me if you're ever struggling," Bortel droned on. Much as Drew admired him, even he couldn't find a way to make syllabus day entertaining. "There is no TA in this course, however," the man wandered towards where Drew sat, gesturing to him briefly, "I trust Mr. Lipsky here to be of aid to any student who needs it if you ever cannot reach me."

Drew gave a tense nod at his mentor, and then another in the direction of the room, hoping his ears weren't as red as they felt. He pushed his glasses up higher on his face, as Bobby snickered beside him and gave his arm a light shove as the professor walked away.

Twenty minutes later, having learned little more than if Dr. Bortel would accept late work (he wouldn't) and if he would be giving assignments every week (he would), Drew found his eyes closing against his will. Exhaustion combined with the panicked nerves still making his heart thunder inside his chest at sporadic moments seemed to catch up to him all at once.

The next thing he knew, he felt someone kick his shin under the table and his whole body went rigid as he blurted out, "I'm sorry!" Giggles started up from the few tables around him, but the rest of the room hadn't seemed to notice his nodding off.

"At least you don't snore," Bobby mumbled to him with a shrug, as he wiped drool off his cheek. It was of little comfort (though he appreciated the effort) as Dr. Bortel's gaze turned to him.

Drew gulped. The only time he'd been yelled at by a teacher of any sort had been when he was seven. He'd bitten another child who'd been sitting in the waiting room at the speech therapist's office. He still stood by the fact that the kid had deserved it, but his therapist had screamed and screamed at him until he was crying even more than the boy with teeth marks in his arm.

He resided himself to being yelled at by one of his favorite people in the world, willing away tears already. But then, Dr. Bortel just shook his head, laughing as he said, "I told you, you didn't need to grade those exams so quickly, Drew. Look at you, you've exhausted yourself!"

He shrugged meekly back in response, perfectly content to accept that over shouting.

As the class came to an end, Bortel waved goodbye to the students as they shuffled out past him, giving Drew a pat on the back as he walked by which made Bobby snicker, "Teachers' pet," under his breath. Much as he knew he was kidding, it still worried Drew to think others would see him as a suckup. Teachers had always liked him and typically that meant students… well, didn't. Thankfully nobody else said a word to him if they paid him any mind at all.

Bobby's arm came to rest on Drew's shoulder, and he slumped a bit to allow it. "Are you joining the rest of us for lunch, Drew?"

He almost agreed. He almost agreed for the sheer fact that he didn't want to go back to his apartment and explain himself to Shea. But that same fact was exactly what had him shaking his head and saying, "No, no. I um… I need to talk to my roommate about something, actually. Tomorrow though!"

"We're all busy tomorrow," Bobby sighed. "But we'll be over at your place on Saturday, right? Your… roommate won't mind?"

Something about the way he hesitated before saying, "roommate" made Drew pause. It almost sounded like he didn't believe he had one. He dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. He had no reason to disbelieve him. He'd even spoken on the phone with her! Just because she wasn't paying rent didn't mean it didn't count. Not that Bobby knew that, he assumed.

"I'll ask," he said. "I'm sure it'll be fine." He hoped so at least. They always got together on Saturdays to watch the newest episode of Captain Constellation and play Hideaways and Hydras.

Worse, he remembered halfway to the bus stop, tearing down three more flyers on his way, was the possibility that she was already gone. He didn't know, though it had only been a few days, how he was meant to move on if she'd decided she didn't trust him anymore. If she was gone… He didn't know what he'd do with himself. They'd never even gotten to get their ice cream…

Running the rest of the way to the bus stop did absolutely nothing to get him back to the apartment any faster, considering he still had to wait for the bus. Of course, he managed to forget that. Some genius he was! He bounced from foot to foot the entire time he waited, at least until an older woman asked him if he "needed to go potty," which embarrassed him enough to make him sit down and wring his hands until his bus arrived. He all but threw himself down in the back seat, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the old woman.

He moved as fast as he could while still being able to breathe, all the way back to the apartment. Six flights of stairs later, he cautiously tried the door. It was closed now, unlike when he left, but it was still unlocked.

The creak of the door as he pushed it open made Drew cringe. Coming face to face with Shea standing cross-armed and clutching a fistful of the flyers in her hands on the other side of the door made his mouth go drier than the surface of Mars.

"Hello," he managed, his voice croaking like a frog going through puberty. Ha. If she didn't hate him he'd have to remember to tell her about that thought. She'd probably think it was funny too… eventually. At the moment she didn't exactly look ready to laugh at anything. She just thrust the flyers at his chest - more pushing him than anything else - knocking him back a step. Her quirked eyebrow was perhaps the only indication he had that she was giving him the chance to explain himself. "Can I– Can I come in?"

"It's your apartment," she muttered, sarcastically gesturing him inside.

"We should change your bandages," he blurted, pointing at her hands, still bandaged from the small fire the night before. He knew he was jabbering in what he also already knew was a terrible attempt at getting out of the upcoming conversation.

The flyers still clutched in her hand caught fire and fell around their feet in a pile of ashes. She tore the in-tact bandages off her left hand, throwing them at him. "My hands are fine and you know it!" Shea said, in a low voice that he decided was far worse than if she'd yelled at him. "What else do you know?"

Drew squeaked and moved away from her a few steps. "I… I know you aren't an alien." Now that he thought of it, he was surprised the idea hadn't occurred to him before he'd looked her up. "I was only trying to help," he pleaded, holding his hands up in surrender. Her glare softened, fading just enough for him to risk stepping closer, repeating himself as he reached a hand out toward her.

She stepped away from him as if suddenly he were the one with dangerous superpowers. It made him want to cry even more than the fear of Dr. Bortel yelling at him had. "You know," she snapped at him like a… like a snapping turtle, "it makes sense that I wouldn't know how to bring this up but you knew. You knew and didn't say anything. And here I was planning on telling you the truth like some kind of idiot."

"I was going to! I was going to tell you! I'm sorry," he pleaded. The sight of her eyes brimming up with tears - more out of anger, it seemed, than out of sadness - made his own begin to fill up too. He feared his chance to explain had been lost.

At least when she stormed away it was into her bedroom, the door slamming childishly behind her, rather than out of the apartment and out of his life altogether.