Private Hao let him into the office to answer Oppenheim's summons. Ross halted inside the entry at the sight of the people on the director's split-screen wall display.
'Crap,' he thought. 'Well, it had to happen eventually.'
"... must know where his loyalties lie. We are running low on military assets," the Empress of Indochina was saying in her posh accent. She continued grimly, "Over forty percent of our planet has been consumed by the invaders." Then she noticed him and her expression brightened. "Well, hello there, Dujom!" she said in the same manner one uses for greeting a puppy. "It's so good to see you! Your parents send their regards, little one. They're out tending to the refugees, or I'd invite them in to say hello."
He felt his face heating up. "Uh, hello, Your Majesty. It's been a while."
"Don't be so formal, darling. I used to bounce you on my knee."
The Director of the Denver Armored Response Coalition, the President of the United States of America, the Prime Minister of Canada, the Director of the Union Aerospace Corporation, the Tzar of Eurossia, and the Sovereign of Mexico and All Her Territories peered at the empress's "darling" with curiosity.
"Your Majesty …" Ross pleaded with his eyes.
The empress sat back from her casual posture but her fond smile remained.
"I'm doing it again, aren't I? My apologies, Ross. Apologies, everyone. I do get so excited to see one of my nephews."
"Nephew?!" Oppenheim exclaimed. "That wasn't in your file."
Hayden was suspiciously silent.
The empress waved a bejeweled hand. "Unofficial. Entirely unofficial. His mother and I have been quite close since childhood. Calling him by his Tibetan name is a hard habit to break." She leaned over the arm of her throne and said conversationally to the sovereign's hologram, "You know, Zyanya, 'Dujom' means 'destroyer of demons'. I picked it out myself." Her brilliant white teeth flashed. "Terribly prescient, wouldn't you say?"
'Please, please don't mention –' Ross prayed.
"I was there at his birth, actually, so you could say I've known him literally all his life."
'Here it comes.' Ross covered his face.
"He was such a beautiful baby. Classic Indochinese features and those exotic Western freckles, chubby ringlets of fat around his wrists and a plump little –"
Ross cut her off with his hands pressed together. "Auntie Omreth, I am begging you not to continue."
"Oh, of course, of course, little one. Apologies again." She stage-whispered to the sovereign, "I'll tell you after."
Ross groaned audibly, and the heads of state hid their grins behind various data slates, ceremonial fans and old-fashioned paper documents.
'It's the end of the world and I'm still getting embarrassed by my relatives in front of VIPs.'
The president cleared his throat, suppressing a smile. "If we might return to the matter at hand, Your Majesty."
Ross's pseudo-aunt waved at President Georgiou indulgently. "Yes, yes. Do go on, Emrys." She smoothed down her emerald necklace and fluffed her peacock-feather gown, as if to remind the assembled royalty of her empire's great wealth. Or rather, what remained of her empire's great wealth now that everything at sea level was occupied by demons.
"What is the status of the others, Director?" the president asked.
"One moment, sir." He turned to the corner where Catherine stood, and she approached to whisper in his ear.
He turned back to them and reported, "Sir, we've been able to establish a connection with the Unified Kingdoms of Africa, but the signal is weak. The High King can hear us, but we can't see or hear him yet."
"That will do for now. Keep working on it. What about the Pacific Commonwealth?"
Oppenheim said regretfully, "Your Excellencies, I'm afraid we have not been able to contact any of the Chief Speakers. We will have to go on without them."
There was an unofficial moment of silence as they all acknowledged that if the Commonwealth's leaders hadn't made it to high ground by now, they probably never would.
"Very well," said the president, clearly leading the current topic. "Let us continue with the matter of The Slayer." He folded his hands on his desk, and the other dignitaries perked up. "I believe the current topic is his performance yesterday."
"And what a performance it was," said Tzar Puskas.
The president said with a touch of wonder, "I haven't seen anything like this since the last CGI demonstration for a supersoldier grant. Still no idea who created him, Dr. Hayden?"
"None. He came through the Argent fracture not long after the Hellwave struck the Mars Base. After culling the infestation and closing the Fracture, he disappeared, only to pop up again at the North Pole a few months later. He has offered no explanation. He barely communicates with humans at all."
"Theories?"
"Yes … theories." Hayden's voice sounded almost smug. "Theories are Mr. Friedmann's specialty."
"Uh, yes, sir." Ross stepped forward, folded his hands behind his back as Empress Omreth had taught him, and bowed to them collectively. "Your Excellencies."
They nodded in acknowledgement, most of them with condescending smiles on their faces, now that they knew he was the empress's "little one".
Ross sighed inwardly.
"Catherine," he said loudly, "I'd like an AR glove if you have one."
The tall, willowy operator blushed at having the attention of so many heads of state directed toward her.
'Join the club,' Ross thought.
She hustled to retrieve an augmented-reality glove from her equipment arrayed along the back wall as Ross plugged a data token into Oppenheim's desk.
"Thank you, Catherine," Ross said again when she handed him the glove, emphasizing her given name for the de facto kings and queens to hear.
She glared at him surreptitiously.
Ross heard Omreth stage-whisper, "What a lovely girl. Quite intelligent, I hear."
Catherine's diamond-shaped face turned even redder, and she retreated into the shadows at the back of Oppenheim's office.
'That's what you get for stealing my potato chips, Ms. Charbonneau.'
Done fitting the glove onto his hand, he took a deep breath and slipped into what Philips liked to call "Rossplaining".
"Your Majesties, you have no doubt noticed that The Slayer has a suit of power armor far beyond anything we could hope to accomplish in the next hundred years or so."
"Indeed," drawled Hayden.
The kings and queens murmured their agreement.
"But his suit has Roman alphabet and Arabic numerals on it."
"True," the tzar acknowledged. "And?"
"That, and the fact that he can read English leads me to conclude that he is a soldier … from the future."
There. He'd said it.
There was the general raising of well-groomed eyebrows and fluttering of fans.
The sovereign trilled in her delicate voice, "The future, you say?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. That is the only situation that fits all the variables I can think of. And there are a lot of those."
The empress said confidently, "He does have quite the imagination. When my Ross says he's thought of everything, he means it."
Her Ross said, "Respectfully, Your Imperial Majesty, I'm trying to give a presentation here. This is my job."
"Yes, of course, of course. Apologies again … Mr. Friedmann."
"Thank you, Empress." He cleared his throat to re-focus himself. "That would explain the suit, its ability to store an AI that normally requires a gigantic computer core and a supercooled building, his knowledge of where we keep classified data and materials, and perhaps even his silence. Who knows what communication is like in the far future? Maybe humans don't communicate verbally anymore, but back here in 2150 we don't have the technology to 'hear' what he's saying."
"Telepathy?" the president asked with concern.
"Something more artificial. Perhaps everyone there is able to wirelessly transmit their thoughts back and forth."
"It would certainly be more efficient." Oppenheim stroked his chin. "Language barriers wouldn't matter if you could directly understand the other person's thoughts."
"Exactly. I think he's tried transmitting, but we aren't able to receive the signal because our methods of communication are too primitive."
"That would certainly be frustrating," commented the prime minister. "Can't he write to us?"
"I can recognize the Greek alphabet and Roman numerals, sir, but that doesn't mean I can write in Greek or do math in Roman numerals," Ross explained. "And as busy as he's been, I doubt he's found the time to learn a foreign language."
"Understandable," said Oppenheim. "Learning a new language and method of communication would certainly consume a good deal of the time he could be spending on the Slipgate."
"Yes, we were scheduled to discuss the Slipgate," Georgiou interrupted, "but something more interesting came up. Such as whether The Slayer is a national security threat."
"Right." Ross switched topics. He flicked a 2D visual into the air between himself and the wall of dignitaries. The Slayer's "slaughterfest" yesterday at NORAD was displayed in muted colors. Ross's notes flashed by with moving lines connecting them to the locations they corresponded with.
"I will assume most of you have seen the footage already."
"Indeed," Hayden drawled again. "Even on Mars he wasn't quite this … energetic."
"It depends on how much kinetic force the suit has collected."
"Pardon?" the empress asked.
"I think the plating is like a solar panel for his power armor, Your Majesty. Each time he takes a blow, the kinetic force charges his armor's power bank. Basically, the more damage the demons attempt to do, the stronger he gets."
"I'll need a little more convincing than that," Prime Minister Makwa warned.
"Here, sir." Ross sped forward to a specific time stamp. "The incident with the shipping container." The president and prime minister let out simultaneous impressed whistles while the tzar, empress and sovereign muttered excitedly to each other. They'd seen it before, of course, but the feat was still impressive every time. "And immediately after, Your Excellencies. The Baron, and the Mecha Zombie. Why would it take two punches to kill something that only weighs half a ton, if you can throw thirty tons? And why does he need to push the Mecha with his foot in order to pull its arms off?"
The empress arched an eyebrow. "Don't keep us in suspense, little one."
"Because he had just expended all of the suit's kinetic energy throwing the shipping container. He was down to merely his raw physical strength. No assistance from the power armor. It's still impressive to crush a Baron's head with one punch, but not the 'throwing thirty tons' kind of impressive."
"Therefore if he were separated from his suit …" Hayden mused. Something about his tone made Ross's skin crawl.
"Yes, sir. Without the suit he would be … containable."
Oppenheim and his audience visibly relaxed.
"So he does have limits." The president was almost limp with relief.
"As far as I can tell, causing a large expenditure of the suit's energy would leave him temporarily vulnerable, yes." Ross felt like somebody telling Lex Luthor that Superman could be subdued with Kryptonite. It grated on his sense of loyalty to The Slayer, but the important thing was that the people with their hands on the nuclear launch codes stop panicking that he was going to take over Earth and/or kill them all.
The tzar said, "Please continue, Mr. Friedmann."
"As you can see, he is perfectly capable of destroying enemy forces with nothing but his own strength, and the longer he fights, the more amplification he gains from the power armor. So why does he use weapons?" Ross asked rhetorically.
"Yes, why?" echoed the sovereign.
"To protect us, Your Majesty."
"Pardon?" Prime Minister Makwa frowned.
The empress narrowed her eyes. "Clarify, please."
"Here." He used the glove to fast-forward to the stomping of the Elite Guard's head.
Several of the dignitaries flinched.
"Let me assure you," Ross hastened to say, "this soldier was very, very dead already."
"That's a friggin' relief," Makwa said in that casual everyman voice that had gotten him elected. "Poor fella."
Ross continued, "He saw that this body was different. He paused. He started using the blade again."
"And?" Hayden seemed to be getting impatient.
"Here, sir." Ross rolled the video forward to a break in the fighting. The Slayer took a moment to come back to the Elite Guard. He went down on one knee and took the body's right arm in his hand, hesitated only a moment, and pulled off the gauntlet. The rotten forearm came with it, and slid out onto the ground in pieces. The Slayer seemed to relax. When another wave of demons came, he turned around and pulled out the chainsaw.
"The body had been there a while, held in that sitting position by its suit of armor."
"And?"
"It was an accident," Ross insisted. "He was 'in the zone', killing everything in sight, and the Elite Guard was only one more bipedal shape in a sea of hostile bipeds. Then he saw it wasn't a demon. He came back to see if the person had already been dead, or if he'd killed someone."
"How is that reassuring? The Slayer didn't know the man was dead when he kicked his head in."
Ross turned his attention fully on his listeners, letting The Slayer's magnificent display of strength continue to play. "He cared enough to check. Then he started using his tools again. The chainsaw. The shotgun. Soon enough, he's back to the whole arsenal."
"So?"
"Your Excellencies, The Slayer uses weapons to control himself so he doesn't accidentally kill a human being." Various grimaces of disbelief told him they needed more convincing. "Employing tools slows him down. Their use requires higher thought processes. It's the difference between 'Kill, kill, kill' and 'How much gas is in this chainsaw? Which gun should I use? Should I swap mods? Use ice, or fire?' " Ross paused for effect. " 'Is that a Zombie Cultist shuffling forward to attack, or a person in white clothing approaching me for help?' " They seemed to be listening now. "You see, The Slayer could eliminate everything by hand, but he chooses not to. There is the potential for massive collateral damage if he 'lets himself off the chain', so he utilizes weapons as a method of self-control." Ross tried not to plead. "The only reason he uses guns is to protect us from himself."
They were all quiet, digesting that information. Most were watching The Slayer using his chosen method of self-control. There were several rather meaty explosions.
"Let's say you're right," Hayden began. "What happens the next time he stops using weapons? How many casualties will there be? How many people will die before he regains control of himself?"
"None, sir. He wouldn't do that in a populated area. He deliberately went to NORAD to blow off steam because he knew there would be a high concentration of demons and absolutely no human beings."
"Let's assume that's true. Why did he need to 'blow off steam'?"
"We've … we've seen a lot of horrible things lately." Ross's eyes wouldn't focus. His thoughts became fuzzy around the edges. "There was a little girl. And her dad …"
He felt Oppenheim's firm hand on his shoulder. Ross blinked rapidly until his vision cleared.
"Yes, it's been a rough couple of weeks for you, Friedmann." The director's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "Taking a break from field work will do you good."
"Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right."
Oppenheim said to the dignitaries, "The Slayer's flight crew has definitely seen more than their fair share of deaths, Your Excellencies. Thompson and Garcia are veterans of the Second Amazon War, but even they require psychological debriefing on a regular basis. It is understandable that The Slayer might also need to vent his frustrations from time to time."
The world leaders made compassionate noises. Sometimes watching a massacre play out on a projection right in front of you was worse than seeing it in person from far away, particularly when it was live video.
"Do we know exactly what set him off that day? What did his tracking drone show? Can we see the footage?"
"Errr," Ross dithered. "Actually, no. There is no footage."
"Because?"
"He has an aversion to personal surveillance."
The empress said, "Ah. He doesn't like being watched. I know the feeling."
The heads of state, whose every waking moment was constantly guarded, scheduled and recorded for posterity, mumbled their sympathies.
"Yes, Your Majesty. Attempts to follow The Slayer after he 'clocks out', so to speak, are met with, uh … dynamic resistance."
"He smashes things," Hayden translated. "Yes, I am familiar with this aspect of his unusual personality."
An alarm began blaring in the background of the Tzar of Eurossia's makeshift throne room, bathing him in red and blue flashing lights.
Puskas said in a cool, unruffled tone, "If you will excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I believe the enemy is besieging the gates again. I must attend to this matter."
"Certainly, Your Majesty," the president said in an equally calm voice.
The tzar shut off his communications with a flourish.
Ross figured the stoic attitudes of these leaders was meant to reassure their citizens. If the Sovereign of Mexico and All Her Territories jumped up and started shrieking and wringing her hands, the news would spread within minutes and cause mass panic from Tijuana to Tierra del Fuego, which was the last thing humanity needed.
"Your Excellencies, we will continue with the matter of the Slipgate tomorrow, hopefully when High King Tuma has a better connection. This meeting is concluded," the president said crisply.
The heads of state murmured the appropriate responses and began to chat with each other. Ross got the impression that these unique people were glad for the chance to talk with friends in similar high-profile positions. It also might be the last time they would see each other alive.
Catherine sidled up to Ross and smirked at him. " 'Auntie Omreth'?"
"I'd rather not talk about it," Ross said stiffly.
"You brought the stuff?" Vincent asked as he met Ayers at the inner doors.
Yes. The mercenary lifted the small bag.
"Fantastic. She doesn't suspect a thing. I've told her the cake is a reward for Harry getting an A in math class."
Smart.
Vincent opened his mouth to say something else, but Lizzie's muffled voice from inside the house cut him off. Her tone was unamused.
"Frank, this isn't funny anymore."
Ayers cocked his head, listening.
"The last time I let you stay at my house for a few days you touched my hair while I was sleeping."
The merc's face darkened to something far beyond a scowl. Vincent was reminded once again that Ayers was not quite like other people.
"Now you have the audacity to come crawling back here begging for food and shelter when I specifically told you that you are no longer welcome in my home."
Ayers lowered his head like a bull about to charge.
Her voice warned, "Don't you take one more step toward my bedroom, you little creep."
Vincent raised a finger. "It's not what you–"
From inside the house came "Don't do it, Frank. Dooon't.…"
Ayers ignored Vincent's attempt to delay him, stalking silently across the porch.
They heard footsteps and thumping.
"That is it! Come here, you little bastard! You and all your kind will pay with your lives!"
Ayers ripped the front door completely off its hinges.
The oak slab fell backward into the porch railing, snapping the handrail with an echoing boom.
Lizzie blinked at him in shock. She was kneeling on the foyer floor, holding a rolled-up magazine over her head like a drummer about to launch into a solo.
Ayers lowered the doorknob and the attached chunk of wood that had come off in his hand. His eyes tracked from her face up to the paper weapon and then down to an eight-legged smear on the floor.
She said defensively, "He had it coming."
Ayers tilted his head, trying to figure out what the arachnid had done to deserve such a thorough smashing.
"That's Frank the Spider," she clarified for him.
He tilted his head the other way.
"He's been reincarnated, but he can't fool me. I'd recognize those beady little eyes anywhere."
"She has a thing about spiders," Vincent said.
"I have a thing about Frank," she insisted. "Not every jumping spider is Frank. The others are actually kind of cute. Frank, however, likes to put his grubby little feet on me when I'm asleep." She glared at the dark smear. "Pervert."
Harry came thumping down the stairs like he weighed three times as much. "What's going on?" he asked, pulling off his headset. The faint strains of a Dragonforce tune piped out of the tiny speakers. "I felt a big boom!"
Vincent said, "Ayers heard Lizzie yelling at Frank and came to help, but he forgot to turn his power armor off when he opened the door. Ripped the whole thing out of the frame."
"Whoa, cool!"
"It's only cool if he makes a replacement." Vincent crossed his arms.
The mercenary made a chagrined face. I will.
"Frank's naughty," Harry informed Ayers as he skipped by them to examine the broken door. "He follows her everywhere."
Lizzie glared at the currently-2D Frank. "He'll be back. And I'll have a flyswatter with his name on it."
"If I'd known you wanted a Frank-engraved flyswatter, I'd have made one for your birthday party. Which is now."
"Wha–" She looked more startled than when a large man had ripped the door off her house. "But the library isn't even finished!"
"It's not much of a surprise party if you're expecting it, Liz."
"Bu– I –"
"Time for cake!" Vincent hollered to the cave ceiling, which obliged him with a perfect echo.
"Yay!" Harry hopped around on the porch like he had an invisible pogo stick. "I did the icing all by myself! And I learned to play Happy Birthday on the kazoo!"
She looked at Vincent with horror.
"You didn't," she whispered.
"I didn't. He decided that one all on his own. It's his present to you, so be nice."
She let her head fall forward in despair.
"Come on, it'll be fun. Jethro brought birthday candles," Vincent coaxed.
"You did?"
Yes, but my name's not Jethro.
"Couldn't find a whole set, but we don't need all the numbers, do we?"
She snorted. " 'Age is just a number', huh, Vincent?"
"Listen, kid, it's unlikely you'll be as smokin' hot as I am when you're 67, but yes. Once you've become an adult, you're only as old as you feel."
Ayers nodded his agreement.
She groaned. "Okay, fine, but I'm going to change first. These jeans have Frank bits on them."
When she came back down again, the boys had cleared away the remains of the front door and Vincent took Harry to wash his face and hands.
The visual of her scarred, armored friend carefully transferring a frilly pink cake from the counter to the kitchen table made her grin, until she saw what was on top of it: large novelty candles in the shape of the numbers 2 and 1, in that order.
She rolled her eyes at Ayers, who wore a deliberately bland expression.
"Right. Very funny."
He raised his eyebrows questioningly. You're not 21?
"No."
He swapped the numbers. Oh, you're 12, then. My mistake.
"Fix that, please? I'm under no illusions of youth here."
He rifled through the contents of the little bag, then pulled out another candle and shuffled the numbers around before raising his eyebrows again.
91?
She laughed briefly. "No, I only feel like I'm 91."
He tried a new arrangement.
29?
"Yeah, I wish I was 29 again. Well, actually, no. That wasn't a very good year, hospital-wise."
He removed both candles and replaced them with others.
37?
"Closer. That was a good year; I moved here and met Vincent and Harry."
Ayers showed her the contents of the bag. He had only brought 1, 2, 3, 7, and 9.
He shrugged. 37 is the best I can do.
She narrowed her eyes at him. How likely was it that he'd found a pristine set of birthday candles without a 4 or a 0? Not very.
"Flatterer."
He made another guileless face and pointed at himself. Me?
"Yes, you. I'm on to you, merc."
He shrugged again. Whatever.
She turned her back on him to get forks, muttering vague threats about making him watch a Transformers marathon with Harry.
Harry and Vincent came back from washing up. After three excruciating stanzas of Happy Birthday on the kazoo, they dug into the cake. Charlie snuffled around their feet in the hopes that they'd drop some. Harry chattered so much that he fell behind in the cake-eating department.
"... and then I made a clock out of a potato for Science class, and then we studied the capitals of Europe, and then for Health they taught us how to floss our teeth right, and then ..."
To his credit, Ayers's eyes didn't actually glaze over.
Vincent was very good at baking and had made the filling and icing from heavy cream, honey and freeze-dried strawberries instead of cornstarch and sugar. In unspoken agreement, the three of them occasionally looked away at the same time so Ayers could have a bite of birthday cake without an audience.
Harry finished off his piece by shoving the last of it into his mouth with both hands, then thundered off to set up board games in the living room.
"Wash your hands again!" Vincent hollered after him as he cut himself another slice of cake.
"You're having more cake?" Lizzie asked. "You've already eaten three! Are you trying for blood sugar bingo or something?"
"I like to live dangerously," he said around a bite of his fourth dessert. "After this I plan to clean out my ears with a Q-tip, exactly the way you're not supposed to. Anything could happen!" He widened his eyes dramatically.
She tisked at him, then pushed at his shin with the toe of her shoe.
"Take your elbows off the table."
"I made this table from scratch. I'll do whatever I want with it."
"You know, sometimes it feels like I live with two 6-year-old boys instead of one."
Vincent stuffed another bite of cake into his mouth and chewed smugly.
Ayers reached into one of his ammo pouches and pulled out a wrapped package the size of a deck of cards. The present was very small and light, but it was the thought that counted.
"This better not be bugs."
He handed it to her with a twinkle in his eyes.
She peeled off the scrap of golden paper. It was a fridge magnet set in a block of clear resin. That was kind of disappointing until she turned it over and saw the front.
Lizzie cooed appreciatively. "Oooh. Where on Earth did you find a reproduction Metallica souvenir?"
Ayers pointed back over his shoulder. In Denver.
"This is in really good condition. Lovely preservation work with the resin." She held it up to the light to admire the blue lightning on the black background. "Wait. Wait, it's holographic! This is a real one! They only made a hundred of these, and that was almost 170 years ago!"
Ayers looked mildly interested in the rarity of his find. A collector must have passed away, and opportunists salvaged their stuff, not knowing how unique some of it was.
"Wow, you got lucky!"
Vincent almost did a spit-take with his mouthful of birthday cake.
"Not like that," she snapped at him.
Ayers looked back and forth between them. If he somehow didn't get the unintended innuendo, she wasn't going to be the one to explain it to him.
"Anyway–" She kicked Vincent lightly under the table. "Thank you, Humphrey. This is incredibly thoughtful."
You're welcome. I'm not Humphrey.
"Fudgesicles," she said with disappointment. Vincent smiled in appreciation of her ongoing effort to swear less so that Harry wouldn't pick it up.
She turned to Ayers with a warm smile.
"So, when's your birthday?"
He held up one finger, and then six. January 6th.
"Aww," Harry grumbled from the living room. "We have to wait eight months to give you presents? That's not fair!" He stuck out his lower lip.
"We're not waiting that long." She stood, pointing at the three of them. "Don't go anywhere. I have a belated birthday present for Ayers."
"No problem," Vincent said, "we'll set up Risk while we wait."
"No," she scolded, walking backward toward the stairs. "No, we are not playing a game that's nine hours long; Ayers has to work tomorrow. Pick something else."
Less than a minute later, Lizzie called down the stairs, "Vincent? Could you come up here, please?"
"Yup." Vincent hoped Harry or Charlie hadn't done something to Ayers's present. Coming into her room – the room he'd intended for Erika – he asked, "What?"
"It has a hole in it! Look." She showed him a tiny rip near the hemline of the Led Zeppelin T-shirt. "It's ruined!"
"It's not ruined."
"I can't give Ayers damaged goods!" She looked close to panicking.
"You're not–" Vincent decided she wasn't ready to hear that, so he changed to, "It's not 'damaged goods'. It's a great T-shirt, one only he can truly appreciate. He'll like it."
"You think so?" She definitely reminded him of Erika this time, vulnerable and nervous before a piano recital. Vincent gently set his daughter's ghost to the side. He'd make time to mourn her again later.
"Yeah. He'll know it's a real gift because it's not a Metallica T-shirt."
Her involuntary laughter was a bit choked.
"All right," she agreed. "You're right. You're right. Of course you are." She folded the shirt neatly back into the flat box and tied it with a piece of twine. "That'll have to do."
Back downstairs, only once did she almost trip over her feet bringing the box to Ayers.
Ayers carefully made space on the coffee table for the box and opened it like he was defusing one of those landmines. His hands froze in place when removing the flat lid revealed the T-shirt.
He looked at the garment like he'd never been given a gift before. An astonished smile spread slowly across his face, and those shining green eyes made her forget what she was doing. And where she was. And her name.
She coughed. "You, uh, you like it, then?"
Ayers stood up and eagerly began to remove his chest piece.
'He's going to try it on now?' she thought. 'Right here in the living room?'
There were tiny pneumatic hissing sounds when he popped off the chest plate. Underneath was a network of metal strips with wires running under and over them like woven fabric. The red indicator light faded to black.
"Oooh, cool!" Harry cheered. Ayers put the armor piece on the floor where Harry could look at it. "Wow," the boy said, trying unsuccessfully to move it. "This is a lot heavier than I thought!"
"Yep," Vincent confirmed. "Dang heavy. How much did you say the whole thing weighs?"
One twenty.
"No shit," Lizzie said in surprise. "Oops. Don't swear, Harry."
"I don't," he protested. "You do."
"Yes, and that's exactly why you shouldn't start. You'll end up like me, blurting it out when you would rather be saying something polite."
With more little hisses of air, Ayers's armor plates and leather patches obediently came off in his hands one by one until it looked like he was wearing a sweater made of dark wiring and metal. There were quite a lot of pieces, actually, and parts of the suit lay all around his armchair and the two end tables on either side. Then he tapped something, and the final layer collapsed to drape over his forearms like a sheet of chainmail. The bodysuit underneath was so form-fitting that it looked like he had dark gray skin with silver highlights. That paper-thin material was practically glued to his arms, chest and stomach, inviting her fingers to trace their muscular outlines all the way down to –
"I gotta make some tea." Her voice rose an octave on the last word. She scurried off to the kitchen.
Vincent followed her into the room and leaned against the counter with a smirk.
"Thirsty, Liz?"
She eyed him sideways. "My throat's dry."
"I'm sure it is."
"Hush. I wasn't mentally prepared, that's all."
"You need mental preparation to see Ayers fully clothed, about to put on even more clothes? Good thing he's not bundling up for winter sports: your head would explode."
"Don't tell me you've forgotten the first time you saw your wife in a fancy dress." She jabbed at the start button on the kettle, then pressed her lips together apologetically. "I'm sorry, Vincent. I shouldn't have–"
"Reminded me how beautiful my beloved wife was and brought a smile to my face? Yes, how dare you, Miss Khalid. I shall now snub you for the rest of the evening." He took two mugs out of the cabinet above the sink. "We'd better make actual cups of tea, or Ayers will guess that we've been in here talking about him."
"Oh! Right."
When they returned to the living room and saw Ayers, Vincent caught the mugs when they almost dropped out of her hands.
"I forgot to make tea for you and Harry," she squeaked, turning on her heel and almost running back into the kitchen.
Vincent pursued her with a shake of his head at a very confused Ayers.
Lizzie waited until the kettle was once again boiling loudly before she hissed, "It's too revealing!"
"The man is literally wearing two shirts and sixty pounds of body armor. How can that be too revealing?"
"I don't know, but somehow he's managing it! It's too … too something for my comfort, okay?"
"He's too everything for your comfort, kiddo."
She thumped a can of peach tea down on the counter, scowling. "He's too everything, period."
"Think of it this way: one of your best friends is standing around in your living room, waiting for you to notice how much he likes the gift that you gave him. The least you can do is tell him he looks nice."
She sighed. "You're right. You're right, I was only thinking of myself." Lizzie straightened her shoulders. "Okay. We're going back in there with four mugs of tea, and I'm going to tell him he looks very nice, like any good friend would do."
"Sounds like a plan."
In the living room once more, Lizzie set the rattling tea tray on a side table before she dropped it.
Ayers spread his hands, seeking her input on his new threads.
"You look amazing," she breathed, then caught herself. "I mean good. You look good. Very good and … nice. It's a nice T-shirt, and you look good in it. It's good. A good T-shirt. Just a little … tight."
She started gulping down tea to disguise the swallowing her throat insisted on doing.
"Only a bit," Vincent disagreed. "Like a muscle tee."
"A muscle tee?" Lizzie gasped. "Don't you dare cut the sleeves off Led Zeppelin memorabilia!"
"It's not in danger from cutting; it's flexing that's the problem." Vincent grinned deviously. "Show her, Ayers."
"Please d- oh, my … wow … yes, the, uh." She coughed twice. "The seams do appear to be under some strain." She gulped the last of her drink and started on Vincent's cup.
"I can probably work my tailoring magic on 'em and release the seams a bit." Vincent was talking to Ayers but making eye contact with Lizzie. "Give it here, son. I'll take it to the sewing room right now."
Lizzie felt the blood drain from her face as Ayers removed the shirt. She realized that while they waited for Vincent to redo the seams, Ayers would be only a few feet from her wearing a garment so tight that it might as well be gray-and-silver bodypaint. He would be naked from the waist up if you didn't count that scandalously thin fabric.
'Why, yes, Lizzie,' she told herself, 'most people are naked under their clothes, now that you mention it.'
"I need more tea," she said almost desperately.
"Put some vodka in it," Vincent suggested as he went out the back door.
"Zip it, Carter!"
His laughter chased her into the kitchen.
"Okay, bye!" she managed to say with good humor as Ayers let himself out. "Glad you like it! Thanks for the party!"
As soon as the doors closed, she leaned over to brace her hands above her knees like a marathon runner at the finish line.
"Dear God, I didn't think I was going to make it," she confessed. "I was so close to running away and hiding in my room."
Vincent patted her back. "Admirable display of self-control, my girl. First-rate. Not even a hint of drool."
"Shit, Vincent, I always thought guys were joking about the whole 'needing a cold shower' thing."
"Nope!" he confirmed cheerfully. "It's a real strategy."
"Yeah, I think I'm gonna try that out. Right after I pee for an hour."
"I was wondering when that would happen. You drank at least ten cups."
"Twelve. Good thing it was mostly decaf or I'd be bouncing off the walls."
"Mm-hm. You know," Vincent said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "I'd swear Ayers moved around more than was strictly necessary this evening. And it was his idea to play Monopoly, which requires reaching across the table basically every turn. The pieces don't weigh enough to cause all the rippling that was going on under those sleeves, either."
Lizzie straightened up with a horrified intake of breath. "He was messing with me?"
"No, no, sweetheart." Vincent didn't want her to start thinking Ayers was playing with her affections. "He was showing off for you."
She groaned, thumping her forehead onto his shoulder.
"Still can't decide if that's what you want or not?" he guessed.
"Vincent, I don't even know that's what he wants. This is not the kind of situation where you 'shoot for the moon' and if it doesn't work out: oh well, at least you tried." She lifted her head with a troubled expression. "I can't lose him to a misinterpretation. He's too important." She met his eyes, looking genuinely miserable. "To me."
"Baby steps, Liz, baby steps. He's not going anywhere. You've got plenty of time to feel each other up."
"Vincent!"
"Out. I meant 'out'. Feel each other out."
"You are enjoying this far too much."
"There's nothing good on TV."