"Colin."
"Yes?" I respond, setting aside the lathe and turning to face Hannah. She's leaning against the doorframe, face unmasked and serious.
"We're having dinner. Would you care to join us?" she asks, tilting her head towards the cafeteria.
"I'll pass," I respond, already turning back to the battery I was working on. Not an ideal solution to capacity problems, but the review board limits the amount of nuclear fusion allowed in a single Tinker device. Foolishness, but we all have to play by the rules.
"Do you know what day today is?" Hannah asks, her voice changing. Odd.
"Should I?" I respond, eye blinking through the interface on my glasses to the calendar. November 25th. No scheduled maintenance, nor is it the birthday of any member of the Protectorate. Hmm. A web search, perhaps?
"Happy Thanksgiving Colin," she says before the page can load. Ah. There's a silence. Long enough that the bot Dragon wrote sends a buzz to my watch indicating it's awkward in nature. "I'll see you in the cafeteria at 6:30," she says, departing with a wave.
I lean back in my chair, looking at the half-finished project, then at the clock. Enough time to finish the battery but not enough to finish it and bake the peanut butter cookies I provide in lieu of a proper dish.
Hannah wouldn't care about the missing sweets. Assault would crack a joke, and Battery would slap him for it. Velocity understands duty, and the responsibilities that come with it. Dauntless wouldn't challenge me. He's too guilty over the difference in our respective work efforts. Triumph wouldn't feel comfortable bringing it up.
I sigh and take a moment to think about why I'm working. It's a question Dragon likes to ask, and it's helped before. The battery won't tip the scales in a fight with Lung but it could be the difference between lasting an extra minute and being forced to retreat.
I think about what Hero would do.
Another minute ticks by and I put a cover on the exposed components. I probably wouldn't get it done in time anyway.
That doesn't stop me from sprinting to the kitchen. The oven there is never precise enough, and a few tweaks could get it just right.
The Schmidts brought a twenty pound turkey and three gallons of cider. Too much for a group of five. Six, with Aster, but she won't help make up the difference
"Thank you for cooking, Dorothy," Kayden says, grunting as she helps haul the tupperware packed to the bursting with side dishes to the kitchen. "I would've helped, but things have been a little hectic at the office," she explains, dropping the last of the sweet potatoes on the counter and sighing in relief.
"It's the least we could do," Dorothy says back, smiling. She's wearing too much make up for a holiday, with silver bracelets and diamond earrings. "It means a lot to us that you're inviting us into your house, and we just wanted to make sure it went right," she adds, with Geoff nodding along behind her, dressed in a three piece suit that's a far better cut than a dinner asks for.
There's a moment of silence before Justin claps his hands together and smiles. "Well then," he says, looking at Geoff, then me. "While the womenfolk start reheating things, let's watch some football!" he exclaims, walking to the couch, snagging the remote and thumbing buttons until the game comes on. His face lights up and he stares, attention rapt, muttering under his breath about plays and tackles. Geoff sits down in a recliner staring forward blissfully, eyes on the screen and not seeing anything.
It's times like this that I miss Brad's callous, good-natured assholishness, or Cassie's awkward attempts at conversation with someone her age. Both are better than silence.
"Theo?" Kayden calls, and I snap my head towards her. She has an awkward look on her face halfway between apprehension and pity. "Would you mind calling your father and telling him we won't be making it?"
She doesn't want to call Max because she might be persuaded to come back. Because she knows she's weak. So she sends me to deliver the message, someone she thinks is already broken.
"Sure," I say, heading for the phone. Kayden's not wrong.
"Ames, you want a seat over here?" Vicky asks, temporarily taking her eyes off the modern bloodsport to stare at me questioningly. I look to the screen, where grown men crash into each other hard enough to give concussions, and then back to her, slowly shaking my head. I can never understand why soft-core violence with an 11-inch ball involved is appealing, but apparently people like watching men get into the equivalent of low-speed car accidents.
"Suit yourself," she says, already turning back. Something happens in the game, and she joins in a cheer with Mark, Neil and Crystal. Eric and I exchanges eye rolls before turning back to our own entertainment.
I'm not sure if it's the fact that we both play support roles or just random chance, but neither of us enjoy things that remind us of work. As a result, we always end up exchanging book recommendations instead of complaints whenever we meet outside of the family business and conspire to keep our antisocial tendencies well hidden from the rest of the family when at all possible.
It's a wonderful mutually detrimental relationship that neither of us are interested in sacrificing.
"Dinner's ready!" Sarah calls from the kitchen. There are more than a few grumbles from the couch but they get up and move to the table with all the haste a pair of fliers and a mid-tier Brute can generate. Eric and I sigh but bookmarks go in and we move to the dining room as well.
Sarah sits at the head, her family running down the right and ours down the left. Vicky and Neil compete to see who can load up on more sweet potatoes and turkey while the rest of us get sane portions as well as servings of vegetables. I eye the starch on her plate enviously as I chew on some asparagus. Part of her power has to be her metabolism because there's no way a regular person could eat that and still have an hourglass figure.
Carol and Sarah talk about Neil and Mark, who interject occasionally to defend a decision or provide color commentary. Eric, Crystal and Vicky talk school, asking for my opinion on something or other whenever they remember I exist. I respond politely and simply take in the cozy feeling of good food and better company.
It won't last. In a few weeks, Carol and I will be back to a frosty detente, Mark will have a bad day, and the Pelhams will be back to struggling to pay for college, basic utilities, and being a superhero.
But for now?
"Pass the sweet potatoes, would you?"
"Taylor?"
"Yeah Dad?" I reply, eyes on my food as I fork some more turkey into my mouth. It's dry. Neither of us made gravy. That was Mom's job, and we both forgot. Neither of us are complaining.
"Do you want to," he's struggling for the words, "Maybe go to the cemetery some time?"
I look at him over the rather frugal Thanksgiving meal and unused plate.
"We don't have to," he clarifies, raising his hands placatingly, bits of mashed potato clinging to his silverware. "But I think it might be nice to just..." he trails off.
"Get some closure," I offer, and he nods. I take a deep breath, then let it out.
He's not wrong. It would be nice to just talk with Dad for a bit. But then I'd think about talking about school, and lately things have been cooling off. Not stopping, but the intensity is dropping. Not enough to be over, but enough to hope.
"How about in the spring?" I ask. "When it's a little warmer," I clarify. By then maybe I can have a guilt-free conversation. Dad puts on a smile and nods.
"April, then."