Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

i. debugging

Electric confusion. Then realization, some recognition—yes, he remembered.

Piece by piece, he was remembering.

A woman holding an infant while she waved a greeting. Her soft smile. The baby’s tuft of red hair.

Them. Them.

And...he. He? He was...Don Fitzcarraldo...Blue Morpho. He was the Blue Morpho. Morpho.

And—Jonas. The affair.

Its fallout.

(He spoke with what was left of Jonas, they shared memories, he was remembering more—but on another level, his thoughts raced where Jonas couldn’t see.)

...Jonas had asked the unspeakable of him. Morpho could have turned him down and faced the consequences. To other people, to more objective and more moral minds, that would have been the best tactic overall—it would have harmed less people.

Hurt your wife with the truth of an affair, face the consequences head-on? Or kill countless people, seduce others and further your own infidelity anyway—didn’t matter if it was loveless, it was still sleeping with someone other than the one you made vows to—steal some serious shit, and other cruel actions?

The choice would have been clear to better minds. Tell the truth—hurt one—and avoid causing greater destruction. That’s it.

But Morpho...down to the wire, he would admit he tried his damned best, he did want to help. But a perfect morality was never in the cards, as if the vigilantism didn’t make that clear enough.

And down the road, he had found those he valued more, and would prioritize at the expense of others. Morpho had his pressure points, his priorities, and the hierarchy they fell in. Probably a skewed hierarchy, but one that took control.

The fear of hurting his wife with the knowledge that he had well and truly broken his vow to her ended up overriding most everything else, except for their son. And then the obvious eventually sank in—the affair would likely hurt Malcom too. Possibly not to the same extent, but there would still be damage, and that was something Morpho rejected.

The choice between causing general destruction or his wife—and then their son as well—was almost no contest, even if better minds would shake their heads. He chose his wife and their child; it would always be them. He made the choice in turmoil and self-loathing and hatred, but he made it nonetheless. Not like it was a painless decision; it hurt, but the alternative was worse in his mind. Morpho may hate it, but he was willing to burn a few things for his family.

Jonas knew this.

And Morpho knew he deserved it. He deserved to suffer. He had brought this on himself. But it wasn’t hurting only him. Not just the risk to his family, but the destruction he chose in an attempt to spare them further. Those he killed, robbed, manipulated on Jonas’ orders—they had nothing to do with his colossal fuck up, but they were paying for it regardless. Small comfort when his targets sometimes truly deserved what he did to them. He still did it first to benefit Jonas, not because it had to be done.     

Morpho had fucked up—and did he make amends? No, he just made things even worse. Damned downward spiral...

But he had not wanted to hurt her . Not anymore than he already had. He deserved anything from his wife Madeline if she knew—her punishment and anger and rejection, he deserved it all. But the thought of her getting hurt—really hurt—made him shove thoughts of honesty down. Made him walk into Jonas’ machinations and do anything the other man asked of him, as long as he kept that damn sex tape secret.

Years. He and Madeline had known each other for a...long time now—or then—the plane the plane his wife their son WHERE WERE THEY—

(Electric confusion misfire error error it was still difficult to gather his thoughts.)

—but Morpho knew damn well how hard it was to know everything about a person.

First hand experience. It was his own fault after all. He contributed to that in the worst ways possible. Secret identities. (He had his reasons. He would not claim perfect morality was his goal. But it didn’t change how screwed up it truly was.) Now an affair. No, a knife in the back—an unspeakable betrayal, a broken vow.

His wife contributed in natural ways. Wasn’t it some saying, ‘everyone has secrets ?’ Everyone certainly had their privacy. Inner life. Not everyone wanted to share every single thing.

Madeline had told him that her father was not welcome anywhere near their home. She did not want to dwell on her mother.

She’d spill out little fragments, when it sounded like she needed to vent, even a little, and always in confidence to him. It was never to go beyond the two of them. But other than that, she kept her silence, as did he. Who was he to pry? His wife had a right to her secrets. His were—he had his reasons. But they were still screwed up.

...He actually had the gall to marry her without ever sharing something as huge as a secret vigilante identity. But he had thought—he had thought then—just...she never had to know, so...

He intentionally made sure she could not know everything about him. And he accepted not knowing everything about her. (How could he not?)

And yet Morpho felt he knew his wife well enough to know his betrayal would hurt her...

Hell. Speaking the obvious here. Goddamn it. Goddamn him. How could he do this?

Maybe he lied to himself too. Maybe he just didn’t want to get caught. He had never wanted to be caught as the Blue Morpho.

Flash crackle pop the roar of metal their son’s screaming SCREAMING Madeline in matching blue and green—that had happened eventually though, hadn’t it? Madeline had found out eventually...and the distinction he had felt in the back of his mind became clearer. The vigilantism had been a horrible shock to his wife, alarming her, angering her, grieving her—the whole nine yards of emotional upheaval, and all his doing. But...but she had been far more than he deserved, and they had gradually adapted and re-negotiated. There had been a sting...but Morpho knew it would have hurt worse if she had learned his other secret. Maybe it was insane. But he thought he knew, deep in his heart—

or where it used to be?

—that the secret identity hurt less than the affair. And he had never—he had no memory of ever telling her that.

It would have—it would hurt her, and that had given him pause. (Why couldn’t he remember that when it mattered the most, in that room with Jonas?) He had his niggling doubts, maybe he lied to himself about why he held his tongue about the affair—and yet he still felt it in every fiber of his being, the need to not hurt her any further. (Maybe those doubts had been self-loathing talking and twisting and obfuscating.)

He had hurt her, but it left no marks as long as she didn’t know. (Right?) The pain would not register if she was never made aware of it. In this terribly fucked up context and in his equally fucked up mind, lying to her had been better than hurting her anymore.

And none of that “omission didn’t count” bullshit—there was no denying it, he lied to her, again and again. And that was on top of already lying about his secret identity before, until that was finally exposed...

If she were just furious, would just cut him out without any pained regret—but that was not the case. Madeline was passionate behind closed doors, more so when fewer public eyes were on her. When she gave her heart, she gave it all. His wife felt so strongly—she would feel the burn of betrayal strongly too.

And Jesus Christ, the fucked up cherry on top—he had ended up more worried over this than the vigilantism. It was foolish. Morpho was fooling himself. But he took care to keep his identity secret, to let no one know the vigilante had a family to target. Jonas may be fine with it, but he wasn’t.

(He was a different sort of dirt for not prying and leaving Jonas to parent as he saw fit, as if that man’s role as father took precedence...but regardless of his own failings in most everything else, he did not want Malcom to be another Rusty.)

Morpho didn’t particularly trust organized aggression. (His history with them was not...good.) Guild laws could be changed; they could be bent; they could be ignored, and unable to provide significant retroactive help if the worst should happen—and it could only go so far, and there were plenty who submitted to no higher authority. He certainly avoided it.

And frankly, Morpho had sunk too deep at this point. Burned too many of the wrong people. There was no going back; what remained was damage control. When Morpho had started vigilantism, he had never imagined marriage and fatherhood would be in his future, that he’d ever grow to want and value such things…

But would he really have done any differently if he had thought about that? That gave him pause. He had...he had his reasons then. Deep down, Morpho doubted anything could have moved his younger self to a different path when it came to the vigilantism.

Had it been wrong of him to try to start a family knowing what he actually dedicated his work to? Wrong of him to lie to his fiance-then-his-wife-then-the-mother-of-their-child about the vigilantism—yes. (The affair—that went without saying.)

Wrong of him to continue his vigilante work when seriously starting a family—probably. (Would he have ever given it up without Jonas complicating matters with his demands? To be honest—doubtful.)

Wrong of him to ever get involved with Madel—no. No, he would never regret her, or Malcom. What was wrong was him—he had not cared for them well enough.

And yet. Madeline was not helpless.

(Had not been--misfire misfire where was she where was their child )

She could play the charade, but he knew she wasn’t; it was something she had made clear to him. And when she had learned of the vigilantism, she had helped in guarding its secrecy for the sake of the family they had built, for Malcom’s sake—she had helped with everything. She helped him keep the balancing act, and they thought they had it down—but the plane—was that—damn it all to hell, that memory had not come yet, bring that fuckin’ memory here—had it been his fault, had someone found out, had the absolutely wrong sort of people found out—had it really been an accident—was it only his fault in failing to prevent an accident—or was it even worse—had he—was it entirely his fault that his wife and son were—were they—he was still here so were they—where was his wife, where was Malcom Malcom Malcom—

There you are, Morpho thinks when he sees him and there is electric confirmation and emotional recognition and more memories and he breathes his son’s name with an artificial voice.

Chapter Text

ii. sleight of hand

It was only with other kids that Malcom felt embarrassed over having barely any idea of Rusty having a TV show and his face on things like lunch boxes.

He’d seen some of that stuff in store windows before Mommy or Daddy pulled him away, and when he asked, they told him, “Yes, that’s Rusty,” and that it wasn’t polite to stare, and it wasn’t something they talk about because it’s private, and then he lost interest and would find something more fun to engage with.

He had never thought his not really knowing that kind of thing was weird before. But during recess, the other kids in Ms. Tellerly’s kindergarten class told him it was, it really was. ‘What do you mean you don’t watch it? Never ever?’

Malcom didn’t tell them how Mommy and Daddy get to decide when the TV’s on and when it’s off, and how they give him different shows to pick from and he could only pick from those, and none of them had ever been about Rusty. His parents would give him a lot more books and a lot more time with them, and a lot of toys and a lot of stuff to draw with and paint with. There was music and stories made only of sound. His parents would take him to the zoo and the library and other places outside home.

Malcom just enjoyed this, he never questioned it before. He never saw anything weird about it. To be honest, he still didn’t.

And this whole thing, the TV show and the lunchboxes and stuff—it was something Rusty never talked about when they got to play together. And Malcom had thought it was like his parents said, this wasn’t talked about because it’s private. Maybe Rusty’s dad talked about it, but Malcom had never really listened to him, or the other grown-ups at the Venture Compound that weren’t his parents. They weren’t very interesting, and Rusty always wanted to take him to play away from them.

When the other kids were surprised to learn he didn’t watch the show or really know anything about it, Malcom made the mistake of saying something like that to them, about how Rusty didn’t talk about being on TV. It was a mistake because it was something Mommy and Daddy told him not to do, they asked him to not tell anyone outside of home that he plays with Rusty sometimes. But he forgot, and only remembered after he said it.

And it was a mistake because the other kids called him a liar. He had to make them explain that they thought he was a liar because there was no way he knew Rusty Venture, let alone played with him. Malcom knew lying was bad, Daddy and Mommy had told him so, and he knew he hadn’t lied at all—so he got mad and said he wasn’t lying in a voice that would have been too loud if they were inside and too impolite according to what Mommy said.

The other kids still called him a liar. And then they pushed him, and he bit them. And then they started fighting, and Lexi—she was nice, she played tag with him, and they looked at books together—came running over with a teacher, who broke up the fight.

Nervous, Malcom was made to wait in an office area. A grown-up had said his dad was coming. They said the teacher was gonna talk to him.

The boy watched the same happen to the other kids he fought with. Their parents came, and eventually after talking with the teacher in another room, they walked out.

This kept going until Malcom was the only one left. He felt even more nervous now, all by himself. (There were other people in the office, but they were all grown-ups he didn’t actually know.)

Finally after what felt like forever to the small boy, Daddy came. Malcom’s eyes darted up to him, then back down to the floor.

“Sorry I’m late, kiddo,” his dad said, taking a seat next to him in the waiting area. He didn’t sound mad, but Malcom still felt anxious. The teacher hadn’t been happy when she broke up the fight. And the fight hadn’t been fun, and the other kids had been jerks, and Lexi had looked worried.

One of the ladies in the office poked her head up from paperwork. “Oh you’re not too late, Mr. Fitzcarraldo, the other parents only left a few minutes before you came.” She got up. “You’re all signed in, so I’ll just let them know you’re here. If you could just wait a moment more, please.”

Now Malcom was left alone with his dad.

“You okay? You got banged up a bit,” Daddy said, gentle. Malcom focused on the band-aid on his knee, poking out where his pant leg got ripped, where his dad could see.

“Here too,” Malcom said, rolling up a sleeve on his arm, showing his dad where his cuts got covered up. “But Ms. Baver fixed it. She gave me Brisby band-aids.”

“She did a good job,” Daddy said, with a soft smile. Malcom wasn’t looking at the floor now, he was looking at his dad, who still didn’t seem mad—and Malcom finally saw his cheek.

“You got a band-aid too!” Malcom said, surprised. It didn’t have any pictures on it, but it was definitely a band-aid—and it was bigger.

“Didn’t get lucky with a Brisby one,” his dad said, and that made Malcom smile a little.

“How’d you get yours?” Malcom asked, staring up at his dad.

“Had lunch with some co-workers in the park today,” his dad said, and he reached over to roll the sleeve on his arm back down, covering up the Brisby band-aids there. “We were walking too close to some overgrown trees, and a branch got my cheek.”

Malcom nodded—then ducked his head when the lady came back and said they could go in now. Whatever better feeling he was starting to have was gone now, and he felt dread again.

Malcom stayed too upset to really listen to what the teacher and other grown-ups said, or what Daddy said to them after they talked.

When they were done, Daddy checked him over again like he did when he first came, looking over where band-aids had been stuck over his cuts. Then he took his hand and led him to the car.

When they were inside, Daddy asked him again if he was okay.

Malcom sniffled. “I didn’t lie.”

Daddy gently ruffled his hair. “I know you didn’t, kiddo.”

“They were lying, not me!” The other kids said something that wasn’t true, so that meant they lied, right?

Daddy seemed thoughtful, as if he was really thinking about what he said. Then he shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think they didn’t understand what was going on. They thought they knew the truth, but they were wrong.”

It was Malcom’s turn to think it over. Then the four-year-old slowly nodded. “Okay.” Then he bit his lip. “I forgot I can’t tell anyone Rusty and I get to play. Sorry.”

Daddy began to buckle him in. “It’s all right, it was an accident.” After one final click, Daddy leaned back, and ruffled his hair again. This time it tickled, and Malcom giggled a little. “But try not to do it again.”

Daddy opened the glove compartment and passed him a picture book about Amelia Earhart that Mommy had got for him, then started up the car and began to drive them away.

Malcom was pulled away from the book’s watercolor art when Daddy spoke up again. His voice was quieter. “Your Mom and I don’t want you to tell others you know Rusty because it’s a secret. Secrets are for only a few people, and not everyone gets to know them.”

The boy blinked. His parents had never explained why before, and he had never thought to ask, just accepting them at their word. Now he was thinking about it more. His brow furrowed. “But I—um, I just—I talked about it because the other kids said I was lying, and I wasn’t—” Malcom then closed the book and hugged it. Daddy didn’t act mad, but Malcom felt like he was in even more trouble.

His dad looked a little sad. “It’s not fair, but the best thing to do would be not to say anything at all.”

“Like when I have nothing nice to say?” Malcom asked in a small voice. That’s something Mommy had told him.

“Yeah, like that,” Daddy said, his voice soft.

Malcom frowned, still thinking about it all. “It’s not lying if I don’t say anything about something I know isn’t true?” He fidgeted a little. “I kinda thought that was lying too.”

“...It’s okay in this case. It’s not lying if you just let someone think something else.”

Malcom nodded, satisfied. “Okay. I won’t talk about Rusty again, ‘cause it’s a secret.”

Daddy smiled, and it looked a little crooked. “Good boy.”

Chapter Text

“With all due respect, Sovereign, the Blue Morpho is—”

“What has he done this time?” Force Majeure answered the latest request for his attention with a question, the accent in his voice as low as his tone, and sounding only mildly curious. The Sovereign then leaned back in his chair and glanced at the stars out the window, an action that was only apparent through body language given the smooth, featureless gray metal mask he wore beneath a helmet that refused to let a strand of hair poke out.

“Well, he’s—he’s just a general problem!” Dragoon replied, as if thrown by his Sovereign’s almost disinterested response.

“He’s been knocking us off—!”

“Goes unchecked—”

“All right gentlemen, I have a prior engagement to attend to soon, so let me try to get to the point and ensure this meeting actually ends on time,” the Sovereign said, his voice turning cheerful and highlighting his New Zealand accent more. The warmer tone did nothing to offset the blankness of his mask in this case.

“Self-regulation in our line of work is useful to stay in existence, staving off escalation with the O.S.I. and others that could prove counterproductive for everyone,” Force Majeure said, turning away from the stars. He raised a gloved hand. “But we are still villains, and a certain ruthlessness is encouraged; a certain occupational hazard is expected; and a certain secrecy desirable at the highest levels of any organized body.”

That last part was clear enough—what was about to be said was definitely not to leave this room or this very space station. It was for the ears of the Council of 13 only, and the reigning Sovereign.

Standing up, Force Majeure walked away from the table and closer to the window overlooking Earth, cloak drifting after him.

“Yes, the Blue Morpho’s gone as far as eliminating members of the Guild—but a number of them have harbored the most offenses.”

The Sovereign waited, letting the silence stretch out.

“...You want to use this unregulated vigilante to—?”

“—clean house occasionally? Yes, I’m a villain who wants to use a rogue protagonist to do my own dirty work; let him deal with irritating upstarts that are bothersome to touch due to either bureaucracy or internal politics or some other nonsense; just generally sit back and have him make things go smoother for my own benefit.”

When no one else spoke, the Sovereign let that hang in the air a bit more before continuing.

“And not just the Guild—the Blue Morpho’s eliminated members from rival organizations.” Force Majeure began physically counting down on his hand. “The Peril of Partnership, the Fraternity of Torment,” the Sovereign said. “He’s taken out unlicensed antagonists as well.”

Done counting, the Guild leader placed his hand on the glass of the window, leaning closer to the view of the Earth.

“And ‘unchecked?’” The Sovereign gave a light chuckle. “Obviously. Yet he’s unofficially respected the EMA level system better than a number of people I’ve seen sign up for organized aggression on either side.” He turned back around. “Peruse the databases again—last I’ve checked, he’s never killed any low-level members or the relatively harmless.”

Force Majeure walked back to his seat, but stood behind it and placed a hand on the back of it instead. “Now to me, it seems the Blue Morpho is something of an actual believer, with an actual moral code that takes precedence over any organization that could restrict that code. Which is, yes, dangerous—but also can be rather useful in keeping the whole system in check. His goals could align with our desire to keep organized aggression at a manageable level.”

The Sovereign finally sat back down. “I think of this vigilante as rather another arm of those classified, officially unsanctioned missions we all have had some hand in conducting by this point, and the same can be said of other players in our field.”

Behind the mask, Force Majeure watched a few Council members uncomfortably shift in their seats or share looks.

Then he continued. “Except the Morpho’s an agent I don’t have to compensate, beyond leaving him alone to continue work that I can turn to my advantage.”

“...My Sovereign, it’s a dangerous game to play—”

“Councilman, our entire industry is a dangerous game,” Force Majeure said, his voice calm. “No level of regulation will entirely cover that up, and I’m not content with fully pretending otherwise.”

The Sovereign leaned back in his chair again, and once more raised his hand, gesturing at the rest of the Council seated at the table. “I repeat, we’re villains; a certain high-stakes gamble like this isn’t something to immediately shy away from.”

“But couldn’t this backfire? What if the Blue Morpho crosses the line?” Red Mantle fidgeted with his hands. “Er, another line?”

“Again, gambling—I’m aware of the risk, and willing to accept it,” the Sovereign said. “And should the Blue Morpho suddenly escalate or change course...well then, he’s no longer that beneficial and of no further use to me, is he?”

Tenting his fingers, Force Majeure glanced out the window again. “In any case, it’s all a balance, gentlemen. If the Blue Morpho really is somewhat of a true believer as I suspect, he’s motivated by something. Organized aggression or unregulated aggression going too far, perhaps. He could very well be a symptom of our field gone astray, a reminder for us to self-correct and weed out the counterproductive by any means necessary.”

The Sovereign waved a hand. “And that’s all the time we have for today. Meeting adjourned. Take care, councilmen.”

And he stood up and left, without another word.

###

“I still can’t believe he went there,” one councilman said after the meeting.

“But still...he was sorta inspiring, wasn’t he?”

“You mean intimidating.”

“Force Majeure is certainly a cunning fellow...”

“He wasn’t always this bold, not until he killed Vice Feral...”

“That started around one Christmas, didn’t it, their little blood feud?...”

“It lasted a few days, don’t think that counts as a blood feud...maybe a blood skirmish?...”

The Council’s gossip continued as they went down the hall of Meteor Majeure, heading to their own shared shuttle, separate from their Sovereign’s.

###

When the Sovereign’s personal shuttle landed back on Earth at a secure base in New York, the villain began to undress.

Number Two entered her leader’s quarters, carrying a planner. “Don left a message, said he’ll be late to the benefit thing tonight...”

Taking the mask off, the Sovereign laughed, delighted. “I’ll be the timely one tonight!” She said in her own voice, without the mask filtering it out as something deeper. Her accent was slight and upscale, but she no longer sounded like someone from New Zealand.

“Was that the plan? Find a civilian that runs as late as you do for an easy marriage?” Two muttered, flipping through her planner and checking off another box on her immediate to-do list.

The Sovereign laughed again, her voice warm. “There’s no such thing as an easy marriage.” She began to free her hair, taking off her helmet first. “A happy one, yes; but not an easy one.”

Next, she swiftly removed the black swim cap she wore under the helmet, that further helped hold all her hair back while in her Force Majeure costume.

“Did Barbara check in?” The Sovereign asked as she unpinned the braids wrapped tight around her head, then finally started unbraiding her hair.

“Number 7 called earlier to say Malcom is fine, he’s already sleeping,” Two said with a mild correction for her boss.

“She’s only Barbara to Don and Malcom,” the Sovereign pointed out, shaking out her long red hair (it had been shorter for a long time before, but eventually she wanted to grow it out again, finding she missed the feel of hair hanging down sometimes).

Then she pulled off her cloak, her gloves and boots, the chain necklace that had her Guild ring hanging from it, her belt and its scabbard with the ceremonial (and functional) Sovereign sword inside.

“Malcom’s still too little to understand names—” Two cut herself off, shaking her head. “Ohnevermind—how did the meeting go?”

The Sovereign slipped behind a star-patterned folding screen, and began to remove the flat armor over her chest, another key to her cover identity besides the voice changer in her mask. “Pretty uneventful, until near the end.”

“Oh?”

“They complained about the Blue Morpho again,” said the Sovereign, taking off the rest of her armor, the metal guards on her arms and lower legs. Now the next layer beneath the armor: the flight suit.

Two groaned. “Madeline, please tell me you didn’t—”

“I just spoke my mind,” the Sovereign said, unzipping her flight suit (also emblazoned with a star). “Partly.”

“Which wasn’t what you should’ve done!”

“I’m their leader,” Madeline said, stepping out of the flight suit and beginning to pull off her tight-fitting top and leggings. “I couldn’t keep holding off on sharing my stance about this any longer.”

“But it’s a touchy subject with most of the Guild right now—”

“All the more reason for me to say something,” the Sovereign said. There was a moment of relative silence, punctuated by a shuffling of fabric. “Could you zip me up in the back, please?”

“You could get something a little more functional,” Two muttered, but walked behind the screen and dutifully reached for her leader, now almost in a pale violet dress.

“It’s functional enough,” Madeline said with a laugh, sweeping her red hair over her shoulder and out of the way while Two zipped the rest of her dress up. “Thank you.”

Two stepped away, and the Sovereign quickly put on her shoes, working as fast as she had done changing out of her Force Majeure costume into the rest of her formal civilian wear. Then she stepped in front of the room’s mirror, doing a little spin. “All right, there’s still a little time...how do I look?”

“Like Mrs. Madeline Fitzcarraldo, full-time civilian,” Two said, reserved.

“Well, of course, but I mean is there anything else I can do to accessorize—oh, why not the usual?” Madeline said, dipping a hand into her travel bag and pulling out a yellow butterfly-patterned square scarf, swiftly tying it around her neck with an energetic flourish.

Again she turned around in the mirror. Then she returned to the bag and pulled out an amber butterfly pin and her wedding ring.

“Isn’t that a bit excessive?” Two dryly asked, watching her leader attach the also butterfly-themed pin to her chest.

“I’ve done this look before,” Madeline said, slipping on her ring, and then her coat. “I like it.”

“You mean you like butterflies…” Two then made a noncommittal grunt. “Anyway, we’re set to do surveillance on the museum tonight.”

“Good,” the Sovereign said. “Make sure to check the new security consultant they brought in—he struck me as familiar, think I may have seen him with the Torment party at last month’s summit.”

“So you think someone else is trying to target the tarot card deck of Morgan le Fay?”

“Competition happens,” Madeline said with a smirk. Then her face softened. “After that, call it a night and make sure everything’s closed up.”

“Of course, my Sovereign.”

Chapter Text

Mrs. Madeline Fitzcarraldo knew there were chances of getting caught up in organized aggression off the clock, and without her credentials or appropriate look. Tonight seemed to be it; this seemed like an accident, and not anything to do with her secret identity, which would have been more concerning.

She quietly slid a steak knife into her purse as soon as the henchmen made their ambush of the charity gala known. Madeline scanned their appearance, their uniforms. Maybe fourth or fifth time she had seen a mime theme.

Madeline could not recognize any of them as Guild, or Partnership, or any other society. Unlicensed perhaps? That would be more of a problem then.

“Try to keep calm and keep your head down,” she quietly told the only assigned table mate left sitting with her, and reached over to pat her already shaking hand. “It’ll be fine, Lily.” She was the wife of someone who worked at the brewing company her husband owned. “Help will be here soon.”

She and the others complied with the intruders, and their jewelry was systematically taken.

The lead antagonist, a mountain of a man that seemed ill-suited to white and black face paint, monitored the activity and gave additional orders, such as rounding up stragglers (which included the husband of her table mate).

Watching them closely, Mrs. Fitzcarraldo couldn’t help but assess the performance of the henchmen and their boss; it was fairly satisfactory, and if they jumped through the right hoops, maybe they could even get certified. Antagonizing without a license as a first offense certainly did not automatically exclude one from membership, especially since it could happen out of ignorance. All the currently active and recognized societies were prone to setting up a policy of secrecy, and accidental unlicensed antagonism was often a side-effect of that system.

Things were going smoothly, and it was Madeline’s turn. She gave up her wedding ring and amber butterfly pin, with the certainty that she would eventually get them back.

But Lily cracked, begging them to leave her grandmother’s necklace alone. One henchman moved to grab her, and Mrs. Fitzcarraldo caught his wrist, interfering. She felt she had taken some responsibility for her table mate, and thought that none of her usual priorities demanded immediate attention. This was a calculated risk. She could afford to help this virtual stranger.

The henchman lost his temper, grabbing her instead. Yanked out of her seat, with one arm twisted behind her back, Madeline found herself thinking she was glad her husband was running late to the charity gala tonight.

She knew he could take care of himself, and he was aware that she could do the same; but she’d rather he didn’t see her let herself get compromised like this, and wonder why she held back. She could’ve said the situation was too risky; but still, she was paranoid it would get too close to her real concern over guarding her secret identity. Better that Don wasn’t here for this.

Then true chaos erupted—the Blue Morpho arrived.

Mrs. Fitzcarraldo had a certain duty to the Guild to observe him, and she noted he looked as if he were holding onto his temper. In any case, he was certainly enough to distract her captor; she elbowed him hard in the gut with her free arm as soon as his head darted up toward the vigilante.

Madeline then bolted out of the way, and Morpho shot the doubled over offender with his dart gun.

“Remember, keep your head down,” Mrs. Fitzcarraldo said as she grabbed her stunned table mate and tried to find a safe spot on the sidelines, or a way out of the building.

Even with her experience, this was easier thought than done. The antagonists now had a very aggressive Blue Morpho to focus on, but there was also a panicked horde of fleeing hostages to navigate, and confusion only multiplied. (Mrs. Fitzcarraldo wondered about security; if the antagonists showed restraint, they would have only knocked them out.)

A table thrown across the room forced Madeline to push Lily out of the way, and to throw herself to the opposite side. She began to get back up, but paused when another henchman grabbed Lily. Then someone else yanked her up and held her tightly, pressing a gun against her back.

She and Lily were dragged to the door that led to the stairs. Mrs. Fitzcarraldo calculated that the antagonists at least had an aerial escape—maybe it had even been their point of entry?—and now wanted to take hostages for the ride.

Madeline caught sight of the Blue Morpho halfway across the room, their gazes locked for a second—he looked a tad too intense—before he aimed and fired for the man that held her.

But the other henchman that had Lily crossed paths at the last second, and got shot instead. He fell to the ground, hold loosening as Lily fled.

In that instant, Mrs. Fitzcarraldo was pulled through the door and up the stairs.

For a moment she was tempted by what seemed like some privacy on the staircase to drop her restraint with the antagonist. It wasn’t an open, visible staircase, it was a staircase behind a door and a wall. No one would see. She could make up her excuses later, that it was only dumb luck that she got away.

But Mrs. Fitzcarraldo ended up shoving that impulse aside, deciding the risk of raising suspicion over herself still remained, and the current situation still didn’t require her to take that risk. Madeline only trusted a shred of her self-defense skill with Don in the civilian realm, and again she was thankful that he wasn’t here now during this hostage situation.

No, she could still do the bare minimum to protect himself, she wouldn’t drop all her restraint. And of course the Blue Morpho had come to the rescue.

And to think, hours ago as the Sovereign she finally shared what she had been thinking for a while, and pointed out to the Council that the Blue Morpho could be useful; his rogue tactics could deal with those determined to stay unregulated, and even weed out the too-ambitious, the too-traitorous, or those from rival societies that went off the rails. Tonight only bolstered her stance on the matter.

Bare minimum, bare minimum, Mrs. Fitzcarraldo told herself as she quickly pulled out the pilfered steak knife from her purse.

She slashed at her captor’s hand, and he let go of her with an alarmed curse. (If she were Force Majeure now, she would have gone for a stab instead.)

Immediately Madeline began to run back down the stairs—she grimaced when she felt her head yank back, the touch of alien hands on her long hair.

Hold tightening on her knife and resisting, she managed to regain her footing and twist around while he pulled her back, raising her improvised weapon for another attack.

The antagonist grabbed the wrist of her knife hand, but she remained firm. Despite her concerns over raising any suspicions, she would not lose her knife and have her enemy potentially use it himself.

His other hand let go of her hair, and reached for her throat. Her own free hand snapped up, grabbed some of his fingers, and harshly twisted them.

The antagonist cursed again, but his hold on her knife hand only tightened.

Then Mrs. Fitzcarraldo felt a hurling mass graze her side, saw a rush of blue overwhelm her sight, and her knife hand wrenched back, suddenly freed and moving with a little too much momentum now.

She stumbled back a bit, but regained her footing soon after. Looking up, she found the Blue Morpho struggling with the antagonist a few steps above, twisting and grappling, and she had to assume either his gun had run out of darts or he had been disarmed.

Mrs. Fitzcarraldo moved to go down the stairs, but hesitated when the Blue Morpho seemed to be on the verge of victory, about to throw the antagonist down.

Things were moving fast, but she could see in a split second, when the antagonist was a curving upside down mass over the vigilante’s shoulder, that he had desperately grabbed the corner of his opponent’s blue mask. He was likely just looking for anything to grab out of panic, especially since his eyes weren’t on the vigilante’s face, and were also squeezed shut.

That made Madeline pause, and her mind race. The antagonist might rip that mask off when he was thrown, purely by the accident of force and weight and gravity combined; the Blue Morpho was too focused on the fight to realize that risk, probably hadn’t even realized the grip his enemy had on his mask; she had some duty to the Guild to try to gather as much information as she could about the rogue vigilante and figure out his secret identity.

But would she?

Probably not, she would owe the vigilante after this, and she was not above putting her own self-interest over the Guild. (As she’d said before, she was a villain after all; self-interest came with the territory.) Madeline could see him unmasked, but then likely keep that information to herself, and not even bother with investigating further, refrain from looking for a name to go with that unmasked face...

Mrs. Fitzcarraldo pressed herself against the wall to avoid the antagonist as he was thrown past her and down the stairs. She saw him slam partway down the steps with a crack, landing face down, with something blue held tightly in his gloved hand.

Looking back up the stairs with anticipation, Mrs. Fitzcarraldo saw—

“No!” She shrieked, feeling every ounce of warmth drain out of her, heard the bloodied knife clatter to the ground, loud in her ears after her suddenly nerveless hand dropped it.

She stared up at her husband in blue, now staring at her with a matching look of horror. His gloved hand—Don’s gloved hand reached up for his face, and his eyes widened even more, finding it bare. Unmasked.

Heart pounding, mind racing even faster, flying back home to where Malcom slept under the babysitter’s watch—Mrs. Fitzcarraldo rushed down the stairs, knelt down, and tore the blue mask out of the antagonist’s grip. When she stood back up, she saw her husband darting back down the steps toward her.

“Talk at home,” she hissed, shoving the mask into his chest. Then she turned her back on him and staggered out the door, shock still flooding her system.

Madeline only managed a few steps before she leaned one hand against a wall and threw up.

She felt a hand—gloved hand on her back, and she glanced up to see the Blue Morpho’s—Don’s masked face look at her with concern and guilt, and realized his other hand held some of her hair out of the way.

“Hey!”  They looked up to a mix of security and the police among relieved civilians, with one officer pointing at them. No, at the vigilante—no, her husband.

Mrs. Fitzcarraldo crumpled against the wall and sank to the floor as the Blue Morpho ran back up the stairs. She stayed there as police and security ran by her, until one of them stopped to help her up and away from the scene.

(She told herself none of them would figure out that they were married from that one brief instance. They would just see a vigilante checking up on a victim in the middle of throwing up and having a meltdown after being taken hostage.)

Medics grew concerned when they found the blood stains on her dress. Madeline had to show them she was unhurt, and explain that the blood was from the criminal who captured her, and whom she cut with a steak knife she had hidden in her purse when the crisis first started. Their impressed praise for her quick thinking sounded far away, as Mrs. Fitzcarraldo’s mind remained on her husband. The Blue Morpho had escaped law enforcement before, and if he had been caught tonight, she would have overheard it by now.

Lily found her, and apologized for leaving her like that, she’d just been so scared—Mrs. Fitzcarraldo told her it was fine, she understood.

After the police took her statement and let her go, Madeline got in her car and drove.

Not for home, but for the observatory first, where she worked on paper, the site of her cover job.

Late night Guild security didn’t question her presence there. She showed them the proper identification for her cover rank as a Guild research scientist, then went for the concealed doors, and went to the lower secure levels.

Mrs. Fitzcarraldo found a station, locked herself in, and entered her own codes into the computer there, codes even Guild security didn’t know about, codes the Council had given her while she was Force Majeure and when she had been newly granted the rank of Sovereign.

Quickly she found the Guild’s files on the Blue Morpho. After scanning them and double checking their scant content, she deleted what little had been gathered. The files were deep enough that she was willing to risk erasing them like this. And again, they had barely contained anything. (At least her husband exercised a high level of caution.)

Done, Mrs. Fitzcarraldo logged out of her Sovereign account, left the undercover Guild site, and returned home.

###

Back at home, Madeline lingered in the parking garage, still seated in her car, staring blankly ahead with the shock catching up with her again.

How could this be?

How could she possibly miss this?

She hadn’t wanted to see.

She was an idiot.

Goddamn him. How could he lie to her about this?

She lied too. She did the exact same damned thing.

She deserved this.

She’d been too busy with her own secret to see.

She loved him, she hadn’t wanted to see.

Madeline’s mind swirled with those thoughts. And her mind kept going back to one of her earliest dates with Don, when she had only been Force Majeure, not the Sovereign.

People had tried to mug them once. Not Guild or unlicensed. They had been no-frills criminals.

In the heat of the moment, Madeline had truly fought, thinking in a rush of only protecting Don.

It was only after her first kick did she realize her boyfriend at the time could pull off a good left hook, among other things.

In the end she and Don walked away from the would-be thieves left unconscious on the ground, eyeing each other with a new shy confusion, a new anxiety, and even a little wonder.

Madeline had waited nervously for the question about her self-defense skill. But by the third time she sneaked a peek at Don’s face, she realized he was also nervously waiting in silence for her to ask him the same thing.

But she never did. And he didn’t either.

It was something that made Madeline grateful, and put her at ease. And as she watched him gradually relax with her again as their silence persisted and turned into a comfortable one with a newfound solidarity, Madeline was certain he was also put at ease by this.

Madeline had reached for his hand first, and he took it, warm and gentle and like it belonged there.

And she thought it was a relief too, knowing he could defend himself. If anything ever happened because of her secret identity, he would not be entirely helpless.

This had appealed to her, among other things.

Years later and now married and the mother of his child, Madeline scolded herself. She should’ve realized. That first hint staring right into her face, and she had never figured it out.

Madeline finally got out of the car, careful to close it quietly. She wanted to slam the door shut, but worried that might wake Malcom, who should be asleep by now.

###

She found her husband in their son’s room, sitting in a chair, watching him sleep in his crib. After she lightly touched his shoulder, Don glanced up at her, looking tired and guilty. He was not dressed as the Blue Morpho anymore.

They quietly left Malcom’s nursery and went to Don’s study.

His study with blue walls. God, she had been a fool.

“What the hell, Don?” Madeline said, whirling on him. She wildly wished for her cloak, that was always good at conveying the depths of her temper.

“I—”

She slapped him. “The Blue Morpho’s been active since before we were even married, you married me without ever telling me this, were you ever going to tell me—?!”

“No. I wasn’t...I was never going to tell you,” her husband said, his voice quiet, ashamed.

Madeline laughed, hysterical, her eyes turning wet. Same as her. She never told him she was Force Majeure before they wed; she never planned on telling him. They really did belong with each other.

She stopped laughing, jaw clenched, and hugged herself until her nails dug into her skin, turning away from her husband. Madeline finally started crying, breathing harshly. She had trusted him; but she had done the same—but she had trusted him; she hated him, she loved him; Malcom was in even more danger; she hated herself, she was no better, she had brought this on herself, she deserved this.

Madeline felt the barest graze of Don’s hand on her shoulder, and she immediately flinched back, slapping his hand away. “ Don’t—”  She glared at him, eyes burning.

Stumbling away from him, she sank into a chair by his desk, head falling into her hands. “Not now, please…” She moaned.

Caught between the sting of betrayal and self-loathing and growing fear, Madeline distantly recognized it would look like just betrayal and fear to her husband.

“Madeline, I am so sorry…”

She looked up at Don through blurred eyes. He looked absolutely wretched. Just like her.

“...Malcom. If this ever gets out—” She stabbed a finger at him. “Do you have any idea what could—”

“I know,” he said in a voice rough with strain.

“Do you?!” Madeline stood up, shoving him back. She thought of Rusty, and Jonas. “Do you, do you really, you damned—!”

She knew she was being unfair. It was her own fault she now had to worry about enemies of either Force Majeure or the Blue Morpho targeting her baby if it ever came out that either of them was a parent. She helped make this a double threat.

But knowing it was a double threat now only added to her turmoil.

She stumbled again, but finally into her husband, gripping him tightly enough her nails could feel skin beneath fabric. She hated him. She loved him. They were the same.

“You’re a bastard…” She hissed through her tears, burying her face and her grimace into his shoulder.

“I know…” His voice sounded as wet as hers.

They stayed like this for a time, quiet, holding on.

Finally Don let out a harsh breath, and said, “There’s a secret cave under our house.”

Madeline punched him, and he fell into a bookcase.

###

With a freshly split lip, Don pulled the hidden lever, revealing a new staircase, leading down to the aforementioned cave.

Madeline scanned the terrain, observing the large computer, the Morphomobile, a table laid down with chemistry equipment, and other things in the cave.

They talked more. It grew late.

Madeline went up to bed, and Don slept in his study.

Neither got much sleep that night.

###

For one, Madeline tossed and turned in bed. It felt too large without Don. Emptier. She was frustrated with how much she missed having Don there, despite everything.

But it wasn’t like Madeline had never fallen asleep alone in bed; she had done so sometimes, while Don worked late. Now she knew what “working late” actually entailed for him. It wasn’t for the brewing company he owned, like he had been telling her. Maybe sometimes it was; but likely it was vigilantism that drew him away most of the time. (But she had sometimes done the same to him too, she had left him to fall asleep alone in bed while she “worked late at the observatory.”)

She thought of her Guild ring, older but not as loved as the one Don gave her, but still valuable for different reasons. If the Council ever learned of this, they would never believe she hadn’t known from the beginning. But that was a moot point; she could never let the Council or any of the Guild learn of this, more than her own fate was at stake, she had to protect her son and husband.

Tell Don he wasn’t the only one with a secret identity? No, never.

Was keeping her mouth shut about her own secret sudden payback for the one Don kept? Was it the sudden realization that they had been unknowingly playing chicken with each other and her husband was the first to blink, and as the winner she was entitled to maintain her secret? Was the revelation of her husband’s secret being taken as a form of permission to keep her own?

Deep down, this remained clear to Madeline: she wanted to keep her Guild activity a secret.

Malcom was still so little; she wanted this career, but she wanted to keep him away from it too. And she was in too deep with the Guild now; there was no going back. (She had honestly never imagined before that she would become a mother, she had never planned so far ahead; but she was now, happily so—and she had to protect her child.)

Her secret couldn’t be leaked, no leaks—not even to her husband. His own secrecy actually hadn’t changed that in her mind.

And when this close to the possibility, Madeline found she didn’t want—she was Sovereign to most everyone else. She had worked to gain that rank and title.

But she didn’t want to be Sovereign to Don. She wanted to remain Mrs. Madeline Fitzcarraldo with him. She wanted to remain his partner in marriage and parenthood. She didn’t want to be the opposite of his life’s work in his eyes.

Still, Madeline was angry, nearing blinding levels—but her anger kept hitting a roadblock. How mad could she be, when she was doing the same, and didn’t want to stop? But if she was determined to keep her own secret, a particular hesitation in her rage might tip her hand. What if she came off as too understanding of what should be an absolutely foreign revelation to her? (It was a revelation, but she was no stranger to secret identities.) Though Don seemed to be in enough guilty turmoil to miss that...but what if he didn’t?

Mrs. Fitzcarraldo tossed and turned.

###

There was no need to covertly use Guild power to regain her stolen jewelry. The Blue Morpho had intervened, giving the police time to arrive and take the mime-themed criminals into custody, and confiscate and return everything they had stolen.

Despite learning her husband had a secret identity like her, Madeline was most relieved to have her wedding ring back (the butterfly pin was just a nice bonus).

As Force Majeure, she read over reports of Guild efforts to educate and recruit the recent offenders (this was not something that needed her direct involvement). Mrs. Fitzcarraldo would have done this even without the revelation of her husband’s vigilantism, personally spurred on more by the fact that she had been accidentally made a hostage. But given the revelation of that secret, she paid a closer eye on the unlicensed ring leader that had captured her.

His eyes had been squeezed shut while Morph—Don had thrown him; he’d landed face-first on the ground; she was certain the man didn’t even realize he had accidentally taken the vigilante’s mask off.

From what Mrs. Fitzcarraldo observed of him, her thoughts were only confirmed; that man showed no indication of ever seeing Don unmasked.

And so she held off on a covert assassination and let him live.

But then he remained unlicensed. Some of his underlings followed his lead. Others joined with the Guild, or even other societies that had courted them, like Peril and Torment.

With him insisting on staying unlicensed, well...

Wanting to get this done and not wanting to sit back and use the Blue Morpho this time—especially after seeing him unmasked—Mrs. Fitzcarraldo made her own covert arrangements as Force Majeure to ensure her former captor quietly died in police custody.

Her Number Two thought she was taking revenge and making a personal, private statement. It was best if Madeline let her continue to think that, though it made her feel guilty. Two had been so concerned the night after the hostage crisis; Two had known both of her identities for a long time. To hold back from her now was hard, but necessary.

###

Days later, another morning rush now punctuated by an alien quietness between Madeline and her husband. It was one of her off days from the observatory—from Guild work—and her turn with Malcom, and Don was hurrying to what she had previously believed was the office at the brewing company. And that was likely still the case, but for all she knew her husband did vigilante work right before the office or during or after or who knows when—no, though the Blue Morpho often operated at night, there were Guild reports of him operating during the day too.

But as Don bent down to press a small quick kiss to the top of Malcom’s head while she fed him from a Gerber bottle, her eyes fell on bruises and cuts on her husband’s knuckles.

Before Mrs. Fitzcarraldo could think to even say anything, he was gone.

Again, she wondered why she hadn’t noticed his secret before. Don had been in a hurry; did he usually cover up his scrapes with makeup like she did herself sometimes, when he had more time?

But Don had hurried before, and she hadn’t noticed—or she missed it. Or he had been able to cover up other times when he was in a hurry.

Madeline continued to consider options while she finished feeding Malcom, and came to a decision. Probably not the best decision, but it was one she wanted to make.

###

The next week, after another fight with Hubbard, the Blue Morpho returned to the cave and found his wife seated in front of the computer, dressed in matching blue, and a green butterfly-patterned scarf pointed like a triangle at the end.

“Oh,” was all he could manage, gaping at Madeline. Her face was masked too. He recognized it as Kano’s, actually. She must’ve looked around the cave, and found it.

“Oh yes,” she said with a glare. “The Blue Morpho could use some back-up again.” (She remembered Guild reports of the Morpho's partner, Kano. Now she knew why those two acted oddly around each other whenever they met at one of Jonas' gatherings. When she'd asked, Don had said they had known each other before, and she didn't pry when she noticed he didn't want to dwell on it, because Don rarely pried with her, which was something she had always appreciated; but now she knew where they had known each other from before. She knew efforts had been made to ensure she and Kano never met while she dated Don, and that resulted in her first being introduced to him as part of Jonas' group.)

What could he say? There was nothing he could say. And he remembered she was not helpless; it was worth at least a try...

“Barbara’s babysitting Malcom,” Madeline said. “Are you still on the clock, or shall we sneak out to date night?”

Dear god did the latter sound better right now.

“...I came back to use the computer,” he admitted. “Hubbard’s still on the loose.”

Madeline nodded, looking unperturbed. She stood and stepped back from the chair. “Will you get me up to speed?”

He did.

###

Their first night together at joint vigilantism worked out well. Hubbard had escaped again, but they had defused his bomb and destroyed his brainwashing radar.

Mrs. Fitzcarraldo had drawn up her green scarf over her nose and mouth, and tied back her hair into a severe bun while they were out in the field.

Once they returned to the cave, Madeline invited Don back up to their bedroom, someplace he hadn’t been to since he’d been unmasked.

He was barely through the door before Madeline grabbed him and kissed him, something else they hadn’t done since his unmasking.

Falling into bed, wife and husband re-acquainted themselves thoroughly.

This could work. They could re-negotiate. They could do this.

###

Mrs. Fitzcarraldo could play both sides of antagonists and protagonists. She could. She would. She could do both. She could juggle three identities—the civilian, the Sovereign, the vigilante.

(Frankly, there had been a certain new thrill fighting alongside Don like that.)

But her son and husband took precedence.

###

The whole point was that his wife didn’t know he had broken the wedding vow he made to her, that she wasn't hurt by that particular betrayal—but Jonas’ “request” that this all remain between the two of them also held Mr. Fitzcarraldo’s tongue back about Dr. Venture’s involvement, and the dirty work he did for him.

But the Blue Morpho would not bring up his wife becoming his partner in vigilantism with Jonas. Not willingly.

Thankfully Madeline was intent on keeping her assistance in the dark for as long as possible. 

Chapter Text

Malcom liked playing with Rusty, even if he was a few years older. Rusty was different from the older kids back at school—he picked on him less, and could be a lot of fun most of the time.

“Avast!”

“What?” Malcom paused in raising his plastic sword, staring at Rusty who stood on top of the couch. The older boy had his own plastic sword, but also a hat and a towel for a cape because he was the captain.

“Avast!” Rusty tried again, still smiling but now giving him a “come on” look.

“But what’s—?”

“It’s what pirates say,” the ten-year-old rolled his eyes, now dropping the smile. He jumped down, and bumped his sword against Malcom’s. “Come on, you’re my second-in-command—ask me a better question.”

“Um, okay, I—” The younger boy fumbled, feeling silly. At six years old, he hadn’t really played pirates before, and had been too shy to say so when Rusty said they should do that next. He’d done dragons and knights and such, but not pirates yet. He’d seen them in stuff like books and movies, but he realized now he didn’t know why they said some of the things they said. “Uh—avast, where’s the treasure, Captain?”

Rusty beamed, and flung a conspiratorial arm around Malcom’s shoulders, and though that made him stumble a little, he smiled. “Excellent question! Now, let me show you me map—see, X marks the spot, arrr…”

“You sound like a dog. And that’s not how you say you have a map—”

“Pirates go ‘ arrr ’ too! And have bad grammar sometimes!”

Afterward the game became more exciting with their running around the compound, avoiding the H.E.L.P.eR. sea monster and the rival Venture pirate clan.

In the end they returned to Rusty’s room, where X was drawn on a crown made out of yellow construction paper, and in the middle of it was what Rusty boasted as a box of chocolates he’d pilfered from one of his dad’s lady friends.

The two boys sat on the floor eating candy, swords and hats and towel-capes discarded on the floor.

“Um—” Malcom stopped chewing and swallowed, hastily remembering his mother’s instruction to not speak with his mouth full. “Do you have that book that tells you about words? The um—it’s called a—” The boy fumbled, trying to remember what that sort of book was called. He had one back home, that said what words were, and its pages were filled with pictures too.

Rusty scoffed. “What, you want to look up ‘avast?’”

“Uh huh.”

The older boy looked like he was holding back a laugh. “Let’s look at some better books.”

Then Rusty’s eyes went to the door. “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay? It’ll be our secret.”

Malcom nodded, remembering what his dad told him about secrets.

The older boy seemed to consider something, then said, “Well, just don’t tell my dad.”

Malcom raised his hand. “Pinky swear!”

Rusty blinked at him. Then he shrugged and did it, folding his pinky around the other boy’s.

Then Rusty pulled out a cardboard box buried under a pile of clothes. He took off the lid, and started pulling out—

“Comics!”

“Mal, secret!”

“Sorry,” Malcom whispered, watching Rusty pull out more. “Lexi likes comics too.”

Rusty grunted, and Malcom remembered the older boy didn’t seem to like it so much when he talked about his friends back home. So that was something he rarely did, but it still slipped out sometimes.

“What about you?”

“Huh?”

Rusty rolled his eyes again. “You like comics too, don’t you?” But something in Rusty’s voice made Malcom think he could kinda read minds the way his parents seemed to do, and that made Malcom fidget.

“Yeah, I do!”

The older boy stopped to stare at him. Malcom fidgeted more.

“...I like ‘em, but I kinda like it when there are more words, so I like other books more…”

Rusty just laughed. “You’re such a nerd.”

Malcom pouted and stuck his tongue out at the older boy. Then he crossed his arms and tried to look away—but his eyes kept peeking at the covers of the growing comic collection on the floor.

He finally laid down on his stomach and pulled one issue toward him.

Rusty had a lot of neat monster comics. There were others about pirates and cowboys, and space. There was even one with Rusty’s dad and the other grown-ups that Malcom would see during visits to the Venture Compound (and who was recently the rival pirate clan they had to sneak by).

“I got this one because it has the Blue Morpho in it,” Rusty said, eagerness filling his voice. He offered the issue to Malcom. “He saved my dad, but I’ve never really met him before. He looks cool, though.”

The younger boy reached to take the comic, but stopped when there was a knock at the door that made Rusty stiffen. The older boy quickly dropped the comic back in the box, and Malcom suddenly felt very nervous.

“Boys, lunch is ready,” said Malcom’s mom through the door.

Malcom watched Rusty relax, and he felt his own sudden worry slip away too.

“Thanks Mrs. Fitzcarraldo, we’ll be out soon!”

After putting the comics away and pushing the box back in its hiding spot, Rusty and Malcom raced out.

###

Malcom and his parents went back home on Sunday.

At dinner that night when Mom and Dad asked about his time with Rusty, Malcom told them about playing hide-and-seek and checkers, then playing pirates, then the treasure and the comics.

“Rusty had a comic with his dad in it,” Malcom said after he swallowed a piece of meatball. “And it had, um, Mister—Mister—”

“Rodney?” His dad offered.

“Yeah, him, and those other guys—and there was the Blue Morpho—”

Malcom didn’t look up from his spaghetti, focused on wrapping a really big, good bite of it around his fork. “—Rusty said he saved his dad…” Malcom trailed off, thinking. That was a funny name, actually. “What’s a morpho?” He asked, looking up. He figured his parents would know.

Mom was grabbing another piece of bread, and Dad was taking another sip of wine.

“No idea,” Dad said, putting the glass down.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the word either,” Mom said, buttering the bread slice.

“Sounds like a goofy name,” Dad said, and Malcom snickered, agreeing with him.