Merry and Bright

Allen Adams had always been content to go unnoticed. On the farm or in the air force, it was his experience that the nameless and the faceless were usually found doing the most important work. Being useful was what mattered, not recognition.

So it was ironic, and uncomfortable, that he should be standing in a roomful of the most prominent superheroes in the world. It was a small group — this afternoon party on Christmas Eve was just for the active members of the Challenger Foundation. Allen had exchanged the obligatory pleasantries, but his life didn't make for pleasant smalltalk. And so he planted himself against a wall and focused on the sweet, emotive sighing of the violin in Christmas Concerto for Strings, played unaccompanied and without the aid of instruments by his teammate, the psychic maestro known as Amp.

Amp and Ephemera. Battleaxe, Meteora, Hydroman, and the Promethean. That was the way of the room. People so talented, so famous, so beautiful that they had more than one name. There were no grunts, no nameless and faceless rank-and-file here.

Not even the Atomic Ranger, Allen thought. He was the newest member of the Foundation, collecting checks for barely 8 months and still a household name. His new glow-in-the-dark face had been on TV and in newspapers and magazines more than he cared to think about. It was a surreal realization that even if Allen Adams didn't belong in this room, the Atomic Ranger belonged on this team.

Allen looked across the room at his boss, nodded his appreciation at the musical talents of his adopted son. The Promethean raised his glass in acknowledgement, then turned his attention back to the concert. Matteo Mancini, the Promethean, was a literal living legend. He was the man who created the Challenger Foundation, an 800-something-year-old alchemist who beat back the Martian hordes alongside the greatest heroes of an older age. The Promethean defined what it was to be an important man. And he didn't saddle his team with dead weight. If Allen was stuck being a weapon, there wasn't a more trustworthy man to decide where to point him.

And right there, Allen realized, was the other reason he didn't belong here. He was a gun on the rack, more weapon than person.

Technically, he was a cyborg. Still a creature of flesh and blood, but metallic-yellow flesh made of extraterrestrial chitin. He had a bionic leg and a metal spine and a nuclear isomer battery in his gut to power it all. The lunatic science that had augmented him had maybe taken away more than it had given; what right had he to relate to real people with real human connections beyond tragedy? To heroes, and not hardware?

In the field, Atomic Ranger was right at home, but that feeling faded when the punch-outs were over and the crossfire ceased. Here in this room, Allen was the only one with no binding ties, no long history of kinship and humor and love. He had fought alongside his teammates for a little while, come to respect them. He thought he would lay down his life to protect them. And they called him their friend, but he didn't know them, and they didn't know him.

He did that to himself, of course. Everyone else was almost jarringly open about themselves. Even before his transformation, Allen had never been one to offer up his opinion, let alone his life story, unless it was keenly relevant. And mostly, people didn't pry.

Except for Meteora.

Danica Novak never stopped chipping at his walls. She started asking him questions when he was new and overwhelmed, and every time he answered, the next answer came easier. And as he watched her walk over to him, he knew that she had picked up the hammer and chisel again.

It was because of her intense perseverance that she became the only teammate he really knew. She was years younger than him, but already a veteran. As Meteora, she was a human rocket whose first punch was often the only one necessary. Her father was the Hypergolic Man, an old ally of the Foundation and, as she often pointed out to Allen, a man who had volunteered to be turned into a living weapon. That was probably the reason why Danica was undaunted by his standoffishness.

"Parties are more fun if you talk to the people at them, Allen," she said.

"I never have much to say. Everything interesting I do involves punching, lifting, and shooting lasers, and I never do it without the people in this room present."

Danica sighed and sipped the last of her rum and coke. "That's why you're supposed to go out and do things between missions. If you'd go out to a movie, you could talk about that."

"You know I can't go to theaters, Danica. I glow in the dark." It was true, but the real reason he couldn't go to a movie with her was because they'd end up sitting entirely too close to each other.

"So we should sit in the back."

And there it was: the ambiguous line. These days, Allen was having a hard time discerning whether Danica was hitting on him, or if he was imprinting his own subconscious desires onto her words. He liked the idea of her being as attracted to him as he was to her.

He could clearly and all too easily picture his younger, wholly human self laying in the back of his pickup truck, a quilt, a six-pack, and Danica at his side. There was no other girl he'd want to watch the stars with more than Meteora. The thought made the phantoms of lost body parts ache.

'Yes, Danica, I would love to sit in the back row of a movie theater with you, which is why I won't.'

She leaned against the wall a few feet from him, arching her back like she was in a photo shoot, and complained to the ceiling. "I wish I could offer to get you a drink to loosen you up a little. But I'm guessing alcohol doesn't work on you anymore, does it?"

"Not anymore, no." He wished it did. One year ago, Allen Adams was missing a leg — among other things — and was trying mightily to use the other. He had moved back to his parents' farm and was wallowing in the loss of his dream to save up enough money from the Air Force to triumphantly return home, buy part or all of his parents' land, find a wife, and have ten kids so he never needed to hire a farmhand. He stared down the bottom of many a bottle back then. And even if it didn't change anything, even if it made him more miserable, it had been a comfort.

Now, he had the raw strength to put a yoke over his own back and plow a field without breaking a sweat, but all his dreams were even further away. His new body was more comfortable, but he'd lost so many comforts.

That was what made Danica Novak so dangerous.

"You should walk me to my car."

"You can't possibly feel unsafe walking to your car, Meteora," Atomic Ranger had to suppress a smile as he said it. A less prepared man would have easily fallen for that one. Whether her intentions were to have him alone in the parking lot or simply to get him to drive her to her parents' house — she had been trying to get him to come to Christmas Eve dinner since the moment malls started playing Christmas music — she would not be content with a simple goodbye. He called her out on it. "Besides, weren't you just drinking?"

Her lips, a shade lighter than the red in the candy-cane-striped sweater that hugged her, pouted. She must have thought her plan was perfect, because she had no defense or backup.

He covered his mouth to hide his amusement. She was lousy at being sneaky. Her real strength, her ability to give of herself, was astounding. At times he wondered: if she had been in his life after the bombing ripped him apart, would he have still made that deal with the devil for his new leg? She was the sort of woman he could see sacrificing her future to build him back up. She would have had more to work with then, at least everything left of him after the attack was still human.

Between his nuclear battery and his skin grafted with extra- or ultra-terrestrial DNA, he felt like he had more in common with toasters or Martians or lightbulbs. But sometimes, he didn't feel that way with Danica. He could also all too easily picture her destroying herself for him now. If he didn't like her so damn much, he'd be happy to let her do it. He felt like an unstable molecule around her, drawn to her calming aura, but knowing they'd make a poisonous compound.

However, it was Christmas, and she was a girl who wanted a boyfriend but didn't have one. Which was ridiculous, because she was Meteora, America's super-sweetheart since the day she joined the Challenger Foundation. If she wanted any other man, she'd have him. But she was suspicious of any guy who saw her in a magazine before he talked to her, and that described all men with eyes. And maybe, just maybe, she was a girl holding back with any other man because she was standing here, with him, barking up a wrong and radioactive tree.

Still, she was a girl who deserved to know how special she was. He couldn't deny her that. A man couldn't come back from losing everything — his leg, any future children, his autonomy, his humanity, his parents, his sister — on his own. And God didn't make girls like Danica to be lonely.

And so he orbited her carefully, vigilant so as to not be pulled in.

Finally, she rerouted. "I had something I didn't want to give you in front of everyone else," she said quietly.

"Are we really doing this?" Allen asked. He tried to make himself sound mildly stern to rib her. He didn't realize that he usually sounded stern, so he had overdone it.

Danica winced, hiding her bright blue eyes behind a wave of blonde hair. She feigned ignorance. "What?"

"Exchanging gifts."

"It's OK if you didn't get me one," she said, still not looking at him. But he caught her eyes starting to get a little glossy as she blinked.

He chuckled, not because anything was funny, but to try to lighten the mood. This girl really wanted him alone. And he was really afraid of being alone with this girl. "I got everyone a gift. I ordered Tru-Treat pop, bottled in Nebraska, and the shipping was so much that I just got six-packs for everyone."

She forced a little smile. "That's... that's nice, Allen. I really appreciate that. I got everyone something little, too." She swallowed and squared her shoulders. "But I got you something else. And I really don't feel like it would be appropriate to give you a better gift in front of everyone."

'No one would care,' he thought. Ephemera, Amp, and Hydroman had already made remarks in the past, wondering if they were dating. They weren't, but he was sure they'd expect to see them exchange gifts on Christmas Eve. He watched her carefully, measured that she had had just enough alcohol in her to be tipsy. If not for that, he could say, 'Let's go out for some air.' Sober Danica was charming and respectful. Tipsy Danica tried to be. 'No,' he corrected himself. 'Still is.' It was his own fear stoking his perception of her unpredictability. How could he possibly stop himself if she ever grew bold enough to force her pomegranate lips on him? And why did he keep coming back to the possibility?

'Because you double-crossed PATH, and PATH killed your parents. That's the entire reason you're here,' he reminded himself. He set his jaw. He was ready to be kind to Danica without being swept up in her current. "No one will bother us in the hallway," he offered.

He knew he sounded stern again, but he was giving her what she wanted, so she smiled at him and bounced a little as she led the way, stopping to grab a plain, dark green gift bag hung beneath her coat. He grabbed his coat and slid it on.

"So is Tru-Treat your favorite soda?" There was a lightness and lilt in her voice that only existed in a girl thrilled to learn something new about her crush.

"No. It's just different, and I got in the mood for it because..." he had to stop himself from saying 'I'm crushingly homesick.' He couldn't even bring himself to say the words 'Dad loved it.'

She looked up at him with those knowing sky blue eyes again, as if every time he lost the words she somehow read his mind. Sometimes he felt like he must have been confusing her instead of disappointing her whenever he shrugged off her advances; was it even possible for her to not know how he felt?

He forced himself to think of PATH again. "... Because we'd get it around the holidays."

"Mm hm." She hugged herself and leaned against the wall, looking up at him patiently, just barely smiling. It reminded him of someone waiting for a dog to own up to stealing a sandwich, but somehow her expression was sweet instead of demeaning.

He huffed a defeated laugh, turned to face the windows that looked out over Meridian Harbor and leaned his back against the wall. "It was my dad's favorite pop. It's grapefruit-flavored, so it's an acquired taste." He didn't even know what else to say. But she got the information she wanted, he was sure.

"You should come to my folks' place for Christmas Eve, Allen. We all had a good time at Thanksgiving. Dad likes you; he said you're welcome back anytime."

He didn't want to be a holiday staple at her house. That would make it all the harder on them when she inevitably got a boyfriend. But he did enjoy Thanksgiving considerably more than he figured he could. The invitation, like the woman offering it, was tempting. "I'll be fine. The Promethean'll be glad to have me along so he's not third-wheeling with Amp and Ephemera."

"I'm sure he doesn't mind. I don't think the situation has been invented that can make Matteo feel awkward." She tilted her head, pushing a strand of long, blonde hair behind her ear, and flashed him an apple-pie and baseball smile. "What if I said I'd miss you if you didn't come?"

Allen quickly coughed into his fist. He didn't realize that it was something he only ever did when he wanted to change the subject, and that Danica knew it. For a man who barely needed to eat or drink, never got a sore throat, and for how often he needed to breathe being a subject of debate, what biological reason would he have to cough? "So you wanted to give me something?"

She handed him the bag. It felt light in his hands, but then everything did nowadays. He reached past some red tissue paper — making it glow like a dim luminary as he did — and pulled out a packaged black button-down shirt. He stared at it for a long minute, unsure of how to feel about it. He was ambivalent toward the shirt itself — Allen's fashion concerns went as far as looking clean and kempt — but he was concerned about her buying him clothes. 'Hell,' he thought. 'Is this a girlfriend thing?'

Danica noticed the delay. "Is it too mother hen-ish?" she deflected, trying to downplay it.

He found himself replying without thinking, "I don't know."

She stared out toward the setting sun, and in return it cast an orange tint over her already blushing cheeks. "I just... the last time you wore a suit, you had that light gray shirt on, and your chest was glowing through it, which made it look green. And then you had that bright red tie on, and, ah..." She was wringing her hands gently as she debated her word choice. "Well, you sort of looked a bit like a stoplight."

Allen huffed a laugh and shook his head. "Thanks, Danica. That's what I was going for."

"I thought so." She stepped in front of him and picked up the package by its corners. "This is a little thicker, so you shouldn't be able to glow through it. And there's a tie that'll go with your complexion better."

He raised an eyebrow at that and dug through the bag again. It was a set: tie and handkerchief, both predominantly black with neon yellow and ultraviolet purple stripes. He was sure it looked classy enough, but they were the sort of colors only she could pick. He wasn't keen to accentuate his bizarre features.

"You don't like it."

"It's all right," he said coolly. "I do appreciate it." He was genuinely confused when the thought crossed his mind, because he thought they knew each other well: "You didn't expect me to be excited about clothes, did you?"

She rocked on her heels and hummed. "No. But the thing I got that you'll like cost me a quarter, so I felt like I had to get you something else."

He stared at her until she pointed at the bag. There was a thick, worn paperback at the very bottom. On its faded cover was an armor-clad barbarian with a too futuristic-looking sword fighting a humanoid pterodactyl.

A small smile curved Allen's yellow lips. "Wow," he said quietly. She was already wearing that knowing, giddy smile again when he looked back at her. "I'm surprised you remembered I needed this one." It was painstakingly specific: part seven of a nine-book series he had otherwise completed, an out-of-print and unwanted-by-the-general-public gem he'd been looking for since before he had set foot in a barracks. He refused to order vintage books off the grid; besides the threat of over-paying, combing used bookstores was one of his old habits he could still enjoy.

"I found it at a flea market."

"This is really great, Danica. Thank you."

They stood there, both holding the bag, both staring over it at each other for a tiny eternity. It happened with them often; Allen was a quiet guy, and she valued that. And he liked looking at her, especially, he knew, because, at least at this point in her life, she only looked at him this way. He thought she must like his quiet presence or professionalism. Or maybe she had bird with a broken wing syndrome. He could not have comprehended that she'd become so familiar with his bizarre appearance that she could look past the yellow glow and appreciate his sharp, wide jawline and muscular neck. Or that she had a thing for stern gazes, and even more of a thing for soft gazes coming from men with stern gazes.

Eventually, he broke away, placing the book back in the bag with a whispered, "Really great."

"It's OK that you didn't get me anything besides the soda," she blurted, her voice tense in an admirable but failed attempt to hide her disappointment. He didn't doubt that she meant it, though. "Please don't worry about it."

He huffed and shook his head. "Danica, please. I was joking before. Of course I got you something besides pop."

Her mouth made a quiet little 'oh' before she blushed.

He set the bag at his feet and reached into the pocket of the soft, brown leather jacket he wore despite never feeling cold. As his fingers gingerly clasped around the sturdy, square box, he hesitated. Maybe the gift was too boyfriend-y. Maybe that was OK, especially on Christmas. She definitely deserved it, and he did set out to make her feel special.

"Should I close my eyes?" she joked, sensing that hesitation.

"I, uh..." He bought the gift weeks ago. How had he not yet figured out what he wanted to say with it? "I guess I just don't want you to get the wrong idea."

She made a face like she'd put a cough drop in her mouth thinking it was candy.

"I just..." This was when being with her was hard. He had a great swell of things he wanted to tell her, and each one would push them closer to a relationship. In his mind, he was carefully laying them out on a table, examining each one, and trying to choose the safest phrases to articulate why he wanted her to feel special without conveying that he wanted her.

After a while of looking confused, she giggled, "So long as it's not deodorant, I think we'll be OK, Allen." She wasn't laughing at the misdirection, she was laughing at his hesitation. The quality of her jokes directly matched his finesse at conveying his interpersonal thoughts.

"Sorry," his voice was only a notch softer, but it was a notch she noticed.

"Allen..." She brought her hands up to her face, folded them, wrung them slightly. If he didn't talk fast, she might reach out to encourage him.

Today wasn't the day for that. He forced himself to start talking. "I... wanted to get you something that would make you feel special without... I mean, you deserve..." He shook his head, cleared his thoughts, started again. "If you'd have told me in spring, after everything that happened, the yellow skin, the superpowers, PATH trying to kill me, PATH killing my parents... I was lost after that, Danica. I lost my family, my home... I lost myself. If you'd have told me that things would be OK, that I'd find some direction again, I wouldn't have believed you. No, I didn't believe you. But you kept saying it. And you didn't — wouldn't — leave me alone. And I..."

He was amazed at how calm his body felt when his mind was flustered. There were no more sweaty palms, no rushed breathing. Danica's posture had relaxed; her fingers, tipped with red-and-green sparkly nail polish, softly rested on her lip and chin as she listened with rapt attention.

"The Promethean patched me up, fixed the reactor shielding, gave me a job despite looking like I belonged on the Sentinel's personal hit list. He fixed me physically, and I can't thank him enough for that. But the mental game, creating a new normal when everything was just new, and not a good new, that was you. That was all you. So... uh... this might seem overboard, but I needed to say thanks."

As he pulled the velveted clamshell case, which had completely filled his pocket, from it, he realized he hadn't adequately emphasized a 'just friends' angle like he had planned. It wasn't because he forgot, but because he no longer wanted to. There wasn't a place in his speech for it, was there? She wasn't just his friend; she was everything. And maybe she needed him today, but she wouldn't someday. He could be content to be by her side — at arm's length — until she saw that. But he couldn't lie and say they were just friends on Christmas Eve.

She wasn't looking at the box at all, but was instead breathing slowly into her hands, which cupped her mouth, her eyes fixated on his face. "Allen." The word was an unsure, muffled whimper, the likes of which he'd never heard her utter.

He wanted to reach out and stroke her hand or her face. Instead, he forced words out of his mouth again, trying to ease the pressure. He swallowed hard, an unfamiliar feeling. "You're supposed to look in the box before you react, Danica."

She coughed a nervous giggle and opened the box with quaking hands. It was a set: bracelet, necklace, earrings. There were warm grey and light blue jewels in them, and they looked like a cross between sunbursts and snowflakes. Danica didn't wear jewelry on a day-to-day basis, so he picked something for a special occasion, something like Ephemera would be wearing at dinner tonight. He didn't have Amp's money; they weren't exactly diamonds, but he didn't go cheap, either. The bands and chain had a modern, nearly black coating that seemed almost sporty and made it easy for him to picture on her.

"Oh, Allen." Her lips were a tense line, not the smile he anticipated.

He put his hands in his pockets. He just wasn't sure what to do.

She sniffled and closed her eyes tightly. "This is really pretty."

He laughed once, incredulously. "You look miserable." And if he wasn't Allen Adams, it would have been an exclamation.

Her sleeve mopped at her glossy eyes, and then she hugged the box to her chest. "I'm really happy. I just..." She leaned in toward him until her forehead touched his overly warm chest. He instinctively put a careful hand on her shoulder, giving small, chaste 'there there' caresses. And then they stayed there, suspended by two points of contact: a few inches of forehead resting on his navy blue T-shirt, his hand warming her shoulder through her sweater. She found her voice again, but it was small. "I'm just really happy you're doing OK. I'm really happy you stayed and joined the team."

He realized he could have given her an old sock and elicited the same reaction, so long as he delivered it with the same words.

She wiped her eyes and pulled back, only because she wanted to see his. And her tear-filled gaze was more intimate, more telling, than any gift could be. "I'm really glad you're here, Allen Adams."

He removed his hand from her shoulder, put it back in his pocket. He looked away, out at the city. It was dark now, with specks of light illuminating the landscape of buildings like square stars. Allen frowned, his glowing reflection shockingly crisp against the otherwise clear window. What was he doing here with this girl? What was he doing to her? There were a couple flurries cutting lazy, back-and-forth paths past the window, leading his eyes back into the expectant gaze of the woman before him.

She had removed the bracelet from the case and had it against her wrist, fumbling with the open clasps.

"Here, I'll help," He took the first two of four tiny clasps between his thumbs and forefingers. Then he fumbled, the creases across his brow growing deeper until he sighed, and they both laughed. "Nope, I won't. I'm bad at this."

"You hold the bracelet in place, and that end of the chain, and I'll do the clasp."

And she did, and they laughed more. Then she wiped away the last lingering moisture on her cheek and stared at her new token of affection. "Did you pick it yourself?"

He shrugged. "The lady at the counter only gave me a few choices. But, yeah. I thought they'd look good on you."

She batted her eyelashes at that, unconsciously, he thought. He watched the red come into her cheeks slowly, like a sunrise, as her blue eyes flicked between the bracelet and his face until they settled into another long, endearing quiet.

Eventually, with a newfound cheer and a touch of come-hither huskiness, she asked, "You sure you won't come to my folks' for Christmas Eve dinner?"

"No. But I guess I'll wear this out with Matteo and company," he lifted the bag for emphasis, "instead of dressing as a stoplight like I planned." His ability to say it without even a hint of a smile or emphasis was admirable.

She frowned and looked at the bracelet, suddenly tempted to go out and dress up just so she could wear the whole set. And be with Allen longer. "Maybe I should join you guys—"

"No," he interjected. "Your folks like me. I'm not going to let you change that by ditching them. You can wear that on New Year's, at that Compass Society shindig." He paused, confused. "Why do we go to that? We're not Compass Society, are we?"

She shrugged. "My dad's a member, Promethean and Ephemera are. A lot of it is getting roped in because of family."

"OK, then why am I going?"

"Because I said so," she stated. And that was that. "Although I guess officially you're now Promethean's bodyguard, or something like that. Anyway, what time are you doing dinner with them tomorrow?"

"Just Promethean, actually. Amp and Ephemera are doing her folks' house. Noon."

"And after that?"

"Slaughterdome of the Sky Lizards, I guess."

She puffed her cable-knit chest and put a hand on her hip. "Good. I'll stop over at five."

Due to his ever-glow, his pupils didn't contract; it hid his surprise. There'd be nowhere indoors open on Christmas day, and it would be far too cold for Danica to be outside. "You'll be coming from your folks'?"

"Mm hm."

"Stay there," he said. "I'll visit in the evening; I bought pop for your dad, too, and I wanted to ask him if Hydroman really beat the Promethean in chess. Seems there may be some information missing from that story."

"Shouldn't you just ask the Promethean?"

"I will tonight, but I want an unbiased third party account."

She shook her head and chuckled. "I hate to tell you, but my dad has very strong opinions about Hydroman. Although he will be glad to see you. So will I."

Allen coughed. "We should probably head back in before everyone starts going their separate ways." He gripped the doorknob in his amber hand, but hesitated. He never liked leaving her hanging when she put herself out there, even if getting wrapped up with a guy like him would be abysmal for her. But she'd bared more of her soul to him tonight; he was human enough to recognize that. "And Danica?"

"Hm?"

His next words were heavy with the weight of his past, but they were true. "I'm not happy about how I ended up here, but I am glad to be here." He couldn't shake the gruffness from his voice, but he forced a smile for her. "Merry Christmas."

Those knowing, happy eyes sparkled back at him, and his smile melted into something more genuine. "Happy Christmas, Allen."

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