Disclaimer: I own nothing but the arrangement of the words on the page.

A/N: My first time writing for this fandom. Hopefully I haven't screwed up the characters too badly. I promise to put them back with minimal damage when I'm done. This was originally written for Salifiable in the Secret Santa challenge over at Yuletide Treasure, which is why it's only being posted now. I had to wait for the New Year's reveal first. Nonetheless, enjoy!

As Close as Hands and Feet

© Scribbler, December 2008/January 2009.

Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet. – Vietnamese proverb.

Violet was pretty sure she was a good big sister. Yeah, she argued with her brothers, her mother was always telling them not to break anything when they fought, and her dad had been forced to physically prise them apart more than once, but that wasn't unusual. Little brothers were genetically designed to embarrass older siblings. It was a proven scientific fact that had endured since the dawn of time.

After listening to her classmates' stories at school, Violet had established that there were three categories of little brother: Milkus-Snortus, Diary-Photocopius, and Never Leave Alone With New Boyfriend If You Want to Keep Him. There was also a fabled Actually Quite Nice, but everyone knew that was the kind of fantasy brother that only existed in TV families and Hallmark movies.

So far, Jack-Jack was a Milkus-Snortus. Then again, he was only three and pretty much confined his interests to eating lint off the carpet and finding new ways to trash each heavy-duty high chair, playpen and jungle gym their parents bought for him. Helen and Bob Parr were seriously thinking about commissioning the team who built the chimpanzee enclosure at the zoo next time. Jack-Jack was far more concerned with driving their parents to distraction with each new power he developed than in figuring out new ways to ruin his sister's social life.

Dash on the other hand …

Dash had made older sister torture into an art form. He wasn't malicious, but he was incessant. Apart from Heroing, it was about the only thing he could concentrate on for more than five seconds. He was also devious and inventive – two words Violet really, really wished had never been invented, especially with regard to little brothers. When you're a sixteen year old girl, between trying desperately to maintain a balance between school and the rest of your life, a little brother is difficult enough to deal with. However, when you have to also factor in jetting away to thump a supervillain, save a city, rescue a kidnapped celebrity or stop a falling satellite from wiping out South Dakota … well, it became more than a little stressful to come home and find he'd posted pictures on the internet of you when you were seven and got your head stuck in some railings.

Consequently, she was more than a little wary when one day in December she opened her bedroom door to find Dash standing there with a request that didn't involve swapping chores so he could go running along the Great Wall of China before dinner.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Is this a set-up?"

"No." Dash was sullen, like he'd rather have asked anyone but her.

"Why ask me? Get Mom to help you."

"Are you kidding? I can't ask Mom about this!"

"Why not? I did."

"Yeah, but you're a girl." Dash said it almost accusingly. "You're allowed. And I can't ask Dad because … well, because he's Dad."

Violet thought about their father: big, strident, and somewhat tactless even when he was trying to be sensitive. "Yeah, okay, I'll concede that one."

"You'll what."

"You're right about Dad."

"Then you'll help me?" Dash's face lit up.

"I didn't say that. Why should I help you? I'm still mad at you for that thing at the North Pole."

After the whole family rescued a crew of scientists from Madame Madness's icy lair, Dash had planted a flag claiming the spot for the Incredibles. He had, however, used a stolen pair of Violet's underwear and written on them in magic marker. Mom had forced him to run back and take it down when she found out, but Violet had been mortified, and scoured the papers every day in case someone had managed to get a picture. Just thinking about it now made her burn with anger and humiliation.

Dash obviously saw the flicker in her eyes, because he dropped his own gaze. Surprisingly, he seemed genuinely contrite about the prank. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to … well, yeah, actually I did mean to do it. But I'm sorry anyway."

"Sorry you did it, or sorry you got yelled at for it?"

Instead of answering, Dash twisted his hands behind his back, the very picture of teenage awkwardness. Violet remembered that feeling – still had it sometimes, though not as often since she'd become more settled following the Syndrome crisis. "Please, Violet, I … I need help and I don't know who else to ask."

She regarded him for a second longer. Then she sighed. "Okay, but you so totally owe me for this."

"Oh, man, really? I mean, yeah, sure, anything. Thanks, Vi. I appreciate it. I will completely make this up to you. Whatever you want for Christmas, it's yours, I swear it. As long as it fits into my allowance after I finish paying back Mom for that vase I broke."

Violet rolled her eyes. "You can start by not calling me Vi."

It was weird, she reflected. When Dash smiled like that – happy and grateful – it made him seem like a normal boy instead of a Little Brother From Hell.

"You're sure this will work?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"No, but I'm not the reigning queen of the social circuit."

"I can't believe you're nearly fourteen and you've never been to a party before."

"Hey, you were the same!"

"Excuse me; I was thirteen when I went to Lucy Morella's Spring Bash."

"Yeah … well … hey, just shut up."

"Fine, I'll go home."

"No, no, I didn't mean that! I just meant … are you sure this will work?"

Violet sighed. "Dash, chill. Seriously. You're acting like a chicken without a head. Very uncool." She'd become much more versed in the Ways of Coolness since entering High School. She'd even invented a few of her own that people adopted because they admired how comfortable she seemed within herself.

Dash continued to look uncomfortable. He tugged at the collar of the outfit she'd picked out for him. They'd had to scour several stores, even though Dash hated shopping, because he hated wearing things from the kiddy section even more.

At thirteen he'd grown a few inches, but not enough to stop her calling him 'midget' when they tossed insults at each other. He would never be as tall as either of their parents, instead adopting the stubby legs and stocky torso of Grandpa Charlie and Uncle Gus. It was a constant sticking point for him as his schoolmates shot up to the heights of professional basketball players. He up-combed his hair and used enough gel to fill half the shopping cart during ever weekly grocery run. He was always at the front in class photos, even though he was one of the oldest, and more than once substitute teacher had tried to convince him he'd wandered into the wrong class.

"This feels itchy."

"Deal with it." Violet took pity on him for a moment and patted his shoulder. "You'll be fine."

Dash jumped. He looked a hairsbreadth from bolting – which, for Dash, meant coming to a halt somewhere in Eastern Europe. "Don't do that! I can't see where you are."

"Well duh. That's kind of the point." Violet observed the line of kids going into the big house at the end of the driveway. They all looked pretty normal – and there were a lot of them. She remembered her first party and quickly hissed, "If there's a punch bowl, you stay away from it. You hear me?"

"Sure, sure." Dash's stomach growled. "Aw, man, now I'm hungry."

"At a time like this?"

"I have a super-fast metabolism! Stress burns calories."

Violet gritted her teeth, but pulled a bag of hazelnuts from her backpack. Both it and she were invisible, but the packet glimmered back into view as she pushed it into his hands. He hated what he termed her 'health food junk', and candy would have been a quicker upper, but Dash and sugar did not mix. "Here. I'd tell you to eat quickly, but that'd be a little -"

Dash burped and stuffed the empty packet into his pocket.

"- redundant."

"A little what?"

"Never mind. Remind me to buy you a dictionary for Christmas."

"It'll go so well with the reindeer sweater from Aunt Maud."

"You already peeked in your present?" Every year they helped their parents dress the tree, but this year they'd been too busy getting Dash primed for the party. Helen Parr had stared at her two eldest in disbelief – partly because they seemed to be getting along, and partly because she hadn't had to threaten them with babysitting duties for them to do it.

"No, it's what she knits me every year." Dash stared miserably at the fairy-lights and tinsel adorning the doorway of the big house.

Gently, Violet pressed a hand against his back and moved him forward. "C'mon, time to go."

He backed up a step. "I've changed my mind!"

"No, you haven't. C'mon, Dash. Don't worry about it. I'll be there to give you all the advice you need."

"You promise?"

She'd tried to train him. She'd tried her best, and Dash had tried to absorb all she said, but in the end it had been no use. His mind just kept blanking no matter what they did, and his anxiety had kept growing and growing despite her attempts to dispel it. In the end they'd cobbled together this plan. It wasn't the best plan in the world, but it was all they had, and it had seemed to calm Dash enough that wasn't clinging to the lampshade in the middle of the ceiling muttering about cooties and 'stupid hormones'.

Admittedly, sneaking into the party as his secret, invisible advisor probably came under the heading Really Stupid Things That Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, but they were running low on options.

"If you'd come to me earlier we would've had more time," Violet had said on their third circuit of the mall in their emergency shopping spree for the perfect junior high party outfit.

"Sorry," Dash had said, totally unlike himself in his nervousness.

Now Violet felt a pang of sympathy for him. "It'll be fine. Trust me."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Really sure?"

"As sure as you know you can go from zero to a hundred in under a second."

That seemed to comfort him. Together, they made their way inside.

The party was like most of its kind: everyone trying too hard, music too loud, girls nervously not looking at the boys they liked, and boys showing off to those girls by acting like kindergarteners. There was a gigantic Christmas tree in the hall, and another in each room. Each one was plastic and different colour, which meant Violet found herself staring at a neon pink pine covered in black ornaments and wondering just who'd thought that was a good idea.

The parents of the girl giving it were out, having left strict instructions for their daughter not to let her friends trash the place. She had stuck to this fastidiously, and moved all the most expensive breakables to a cabinet upstairs, rolled up the Chinese rug, and hidden all the spare rolls of toilet paper and the eggs from the fridge. Nevertheless, already there was an air of pent-up energy that only got stronger as the evening wore on, as if it was only a matter of time before chaos broke out.

In a city regularly afflicted by supervillains, that was a distinct possibility.

At first Violet was content to watch her brother and concentrate on not being bumped into. If anyone noticed the empty air had something solid in it, they were rumbled and that would have caused all sorts of trouble she didn't even want to think about. Their parents hadn't forbidden them from using their powers out of costume – they tended to assume that if their kids were trustworthy enough to stop a thermonuclear bomb without wiping out Cuba, they were trustworthy enough not to expose their secret identities on the evening news. Still, Violet knew this was one risk neither their mother nor their father would approve of. Still, when she'd seen Dash's distraught face she hadn't been able to stop herself making this offer.

Soft touch. That's what I am. A complete sucker. Aw, man, here comes that kid throwing popcorn again. She ducked under a coffee table to stop bits catching in her hair, thereby floating in mid-air, and wondered whether there were awards for being a good big sister. Because I totally deserve to win one.

Dash was doing okay. His jumpiness from outside had melted into an easy charm she found surprising, since she was more used to easy obnoxiousness. Watching him, it was clear to Violet why he was so popular with his classmates. Dash was the class clown, but the other kids obviously admired his charisma as well as his pranks. She wondered why on earth he'd needed her help when he was doing fine on his own.

Then it happened. Dash glanced over his shoulder, in the middle of laughing at a joke he'd just told, and his whole face changed. His eyes widened, his cheeks paled, and his whole body seemed to freeze up like he'd been hit with Madame Madness's ice ray again. Violet followed his gaze and saw the reason he'd come to her for help.

She was sitting over by the window, behind the giant Christmas tree the colour of concrete, and talking to a clump of girls with identical bottle-blonde hair. As Violet watched, the other girls giggled and moved away like a herd of bleached animals, hands over their pink-glossed mouths. The girl they'd left behind smiled fixedly, but there was no happiness to the curve of her own, non-glossed lips. When she thought nobody was watching she dropped the expression and began picking at the threads of her sleeves, hands folded neatly in her lap. It was clear she'd chosen that spot because she was shielded from the rest of the room behind the tree, so the blonde girls couldn't have happened across her by accident. If she hadn't been following Dash's gaze, Violet might have missed her completely.

Violet reached out from under the coffee table and tugged Dash's ankle. He shook like a person emerging from hypnotism, excused himself from his friends and ambled into the kitchen. She followed, vaulting over the back of the sofa to avoid stepping around a clump of guys playing hackey-sack with a pot-porrei cushion.

Luckily there was only one other person in the kitchen, and he left just after Violet slipped inside.

"Violet?" Dash said under his breath.

"Over here. By the toaster."

His eyes flicked her way. "So, did you see her?"

"Yeah, I saw her."

"Isn't she great?"

"Um …" Violet paused.

"What? What?"

"Nothing, I just … she's not the type of person I expected for your first crush."

"Oh, and like Tony Rydinger was a real heartthrob for yours?" Dash's tone turned angry.

Violet found herself raising her palms, even though he couldn't see them. "Whoa, whoa, I never said she wasn't nice. I'm basing this entirely on thirty seconds of watching her from across a crowded living room. She's just … well; I guess I'd have to say I wouldn't have though she was your type." She recalled the plain brown dress, thick brown tights and shiny black shoes with the silver buckle. It had looked like the kind of party outfit Grandma Parr would have picked for her granddaughter, and Grandma Parr thought Violet was still five years old. There was nothing exotic or cute about the girl; no subtle, half-lidded beauty or innate grace. She looked like the human equivalent of whole-wheat pasta.

"I have a type?" Dash echoed.

"Everyone has a type."

"What's yours – muscle-bound meathead?"

Violet flared. "Hey, remember who exactly is doing whom a favour here."

"Mrrf." Dash picked up a mammoth bag of chips and began stuffing them into his face – a sure sign he was agitated. Orange powder drizzled onto the front of his shirt like the fallout from an atomic explosion.

Violet plucked the bag from his hands – at the same time snagging a soda for herself from the counter. All this spy stuff had made her really thirsty. Both can and bag vanished the moment she hugged them to her.

"Hey!" Dash protested. "No fair. I'm nervous!"

"You're admitting that? And no, you can't have these. The additives will make you hyper."

"Party-pooper."

"I thought I was here to keep the party moving. For you and … what did you say her name was?"

"Martha."

"All right." Violet fell silent as a gaggle of girls came in. She had to wait for them to collect a bowl of salted pretzels, some miniature chocolate Yule logs and several mince pies before she could talk to Dash again. "Now, quickly, before anyone else goes to sit by her, you get over there and make your move."

"Make my move?" Dash was aghast. "What the heck do you think I've been trying to do?"

"Not much, from what you've told me." And he'd skipped a few crucial details, but Violet pushed those aside for now. "You said you've never even talked to her before."

"Well … yeah, but -"

"But nothing. Take the initiative."

"Huh?"

"Just go over and talk to her."

"How?"

"You inhale, shape your mouth, exhale, and sounds come out of it."

"Very funny. I mean how should I talk to her? What should I say?"

"I don't know. Ask her if she likes cheese?"

"What?"

"Kidding, kidding. Say she looks pretty. Girls like it when you compliment them, especially when they've dolled themselves up."

"Okay," Dash said, completely missing a perfect opportunity to insult her. Violet knew it was serious then. His forehead furrowed in concentration. He looked almost cute, like he had when their parents first brought him home from the hospital and she peered into his crib. "What else?"

"Talk about something that interests her. What sort of stuff does she like?"

"Um … she's really into art."

"Okay, you can start with that."

"But I don't know anything about art! I'm into sports, not all that arty-farty stuff."

"Well not calling it 'arty-farty stuff' might help to begin with. Okay, okay," she added at his expression. "We'll have to wing it a little, though."

Dash looked apprehensive.

"Don't worry. Just act natural. I'll help you if you get in trouble."

He squeaked.

"Um, okay. Switch that. Just do everything I told you, and if you get stuck I'll set fire to one of those really tasteless trees and she'll forget about you when the fire alarm sends everyone outside."

"Violet!"

"Kidding, kidding."

"Stop kidding. This is serious!"

"I'll handle it, okay? Trust me, I've got this covered. You have nothing to worry about."

"That's easy for you to say."

"I'll hold you to that the next time I have to hide under that coffee table. Now get out there."

Martha was still over by the window. She looked startled when suddenly Dash appeared beside her, and let out her own squeak.

"H-Hi," Dash said, leaning back and trying to look nonchalant, then nearly falling over when he miscalculated how close he was to the wall. "Um, how's it going?"

Martha looked around. Violet knew exactly what she was doing. After all, she'd done exactly the same thing when she was this age. It was an 'are you talking to me?' look, which she'd usually followed with a disappearing act and a session of reproaching herself behind the bleachers for being so gutless.

Suddenly Violet's heart clenched for the pair of them, which surprised her a little. Usually Dash inspired feelings of anger, exasperation and annoyance, but standing there, watching him try – and fail – to talk to a girl he liked, Violet felt a surge of what she could only describe as sympathy for her little brother. Everybody expected Dash to be super confident in everything he did. No wonder he'd left it so long to come to her and admit when he wasn't.

"I'm Dash."

"I know," Martha said warily.

"And you're Martha."

"I know that, too."

"Um …" Dash fumbled. "So … you look nice."

She frowned. The line of her mouth became thin as a twist of wire. "Is this a joke?"

"What? No, I just -"

"Because if it is, it's not very funny."

"It's not a joke!" Dash said desperately, glancing sideways at the people around them, but nobody was listening or watching. They were all too preoccupied with their own pubescent crises.

Violet felt like a gatecrasher – which she was. She was easily the oldest person in the room, hiding behind a potted aspidistra because the tree would move if she got too close, and wincing at Dash's predicament. If her own friends could see her now … actually, no, scratch that. She didn't want to think what anyone would say about her right now.

"People like you don't talk to people like me," Martha went on. "Not unless they're playing jokes or pulling pranks." Martha was prickly, and probably with good reason. Violet got the feeling she languished at the bottom of the social ladder where she was recipient for everything everyone higher up decided to dump on her, and unlike Violet, she had developed a sharp tongue to deal with it instead of always running away the way Violet had.

Violet winced at the analogy. There was no way Martha could run away. She felt for the girl – though not to the extent that she was about to let her humiliate Dash.

Dash was starting to panic. It was an interesting sight. He didn't do it often. "What? People like, um, me? What p-people like me?"

"Popular people." The hint of a sneer crept into Martha's voice. "Jocks." She gestured to her wheelchair. "People who can run like to hang out with people who can run, and you're the biggest jock in school."

Violet was just about to supply Dash with a reply to this, when he blurted, "Doyoulikecheese!?"

Martha blinked, thrown by this incongruous question. "What?"

"Do you, uh …" He faltered. Then he sighed. "Look, I jut came over to see if you wanted to, um …"

"Wanted to dance?" Martha said acidly.

"To talk. To see if you wanted to, uh … talk …" Dash trailed off. "Never mind." He turned to go.

"Wait."

He turned back. "Yeah?"

Martha bit her lip. "You really just want to talk? You're not taping this so you can make me say something embarrassing, or priming me so one of your buddies can dump dog food on my head while I'm not looking?"

"What? No!"

"This isn't a dare?"

"No."

"Or a bet?"

"No way!"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Martha stared hard at him. "Okay," she said at last. "Sure. Why not? Let's talk."

"Really?"

"Who know? It's possible you might have something interesting to say."

"Wow!" Anybody who saw Dash's grin would have thought he'd just single-handedly defeated Syndrome and saved the world from a deadly virus. "I mean, uh, cool. That's cool." He instantly leaned back again and stumbled because he still hadn't moved any closer to the wall. "Cool!" he squeaked. "I mean … I'm okay."

Despite herself, Martha's lips twitched into a half-smile.

Behind the aspidistra, Violet grinned. Dash hadn't really needed her at all. His attempts at romance were as blundering and messy as any teenager's – Super or not – but actually, he was doing pretty okay. She watched him perch on the window-seat next to Martha's wheelchair and marvelled that her little brother, who disparaged bullet trains for being too slow and regularly challenged other speedster Supers to races, genuinely seemed not to have noticed Martha's disability. He could reach speeds of nearly two-hundred miles an hour, but he'd fallen for a girl who couldn't run at all. There was probably something to that which promised great things for his personality in the future.

Suddenly Violet felt incredibly proud of him.

Tomorrow, they would go back to fighting like cat and dog, but for now she glowed with the knowledge that even though he hadn't really needed her help at all, he'd felt he could come to her instead of trying to cope alone. Her little brother might be okay after all.

Might. Jury completely still out on this one.

"Hey, dude!"

The stage-whisper came from her left, on the other side of the tree to Dash and Martha. Violet turned to see three sniggering boys in baseball caps – one red, one blue and one green, each emblazoned with the names of sports teams.

"I totally dare you to pee in that pot-plant over there," said the one in the red cap.

"In front of everyone?" This from Blue Cap.

"Yup."

"You want me to get my wiener out in public?"

"And I double dare you," added Green Cap. "That means you totally cannot back out of it."

"But -"

"Yeah, man," said Red Cap. "Double-dares are totally bad luck to break."

Oh no. Nononono. No. Violet closed her eyes and wondered how small she could make her forcefield. Was there enough room behind the plant to create one? The threat of splash-back made her want to risk the air shimmering even though she knew it was a bad idea. Grosgrossgrossgross –

"Dude, wait," said Red suddenly. "I have a better idea. You totally have to pee in Martha Higginbottom's soda. Look, she's got a glass. And she found herself a coaster."

"Who the hell uses coasters at a party?" Green was disdainful. "What a freak."

"She put it on the table next to her. I'll swipe it, you go into the closet under the stairs, and I'll put it back after. It'll be a laugh riot!"

Blue seemed much more amenable to this request. "Okay, sure."

What? Oh no you don't, you little cretins. Violet skirted around the front of the aspidistra and did the first thing that came to mind. She tapped each one on his shoulder, and when they turned to see nobody was there, she yanked down the brim of Red's cap, splashed her soda on Green's front, and tossed a handful of Cheesy Poofs at Blue.

"Dude!" shrieked Green. "Not funny, Nigel!"

"It wasn't me, man!" Red cried, extracting himself from his wedged cap.

"It had to be you!" Green pointed at the can of half-finished soda in Red's hand.

Red looked at it. "Dude, I totally didn't have this before." He raised his other hand. "Or this bag of chips. I swear it! Someone shoved them into my hands while I couldn't see."

"Yeah, right."

"Now I look like I peed on me!"

As they moved off, Violet shot a look at Dash and Martha. They were deep in conversation about something. Martha was actually smiling, and Dash was gesturing wildly, obvious really into whatever story he was telling – so into it, in fact, that he hadn't noticed the disaster Violet had just averted.

Violet pushed her hair from her face and went back to her post behind the aspidistra. There was a lot to be said for having superpowers. She'd saved the world more times than she could count, rescued dignitaries, celebrities, ordinary citizens and other Supers from genuinely life-threatening situations; but right now? She'd never been more grateful in her life for what she could do.

Go get 'em, Dash, she thought. I've got your back.

Big sisters were supposed to take care of their younger brothers, after all.

Fin.